vitalverstappen

[vitalverstappen]

formula fake-mance ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

r/aita · anon asked, “aita for pretending to date my best friend (m29) to make my ex jealous?” & anon asked, “aita for making out with one of my driver friends (m29) at a party and then pretending not to remember the next day out of fear of rejection?”

ꔮ starring: alex albon x best friend fake girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; suggestive jokes. fake dating, feelings realization/denial, childhood best friends. ꔮ commentary box: i’ve been having hella feelings about alex lately, and i’m about to make it everybody’s problem. serious creative liberties on the second request (soz) but i hope the word count makes up for it!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Alex finds you in the kitchen, curled into the corner of the counter like you’re afraid the vodka might personally seek vengeance.

“You hiding?” he asks, leaning beside you and stealing a chip from the half-open bag you’ve been cradling.

You don’t look up. “I’m regrouping.”

“From what?”

“Social overwhelm.” 

You take a long swig of your drink. “Also, my heels hurt,” you say wryly. 

He huffs a laugh and tilts his head toward your feet. “You wore those just to make me look short.”

“You are short.”

Alex flicks your forehead. “I’m the tallest driver on the grid, thank you very much.”

You glance up at him, eyes a little too wide, pupils a little too dilated. You’re tipsy. Not wrecked, not sloppy, but looser than you usually are. Lopsided in the smile you give him, soft around the edges. Alex feels it thud in his ribs.

He’s used to this version of you. The one that comes out only with him. The one that drops sarcasm like armor and leans into him in crowded rooms without hesitation. He’s known you since you were kids, since your parents used to split school pick-ups and you cried the first time he beat you at Mario Kart. (“You cheated!” “I literally didn’t!” “I AM GOING TO TURN YOUR CATS AGAINST YOU!”)

You were the only one who never gave him a weird look when he said he wanted to race cars for a living. When he made Formula One, you mailed him a tiny plastic trophy with WORLD’S MOST AVERAGE MAN written in Sharpie on the base.

He still keeps it in his Monaco flat. Right beside the real ones.

Tonight, it’s his party. P5 in Austria. Not a podium, but it felt like one. The Williams crew had screamed in the garage, and you’d been there in the back, arms raised, mouth open in a wordless, feral cheer. He thinks about that moment now, how you practically tackled him afterward in parc fermé. Arms around his neck. Face in his shoulder. Like the rest of the world wasn’t worth looking at.

It doesn’t matter that you’re not dating. People assume. They always have. The glances, the smirks, the knowing comments. Alex doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care much how he’s perceived. Not when you keep choosing him over and over, in every small way that counts.

“Come on,” he says now, nudging your hip with his. “Everyone’s asking for you.”

“I’m protesting loud music and fake laughing.”

“Your fake laugh is top-tier, though.”

“It’s all the years I’ve spent laughing at your jokes.”

Alex fake-gasps. “You love my jokes.”

“Not the knock-knock ones.”

He leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “What if I told you I had a new one about Toto Wolff and a goat?”

Your face lights in a way that hits him like gravity. “Is the goat also Austrian?”

“Unconfirmed.”

“Proceed.”

Before he can get to the punchline, your hand shoots out and grips his forearm with sudden, startling urgency. “Shit,” you exhale.

Alex freezes. “What?”

You’re blinking over his shoulder, the color draining from your face in slow motion. “It’s my ex,” you mumble. “He’s here. Why is he here? This isn’t even his—oh my God, he’s walking this way.”

Your fingers tighten on his arm. Alex registers the heat of your skin, the press of your body turning instinctively into his side. He’s moving before he thinks, shifting slightly to block your view.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey. I’ve got you. What do you need?”

You stare up at him, startled. “I don’t know. I—I don’t want to look pathetic.”

Alex doesn’t hesitate. “Okay. Then let’s make him jealous instead.”

It comes out smooth, practiced. Like it’s something he’s thought about before. He doesn’t have time to examine all that. Not now, not with the way you’re holding onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

He’s always had a thing about your taste in men.

Never said much, never made a fuss. If pressed, though, he’d admit there’s not a single one of your exes he liked. They’ve all felt, to him, like half-chances. Men who didn’t see you properly. Who didn’t earn the right to touch your wrist, let alone your heart. Who took what you gave and didn’t know what to do with it.

And this one—this particular ex—he’s the worst of them.

It’s not just the breakup. It’s the way it happened. The slow, cowardly retreat. The way you’d checked your phone every few minutes for weeks, trying to laugh it off until you couldn’t anymore. The whispered explanations you’d given Alex after, eyes wet, voice small. “He said I was too intense,” you’d confessed, and Alex had felt something feral and sharp uncoil in his chest. 

Worse still, the ex is now part of the motorsports world. Some junior mechanic who floats around the Williams garage like static electricity. Useless and smug. Always managing to say the wrong thing with just enough charm to get away with it. Alex has had to sit through entire debriefs with the guy breathing two seats away, talking about tire temps like he invented them. And now he’s here. At Alex’s party. Circling like a vulture.

Alex spots him through the crowd, threading his way through the cluster of guests with that same half-smile. His eyes sweep the room—and yeah, he’s looking for you.

“Shit, okay, we need a plan,” Alex grumbles.

“What kind of plan?” You’re gripping his shirt now. Not hard, but enough to wrinkle it. He doesn’t care. Your panic is rising fast, cresting in your throat.

“I don’t know,” he says, scanning your face. “Do you want me to—should I pretend we’re together? Should I punch him? I’ll punch him. I’ve been meaning to try that.”

“Alex,” you hiss, barely breathing. “He’s getting closer.”

Alex curses under his breath. He’s thinking too fast and not fast enough. His fingers twitch like they’re trying to grab the idea before it’s fully formed. “Okay. Okay, we’ll fake date. Cool. How do people fake date? What’s the move? Should I put my arm around you or—”

You open your mouth like you’re about to say something helpful. Then you just—

—you kiss him.

No warning. No build. Just lips.

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward, right into you. Alex blinks, stunned, as your mouth finds his like it’s a question you’ve already answered a hundred times.

And suddenly he’s aware of a few things all at once:

Your mouth is soft. Warm. Slightly citrusy, he thinks, probably from the drink you had earlier. You always preferred something with lime.

You’re kissing him like you’ve done it before. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you’re coming home.

He is absolutely not thinking about your ex anymore.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting. He doesn’t even think about it. His eyes flutter shut. The kiss isn’t long, isn’t showy. It’s not performative. It’s not even that dramatic. But it’s anchored, intentional, and it hits him like gravity.

Somewhere, distantly, someone laughs. The music shifts tracks. A cheer erupts from a corner of the flat where someone’s undoubtedly doing something ill-advised with beer. Alex registers none of it. Just the press of you against him, the brush of your nose, the almost involuntary sigh you make as your fingers slip into his hair and rest there.

The kiss deepens slightly, for one breathless second. Like maybe you forgot it was supposed to be for show, too.

By the time you pull away—slow and stunned and still close enough that he can count the freckles on your cheek—Alex realizes something terrifyingly obvious.

He quite liked that. 

Alex doesn’t even get the chance to speak.

Your ex materializes like a summoned ghost, all thin-lipped smile and cologne that’s trying too hard. Oliver, Alex vaguely remembers his name to be. He’s holding a red cup and some flimsy excuse for swagger, eyes flicking between you and Alex as if he’s connecting the most obvious dots in the world.

“Well,” Oliver says, tone derisive enough to curdle milk. “That explains the floor show.”

Alex tenses. You shift an inch closer to him, and it’s instinct when he hooks an arm around your waist. Protective, not possessive. 

You laugh. It’s too high, too brittle. “Oh, hey,” you fib. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Oliver raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. You two looked busy.”

“We were. Are,” you say, then clear your throat. “Busy. We’re very... involved.”

Alex resists the urge to wince. You’re a good liar, but only when it doesn’t matter. Right now, you’re floundering. He can feel the way your hand clenches in the hem of his shirt.

“Right,” Oliver drawls, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s this? A little make out session to blow off some steam?”

You open your mouth. Then shut it. Then—

“We’re dating,” you blurt out.

A beat.

Alex nods like his heart didn’t just do a sideways flip. “Yep,” he says. “Totally. Very much dating.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s nothing, like his lips aren’t tingling from the memory of your mouth. You lean into him, barely trembling.

Oliver doesn’t look convinced. He gives a little smirk. “Huh. Didn’t peg you as her type.”

“No one ever does,” Alex says lightly, “but here we are.”

You grab Alex’s hand like it’s a rope you’re about to swing from. “Anyway,” you announce, a little too brightly, “we’re gonna go have sex now. So. Bye.”

Alex nearly chokes. “What.”

You’re already dragging him away. Through the crowd, down the hall, past two confused Williams juniors and someone yelling about jello shots. You make a pit stop at the drinks table and knock back one, two, three shots like you’re hydrating for a marathon.

Alex stares. “What the hell was that?”

“Panic,” you say, breathless, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Performance. Chaos. I don’t know.”

He grabs a shot himself and throws it back. “You told him we were going to have sex.���

“I did.”

“That is not subtle.”

“Subtlety’s dead. I’m grieving.”

“You said it like we were late for a reservation.” He mimics your pitched voice as he shoots back a bit more vodka. “Gonna go have sex now. Are you for real?” 

You spin around to face him, flushed and wild-eyed. There’s a bathroom door to your left and you open it like it’s the only sanctuary left on earth. “Just get in here before I make it worse,” you snap. 

Alex steps inside after you, heart rattling in his chest, mind spinning like he’s still in the car at 300 kph. Underneath it all—rising like steam in a quiet room—is the echo of your kiss.

Still warm. Still there.

Alex wakes to pain.

Specifically, a full-body, top-down, soul-crushing headache that feels like his skull got rear-ended by a safety car.

He groans. The ceiling swims.

Somewhere nearby, a curtain flutters. The room smells of faint citrus and someone else’s shampoo. He blinks against the light, tries to sit up, immediately regrets it. It’s not just the headache; it’s the thudding ache of memory, half-formed flashes surfacing like debris.

Bathroom debrief. More shots afterwards. Laughter muffled against tile. Your hand in his hair, in his lap, on his jaw—

The kiss.

The first one, yes, but also—the second. The third? There’d been more, he’s sure. Stolen ones, maybe a little sloppier. Maybe even sweeter.

He remembers your back against the sink. Your laughter slipping into his throat. The way you whispered something like, “We’re so bad at this fake dating thing,” before kissing him again, just because you could.

He winces. His ears pick up movement. Rustling. A zipper.

He turns his head and sees you.

You’re halfway into your jeans, shoes dangling from one hand, trying to be quiet in the way only someone with a guilty conscience and a mild hangover can manage. Your hair’s a mess. His hoodie’s swallowing your frame.

“Are you—” His voice comes out gravel. He coughs. “Are you sneaking out of your own apartment?”

You freeze. Look caught. Like a cat with contraband. “No. I’m... relocating.”

Alex squints. “To where?”

You sigh and flop dramatically onto the edge of the bed, one shoe still dangling. “I was trying to spare myself the humiliation of the world’s clumsiest walk of shame.”

He rolls onto his side with a groan, dragging a pillow under his arm. “You can’t walk of shame if you didn’t even get to the sex part. That’s, like, an amble of emotional damage.”

You groan into your hands. “Alex,” you huff. “I told your teammate’s girlfriend we were soulmates. I told your head mechanic we were planning a trip to adopt a dog in the Alps. I have texts, Alex. So many texts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Texts from Oliver?”

“No. Worse. Vowles.”

Alex snorts. “Oh, then, yeah. That’s legally binding.”

You shove your face into his pillow with a muffled scream.

He reaches out, tugs gently at your elbow. “Hey. Come here.”

“No.” 

“Get back in bed, honey.” 

“No.” 

“Please. I have a headache and abandonment issues.”

You hesitate. Then, grudgingly, you crawl back under the covers with all the reluctant grace of a cat forced into a bath. Alex immediately spoons you, arm slung around your waist, nose tucked against your shoulder.

“This is dangerous,” you mutter, already curling into him.

“You started it.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You kissed me. Multiple times. You escalated.”

“I panicked!”

“You kissed me like it was your job.”

You groan again, burrowing deeper under the duvet. “It’s not my fault you’re so fake dating-coded.”

He exhales slowly, his breath warm at the back of your neck. “We could keep doing it.”

You go still in his arms. 

“The dating part,” he clarifies. “Just. For show. Until it dies down.”

Your voice is quiet. “And when it does?”

Alex doesn’t have an answer for that. But he squeezes your hand under the sheets and kisses the crown of your head, and when you don’t protest, he figures he’s got his green light. 

By the time Alex walks into the Williams hospitality unit, it’s already happening.

It started in the paddock like all stupid things do: with one overexcited media assistant whispering something to a trackside engineer, who tells a performance coach, who tells someone from catering, who tells James. And once James knows, the apocalypse is officially underway.

Alex is barely two steps through the door when someone claps him on the back.

“Congrats, mate,” chirps one of the tire techs. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

Alex’s lips quirk in a confused half-smile. “You did?”

“Please. Everyone’s been placing bets since Baku.”

He’s still processing that when Carlos, freshly transferred and not yet fully acclimated to the chaos, strolls in with a smug grin. “So I hear you have finally stopped being a coward,” the Spaniard coos. 

Alex gapes. “What?”

Carlos just raises his eyebrows. “‘Just friends’ my ass.”

“I was just saying the same thing,” James calls from across the room, where he’s attempting to make cereal with a protein shaker. “They were basically married before this.”

It’s funny, and annoying, and deeply unsettling. Because nobody’s surprised. Not even Carlos, who’s only been here a few months and already talks like he’s seen through Alex from the start. It should be a relief—this casual acceptance—but instead it kicks up something warm and sharp in Alex’s chest.

Because if everyone saw it coming, why didn’t he?

He’s mid-thought when you walk in.

You’re wearing sunglasses indoors, which is never a good sign. And your expression—somewhere between dread and barely-contained scream—confirms everything.

The room erupts into cheers.

You flinch.

Alex laughs. Actually doubles over a bit. Because the horror on your face is so pure, so you, and it hits him in the heart like a dart. “Oh my God,” you groan as someone throws confetti from god knows where. “This is my nightmare.”

“You’re a micro niche celebrity,” Alex teases, pulling you in by the elbow. “Bask in it.”

“I have six texts from my mum. She says, and I quote, finally.”

He tries not to smile too widely. “She always did like me best.”

“She says she had a dream that we got married on a beach in Phuket. She sent me Pinterest boards. This is her Super Bowl.”

“You know,” he says, a little too lightly, “this should’ve happened ages ago.”

You look up at him, mistrustful. As if you’re trying to figure out whether he’s teasing. “What?”

He covers with a shrug. “The pretending thing. We’re naturals.”

Your responding smile is faint but real, like you want to believe him. Like you might. Alex watches you get tugged away by a group of mechanics who apparently want to quiz you on his worst habits. (You already know them. You’ve memorized the list.)

And still, the thought loops in his head like a faulty radio: this should’ve happened ages ago.

The thing is, he’d buried it. For years. Wrapped it in best-friendship and late-night texts and the safety of almost. Because the idea of losing you? Unthinkable.

But now, everyone sees it. Everyone thinks it’s real, and maybe he’s the only one still pretending it’s not what he’s wanted this entire time. Alex watches you laugh at something Carlos says, your cheeks still pink.

Alex wants to touch your hand and not overthink it. He wants to kiss you without needing a cover story. He wants it to be real. 

For the first time, he lets himself admit it.

Alex sees him before you do.

Oliver, back in the garage like nothing happened. Like he didn’t light a match and walk away from it, letting someone else deal with the burn. He’s got the same infuriating grin, the same sunglasses on top of his head like he’s too important for shade.

Alex feels it before he thinks it. The instinct to shift closer to you.

You’re leaning against a workbench, laughing with a junior engineer about something Alex didn’t catch. Your posture’s relaxed, but there’s tension under it. When Oliver’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage, you go still.

“Hey, stranger,” your godforsaken ex greets. 

Alex watches your spine straighten. You don’t turn yet. You take a beat. Then two.

Then you twist around with a smile that’s polite and painful. “Hey, Oliver.”

Alex doesn’t wait. He slides an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. Pulls you into his side and drops his chin to your shoulder, voice casual. “Everything alright, babe?”

You don’t flinch. You just lean in. Your hand finds his where it rests on your hip. “Yep,” you say, sweet and steady. “Just catching up.”

Oliver’s gaze dips to the contact. His jaw tightens a fraction.

Alex doesn’t let it rest. “We’ve been on such a high lately. Haven’t we? All these points. All this... chemistry.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Your laugh is half-genuine, half-mortified.

“That so?” Oliver says, sounding like he’s chewing glass.

Alex just smiles. “Oh yeah. Chemistry’s off the bloody charts, mate. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.” 

Oliver barely holds eye contact before someone from the strategy team pulls him away. He leaves without saying goodbye.

As soon as he’s gone, you let out a breath like you’ve been holding it for a week. “Jesus.”

Alex drops his hand from your waist slowly. His palm tingles with the loss. You glance up at him, half a glower on your pretty face. “You didn’t have to go so hard,” you say. 

He raises a brow. “Didn’t I? Felt like he needed the full experience.”

“You inhaled me.”

“I’m a method actor.”

You nudge his side. “You’re disturbingly good at pretending to be into me.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it, and the words pass the floodgates not long after. “Who’s pretending?”

It lands like a joke. It’s delivered like one. But it hangs there between you, suspended in the charged space that always follows your name in his mouth.

You look away first.

Alex schools his face into a grin, the practiced one, the PR-safe version that’s all teeth and no truth. But inside, something twists.

Because it’s easy, too easy, to touch you like that. To play the part. To steal little pieces of something real under the guise of performance.

He wonders how long he can keep calling it acting before he forgets there was ever a difference.

You bump his shoulder gently. “Thanks. For that.”

“Any time,” he manages. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”

And it stings, just slightly, every time he has to say the word fake.

Because it keeps feeling less and less true.

The panic fades, or at least it mutates into something quieter. Less like a fire alarm and more like a ringtone you keep ignoring. It hums beneath everything, soft and persistent. An engine left running.

Everyone still thinks you and Alex are together. But the novelty has worn off. The jokes taper into shrugs. People stop asking when the wedding is and start acting like it already happened. The questions become lazy teasing instead of wide-eyed speculation. And the two of you—somehow, impossibly—slip back into your rhythm.

The bickering remains. So do the late-night phone calls, the shared snacks in the garage, the borderline hostile debates about music in the rental car. Now, there’s something new beneath it all. A softness that didn’t used to be there. An unspoken clause neither of you are brave enough to read aloud.

Alex tells himself it’s fine. This is fine. You’re both handling this like adults. Mature, well-adjusted adults who just happen to be cuddling more often, and whose inside jokes have started sounding dangerously like flirting.

It’s manageable until it isn’t.

He’s on his way past the media trailer, sipping lukewarm coffee, mind blissfully empty for once, when he hears it. Not because he’s eavesdropping. Just because someone inside is that loud.

“Honestly, I give it two more weeks. She’s obviously into him, but he’s way out of her league.”

Alex slows his steps. He’s never been able to resist a bit of tea. He gets more than what he bargained for, though. 

Another voice, lower, half-laughing: “Albon could do so much better. He’s just being nice. She’s like... convenient.”

His pulse spikes. His feet carry him before his brain catches up.

He steps inside the trailer and finds them. Three interns, hunched over a laptop, trying to act like they weren’t just dissecting someone else’s life. His life. Yours.

They don’t see him at first. Not until he says, too casually: “Sorry, what was that?”

Their heads snap up.

The one who probably said it—tall, wiry, self-assured in the way only someone new and clueless can be—starts to stammer. “I—uh—it wasn’t—”

“You talking about me?” Alex asks, voice calm and flat. Too calm.

They flinch.

“Listen,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t care if you think it’s a joke. I don’t care if you think this is some group chat. If I ever hear you talk about her like that again—like she’s some backup plan, some convenience—I will make sure you don’t set foot in this paddock again. Got it?”

Silence. Wide eyes. A single, terrified nod.

Alex turns on his heel.

And, like you have some sixth sense of when Alex is fucking shit up, there you are. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to qualify as a warning.

“Alex,” you say, voice tight. “Walk.”

He obeys.

You don’t speak until you’re three trailers down, out of sight. Then you stop, whirl on him, and plant both hands on your hips. “You can’t just threaten interns,” you snipe. 

“I didn’t threaten them,” he says defensively. “I just clarified the hierarchy.”

Your brows draw together. “Alex. You don’t have to defend me. We’re not—this isn’t real.”

He wants to argue. He wants to ask why that should matter. But he just exhales, presses the heel of his hand to his eye. “I’m your best friend,” he says softly. “That’s all the reason I need.”

You look at him for a beat too long. You know his words are true. The only reason Alex needs to step up is you. Fake relationship or not, he would always have your back. 

The tension breaks eventually. “Okay,” you murmur. You step forward, reaching up to adjust the collar of his fireproof. “But next time, let me destroy my own reputation.”

He smiles weakly. “Only if I get to supervise.”

Your fingers brush the skin just beneath his collar—barely there, a whisper of touch. Maybe accidental. Maybe not.

He doesn’t pull away. Just breathes. Deeper, steadier. Like your presence recalibrates something in him.

He’d been burning, just moments ago. Fury lit in his chest like a fuse. But standing here, with you so close he can smell your shampoo, feel your breath?

It all goes quiet.

Defending you made him see red, but being near you pulls him back into color.

The team dinner is only meant to be mildly chaotic.

Instead, it veers off-road somewhere between the second bottle of wine and dessert, when someone—probably Carlos, definitely emboldened by sugar and no filter—decides to initiate a group interrogation.

“Alright,” he says, stabbing a spoon in your direction. “You two. Spill. The love story. I want origin details. I want eye contact. I want yearning."

The table erupts like a classroom with a substitute teacher. James leans forward, eyebrows waggling. One of the engineers claps like he’s been waiting for this all week. There is actual chanting. Someone starts drumming on the table with a fork.

There is no escape.

Alex exchanges a glance with you. You roll your eyes, but he catches the smile tugging at your mouth, sees the way your shoulders inch higher in amused defeat. You nudge his foot under the table like you’re daring him to do something stupid.

Challenge accepted.

He clears his throat like he’s about to make a wedding toast, carefully sets his wine glass down, and folds his hands in front of him with mock gravity. “You know,” he says, in a tone that already makes people laugh, “I think it started the first time she insulted my music taste.”

Immediate groans. Laughter. You let out an exaggerated sigh and cover your face with both hands.

“She said Oasis was ‘emotional beige’,” he continues, solemn. “And I thought—wow. That’s the meanest and most accurate thing I’ve ever heard.”

You peek out from behind your hands. “It wasn’t inaccurate.”

“It wasn’t merciful either,” Alex says, placing a hand on his chest. “But I knew, then, that this was the woman who would ruin me.”

James chuckles. Carlos mimes wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Alex leans into it. “She once helped me carry an entire IKEA wardrobe up three flights of stairs because I forgot to measure the doorway. Didn’t complain once. Just judged me silently the whole time. And that’s when I really knew.”

“You cried after,” you add, deadpan.

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely did.”

“If I did, they were tears of appreciation.”

Someone clinks a glass for dramatic effect. There’s applause. There’s more chanting. Alex shrugs helplessly. “What can I say? She bullies me just the right amount.”

He doesn’t glance at Oliver, not directly. But he knows he’s there—three seats down, too quiet, stirring the remains of his dessert like it’s telling him secrets. Alex doesn't care. He tells himself that once. Then again. And again, until he can almost believe it. His hand stays where it is, resting gently on your knee under the table. His thumb traces a slow, thoughtless pattern.

Eventually, the noise ebbs again, and someone turns to you with a grin. “Alright, your turn. When did you fall for him?”

The table roars with anticipation. Alex expects a joke. A jab about his terrible taste in action movies or how he leaves wet towels on the floor. Something easy. Something safe.

But you smile, small and strange. A little embarrassed. A little vulnerable. “Honestly?” you start, and there’s a seriousness there that doesn’t belong. “I think I was already in love with him before I knew what it was.”

Everything stops.

The laughter doesn’t fade. It just disappears. Like someone cut the audio.

Alex’s world has tilted sideways.

You keep going, voice lighter now, deflecting a little with the shape of your words. “He was just… always there. Like some giant, awkward golden retriever. Every birthday. Every flat move. Every 2AM panic text. He’s part of everything. It crept up on me. By the time I realized, it was too late.”

Someone makes a heart shape with their hands. Carlos mutters something in Spanish that earns a round of teasing oohs.

Alex doesn’t laugh. He can’t.

He stares at you. At your hand, which finds his under the table and squeezes gently, like it means nothing. Like it doesn’t shatter him.

His brain catches up eventually, reminds him of the script. The part he’s supposed to play. He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your cheek. Then your mouth. It’s light. Practiced. Sweet. Exactly what people expect.

The table cheers again, louder than ever. But inside him, something tilts. Spins. Collapses and rebuilds itself all at once.

He pulls back and smiles for the group. He holds your hand tighter under the table, and he tries not to let the truth show on his face.

That he’s in love with you, and he has no idea how to come back from it.

The race weekend goes better than expected.

Clean, calculated. P4, but Alex is beaming when he gets out of the car. The points feel good. The champagne tastes better. And the adrenaline makes him bold in a way he hasn’t felt since karting days.

He’s going to tell you.

He has a whole plan. Flowers. Your favorite candies. A half-terrible, half-dramatic confession delivered with the sincerity of a man who’s spent far too long pretending not to be in love with his best friend. He’s already played it out in his head: how you’ll roll your eyes when he hands you the bouquet, how you’ll try not to smile when he fumbles the words.

How you’ll kiss him again—this time for real.

He’s halfway to hospitality, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, when he hears your voice.

And then Oliver’s.

Alex stops cold.

You’re around the corner, just behind one of the equipment bays. Alex stays frozen where he is. He knows it’s wrong, that he should announce himself, back away, do anything but listen.

He listens anyway. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t miss it,” Oliver says, voice low and coaxing. “I know you. I know how you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

There’s a pause. Alex hears the soft rustle of a jacket, maybe a step closer.

“We were good together. You can’t deny that. And this thing with Alex? Come on. He’s your friend. It’s clearly not real.”

Alex’s chest tightens.

“We were good,” Oliver presses. “I messed up. I know I did. But I still think about you. Every day. I miss you, baby.” 

Alex doesn’t hear your answer.

Because he turns away.

Walks. Fast. Doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t want to know what you said. Not really.

In his head, you’re already nodding. Already looking at Oliver with that softness you used to save for Alex. Already giving him another chance.

Isn’t this what you wanted all along?

Alex tells himself he should be happy for you. Instead, he crushes the flowers tighter in his hand, until the stems start to bend.

That’s why, later that night, Alex doesn’t expect the knock.

He’s in the middle of changing into his oldest hoodie—the truly hideous one that only travels because it reminds him of home and has a ketchup stain that predates his Williams contract—when the door rattles.

He thinks about ignoring it. He even halfway commits, dragging the hoodie over his head and tossing himself onto the bed as if he’s about to stage a one-man pity opera. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, casting everything in warm, sleepy gold. It’s the perfect environment for wallowing, really.

Then he hears your voice.

“Seriously? You ghost me after race day curry? You’re lucky I haven’t blocked you yet.”

He stares at the ceiling. Sits up slowly, heart tripping in his chest like it doesn’t know what beat to follow. You knock again, then jiggle the handle. “I know you’re in there,” you complain, voice muffled by the wood of the door. “I have your location on, asshole.” 

He drags himself to the door, hesitating for just one second more—a flicker of cowardice he can't afford. Then he opens it.

You brush past him with the breezy confidence of someone who’s made herself at home in every hotel room he’s ever stayed in. It’s infuriating and comforting in equal measure.

“Wow,” you say, tossing your bag on the chair. “Moody lighting. Brooding face. Albon, are you cheating on me?”

You clock the flowers before he can hide them. They’re on the nightstand, slightly wilted, petals already starting to slump like they know they’ve missed their moment. Your eyebrows shoot up. “Huh. Flowers. Wait—is there really someone else?” 

He closes the door. Stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands. Something inside him prickles. Something heavy and bitter and quiet. “Why are you here?” he asks, barely able to keep the waver out of his words. 

You glare at him. “Because you bailed on me. I brought snacks. We were going to watch terrible TV and yell at the screen like we always do."

“No,” he says, voice sharpening. “Why are you here? After what I heard. With Oliver."

Your expression flickers. The smallest hesitation, but it rings loud in the quiet of the room. Just enough for something in Alex to slip loose.

He laughs. It sounds wrong, wrong, wrong. “Unbelievable,” he breathes. “You came here to what? Let me down easy? Pretend everything’s normal while you go crawl back to the guy who made you cry in my car three months ago?”

“Alex—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You said you loved me before you even knew it. Was that just for show? Were you performing for the table? For him? Because it worked. He sure looked rattled. And you convinced me, too."

You step closer. “Alex—”

“If you want him back, just say it,” he says, gesturing wide now, breath picking up. “Don’t come in here and act like this is all some fucking joke we can keep playing because it makes you feel good, when I—”

You kiss him.

Mid-sentence. Mid-tirade. You grab the front of his hoodie, tug him down, and kiss him hard enough to knock every single word out of his mouth.

It takes him a full second to catch up to the moment. To the heat of your mouth, to the press of your body, to the hand curled at the base of his neck like it's always belonged there.

Then you pull back.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Panic dawning in your expression like a curtain ripping open.

“Shit,” you breathe. “Shit, I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

You take a step back. Another.

He catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Don’t,” he says, soft now. Breathless in a different way. “You don’t get to do that. Not this time.” 

It’s his turn to kiss you. 

Slower. Like he’s learning the shape of something he’s only dared to trace in dreams. Like the ache in his chest has finally been given a name and a mouth to match.

You breathe into him. Your hand curls into his hoodie again. The kiss deepens, sharpens, softens. A thousand versions of almost finally collapsing into one real thing.

You break apart just enough to rest your forehead against his.

“I wasn’t going to say yes,” you whisper. “To Oliver. I didn’t even want to hear it. I just—froze. I didn’t know what you’d heard. I didn’t know what you felt.”

Alex pulls you close again. Tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you there. “I felt like I was losing something I hadn’t even had the courage to ask for yet,” he says into your hair.

You stay like that. Wrapped in each other. The hum of the room falling away.

For once, Alex isn’t performing. Isn’t pretending. He’s just here. With you. In the honest, terrifying, electric truth of it all.

Maybe it’s messy. Maybe it’s complicated. But when he kisses you again, it feels like something simple.

You taste like the corner store mints you always carry, like adrenaline and something a little too sweet. Your fingers slide under his hoodie, tugging at the hem with practiced ease, like you've done it a hundred times before in dreams you never admitted to having.

He helps you, wordless. Arms over his head, the awful thing coming off in a tumble of cotton and static, hitting the floor with a soft thud. He barely notices it.

Because your lips are back once the hoodie has been cast aside. And every time your mouth finds his, something in his chest reshapes like it’s making room for something that’s already been there, waiting to be named. He’s dizzy with it, with you.

Your hands skate over his ribs. He catches the tremble in his own breath. It’s not nerves. Not exactly. It’s a pressure valve finally breaking open after years of holding still.

Somewhere in the haze of now, Alex sees then.

You, seven years old and already mouthy, yelling at a steward on the karting track while wearing his spare helmet. It was three sizes too big and you refused to admit it. You spun out twice and still walked off like you’d won the whole thing. He was in love with your attitude before he could even spell the word.

Seventeen. You, sitting beside him on a bench outside a test session, ankles crossed, eating crisps and talking about nothing and everything. His knees kept knocking into yours and he couldn’t tell if it was an accident or a dare.

You at twenty, crying in his passenger seat over someone who didn’t deserve to hear you laugh. First heartbreak. He remembers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached, willing himself not to say something selfish. He hated that he didn’t get to be the one you trusted in that way—not yet. Maybe not ever.

More recent flashes. Your laugh in his kitchen as you made fun of his espresso skills. The way you always grabbed his arm at crossings, like he couldn’t be trusted to look both ways. How you wore his Williams team shirt around the paddock, oversized and confident, as if you belonged everywhere Alex existed. You always did.

Alex never stood a chance.

And now you’re here. In his hotel room. Kissing him like you mean it. Like you’ve always meant it. Pulling him in like he’s not a placeholder, not a maybe. Like he’s the whole damn point.

He pulls back, just slightly. Breath catching like it’s forgotten how to work. “Wait,” he says. It comes out rough.

You blink, the softest frown forming between your brows.

“I need to say—”

But you’re already shaking your head. Already smiling, like you know every word before it tumbles out.

“I know,” you say.

You know. Just like you know everything about Alex. Just like you know this was never going to be a one-act play for him, not going to be a funny story he might someday tell his kids. 

You kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. The line of his cheekbone, his temple. A constellation only you know how to navigate.

“I know,” you whisper again, voice warm and sure.

Your hand finds his, and you tug him toward the bed.

Alex follows, pulled by instinct and gravity. 

The backs of your knees hit the mattress first. He leans in, one arm braced beside you, the other still holding your hand like it’s a lifeline. You fall into the pillows with a kind of ease that makes his heart ache.

He watches you for a second. Your flushed cheeks, your wide eyes, the curve of your smile that's almost shy. He thinks he might actually burst open with how much he wants this. Wants you.

He doesn’t doubt it.

Not for a second.

Not with the way you look at him, like he’s something rare. Not with the way you touch him, like he’s already yours.

He lets himself be pulled. Lets himself fall. Hoodie long forgotten, wallowing postponed indefinitely.

Drowning in you is the better choice.

It’s the only one he wants to make.

It’s another party.

Champagne buzz and neon spill, the kind of post-race affair that always ends with at least one person losing a shoe and another crying in a bathroom. There’s a half-hearted DJ, a rotating charcuterie table, and enough gossip in the room to power a small country.

But tonight, Alex doesn’t care about the chaos. Doesn’t care about the playlist, or the over-salted canapés, or even whether Oliver is somewhere across the room still trying to act like he matters.

Because you’re here.

Pressed against his side, half-tipsy and radiant, stealing the olives from his drink and slipping them into yours like he won’t notice. (He does. He lets you. He likes when you steal from him.)

You look up at him, all soft eyes and crooked smile, and Alex forgets how he ever pretended not to be in love with you. The music thuds around you, a blur of voices and clinking glasses and someone yelling about pit stop strategy. 

It’s all background noise. Static behind the real headline: you’re his now. For real. No pretending. No show.

When someone asks for a photo, he doesn’t flinch. Just pulls you tighter to his side, hand at your waist like it’s been there for years. When you nudge your cheek against his shoulder, he leans down and kisses your temple. Quick. Familiar. Easy.

It’s all so easy now.

Somewhere between the fake relationship and the real one, the nerves and lies had dissolved. What’s left is something better. Steadier. Quietly certain in the way only long love can be. He still gets breathless when you laugh too hard at your own jokes. Still loses focus when you wear his team gear like a second skin. Still finds excuses to sit too close on the couch or brush your fingers with his. He’s not afraid anymore. Not of ruining it. Not of being too much.

“You’re staring,” you slur, voice barely audible over the pulse of the bass.

“You’re pretty,” he says, shameless, a little drunk on the sight of you.

You roll your eyes, but your hand curls tighter in his. “God, you’re so soft now.”

“Just with you.”

You laugh. Nose scrunching. It kills him, the way it always has. He’s helpless.

It used to hurt, watching you with someone else. Watching your gaze tilt elsewhere, smile curving for the wrong person. He remembers every bitter moment. Every quiet ache. Every time he swallowed the jealousy and called it friendship.

Now, he gets to be the one on the receiving end. He silently vows to never take it for granted.

Oliver does pass by at some point. Alex barely registers him. Doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t look twice. You don’t either. You just thread your fingers through Alex’s, thumb tracing lazy circles against his knuckles, like it’s second nature.

Later, on a balcony with cold air on their skin and distant bass rattling the railing, you curl into his side. The night hums around you, a little blurry with drink, a little sharp with meaning. He tugs your jacket tighter around you, presses a kiss to your temple.

“You cold?” he asks worriedly. 

You shake your head, lips brushing his collarbone as you lean closer. “Happy,” you say. Simple. Honest.

He smiles, slow and certain, chest full in a way it hasn’t been since he was a kid dreaming about podiums and fairytale endings. “Me too,” he breathes. 

You rest your forehead against his. For a while, there’s no need for words.

There’s nothing complicated about it. Nothing performative. Just you and him, toes over a line you’ve both stepped past, hearts bruised and mended. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Still soft?” you tease as a preamble for what’s to come. 

“Always,” he says, no hesitation.

You kiss him like coming home. Like finally getting the timing right.

He lets himself burn. For once, it doesn’t hurt at all.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and finally, finally real. ⛐

[vitalverstappen]

hey! i'm katie. welcome :)

she/her. leo. 23. american. red bull + williams. max verstappen truther. alex albon enthusiast. charles leclerc sympathizer. summer lover. livin for the hope of it all.

follows & likes from @broadstreetmisfits

masterlist | requesting rules | requests: open

NAVIGATION: #box box -> asks #dirty air -> reblogs #grand slam -> fic recs #vvwrites -> my fics #vvsmau -> my smaus

LATEST WORKS C. Sainz // Operation: Mayhem L. Lawson // Color Me in Your Key L. Sargeant // Jealousy, Jealousy

[vitalverstappen]

REQUESTING RULES

while i love writing and want to help scratch everyone's creative itches, a few ground rules need to be established:

i will write requests as they come in, as long as i have the motivation/idea to do so. if a request comes in, i may not get to it immediately if i don't think i can do it justice.

i will NOT write for any driver under 21

i will NOT write for any of these situations: domestic abuse, domestic violence, miscarriages, abortions, sexual assault. etc

i will NOT write for any deceased drivers

i will NOT write smut (but that may change, idk), and if i do change my mind, it will NOT be for any driver under 21

[vitalverstappen]

Don’t Forget You Love Me ╰┈➤ AA23

summary: it’s your first season back in the williams garage after your and alex’s breakup. a breakup for a relationship that you’ve kept hidden from almost everyone in the paddock—making it even harder to grieve. it gets even worse, because when you spot your awful ex, working in the williams garage, the first person you grab and claim as your new boyfriend just so happens to be alex.

[word count] 13.0k

warnings: second chance romance | fake dating | angst | humor | some fluffy moments | social media girl! reader | kissing | drinking | mature themes and dialogue | cliches!! | read at your own discretion

a/n: who doesn’t love a good exes to lovers fic—combined with fake dating hello! alex is very admirable to me and I think you should love him too💙 worked all day and night to pump this out — enjoy lovelies.

🎶 don’t forget you love me by calum hood, shameless by camilla cabello, third times a charm by megan moroney, devotion by justin bieber (feat. dijon), undressed by sombr + I miss you, I’m sorry by gracie abrams

part one: the worst plan you’ve ever had (and somehow the best one too)

returning to the williams garage for the new second half of the season should feel like coming home. it doesn't.

the familiar fluorescent lights above taunt you, the sound of drills and chatter filling the paddock with the usual buzz of pre-race energy. but beneath it all, there is the familiar weight in your chest—the one that hadn't quite left since silverstone.

since him.

alex albon stands merely twenty feet away from you, laughing at something one of his mechanics is saying, with his gangly arms crossed and his messy brown hair slightly tousled under his cap.

out of the corner of your eye, you can't help but to steal glances at him. much to your dismay, alex hasn't changed. he's still impossibly handsome, and definitely—devastatingly—no longer yours.

you haven't seen alex since the night everything went wrong. it happened during the weekend in silvertsone—during that lull of time between saturday and sunday. alex had a stressful week. you had a stressful week. things were changing and time was shrinking and before you could blink, you and alex were no longer...one.

there wasn't a dramatic fight, no shouting—just a quiet breakup behind the hotel door, full of things left unsaid. It was easier that way. clean. but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

because holy fuck did it ever hurt. the ache in your chest as soon as you walked out of that dim hotel room—not even sparing a glance over your shoulder when you knew that alex watching you leave—was unimaginable. the months that followed even more so.

but this was good—you kept telling yourself. you and alex...you weren't meant to do this. it didn't fit and a relationship most definitely went against some kind of rule about drivers and staff being interpersonal. so it's...fine.

except it's not fine because now you're back in the garage, lanyard coupled with your camera strap hanging around your neck like a cruel reminder that you and alex won't be sharing little looks through the lens anymore. it's not easy and it's certainly not clean.

you sigh—reserved and a little exhausted. you avert your gaze from alex, duck your head and hide your eyes behind the william's branded cap sitting on your rain frizzled hair. because of course it's raining. seriously—the clouds have decided to open up and pour a rainforest level of perspiration on your already wet parade.

your thumb idly moves over the pad, scrolling through the pictures you'd snapped before you saw alex, and left your world tilted on its axis. it gives you something to do. something other than looking at your ex across the garage. something other than wondering if alex is still feeling the affects of your breakup as you are.

"y/n?"

you look up, too quickly, already forcing a smile—and then that smile freezes. your face falling flat.

because It was him.

your ex.

not alex—the other one. the one from before. the one who made you feel small, the one who cheated and then had the audacity to make you feel guilty for leaving. and now? liam is here, and he is looking down at you with some kind of smug grin and it has your heart racing. "well, well. didn't expect to see you here."

you swallow roughly, dropping the camera. it's hits your belly with a dull thump. your lips part, a million things you want to say—telling him to leave being the most prominent—but they don’t fall. instead, you blink and with a timid voice, you ask—"what are you doing here?"

he laughs like you're being funny. it makes you want to shrink away. it's not that you're scared of him, per say, but you're certainly not happy to be near him. liam ignores your question just because he can, "you're still running around garages? thought you would've moved on to bigger and more glamorous things."

the words hit harder than they should. you're working in your dream profession in the most important motorsport league in the world. fuck him. "william's hired me," you state, voice firm despite the way it wobbles. "so…I guess that's glamorous enough."

"right. yeah, i'm," liam pauses, straightening up like he's about to share something world changing. you doubt that. "i'm actually helping out with logistics here now. full time. it's a lot but...you know me. can't stay still for too long."

of course he works here—you've got to be kidding.

you nod shortly like you care. "that's ones word for it."

liam, seemingly unaware of your lack of interest, keeps going. that's just him though, too busy listening to himself to be socially aware of anything or anyone else around him. "I mean, it's wild. I've been flown out to four countries in two weeks. my name's on the operations board now. we're running tight this season, but I've got it under control." he pauses, and shrugs less than humbly. his smile too wide. "pretty different from the guy you remember, huh?"

"you always did like telling people how busy you are."

he tongues his cheek in an attempt to hide a satisfied grin. liam always knew how to get under your skin, and your snarky response is enough proof of that. "yeah, well, can't help it," he pauses. "life's been good though. actually met someone not long after our split. totally different vibe. no pressure, no "career tunnel vision"—just real connection."

you blink—is he really going there right now?

"anyways. what about you, y/n?" liam quirks a brow like he already knows the answer before he can finish the question. "are you seeing anybody?"

panic takes root before you can control it. your ex is looking at you like you're nothing. like working here—just as he is, mind you—is nothing more than a pointless hobby.

your body reacts before your head has a chance to catch up. without thinking—without even blinking—you reach out and grab the first arm within range.

"babe," you declare loudly—surely earning you a few concerned glances—almost too brightly, tugging on the sleeve of the fireproof blue and white race suit beside you. "there you are."

it's only then, when you feel those familiar fireproofs beneath your plan that you realize—realize it's not some hopeless mechanic or engineer you've claimed as your fake boyfriend, but instead it's alex fucking albon.

alex blinks, eyes zoning in on your small hand wrapped around his elbow and then trailing up to yours. "...what?"

you squeeze his arm—too tightly like it's a lifeline. leaning into his space, you smile sickly sweet up at alex. a desperate and pleading look in your eyes as you silently beg for his compliance.

he catches on quickly—of course he does. alex is smart. his brows lift, barely perceptible, before sliding an arm around your lower back, keeping you close.

alex still smells the same—earthy and with a hint of rubber tire—and it invades your senses like an old friend. you hate that you welcome it the same way.

"hey," he greets, voice smooth but low, almost unreadable. "everything okay?"

you nod quickly, flashing a grin so wide that it strains your cheeks—the kind of grin that could win an award for most unhinged display of coolness while also dying inside.

"just wanted to introduce you to my boyfriend," you say, way too brightly, looking back at liam who’s still standing across from you. "alex."

your ex's jaw twitches—barely, but you catch it. that tiny, involuntary spasm of someone trying hard not to react.

ha ha.

alex blinks once, then again, like he's still catching up — but his hand stays right there at the small of your back. if anything, his fingers press a little firmer. steady. present.

a pause stretches between the three of you, taut like a pulled wire.

liam’s eyes flick between you and alex, discomfort creeping into his posture. his hands drop to his sides, flex once, then disappear into his pockets.

"this is who you're seeing? a driver?"

there it is—the sneer buried inside the question. that same patronizing tilt you remember from all those old fights. your spine straightens.

you shrug like the question didn't even land. like your heart isn't slamming against your ribs, trying to claw its way out.

you lean—just a breath—into alex's side. like it's natural. like you belong there. you remember when you did.

"it's new," you say smoothly. "but serious."

another silence. heavy. awkward. you feel the tension bubbling under your skin, the old burn of shame you refuse to let show. your ex's eyes linger on alex like he's trying to intimidate him.

alex shifts beside you, standing just a bit taller. not showy. just solid. unbothered.

"we're actually headed to a briefing," you say— all too quick and clipped.

“driver stuff,” alex adds on knowingly. his voice is low, steady. like he weighed every word before letting it out.

you see the way liam stiffens at that. not because alex is showing off — but because he isn't. he doesn't need to.

your ex nods. mumbles something — "right. see you around." and finally, mercifully, walks off.

the second liam turns the corner, you step away from alex like he's suddenly on fire. you exhale hard and press both hands to your face in some lame attempt at calming down.

"oh my god," you groan. "i'm so sorry. I panicked. he—he’s the one who cheated on me. years ago. gaslit me so hard I questioned my own name. and now he's here. I didn't know what to do. and your arm was just there and i just—"

"hey." alex's voice cuts through the spiral —calm, a little amused in a way that has your mouth snapping shut. "so i'm your boyfriend now?"

you let out a strangled laugh, and peek at him through your fingers. "please forget I said anything."

he's smiling. but not teasing, exactly. more like... amused. and something else. something unreadable that makes your stomach pull tight.

"too late," he says. "i'm flattered, really."

you lower your hands and half-glare at him. "alex."

the smile softens. fading just a little at the corners. for a second—just one—something passes between you. quiet. familiar. dangerous.

dangerous in the way you remember how his hand used to find yours under the table during press conferences. dangerous in the you remember how he'd roll over in hotel rooms and whisper your name like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

"i'll play along if you need me to," he says, softer now. honest.

you swallow. look down at the dusty garage floor and then back up into his familiar eyes.

"you don't have to do that." you swallow.

"I know."

a long pause settles between you while the bustle of the paddock swirls around you—but in this small space between bodies, everything goes quiet.

"but I will," he finishes.

you look at him too long and suddenly, you're back on the edge of it—that same familiar, dangerous almost. not broken, but cracked. frayed at the edges. still warm.

still there.

what have you gotten yourself into?

part two: fake boyfriend rule #1: don't accidentally make it believable

by the time you stumble back into the media tent, your whole body is vibrating with secondhand humiliation.

you drop your gear to a unoccupied table with a thud, press your hands to your temples, and exhale like maybe you can sweat the whole moment out of existence.

two things are immediately clear:

one—you're going to spend the rest of the season hiding behind a lens and pretending you don't have functioning emotions.

and two—you are never, under any circumstances, making eye contact with alex albon again.

naturally, that lasts about three seconds.

he's already there, leaning against the espresso machine like he belongs in a magazine spread. arms crossed. one brow raised. watching you like he's been waiting.

"guess the briefing was cancelled?" he says, sipping from a paper cup. it must be green tea, you think. it’s always been his favourite. you haven’t been able to stomach the smell since silverstone.

you flinch. "we never had a briefing."

alex shrugs, annoyingly calm. "could've fooled me. you dragged me into a full-blown rom-com plot twist in front of your ex. felt like a scene partner."

you groan and sink into a chair, dropping your head back with a thunk. "I panicked, okay? I didn't mean to—god, I didn't mean for you to go along with it."

"you clung to my arm and called me babe," he says, deadpan. "in what universe was I just supposed to walk away after that?"

"literally any other universe," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the palm of your hands. "honestly, I was half expecting you to just laugh and leave me hanging."

alex’s expression shifts then, just slightly—the corners of his mouth curving into something halfway between amused and... wounded? no. that can't be right.

he steps forward, sets his drink on the table—you, you were right. green tea—and lowers himself into the chair across from you.

"if it helps," he says, voice quieter now, "I didn't do it to mess with you." you look up, startled. his eyes are steady on yours—not smug, not teasing. just alex. "I meant what I said," he adds. "i'll play along. if that's what you want."

your throat goes dry. "you're willing to fake-date me?" you ask, half-laughing. "that's...kind of insane."

alex smiles, slow and soft—the kind of smile that used to wreck you in hotel hallways and on long-haul flights.

"maybe," he says. "or maybe I know what it's like to stand across from someone who once wrecked you and feel like the only way to win is to look... completely unbothered."

that lands like a stone in your chest. that’s the thing about your silverstone breakup. you’re not exactly sure who initiated the end. you think it was you? but it all blurs together anytime you attempt at dissecting that night.

you blink once. twice. trying not to show how hard that hit. but he knows. he always knows.

before you can speak, alex reaches for his cup again and stands. "if we're doing this—and i'm not saying we should, just... if—we need ground rules."

you blink, brain still lagging. "you're serious?"

he nods. "no unnecessary touching in front of the crew. no weird, overly specific stories about anniversary trips that never happened. definitely no real feelings involved."

you snort. "right. because we're so good at keeping feelings out of things."

alex’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something more, but doesn't. "also," he continues, "if anyone asks, we've been together since... silverstone last year?"

your eyes go wide. "alex, that's the race where we actually broke up."

he tilts his head, grinning. "exactly. it's poetic."

before you can respond, the tent flap rustles and logan, the social admin who spends too much time on celebrity gossip, sticks his head in, grinning like a kid who just stumbled onto a secret.

"there you two are," he says. "I always knew something was going on."

you tense. "what?"

"I saw you earlier," logan says. "then alex told nicky you were together. the whole garage is buzzing. you guys are, like, disgustingly cute." and then he's gone—ducking out before either of you can react.

you turn toward alex, slowly, like your body is moving through molasses. "you told people?"

he doesn't flinch. "I didn't deny anything. there's a difference."

your head falls forward into your hands. "this is spiraling."

alex smirks, but it's gentler this time—like he's trying not to push too far. "welcome to the show, babe."

you peek at him through your fingers, giving him a withering glare. "you’re enjoying this."

he shrugs. "a little. but also... not as much as you think."

you sit up straighter, watching him.

alex doesn't look like he's joking anymore. his smile has faded, replaced by something quieter—something almost tender.

"you think this is a bad idea," you admit, “I should’ve just said I was single and drowned in humiliation.”

"I think it's a complicated idea," he corrects. "but I also think it might be the first time we've actually been honest about something in a while."

for a second, you just stare at each other—not with anger, not with bitterness. just the ache of two people who've circled each other for too long. who never really stopped caring, but don't know what to do with that care now.

your voice is soft when it finally comes out. "if we do this—fake or not—it's going to get messy."

alex nods in agreement. "probably."

"and you're okay with that?"

his answer is quiet. "i've been living in the mess ever since we ended. might as well make it worth something."

you don't have a reply for that—not one that wouldn't split you open. so instead, you stand. squeeze the strap of your camera like it might anchor you. then, almost without thinking, you glance back at him.

"i've got to shoot pit lane in twenty."

alex's smile returns—not smug, not performative. just soft and familiar in all the ways that make you feel soft.

"i'll walk with you."

and you let him.

for now.

part three: team dinners and terrible ideas

the next few days pass in a strange, surreal haze.

you'd expected the whole fake boyfriend thing with alex to collapse by tuesday at the latest—expected someone (most likely you if you're being honest) to crack under the weight of the awkwardness, or for the garage rumor mill to find something more interesting, and quietly let the story die.

but it doesn't.

instead, it grows.

not wildly—not dramatically. just enough to have you on the edge of your seat.

a hand placed gently on your back when you pass each other in the hospitality tent. shared looks from across the pit wall that linger a second too long. the occasional inside joke said just loud enough for someone else to overhear. it's convincing.

the worst part? it's not even that hard.

alex has always been easy. easy to fall into rhythm with. easy to trust. easy to miss.

too easy now, especially with the way he's slipped back into your life like he never left. alex still knows your tells—when you're tired, when you need water, when your shoulders are about to lock up from crouching behind your camera too long. he doesn't make a show of it. he just... shows up. quietly. constantly.

and that's the dangerous part.

you don't talk about silverstone. or the weeks after when you were left to wallow on your apartment couch and unfollow him on instagram. or the long, empty stretch of silence that lived between you since the breakup.

you just pretend.

by the time thursday rolls around, the whole team has gone full throttle into "bonding mode." or that's what logan calls it. you call it pointless.

there's a dinner booked at a quiet local restaurant after the press of media day—half casual, half corporate, with just enough pressure to show up looking vaguely put-together. the kind of outing where you'd usually blend into the end of the table, camera slung over the back of your chair, half-listening and half-editing photos between courses.

but tonight?

tonight is different. because now, no matter how hard you try to rationalize things, your stomach won't stop fluttering at the idea of walking into that dinner and sitting beside the boy who used to kiss your collarbone in parking garages between media calls.

the restaurant is tucked behind a narrow stone alley, the kind of place you'd only find if you knew where to look. warm light glowing against the windows, candle-flickers dancing across long wooden tables inside.

you hesitate at the threshold. you can already hear the laughter from within. the clinking of plates. someone doing a bad impression of someone important—you're pretty sure it's carlos.

you take one deep breath. it's just dinner. you've survived press days and pit lane stampedes. you can survive sitting next to your fake boyfriend and across from your cheating ex. easy.

with one more exhale, you push the door open.

warmth hits first—roasted garlic, butter, whatever wine they opened first. probably red if lisa from HR had anything to with it. your eyes scan the table automatically, spotting finalists engineers and mechanics, logistics crew, social media staff already two glasses in.

and then.

there.

alex.

he's sitting near the middle of the table, arm slung casually over the back of the chair beside him like he already knew it would be yours. once again—you could kill logan. alex’s got on a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled. a soft gold chain catching the light at his collarbone.

he looks up just as you step inside.

not a smirk. not a grin.

just that look. calm. soft. knowing. the same one he used to give you across hotel beds before whispering come here and pulling you close to kiss your neck.

you swallow hard. get it together, you tell yourself. he's pretending. you're pretending. this is fine.

before you can move, logan spots you—and lights up like a stadium floodlight. "she arrives!" he yells, throwing his arm out like you're royalty.

you cringe. "please don't start."

"oh, it's too late," logan says, patting the empty chair beside alex. "come sit, romeo's been saving you a seat all night."

alex grins while he stands—slow and easy—pulling the chair out for you with a maddening calm. "chivalry's not dead," alex teases, just loud enough for you to hear.

you arch a brow as you sit, voice dry. "you're enjoying this."

"i'm surviving," he replies, settling back into his chair, voice low enough that no one else hears. "you look good."

your breath stutters—just slightly. "don't start."

"i'm not," he chimes. "i'm observing."

your knees brush under the table, and neither of you make any moves to move.

soon enough orders get taken, more wine gets poured and bread sticks are consumed quicker than they are being restocked. the table comes alive, humming with stories and offhand jokes. carlos orders way too many appetizers and acts surprised when they barely fit on the table.

you keep yourself half-turned toward alex, hyper-aware of the space between your chairs—or lack of space, more accurately.

alex leans in when he talks to you, fingertips brushing your forearm once as he points at something on the menu. his hand rests on the back of your chair. not touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.

and then you see liam.

two seats down. white button-down, sleeves pushed to the elbows. fork picking at food he isn't really eating. he's angled just enough toward you to be noticeable, but not obvious. he hasn't said much. but he's listening.

watching.

waiting.

you take another sip of wine and try really hard not to throw it in his face.

alex's voice finds your ear. "you okay?"

you blink up at him. he hasn't looked away.

"yeah," you say, almost convincing. "just... thinking."

he nods, but his hand shifts slightly, fingertips brushing your shoulder. barely there.

you don't flinch.

you’re not sure if alex believes you, but he doesn’t push it. and that’s enough for you now. you set down your wine and browse the menu again.

energy at the table ramps up again just as mains arrive. conversation shifts to race chaos, missed flights, media week horror stories. and then, inevitably—"so who made the first move?"

logan again, of course, grinning like a fox, white wine glass dangerously close to empty. "come on. spill. albon or the lens queen?"

you nearly knock over your drink, but alex doesn't flinch. he’ll, he doesn't even look up from his plate as he answers around a mouthful of carbonara. "she did."

"i did not—"

"she cornered me after qualifying in hungary," he says, smooth as silk and full of playfulness. "told me if I didn't kiss her that second, she was revoking my media privileges."

the table bursts into laughter.

you stare at him, half-horrified, half-laughing. "that's not even remotely what happened."

"i'm paraphrasing," he shrugs.

"you're lying."

alex leans in again, voice low, eyes glinting. "you never said it wasn't love at first insult."

you blink. because that? that didn’t feel scripted. that was you. and him. and it sure as hell felt real.

across the table, liam shifts in his seat. "must be nice," he mutters into his glass—low, but not low enough. conversation stutters. not a full stop. just a beat.

alex goes still beside you.

you swallow hard while your stomach twists—wine and butter smothered bread threatening to make a reappearance.

slowly, alex leans back again, his hand finding the back of your chair. this time, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric. a quiet claim, but also quiet reassurance.

you don't say anything and once again, you don't pull away.

dessert comes and goes.

coffee—green tea for alex like usual, which earns him a pestering from carlos—orders blur. plates clear. the team gets louder and softer all at once. that unique haze of long weeks and longer races.

your muscles are just starting to unclench when alex turns to you again. his voice is low, "you good?"

you nod once. "yeah. just...digesting."

alex doesn’t buy into your lame excuse of a deflection. “you want to go?" no pressure. just an offer, tucked gently inside concern.

you look at him—really look. at the line of his jaw. the crease in his cheek when he half-smiles. the soft warmth of skin where his shirt opens, the gold chain against it. he hasn't changed, not really. and that feels worse than it should. because he’s still your alex, even when he’s not.

your lips part. you want to say yes. take me away and show me how much you miss me.

but then liam stands from the table— all too quickly with his chair scraping the tiles. mumbles something about needing the bathroom. he sends you and alex one more harsh look before leaving.

with a flickering pulse, you send alex a look, "five more minutes. I just need to get some air.”

alex nods. doesn't look away. "okay."

something in your chest splinters—not sharp, but just enough to let something old, familiar, unfinished slip through. you stand before you do something stupid like tell him you love him, making your way through the dim restaurant the same way you came in.

outside, the air is cooler than expected and it hits you like a refreshing wave, brushing against your shoulders as you step out onto the sidewalk, arms folding across your chest like armor. behind you, the restaurant still hums—laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling for the check. but it’s distant now.

you lean against the stone wall once you’re knees start to feel a little funny. it’s probably the wine and it’s also definitely alex.

a beat, and then the door creaks open. you don’t need to look to know that it’s alex. you know him well enough to know that your exit would’ve had him up and out of his seat only seconds after you. despite what it seemed like.

he steps out with that quiet, easy confidence—hands in his pockets, shirt slightly rumpled, a faint crease between his brows as he looks at you.

"you ran."

you huff, a little incredulously. "I stepped out."

"looked like running."

"don't flatter yourself."

he smiles—just a little. it’s crooked and familiar. the kind of smile that used to unravel you at 3 a.m. "thought you liked dramatic exits."

you roll your eyes, look toward the street. "I like controlled exits. that was more of a flight response."

he nods like that tracks. "was it the bread pudding? I warned them it was suspiciously wet."

you snort. "i've eaten track food in the rain. I can survive damp dessert." a beat passes. the kind that hovers.

alex rocks slightly next to you, close enough to share body heat, but not touching. "liam looked like he was trying to vaporize me with his mind," he says casually, like it's just another debrief.

your jaw tightens. "liam can choke," you say flatly.

he blinks. "wow."

you don't elaborate.

he waits and then, "that's not even your creative insult voice. that's just pure hatred."

"because I do," you say, turning toward him. quieter, but sharper. "I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel like I still owe him something. hate that he acts like none of it happened."

alex doesn't move, but his eyes darken. his jaw flexes once. he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, steady but also ready to turn heel and punch liam out of you gave him permission.

you breathe in and out. long drags that almost have you feeling wobbly. "anyway," you mutter. "not here to spiral. just here to not punch anyone in front of pr."

"proud of you," he murmurs. "growth."

you elbow him. "you're annoying."

"yet here you are. on a chilly sidewalk. with me."

"believe me, i've had worse company."

he glances down at you, amused. "like who?"

your mouth twitches. "want a list? liam's got a permanent spot at the top." you make an imaginary ranking with your hands, earning a fond smile from alex.

"I could've guessed. at one point I thought he might’ve jumped over the candles in order to choke us out.”

you huff a laugh because you could see it. a beat passes, a car horn honks down the street, and then, quieter—“I don't get how I ever believed him."

alex doesn't answer right away—he can’t—he just nudges your foot lightly with his. "people like that are good at sounding true," he says. "until they're not."

you look at him, and for a second, there's no act. no joke. just street noise and the ache of history between you, not full covered by the months and months of burying.

your voice is softer when you respond. "yeah. well, never again."

"good," he notes. another beat and then—“so do we think logan's still in there giving his ted talk on pasta shapes or did someone finally cut his mic?"

you snort. "he tried to argue tortellini is an 'elite-tier personality food.' I almost threw a knife at him."

alex grins. "that's the woman I remember."

part 4: if this is gake, then why does it hurt?

the sun isn't fully up yet, but the garage is already stirring with low voices, soft clangs of metal, and radios crackling faintly with logistics chatter.

you move quietly behind the lens, slipping through the garage like a shadow. the camera hangs in a familiar weight around your neck, and the steady click of the shutter is the only thing keeping you grounded in the early haze. you focus on the details—a mechanic's gloved hands tightening bolts, steam rising from a half-drunk coffee, glints of light off carbon fiber.

you keep working. you keep moving. you don't think. you certainly don’t feel. you round a corner, eyes on your viewfinder—and nearly walk straight into him.

alex, of course.

you go to apologize, some half joke about him taking up too much space for his own good ready to roll of the tongue, but that all stops and your stomach sinks the moment you see who he's with.

a woman in black clothes. tall. ridiculously pretty. she’s blonde, with one of those confident laughs that belong to people who've never been heartbroken. her hand rests casually on alex's arm. it’s looks easy, intimate, like she's done it before. like she has every right to.

you freeze. just half a second. but it's enough for heat to rise along the back of your neck like an unwanted spike.

alex hasn't noticed you yet. he's smiling—a real and relaxed smile. his head tilts slightly toward her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

and just like that, something inside you twists hot and mean. god, get over it. he's not yours. not anymore. maybe he never was. despite what your brain is saying, your heart still beats wildly, and your grip tightens around the camera until your knuckles go white.

you mutter something—half apology, half excuse—and move past them before either one can say a word. your shoulder brushes his as you pass.

you don't look back. not when he says your name and certainly not when the girl beside him asks what happened.

it doesn’t take long for alex to follow your footsteps, and by the time he catches up to you, you're halfway down the back corridor, scrolling through your sd card with all the frantic focus of someone pretending they're not spiraling.

he falls into step beside you, close enough that you catch the faint earthy smell of his aftershave. "hey," he says, voice careful.

you don't look up. "busy."

alex almost snorts. "I can tell." a beat passes before he continues, quieter. "you okay?"

you give a humorless laugh under your breath. "peachy."

he looks at you like he doesn't buy it for a second. "she's from pirelli. we were talking tires."

you stop walking and turn to him, slowly, and your eyebrows drawn with caution. your voice is calm—too calm—in a way that makes alex gulp. "why are you explaining that to me?"

he blinks and doesn't answer right away. much to your dismay, the pause—that second of hesitation—says more than you want it to. finally, alex swallows, eyes soft. "because you looked like you cared."

your heart drops straight into your stomach. you stare at him, throat tight. his face is maddeningly unreadable. it’s too open, too steady, like he's waiting for you to say something he already knows you won't.

"I don't," you mumble, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the strap of your camera.

you hate how quiet it comes out—how timid you sound. how much it sounds like a lie. alex doesn’t push—just nods once. slowly.

"okay," he says, softer now. "but if you did...I wouldn't mind." the words land between you like a weight. solid and impossible to ignore.

your chest tightens—not from panic, not with alex—but from something far more dangerous. the kind of ache that lives between denial and want.

he steps in, not close enough to touch, but just close enough for you to feel him. to feel that pull that never really went away. "you've got that look," alex murmurs, eyes dancing around your expression like you’re painting.

you narrow your eyes. "what look?"

"the one you get before you do something reckless. or throw something."

you huff. "you're not that important." but you don't move. you don't leave. because he is that important.

alex’s gaze flicks toward the empty photo bay—it’s quiet, tucked behind equipment cases and fluorescent shadows—then back to you.

"five minutes," he says. it’s not a question, it’s just an offer.

you hesitate, pulse kicking up, hard and sudden.

you should say no.

you have work. you have boundaries. you have no business wanting five more minutes with someone you're not supposed to miss. but.

your voice barely makes it out.

"okay."

you end up settling onto an old crate, tucked away just far enough to avoid most eyes—or at least the ones that might ask questions you're not ready to answer.

the thwack-thwack of impact wrenches and the soft hum of paddock chatter fills the background, steady and strangely calming.

you lean back, balancing a lukewarm paper cup between your fingers. alex had handed it to you a few minutes ago, and somehow it feels like the only tether holding the two of you in the same orbit. it’s something sweet and warm. you drink it in small sips.

out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him.

he's not looking at you—not yet. his eyes are fixed on the cracked pavement, thumb tapping a restless rhythm against his own cup's rim.

then he speaks. his voice low and a little rough—like it's been sitting in his throat too long. "I hated pretending you didn't exist last year. when we were together."

your breath catches. you turn slowly toward him, pulse hitching.

he still doesn't meet your eyes. "i'd be walking past you on the grid," he says, just above the garage noise, "and you'd smile like we were just coworkers. like it was nothing. it felt... wrong."

your chest tightens—that same old ache folding into something more fragile. you want to be sharp. or say something clever. but all that escapes is a quiet, "you were the one who said we had to keep it quiet."

it’s then that alex finally looks at you. his eyes are shaded—not just tired, but heavy with something softer. something that lives between guilt and memory. "I know," he swallows, voice gone thick. "I thought I was protecting you. from the noise. from the press. from all the questions. but mostly... from me."

you blink. eyebrows lifting, surprised. "from you?"

a small, almost broken smile curves his lips. "I thought i'd mess it up.” he sends you a gentle look, one that holds even more truth that words. “and I did. in silverstone. I gave you no other option.”

your heart slams against your ribs. maybe because you know exactly what he means. or maybe because deep down, you've been waiting to hear it.

you don't think, you just reach out, brushing your fingers against his hand around the cup. barely a touch. it’s hesitant but it’s alive.

his fingers twitch and then—then—curl gently around yours.

you don't say anything.

neither does he.

you don't need to.

in that quiet space between breaths, it feels like the world shrinks to just this—the weight of old truths, the warmth of his skin, the closeness you swore you wouldn't miss and somehow always did.

you almost laugh. not out of humor, but out of disbelief. because here you are, fake dating for the cameras, sitting in a garage full of noise, and somehow this feels more real than anything's felt in months.

alex clears his throat, like he's trying to shake it off. "so, uh... the espressos not terrible, huh?"

you grin and some of the tension slips loose. "better than I expected."

he bumps your shoulder, light and easy, "see? progress."

and just like that, the silence changes. it’s still full and most definitely still complicated, but... not final.

part 5: one bed, too many feelings

the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the soft mechanical hum of the hotel elevator as the day finally comes to a close. the chaos of race day slips away bit by bit, leaving just silence and nerves. your shoulders still ache from crouching to capture the perfect image, and as you reach out to press the button for your floor, your muscles cry.

your eyes stay fixed on the little screen counting floor numbers, but your mind's occupied with the familiar stature of the man next to you. alex. he had caught up to you before you could escape the paddock—fans and reports still lingering around as he grabbed your elbow. with a soft grin and squinting form the setting sun, he insisted to walk back to the hotel with you.

and you let him.

if you knew what mishap was waiting for you at the reception desk, you may of just stayed overnight in the williams garage and prayed no janitors thought you were dead.

the receptionist had frowned, clicking around for a bit too long, and then said the words that made your heart stutter: "looks like there's been a mix-up — only one room left on this floor."

alex raised an eyebrow beside you, spun the room key once between his fingers, and shrugged. "guess we're roomies."

you had stared at him. the disbelief, the exasperation—and, fine, the flicker of something else—all twisting in your chest. "great," you muttered, tone flat, but something in your face betrayed you.

he flashed you that crooked grin. "hey, at least it's not carlos—he farts in his sleep."

so here you are, replaying everything—the weight of his words, the way his fingers brushed yours, the stupid crooked smile that still makes your chest twist.

alex stands still next to you, hands shoved into his pockets. he watches the numbers, too—or pretends to always. he doesn't look at you. okay he does, but only when he thinks you're not paying attention.

when the elevator dings, the hallway unfolds quiet and soft, muted hotel lighting casting everything in beige and cream. a world away from the sound and sweat of the circuit.

you glance at the door number engraved on the silver key dangling from alex’s long finger.

412.

alex leads you to the room with a hand hovering near your lower back. he unlocks the door in silence, just the clinking sound of the lock unlatching to be heard in the otherwise quiet hallway.

once it opens, you step in and alex follows suit. the door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should—like it just locked in something you can't quite name.

your eyes dance around the space. crisp paint, even crisper bedding. a bathroom and a nice chair. but there's one bed. of course there's only one bed. and it's king-sized, which somehow makes it worse. like the universe had a sense of humor and was currently laughing its ass off.

you stand there for a second, just staring at the bed. your heart does a weird, awkward flip and you inhale slow through your nose so you don't turn heel and run. it's just a bed. you're a professional. you've shared hotel rooms before. just... not with an ex who you're still holding on to.

alex leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. his smirk is infuriatingly calm. he knows exactly what you're thinking. and he's definitely enjoying it. at least, on the outside he is.

"well, this is... cozy," you chirp, trying for breezy, but your voice catches slightly at the end.

he pushes off the wall and gestures toward the bed. "you can have the window side."

"how generous," you deadpan. "i'm sure you'll be stealing the blankets by midnight."

"probably," he says. "don’t know if you recall, but I snore like a dying engine."

"I remember," you mutter, already regretting everything. you climb onto the edge of the bed like it might bite you. your camera bag stays between you like a buffer zone.

alex sits on the other side, long legs stretched out, keeping his distance. for now. he's still in his team kit, and his hair has curled at the edges caused by the humid rain that drenched the track earlier.

"so what's the plan?" you ask, voice lighter than you feel. "we just... pretend this is totally normal?”’

he glances over at you. "isn't that what we're good at?"

your lips twitch into something half between a laugh and a sigh. "we're going to regret this."

"probably," he says again, voice edging with exhaustion. "but i'm too tired to care."

the air conditioner hums. the silence stretches.

you turn away first and tuck your legs under yourself, desperately trying to ignore the fact of how your pulse won't calm down.

"you don't usually share beds with your exes on race weekends, right?" you ask, more to fill the quiet than searching for an actual answer.

he laughs softly. "nope. you're a first."

you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "don't get cocky."

"too late." god, it's so dangerous—how easy this still is. how he can sit next to you like no time has passed, like nothing's broken.

you pull your knees closer. a beat passes, and you take the time to let your eyes wander further. a tv remote, faded curtains and a room service menu. a smile automatically tugs across your face, your voice is quieter now. "you remember japan?"

he turns slightly toward you. "which part?"

"the night after the race. the room service. the natto."

he groans through a laugh. "it tasted like something that should've been banned by the fia."

you laugh too—real, reluctant. "you made the worst face."

"you were laughing," he says, his voice softer now. "I remember thinking that was it. like... that was the happiest i'd ever been."

you freeze.

it's too much. too honest. too real.

you meet his eyes. "alex."

he doesn't move. his voice drops lower, almost a rasp. "i'm not pretending right now."

you swallow hard. "I know," you whisper back, just as quiet and hopeful.

the air between you tightens, turning electric. you lean in—just a little. barely enough to count. but he mirrors the motion, slow and careful, like the slightest wrong move might shatter everything.

your noses nearly touch. you can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension from the race still lingering in his shoulders. his eyes flicker to your lips and back again.

your heart is hammering. you stop breathing. and then—you pull back. just a few inches. your breath leaves you in a tremble. you’re not sure why you feel like crying. "this is a bad idea."

alex watches you for a beat, expression unreadable, and then nods. "I know."

but neither of you move. seconds stretch. your fingers twitch at your side. his jaw clenches, and then loosens. you glance down at his hand—so close to yours. too close.

the silence isn't empty—it's full of things neither of you say.

you turn your face away, but not fully. just enough to break the spell. "we should go to sleep."

alex doesn't answer. just looks at you like he's memorizing something. and slowly, quietly, the moment fades—like warm breath on cold glass. "yeah," he murmurs.

part 6: the things you don't say out loud (until you do)

the morning light slices through the curtains in soft, fractured beams. it catches on the tangled sheets around you, on the curve of your shoulder—on the shape of his absence.

you wake slowly, blinking quickly to discover that you're alone in the bed. your heart drops before you can stop it—some ridiculous flare of disappointment that makes you feel silly almost instantly.

just before you can reach for your phone, you hear it—the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, followed by the sound of a toothbrush working.

alex steps out a moment later, hair damp form the shower and, toothbrush handing form his mouth. "oh," he says around the handle once he sees that you’re awake. "sorry. didn't mean to wake you."

the relief at seeing him is almost as embarrassing as the where are you text you planned to send him in a desperate panic. you sit up, rubbing at your face. "you didn't."

but your voice betrays you. it’s hoarse and uncertain and it’s definitely a tell that you’ve only been conscious sub 30 seconds.

alex notices. of course he does.

neither of you mention the night before. not how close you were. not how close you still are. not the way it almost felt like nothing had ever ended.

once he spits his toothpaste in the sink and wipes his mouth with a towel, alex crosses the room, and grabs a hoodie from the back of a chair. he tosses you a glance. "tea?" he prompts like it's any other morning.

all you can do is nod. but you're still carefully watching him—and alex knows it.

because whatever happened between you last night, even if you didn't say it, even if you didn't touch...it still happened.

and it's still happening. and you’re not sure when it’s going to burst out the seams.

the paddock is already buzzing by the time you get there. sunday mornings always carry that low-grade tension—early press huddles, fans behind the barriers, pr people power-walking through garages with phones glued to their ears.

you hang near the media tent, adjusting your camera strap like it's armor, trying to ignore the extra attention that seems to follow you now.

people nod at you more than usual. a ferrari photographer winks. someone from alpine throws you a thumbs-up like you're part of an inside joke no one told you about. even logan, across the garage, catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows like a kid who definitely knows something he shouldn't.

perfect. the entire paddock thinks you're starring in a romcom you didn't sign up for.

you duck behind one of the support trucks, and lift your camera, adjusting the lens for the morning light. you focus on the movement—pit lane crew working on piastri’s car, glints of chrome, the way the sun skims across the front wing of the williams car.

focus. breathe. this is your job, not a soap opera.

"hey."

the sound startles you, nearly colliding with alex as you turn fast on your heels. he's close. just inside that invisible boundary line, leaning in so his voice doesn't carry.

"you okay?" he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning yours.

you nod too fast, heart beat recovering from the scare. "yeah. just avoiding logan's smug face and trying not to become the lead in the group chat this weekend."

a flicker of a smile tugs at his mouth. "he does have a flair for drama," alex notes, stepping slightly closer as someone walks behind you both.

his hand brushes the middle of your back so light that it’s maybe nothing. or maybe too much. either way, it sends a ripple through your spine.

thankfully, you don't react. not visibly anyways.

alex tilts his head, watching you. "for what it's worth... I think we're pulling it off. the couple thing."

you shoot him a deadpanned look. "great. i've always dreamed of being pit lane's most convincing pr stunt."

he grins. "you're a natural."

you roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the faintest twitch.

a pause settles between you. alex watches you for a beat longer, and there's something different in his eyes now. softer. also heavier? like he's debating whether to say what he really wants to.

and then, in a voice quieter than before, he admits, "i'm glad it's you."

your brow lifts. "what?"

he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "just... if i've gotta fake-date someone on the grid, i'm glad it's you."

you blink, surprised. caught off guard by the honesty of it. "okay," you say slowly. "that might be the nicest weird compliment i've gotten all weekend. but i’ll take it, considering I put us in this mess.”

before alex can respond, someone shouts his name from across the garage—a team comms person pointing toward the media pen, no doubt waiting for him to hurry the hell up. alex gives you a small nod and that signature half-smile. "catch you in a bit, fake girlfriend."

you call after him, "try not to fall in love with me mid-interview."

he tosses a wink over his shoulder without missing a step.

and then he's gone. swallowed back into the noise and speed of race day, leaving you with a camera full of photos and a stomach full of butterflies you definitely did not invite.

part 7: caught staring, caught feelings

the week between race weekends passes in a blur of flights, overflowing laundry, packing cubes, deadlines, and pretending like everything's totally fine.

you barely see alex after austria. a few texts here and there. mostly logistics. timing. one half-joke about shared hotel rooms again—neither of you really reply to that one.

but the silence isn't awkward. it's worse than that.

it's deliberate.

like you both know exactly how close you got in that hotel room—under thin sheets, too many inches stolen between unspoken things. every brush of his hand, every quiet breath in the dark, none of it was in the script. and neither of you stopped it.

now, silverstone looms.

his home race. big crowds. bigger press. and all eyes on him. which means all eyes on you, too.

you show up early, camera slung over your shoulder, lanyard bouncing against your chest as you weave through rows of fans crowding the barriers. the energy hits different here. louder and deeper like the track itself is holding its breath.

you haven't seen him yet, and honestly, you're not sure if you want to.

which makes it all the more jarring when you step into the williams hospitality tent and walk straight into carlos sainz mid-bite—and somehow still smirking.

the spaniard he leans back in his chair, fork dangling lazily from his fingers, that familiar gleam in his eyes. "well, well," he says, tone already smug. "the famous girlfriend.”

you freeze mid-step, camera swinging at your side. "excuse me?"

carlos gestures with his fork, like he's presenting hard evidence. "alex. he told me. you two've been keeping secrets, no?"

you open your mouth, then shut it again. breathe. play it cool. "we're... private," you say eventually. tone neutral, but not entirely convincing.

he raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. "ah," he says, stabbing at his pasta. "so private you forgot to tell half the paddock for a year. must be very real." he's not being rude, you know that. carlos is just blunt, and in turn, very intelligent.

you're still trying to come up with something halfway decent in response when a voice cuts in behind you—low, dry, and unmistakably alex.

"carlos."

you turn just as alex steps up beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression pulled tight like he's fighting a smile.

"what?" carlos shrugs, far too pleased with himself. "I like her. she's honest. and clearly too good for you."

you almost laugh. almost. but you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. not from carlos, but from the way alex is standing a little too close, his hand hovering at the small of your back.

like a reflex and habit.

"you didn't deny it," carlos points out, clearly enjoying himself.

alex smirks—calm, controlled, practiced. "didn't have to." and that? that lands right in the center of your chest. not a full ache, but definitely not nothing.

carlos grins. "fine. don't tell me. but i'm bringing this up at the next drivers' dinner."

"please don't," alex mutters.

"too late," carlos says, already typing something into his phone. when carlos turns his attention back to his food, alex leans in just a little, voice soft near your ear.

"you okay?"

you nod, even though you're not sure. maybe because if you don't, you'll say something you can't take back.

alex watches you for a second longer, eyes scanning like he's searching for the truth underneath your silence. but whatever he sees, he doesn't push. "i'll find you after practice," he says, even quieter. "if I don't get mobbed first."

you offer him a crooked half-smile. "tell your fans to chill. you're spoken for, remember?"

he chuckles as he backs away—but the look he gives you isn't staged. no, it's something that's been building long before the fake dating started. maybe even before the breakup.

and just like that, he's gone— swallowed up by the buzz of debriefs and interviews and everything else that keeps this world spinning.

you exhale, adjust your lens, and pretend your heart isn't racing just because of a look.

qualifying day — morning

the paddock pulses with energy, the kind that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and makes your chest shake. silverstone's always been a beast—home crowds, unpredictable skies, and more cameras than common sense.

you move through the chaos with your own camera slung across your body like usual, caffeine buzzing in your veins. your lanyard bounces with every step, and your hair's already a mess from ducking under scaffolding and sneaking between barriers for the right shot.

you don't see alex until you turn a corner and nearly run straight into him. he's leaning against a stack of tires, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like he's been standing there just long enough to wait you out. knowing alex, he probably was.

"you always film me when i'm sweaty and sleep-deprived. it's targeted."

you raise your camera. "it's authentic. be grateful."

"i'm a driver, not a documentary."

"you're both now. sorry." there’s not hint of an apology in your voice as you lift the viewfinder and snap a few frames all while he mock-grimaces.

he steps a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his when you adjust the lens. his voice drops—low and soft under the hum of the paddock.

"you nervous?"

"why would I be nervous?"

he tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to read through you. "because today's going to be loud. for both of us."

you keep the camera up. "i'll survive."

his eyes linger, like he wants to say more. but instead, he just taps the front of your lens gently.

"get my good side, alright?"

"you only have one side," you deadpan.

"which is devastatingly handsome. I agree."

you both laugh, too loud for how close you're standing, too easy for people pretending this is nothing.

later, back in the garage, everything tightens. the air feels heavier and more focused. qualifying's coming fast, and every person here moves like they've got a stopwatch ticking in their head.

you sit tucked into a narrow desk station between two walls, downloading footage from earlier. your focus is clipped, sharp, jaw tight as you scan through frame after frame of alex in motion.

you hear footsteps. and then your name.

"didn't expect to see you here still."

you go still and the turn in your seat slowly, stomach sinking as an all too familiar and unwanted sight greets you.

liam.

he's wearing sunglasses even through its just been pouring, and his team branded zip up has a coffee stain near the logo. he's still smiling like you're together. like you're friends. 

"get some good shots?" he asks, nodding at your gear. but his words hold no weight. liam doesn't care, he never has.

your jaw tightens. "I'm happy with them, yes." you mutter, turning back to your screen.

liam's eyes flick to the far end of the garage where alex is adjusting his gloves, laughing with one of the engineers. "I honestly didn't think albon would be your type." he steps in closer. "can I ask," he doesn't wait for you to speak before leaning in too close, almost bumping your camera off the table in the process. "was he your first choice? or did sainz blow you off and leave you with no choice?"

you stand abruptly, chair scraping across the floor with a loud, sharp noise. "what is your—"

"hey, relax," he interrupts, smirking. "i'm just saying... you always hated the spotlight. and now look at you. all over the paddock like some trophy girlfriend."

before you can utter a word, you feel someone step up beside you. a quiet and steady presence that comes as an immediate relief.

alex doesn't speak right away, and he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, like a wall between you and the echo of everything liam still knows how to twist.

"everything alright?" alex questions, voice low and unreadable. he's not looking at you though. no—his sharp gaze is set on liam.

liam scoffs. "wow. you really trained him, huh?" he glances alex up and down. "didn't know you were into playing guard dog."

alex's jaw ticks, but his voice stays level and cold. "she doesn't need anyone to guard her," he states. "but if you keep talking to her like that, i'll stop pretending to be polite."

the silence that follows is thick and tense—like the whole garage is holding its breath.

liam glances between you both. then shrugs, fake-casual. "touchy, touchy." and then he walks off like he won something.

you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, eyes fixed on the floor. you can feel that your face is hot with rage, and your eyes burn with unshed tears from your exes awful insinuations.

"you didn't have to do that," you say, quieter now.

alex keeps looking in the direction liam disappeared, his expression unreadable.

"yeah," he says finally, voice softer now. "I did."

you don't know what to say to that. not when something heavy is pressing behind your ribs—something like guilt, something like gratitude, something you don't want to name.

alex turns to you, gentle now. he reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"you okay?" he asks again.

this time when you nod, a shaky breathing leaving your chest that tells the opposite, alex doesn’t believe it. he pulls you in for a sweet hug—pressing a kiss to your hairline that says more than words could.

late night — post-qualifying, hotel rooftop

you found yourself outside only a few hours after the saturday evening bleeds into night. your hair is still wet from your shower, pyjamas clinging to your skin in a comfortable way.

the hotel rooftop was mostly empty, the city's neon lights flickering distantly, traffic humming far below. it's a quiet and much needed relief after a day that felt like being microwaved inside a media cage.

you don't know why you came up here. maybe to breathe? maybe to be alone?  maybe because a part of you hoped he'd follow.

and, of course, he did. it's like alex knew that you were awake even despite your usual early bedtime. he steps out onto the rooftop minutes after you, two mugs in hand and his hoodie zipped only halfway up. you catch sight of the t-shirt you used to steal adorning his chest.

"I come bearing tea," he breathes, holding out one mug like a peace offering. "because coffee at this hour felt like a crime."

you took the mug wordlessly, fingers brushing his briefly. your hands are cold; his aren’t. probably due to the fact he made drinks.

"I would've taken coffee."

alex grins, "I know, that's why I didn't make it."

you sip instead of answering him, letting the steam warm your face before continuing, "shouldn't you be asleep?"

he shrugs, stepping beside you but careful not to crowd your space. "couldn't. brain won't shut off." he paused. "you?"

you gave a half-smile, eyes on the glittering city below. "same." your response is quick. posed and breezy. it’s easier than trying to explain how you’re really feeling—how your fake relationship with alex feels so identical to your past real one, that it’s almost cruel.

for a few seconds, the only sound between you was the whistle of wind and distant bass from the hotel below.

then, just before it gets too quiet, alex speaks. "carlos asked me if we were in love."

you nearly choke on your tea. "what?" you splutter, wiping a dribble of tea that escapes form the corner of your lips.

"you know carlos. subtle as a tire wall." alex laughs softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he continues. "he cornered me in the cooldown room. asked if we were real, or just good actors."

your chest tightens incredibly fast. "and you said?” you trail off, something like hope lacing your tone.

alex glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "I said no."

his answer hits like a dropped wrench—sudden, ugly and almost makes you jump. your grip tightens on the hotel mug in your clutches as you turn back toward the skyline, trying not to let anything show.

of course he said no.

this whole thing is fake. pretend. a performance. any word of the sort. you can’t curse yourself too hard though, not when the line between real and fake has blurred into nothingness.

just as you go to excuse yourself to go cry silently against the crisp hotel pillow you left behind, alex steps a little closer, just close enough for your breath to catch and shoulders to tighten.

"I said no," he repeats, slower this time, "because I didn't want to lie."

you turn toward him, brows furrowed. you’re not sure how this is better—and clearly alex sees your distraught eyes, because he holds your gaze, steady and sure. "I didn't want to say we were in love like it was some joke. not when I mean it."

your mouth opens, but no words come.

alex exhales through his nose, suddenly feeling awkward as he runs a hand through his unruly hair. "god, that was... not smooth."

"no," you answer quietly. "but honest."

there was a pause.

then.

"say it," you whisper.

alex blinks. "what?"

"say it." your voice is steady now, tinged with hope and something promising. you don’t know where the courage came from, only that you needed it. needed to hear it in something more than touches, glances, and almosts.

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for an escape. searching your eyes to ensure that yes, you want this. want him. after a second that feels like a thousand, alex steps in. he’s close—close enough for your pulse to jump and breath to catch.

"you know I always look for you," alex’s words are no higher than a whisper, voice almost lost in the wind. "in every paddock, every crowd, every press line. even when I act like I don't care. especially then."

your chest aches.

he doesn’t touch you—not yet. his hands stay wrapped around the mug, like it was the only thing holding him together.

"I wanted to say something that day," he admits, “as soon as you walked out that door. but I couldn’t. not when i’d just broken your heart.” alex sighs shakily, eyes locking with yours as he continues. "and then we were halfway across the world and pretending to be fine. I didn't want to add to the noise. or say the wrong thing. or make you stay when you didn't want to."

"you think I didn't want to?" you asked, stunned.

"I don't know." his voice cracks just enough for you to notice. "you left. I let you. that's on me."

your breath hitched, tea was cooling fast under your hands, but you don’t care. "you didn't stop me either," you whisper sadly, “I wanted you to stop me.”

"I thought i'd already lost you," alex sighs.

the silence that followed was louder than anything either of you could say. then, carefully, like gravity gave up holding you apart, he stepped into your orbit. you watch carefully through tear filled eyes as alex sets his mug down on a ledge, between flower pots like it belongs. he takes yours next, sitting it next to his with a dull clink.

this time, when alex reaches out, it’s not for the mug. it’s for you. his touch is gentle—thumb brushing along your cheek, fingers settling against your jaw. you lean into the touch like it was instinct. mostly because it is.

and when he kisses you—quiet and slow—it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture, and it’s certainly doesn’t feel like an act. it feels inevitable. it feels like a hundred wordless sorries spoken against your lips.

the kiss—you and alex—feels like something you've both been circling around since the start. no cameras, no lies, and right now, certainly no pretending.

part 8: now what?

next morning, race day, austin TX

you'd slept, technically.

your eyes were shut. your body still—letting the weight of the duvet press you into the mattress. but your mind replayed last night on an endless loop. the rooftop, the tea, his voice, the kiss—over and over until dream and memory blurred.

by the time you stepped into the paddock, like usual, everything was already moving full throttle. race day. cameras flashing everywhere. fans chanting from behind fences, waving flags like lifelines.

you pull your cap lower, trying to focus. camera? check. lanyard? check. resolve not to combust every time you saw alex? well, that’s still pending.

he spots you before you spot him.

you’re by the williams garage, adjusting light settings on your camera and completely encapsulated by the lens.

he passes you by with his trainer talking about something alex doesn’t really care to hear. his fireproof undershirt is tucked messily into his race suit, zipper halfway down, hair still damp from running drills.

when your eyes catch his, alex is already smiling. the eye contact is brief, and he looks away like if he stares too long you might blind him.

your stomach flips. because alex is acting like normal. of course he is. you'd only kissed, not rewrite the laws of physics. no big deal. just two exes faking a relationship who maybe weren't faking anymore and also maybe still wanted each other and—

you nearly walk into a cart stacked with tires.

"you good?" logan appears beside you like some chaos-summoned spirit. you wouldn’t be suprised if he is.

you blink at him, brushing imagine dust off your shirt. "fine."

he raises a brow. "you look like you saw a ghost."

"just...pre-race nerves."

"you're not the one driving."

you mutter something incoherent under your breath and pretend to scroll through photos. but logan would never let you get away that easy. he leans in, conspiratorial. "so... is it weird if I say you two actually seem more believable now?"

you freeze. "what?"

"you and alex. the fake dating thing. didn't buy it at first, but now? there's like... a vibe."

you gave him a half mortified look. "what kind of vibe?"

"like..." he pauses, clearly enjoying this, "'i'd fight someone in parc fermé for you' vibes."

before you could respond, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck, that sudden awareness you always get when alex is near. he’s across the garage now, leaning over the nose of the car, deep in discussion with an engineer. but his eyes find you anyway. just for a second.

you look back, and this time, neither of you look away. not until someone calls his name and alex has no choice but to turn, slipping into driver mode like it’s second skin.

you exhale shakily, hand pressed to your stomach like that will make everything feel better.

the problem with kissing alex albon is that now you remember exactly how it felt. and the problem with pretending is that, suddenly, you don’t know what part is real anymore.

austin – mid race

the pit wall buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own. telemetry data streamed across the monitors. radios cracked and chimed. engineers shouted lap times, tire wear, gaps. you stood just behind the controlled chaos, headphones on but turned down low—enough to catch alex's voice when it filtered through comms, smooth but taut with focus.

you usually don’t wear the headphones. not because you don’t want to, but because hearing alex’s voice used to make you want to die. but now—with him slipping them over your ears before the race with a half lipped grin—you don’t ever want to take them off.

so you half pretend to take photos of inside the garage while you’re actually listening to every complain, praise and breath fall from his lips.

twenty-five laps in, and alex is holding p7. grinding it out on aging mediums, defending like hell from george in the mercedes behind him, and chasing hamilton ahead.

every time his name flashed on the timing screen, your heart stutters. not because it’s your job to care, but because it’s him.

the same man who kissed you like you were the only real thing left in the world last night. the same man you'd once left, terrified he'd forget you in the next country. the same man now threading a car through corners at 190mph like it was nothing—trusting you'll still be there when it stopped.

"box, box," came the call on lap 27.

in the blink, he was in. the garage exploded into repetitive movement. tires, jacks, and helmets all snapping into place. you step back, camera raised to catch the choreography with the detachment of a professional.

but your hands trembled.

alex's car hit the marks perfectly.

the stop was fast—2.3 seconds—the cleanest of all the stops so far.

until it wasn't. a rear tire gun jammed. only for a beat, but it was enough to fuck everything off.

2.3 seconds turned into 4.8.

you felt it like a punch to the chest.

"go, go, go." alex peeled out of the box with a certain pull, already yelling over the radio. not furious. just frustrated—controlled but frustrated—you could tell that by the edge in his voice.

"what happened with the left rear?"

no one answers right away. you look over at the crew. everyone back in position, reviewing footage and telemetry. fixing. adjusting. pretending like they aren’t holding their breath.

alex was back out in p9.

you lower your camera slowly, and then glance at the monitor again. you see him taking copse flat, no lift, chasing time like he could will it back.

and he did. sort of. he finished p8. it wasn't a disaster but it wasn't what it should've been either. the whole garage buzzed with what-if energy.

you wait by the monitors, unsure if you should stay or go. unsure if alex wants to deal with you and whatever weird state you’re both hovering in.

the paddock is thinning, the crews already packing up their things and heading to their hotels. somewhere nearby, champagne pops from another team's podium celebration.

you don’t move, not until—"you're still here?"

it’s alex's voice, left hoarse from the race, but unmistakably his. he’s still suited, fireproof top clinging to him and sweat caked in his hair. he looks tired, yet also wired—and something else you can’t name.

"you usually disappear right after interviews," alex adds, stepping closer.

"I was going to."

he raises a brow. "but?"

you exhale slowly. "you looked like you needed someone to be here."

his expression softens. "I did."

for a second, the noise of the track seemed far away. like the whole world has been pressed on pause. there’s no screaming fans or lando’s laugh between chugs of champagne. just your breathing and alex’s heart beat.

you study his face—flushed, raw, and real. so much left unsaid.

"that stop... wasn't your fault," you say quietly.

alex scoffs under his breath. "tell that to the two places I lost."

"you still drove the wheels off that thing."

he doesn’t answer right away, just nods once. and then, finally, he looks at you like you aren’t a ghost anymore. like he was still holding that kiss in his chest. "you helped today, you know," he murmured.

"I didn't do anything." you laugh shyly.

alex shrugs like it’s simple. to him, perhaps it is. "you stayed."

you swallow, pulse ticking louder than the fading engines. you want to touch him. want him to touch you. you want to say everything you aren’t supposed to.

instead, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets, voice light. "don't get used to it. I might disappear on you again."

alex smirks faintly, but his eyes? his eyes don’t play along. "if you do," he mutters, "i'll come after you this time."

evening — post-race team dinner, silverstone

the williams hospitality tent glowed under soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling. long tables were littered with paper plates, half-finished burgers, and flutes of bubbly champagne passed around like trophies. loud in that post-race way—adrenaline, exhaustion, and celebration all tangled.

you slip in late, camera still around your neck like it always is, hair windblown from standing trackside as the last drivers crossed the line. technically, you’re still working—someone always wants footage for socials—but your fingers haven’t touched the shutter in twenty minutes.

you spot alex across the room before he sees you. or maybe he did see you first, because he is already walking towards you.

there’s no hesitation in his steps. suddenly he’s just there. alex doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches over and takes the strap of the camera from around your neck. he lifts it off gently and then sets it on an empty chair even softer.

"you're done for the night," he breathes.

"you don't get to decide that."

"I do when your eyes are half-closed and your fingers are frozen."

you roll your eyes but don’t protest when he nudges a glass into your hand before tugging you toward the back table, away from the noise and the heart of the crowd.

you sit side by side on a bench, knees barely brushing—a closeness that doesn’t need announcing anymore. alex runs his finger over the stem of the glass in his hand, glancing at you sideways like he id trying to hide it.

you lean in, just slightly. "you always this twitchy after a top-ten finish?"

he scoffs but it has no bite. "it's not nerves."

"no?"

he looks at you—properly now—and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach flip. "you looked really good in that stupid team vest today."

you choke on your drink.

he continues like you didn’t almost just spit take, “and then with my headphones on. god.”

"you're unbelievable."

"i'm serious." he shrugs. "you wore it better than me, and that's saying something."

you bump your shoulder against his. "you're just trying to distract me so I don't ask how many places you could've gained if your left rear hadn't jammed."

"low blow," he murmurs, mock offended. his hand finds your knee beneath the table, and he just rests there, warm and steady. no drama, no show. just... easy.

your chest tightens with something unspoken. it’s something old and also something very, very new.

you and alex stay like that for a while, letting the the buzz of celebration, murmurs of post-race interviews, and even logan's obnoxious laugh from two tables away fade into background static.

and when you tilt your face toward his—just a little—he doesn’t ask. he just leans in without a blink and kisses you. it’s slow and casual, like the ones you’ve shared many times before.

like it didn't mean everything to you right now.

the kind of kiss shared with someone who already knew you—knew the things you didn't say out loud. familiar. certain.

when you pull apart, neither of you smile right away. you both just sit there—close, still, quiet and completely content.

eventually, you break the silence. "so should we just... talk about it?"

alex's lips quirk. "we are talking about it."

you huff, but don’t move away. his hand is still on your knee, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sleeve without thinking. "okay," you sigh happily, voice quiet as you peer up at him. "but... this isn't fake anymore, right?"

alex doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. instead he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours before placing another chaste kiss to your lips.

he doesn’t even pull away before he answers. "was it ever?"

morning before zandvoort race day

it had taken you and alex months. a dozen cities, two hotel mishaps, and one very unconvincing fake relationship—and somewhere between a late-night balcony kiss and a quiet team dinner, something had shifted.

you never really said it out loud—not like people expect you to. no big declarations. no perfect moment with violins in the background.

but the world around you notice.

especially now.

the paddock at zandvoort was alive with heat and music and that strange electricity that only comes before lights-out. the sun split through passing clouds, flags waved, people shouting alex's name from the barriers, and still—somehow—you manage to forget it is all this big.

because when you spot him before the drivers' parade, leaning against the barrier with his helmet in one hand and eyes scanning the crowd—then inevitably landing directly on you—everything else fades to background noise.

that smile. quick, crooked, a little private.

the kind of smile he used to hide. but now? he gives it to you freely.

you lift your camera without thinking.

click.

you didn't even need to check the screen. you already knew it was your favorite photo of the weekend.

"still pretending?" came a voice beside you.

you turn, a little startled, to find carlos grinning, arms crossed casually next to you.

"sorry?"

carlos nods towards alex. "him. you. that look he gives you. it's different now."

you hesitate. "it's not a story."

"no," carlos hums, smiling softer. "it's something better.”

you blink. "what do you mean?"

carlos shrugs casually. "he used to look like he was running from something. now he looks like he's staying for someone."

you don’t reply. not because you didn't know what to say—but because there was nothing left to explain.

your answer is already written in the lines of alex's face, the ease in his shoulders, the way his eyes always find yours even in a crowd of thousands.

this isn’t some rom com. it’s something real. something chosen. and when alex catches your eye again from across the barrier with that same grin and same quiet certainty, you feel it fully—for the first time.

you lower your camera and take a deep breath, the noise of the paddock washing around you like a distant tide.

alex's eyes hold yours once more—steady, soft, and real.

no words were needed. not now. because for the first time in a long time, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.

and that was enough.

[vitalverstappen]

at least gabi is p6

[vitalverstappen]

looking for opinions both from americans and non-americans: what would you consider to be the big 4 american cities in terms of like, vibes-based cultural impact?

[vitalverstappen]

Operation: Mayhem - C. Sainz

summary: after a legendary prank war gets officially banned, you and Carlos, your rival camp’s infuriatingly competitive head counselor, are forced to team up for the sake of peace pairing: rival camp counselor au Carlos Sainz x reader warnings: swearing, use of y/n word count: 12k

masterlist

No one remembers exactly how the prank war started. 

Some say it began in 1994, when a Cedar Ridge camper accidentally flipped a canoe carrying Maplewood’s camp director. Others claim it was the Great Canteen Heist of ‘99, when Maplewood counselors, dressed in Ridge sweatshirts and fake mustaches, broke into Cedar Ridge’s kitchen and  replaced all the peanut butter with mayonnaise. 

Ask either side and the story changes. Names grow more dramatic. The stakes get bigger. There was a rumor, once, about a goat in a staff cabin and a karaoke machine rigged to play nothing but Nickleback.

Either way, it’s tradition now. 

The rivalry has rules. Unspoken, sacred, passed down through whispered warnings and hand-scrawled manuals. There are teams, tallies, and a deeply unofficial Prank Scoreboard, stored in a locked Google Doc accessible only to the oldest counselors - those who have earned the password, survived shaving cream warfare, and lived to tell the tale. 

Camp Cedar Ridge vs Camp Maplewood. 

Lake rivals. Banner enemies. Glitter war veterans. 

And now?

Now, it was a year after the infamous Kool-Aid Lake Incident, which turned half the waterline neon cherry red and prompted a county-wide investigation and a very serious camp director ceasefire. 

“No pranks this summer,” the directors had said. 

“We’re watching you,” they had said. 

“Especially you, y/n.”

To which you, senior counselor, and unofficial Maplewood prank captain, had smiled sweetly and said,

“Of course. Scout’s honor.”

You had never been a scout. 

Across the lake, Carlos Sainz stood ankle-deep in the lake water, skipping stones and squinting at the Maplewood shore like it might explode at any second. 

He didn’t trust the silence. 

It had been three whole days since either camp started their sessions. Three days since anything had gone wrong. No fire alarms. No dyed marshmallows. No surprise inflatable sea creatures floating onto the dock with cryptic messages tied to their necks. And that could only mean one thing:

You were up to something. 

And if you weren’t?

Well. Then he would be. Someone had to keep things interesting.

Carlos bent down and selected a smooth, flat rock, the kind you learn to spot after enough years as a lake rat. He flicked it low and sharp across the water. One, two, three, four, five skips - then a clean plunk.

“Five,” he muttered. “Still better than Lando.”

To his left, a voice called out through the stillness, syrupy sweet and unmistakable. 

“Careful, Sainz. Skip like that too close here, and I’ll have to report it as an act of aggression.”

He turned slowly.

You were standing at the edge of your dock - arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, a red lollipop hanging lazily from the corner of your mouth like the world’s most chaotic campfire villain. The golden hour hit your shoulders like a spotlight.

“Look who finally decided to show face.” Carlos called, shading his eyes.

You gave him a lazy two-finger salute. “What can I say? Laying low. Being good. You should try it sometime.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You? Being good? You once filled our shower house with live crickets.”

“Allegedly” you shrugged, letting your lollipop click between your teeth.

Carlos waded deeper into the lake until the water hit just below his knees, toes sinking into the squelchy muck. The sun glinted off his wet calves. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please enlighten me.”

“You’re too quiet this year,” he said, narrowing his eyes at you like you were a suspicious animal. “Too polite. It’s unnerving. I don’t trust it.”

Your eyebrows lifted, mock-innocent. “This is the first time you’ve seen me this summer.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding slowly. “It’s weird.”

A pause stretched between you - tense, but not hostile. Like seconds before a canoe tips. You twirled your lollipop between your fingers. He flicked another stone, deliberately avoiding your gaze. 

Then, you said, too casually, “Did you get the marshmallows I sent over last night?”

Carlos frowned. “What marshmallows?”

A grin slowly crept onto your lips. The dangerous kind. The kind that usually ends with someone covered in molasses. 

From somewhere back at Camp Cedar Ridge, a bloodcurdling shriek rang out. 

“THESE ARE FILLED WITH KETCHUP-”

Carlos froze. 

You dropped the bare lollipop stick onto the dock. 

It bounced once, then rolled to a stop at the edge. 

By the time he turned back around, you were already gone. 

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout across the lake. Didn’t storm over in the Cedar Ridge motorboat and demand vengeance. 

No. 

He just stared at your abandoned lollipop stick from the edge of the dock, like it held ancient secrets. Not angry. Not shocked. 

Then, he smiled.

“Game on.”

The next morning at the Maplewood morning lineup, things were… suspiciously normal. 

Too normal. 

The sun was too bright. The air too still. The campers too well-behaved, standing in mostly straight lines with suspiciously innocent faces.

You were halfway through leading the “Banana Song” with a group of second-grade campers - complete with full hand motions and a tragic commitment to interpretive dance - when the whispers started. 

At first, you ignored them. Kids whispered about everything - cryptids in the lake, secret tunnels under the arts barn, whether or not Camp Director Ryan was married to the raccoon that lived in the compost bin. 

But then Lucy, your co-counselor, tugged on your sleeve, mid-banana peel charades, and whispered:

“Y/n,” she hissed. “Look.”

You turned. 

And your soul left your body.

Your drama cabin - your kingdom - was completely covered in Cedar Ridge green. 

And not just like, a tasteful splash.

No. 

Drenched. 

Streamers cascaded down from the roof like a waterfall of tacky betrayal. Pine needles were arranged into a horrifyingly accurate representation of the Ridge logo. Green glitter had been poured across the welcome mat. There was even a plastic moose head - god knows where he found it - nailed above the door like some woodland mafia warning. 

But that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was the statue. 

Right there on the porch stood a paper mache version of you - arms wide, lanyard swaying, hair too big, and in one triumphant hand: a giant plastic bottle of ketchup.

And across the chest of the statue?

“MAPLEWOOD’S MOST WANTED: CONDIMENT QUEEN”

You stood very still. 

Lucy gasped. One of your second graders yelled “OH MY GOD SHE’S BEAUTIFUL.” Ella had to turn away, clutching her clipboard to her face. 

You clapped once, slowly. “Okay,” you said, voice flat. “Okay.”

It wasn’t rage that boiled up next. It was something worse. 

Respect.

Ella whispered, “That’s… honestly, kind of good.”

You were already marching toward the porch. 

The moose’s glassy eyes watched you. Judging. 

Taped to the door was a single sheet of white paper, bordered with cartoon clip-art laurels, written in comically fancy cursive:

A peace offering. And a warning. Love, Carlos

Later that day, you spotted him across the lake.

Carlos Sainz. Lifeguard chair throne. Aviators. Posture of a man who knew exactly how smug he looked and was thriving on it. He was eating a popsicle. Probably your favorite flavor. His feet were kicked up. He looked so relaxed. 

You hated him. 

You marched all the way to the end of the Maplewood dock and cupped your hands around your mouth. 

“You think you’re funny?!”

Carlos barely glanced over his sunglasses. “I know I’m funny.”

“That statue doesn’t even look like me.”

“It deeply does.”

You shook your head. “This is war.”

He shrugged, casual as anything, “You started it.”

“And I’m going to finish it.”

He leaned back in his chair, smile curling like smoke. “Then stop yelling across the lake and come prove it.”

A dangerous silence settled on the dock. The kind that came before thunderstorms. Or glitter bombs. 

You almost jumped in a canoe. Almost paddled across and knocked that smug little popsicle out of his hand. 

But instead?

You grinned.

“Tomorrow,” you called. “Check your bunk. I’m feeling inspired.”

And then, with a dramatic hair flip and a flare of a girl with a reputation to maintain, you walked away. 

Carlos didn’t respond. 

But from his lifeguard chair, he saluted you.

In your cabin, you were busy plotting like a woman possessed. 

Your notebook, once dedicated to camper skit ideas and themed dance playlists, had become a war manual. A full page was already labeled “Revenge.” Underneath: a bulleted list of potential weapons: 

Fake centipedes 

Real crickets (borrowed from the Nature hut, if Oscar looked the other way)

Fart spray

One Cedar Ridge hoodie that you’d been saving since last year’s color wars

Ella walked in halfway through your brainstorming session, took one look at the chaos, and muttered “I’m both terrified and proud.”

You didn’t look up. “That’s the correct response.”

“Are those… blueprints?” She asked 

“They’re schematics,” you said seriously. “I’m an artist.”

“You’re unwell.” 

You were. And you were thriving. 

Because this wasn’t just payback anymore. This was personal. Carlos had declared war on your creative soul, defamed your drama cabin, and worst of all - gotten a laugh out of you. 

That couldn’t go unpunished. 

Before you could continue scheming though, the door to your cabin slammed open, Lucy running in. 

“Y/N,” she began, slightly out of breath. “Ryan wants to see you in his office. He’s pissed.”

You froze. 

Pen halfway through your bullet point for “Glitter Bomb (eco-friendly, but emotionally devastating).”

“Did he say why?” you asked, even though you already knew. 

Lucy nodded, wide-eyed. “He said to bring the notebook.”

Ella let out a gasp so dramatic it could’ve won a Tony.

“That’s code red,” she whispered. “That's confiscation level angry.”

You stood up slowly, spine straightening like a soldier marching to her doom. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. This is fine. We’ve been here before.”

Ella blinked. “Have we?”

You ignored her. 

Notebook tucked under your arm, you made the walk to the camp office like a criminal heading to court.

Only, instead of lawyers there were laminated posters about migratory birds and a bulletin board announcing “Worm Composting Wednesday”. Instead of security guards, two chipmunks sat perched on the wooden railing, chittering in what sounded suspiciously like judgement. You could swear one of them shook its head as you passed. 

The air was thick with pine and the faint smell of citronella. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying over a spilled bug jar, and a counselor was trying to console them with string cheese. Classic. 

You adjusted your hoodie - the one still faintly glittered green from Carlos’s “peace offering” and climbed the creaky steps like you were walking the gallows. 

And waiting for you at the top?

Camp Director Ryan. 

Mid-forties. Perpetually sunburned. Looked like he’d never fully recovered from the Great Salsa Spill of ‘07. Wore the kind of socks that screamed “I gave up” and sandals that screamed louder. He was the kind of man who clapped before meetings and said things like “synergy” and “let’s circle back” with no irony. He also cried every year during the end of camp slideshow, especially during the photos of lost water bottles and friendship bracelets.

He was already standing when you opened the screen door, arms crossed over his clipboard like it was a riot shield. 

“Sit,” he said like he’d already given you a thousand chances too many.

You sat, stiff as a rake. The notebook thudded in your lap like it knew it was guilty. 

He pointed at it. “Is that the war journal?”

“... It’s a planner.” 

“It’s a manifesto.”

“It’s color-coded.”

“Y/N.”

You sighed and slumped further down. “Fine. It’s a war journal.”

Ryan took a deep breath, the kind that said he’d warned you. Many times. In many staff meetings. With many laminated visual aids. 

“You can’t just break into Cedar Ridge,” he began slowly, like he was trying not to raise his blood pressure. “You cannot stuff ketchup into marshmallows, dip them into hot sauce, drench the box in fart spray, and replace them with the camp’s supply of regular ones.”

“Technically,” you said, “I didn’t break into Cedar Ridge. I walked over there. And I didn’t replace them. They stocked the supply shelves themselves. I just… altered the box.”

“Y/N.”

Before you could defend your “culinary masterpiece” further, the screen door creaked open again.  

Carlos stepped in like he owned the place, smugness wrapped around him like a towel at swim check. He was wearing the standard Cedar Ridge staff shirt - wrinkled, somehow freshly sun-kissed - and still faintly sparkling. He looked at you like he was enjoying your downfall like popcorn at a movie. 

Maisie, the director of Cedar Ridge, followed him inside with the energy of a woman who had once run a Fortune 500 company and now had to deal with glitter-based warfare between two overgrown campers. 

Carlos didn’t say a word. He just looked at you. 

Smug. Smirking. Somehow slightly glittery.

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “Don’t know who did the glitter, but you look better with the sparkles.”

He smiled, all teeth. “You should try fart spray sometime. It’s… eye-opening.”

Ryan groaned into his clipboard.

Maisie snapped her fingers once, sharp and clean. “Enough. Sit.”

Carlos flopped down next to you, legs out like he was lounging poolside, not at a disciplinary hearing. He elbowed your notebook with mock curiosity. 

“Is this the recipe book?” he whispered. 

You deadpanned, “It’s your diary.”

Ryan clapped his hands once, loudly, the way camp directors do when they’re two seconds away from losing their minds. “Let’s get something straight. This ends now.”

Maisie leaned forward like she was prepping for a TED Talk titled We Are So, So Tired. “If I find one more plastic insect in my counselor cabins, I will be calling the board of directors and requesting the counselor mixer to be banned permanently.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t”

Carlos looked delighted. “Wait, that’s an option?”

Ryan shot both of you a look. “Guys.”

Maisie turned on you like a missile. “We are on thin ice after last year’s lake incident. And you-” she jabbed a finger at your notebook - “you are writing things down. In ink.”

“It’s erasable gel pen,” you muttered. “I’m not an animal”

Carlos choked on a laugh and looked away like he didn’t want to encourage you. He failed.

“This is supposed to be a summer of unity,” Maisie said, pacing now. “Peace. Shared programming. A joint talent show.”

You blinked. “Is that why we’re here? Because if this is about the talent show, I’m not letting Ridge do a campfire dubstep remix again, I’m pulling the power cord myself.”

Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about early retirement.

Carlos, still reclined, added helpfully. “Look, if she apologizes, I’ll consider calling a temporary ceasefire.”

You turned your head slowly. “Oh, you’re funny.”

Maisie sighed, rubbing her temples. “You two clearly have built some kind of… prank feedback loop.”

Ryan added “A toxic escalation spiral,” like he had practiced that phrase in front of the mirror. 

Then came the worst part.

They both stared at you. Then at Carlos. Then at each other, like some camp-director unity.

Finally, Ryan said, “So here’s what’s going to happen.”

You and Carlos both sat up straighter, sensing doom.

“You’re going to co-lead the joint-camps campfire at the end of the summer.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

Maisie smiled, the type that should come with thunder. “Shared programming. Team bonding.”

Carlos leaned forward, looking personally betrayed. “Absolutely not.”

“This is your punishment.” Ryan said flatly.

You looked at Carlos. He looked at you. 

Equal horror. Equal panic. Equal loathing.

And something else, sharp and electric.

Carlos muttered, “I’d rather be set on fire.”

“I’ll light the match,” you added, leaning toward him 

Maisie didn’t blink. “Do not make us regret this.”

Ryan added “And if either of you brings glitter, fart spray, or ketchup to that campfire, I will have both of your lanyards revoked.”

You opened your mouth.

He held up a hand. “Don’t test me, Condiment Queen.”

The sky was turning that perfect inky blue that only happened at camp - that strange, suspended hue where day hadn’t quite ended but the stars had already started to arrive, scattered like confetti across a construction paper sky. The pine trees lining the clearing stood like cardboard silhouettes, sharp and still, and the smoke from the fire curled upward in slow ribbons, as if even it was eavesdropping.

The fire crackled in the center of the Maplewood counselors’ circle, low and lazy, throwing golden light onto your annoyed scowl in dramatic, theatrical shadow.

You dropped onto a log with a sigh so pointed it could’ve popped a canoe. Your legs stretched toward the fire. Your hoodie, still thoroughly ketchup stained, radiated chaos. Crumbs from your earlier emotional support granola bar tumbled into the dirt like tiny casualties.

“Did they arrest you?” Lucy asked, already passing you a s’more like it was contraband.

“They wanted to,” you muttered, grabbing it, “but I charmed my way out.”

“Liar,” Ella said from your other side. “I heard Ryan yell ‘Condiment Queen’ from the office.”

“And he called you a ‘toxic escalation spiral,’” Jo added, trying very hard not to laugh and failing spectacularly.

You bit into the s’more. “They’re making me co-lead the end-of-summer campfire.”

A beat. The wind rustled the trees. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted like it too was invested.

Then Jo, flatly: “With Carlos?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Obviously.”

That was all it took.

Screams. Actual, delighted, banshee-level screams from every girl around the fire. Lucy grabbed Jo’s sleeve like she was watching the end of a rom-com. Ella clutched her marshmallow stick like it was a bouquet. Jo lay backward on the log with a sound of pure evil joy.

“No,” you said firmly. “Stop. Whatever is about to happen - stop it.”

Ella was grinning wide enough to split the sky. “You two co-leading a campfire is either going to end in a marriage proposal or a court case.”

“More like a forest fire,” you muttered, biting into what was left of your graham cracker like it had personally wronged you.  

But they were all giving you The Look™ now. That very specific expression that meant you were about to do something stupid and they were about to make it stupider. 

“You know,” Lucy said, drawing the words out like a dare disguised as a thought, “if you really wanted to get him back…”

“No,” you said instantly, holding up a finger. 

“What if,” Jo pressed on, eyes practically glowing, “instead of just pranking him…”

“Nope.”

“You emotionally compromised him,” Ella said with a mouthful of chocolate. 

You stared. “You want me to seduce Carlos Sainz.”

“We’re just saying,” Lucy shrugged, “if you’re already being forced to co-lead the campfire, you might as well win on every level.”

“Exactly,” Jo agreed, tossing a pinecone into the fire like a blood offering. “He called a ceasefire if you apologized. But what if instead of surrendering…”

“... you made him fall for you,” Ella finished, the firelight catching in her eyes like she was plotting arson.

Someone’s marshmallow caught fire. No one noticed. 

You crossed your arms tightly. “That’s not how war works.”

“That is exactly how war works,” Lucy said. “It’s psychological warfare.”

“It’s romantic sabotage,” Ella whispered like it was sacred.

You opened your mouth to object. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then sighed. “You’re all completely unhinged.”

Jo grinned. “And yet… you’re considering it.”

You stared into the fire. It snapped softly, a spark jumping toward your boot. In your head, you saw Carlos’s lifeguard lean. His maddening smirk. That godforsaken moose head on your drama cabin.

He’d called you Condiment Queen and made it sound like royalty. 

You looked back at your friends, shook your head once, and then said:

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

Screams again. Lucy shrieked loud enough to disturb the bats. Ella immediately pulled out her little notebook - the actual war journal now, apparently - and began sketching out a betting pool. Jo tossed another log onto the fire like she was summoning ancient trickster spirits. 

And you?

You sat back, stuck another marshmallow on a stick, and roasted it slow, steady, with the calm of someone plotting emotional ruin. 

Because the war wasn’t over. 

It was just going undercover. 

Carlos was not pacing. 

He was walking. Thoughtfully. Purposefully. Strategically. Just… around the edges of the Cedar Ridge staff cabins. For the fourth time. Maybe fifth. It didn’t matter.

And maybe muttering. Maybe it was low. Maybe dramatic.

But it wasn’t pacing. 

Because pacing meant nerves. It meant weakness. Confusion. Emotional disturbance. And Carlos Sainz - decorated prank captain, lifeguard god, three year winner of “Most Likely to Steal the Spotlight at Color Wars” - was absolutely, undeniably fine. 

Totally fine. 

Except he wasn’t. 

He stopped in front of Cabin Cypress. Frowned. The “TEAM RIDGE” banner was tilted by, like, two degrees. Unacceptable. He adjusted it to a perfect 90-degree angle, stepped back, scowled at it again… then muttered “Condiment Queen,” under his breath like it was a curse. Or worse - a compliment.

Because he could still see you. 

The office. The ketchup streaked hoodie. The smug little tilt of your head. The way you twirled that pen like you were planning war crimes. The way you said he looked glittery. He had looked glittery, thanks to whatever sabotage glitterbomb you’d detonated that morning - but the worst part wasn’t the glitter. It was the fact that when you smiled at him, all sharp and victorious, he liked it. 

Carlos ran a hand down his face, like he could wipe the memory off it. No luck. 

He turned on his heel, marched toward the edge of camp, and collapsed dramatically on the bench behind the boathouse. It was his thinking spot. Far enough from the cabins that no campers would find him, and the only witnesses were the frogs and the moonlight. 

The lake stretched out in front of him, glassy and black and all too quiet. The same lake where you’d yelled at him. Twice. The same lake where he’d saluted you like an idiot.

He groaned and flopped backward. The stars stared down at him like they were waiting for updates.  

“Co-lead the end of summer campfire,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick with disbelief. “With her.”

The words sounded like a threat. A punishment. An act of administrative vengeance. Or possibly divine intervention. Either way, it was a disaster. A sparkle-coated, marshmallow-stuffed, slow motion emotional catastrophe. 

It was also, maybe… a little exciting?

Which was deeply concerning. 

Carlos wasn’t used to people matching him. They usually followed. Laughed. Occasionally rolled their eyes and cleaned up after him. But you? You came for his throne. You’d put centipedes in his cabin and ketchup in his marshmallows and walked away with glitter in your hair like it was your signature scent. 

He didn’t trust it. 

He didn’t trust you. 

And that was the problem. 

He wanted to.

“You’re spiraling,” a voice said behind him, loud, British, and far too smug. 

Carlos didn’t even flinch. Of course it was Lando. His co-counselor, best friend, and all-around annoying voice of reason.

“Go away, Lando.”

Lando sat anyway, plopping onto the bench like he lied there. Which, honestly, he kind of did. “You’ve done five laps around camp in the last hour and adjusted every single team flag.”

“They were crooked.”

“You’re crooked.”

Carlos glared at him. “Do you need something?”

Lando shrugged, tossing a pebble toward the dock. It landed with a soft plop. “So. Campfire co-leader, huh?”

Carlos groaned and slumped lower on the bench. “It’s a death sentence.”

“She’s kind of cute when she’s threatening your life, though.”

“I will drown you.”

Lando grinned. “You saluted her. From the lifeguard chair. That’s like flirting in counselor code.”

“That was mocking.”

“It looked like yearning.”

Carlos threw a stick at him. Missed. Lando didn’t even blink. 

“She’s planning something,” Carlos muttered. “I can feel it. That walk away? That was a villain exit. She probably has a whiteboard. There’s definitely a color-coded timeline.”

“You sound like you want to be a part of it.”

Carlos paused. Blinked up at the sky. 

He did want to be a part of it. 

Not the war - okay, yes, the war - but also… the way you lit up when you were scheming. The fire in your voice. The way your eyes sparkled even brighter than the dumb stuff he poured on the drama cabin. He wanted to see what you looked like when you weren’t mad at him. 

He wanted to know what made you laugh. 

Which was stupid. And reckless. And exactly what Lando saw written all over his face. 

“Oh my god.” Lando whispered. “You like her.”

“No I don’t.”

“You do. You’re doomed mate.”

Carlos groaned again, louder this time, and let his head thunk back against the boathouse wall. 

“I hate this summer,” he said.

“You don’t,” Lando replied, smug. “You love it. You love a challenge.”

Carlos closed his eyes. Saw you again, laughing with a marshmallow stick in one hand. 

He opened his eyes.

Then sighed. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “If it’s war… I’m not losing.”

You woke up the next morning with a sugar hangover, a suspicious glint in your eye, and a fire in your soul.

Your hoodie still smelled like wood smoke and betrayal. Somewhere in the tangled mess of your comforter was your notebook - the infamous war journal - now flipped open to a new page. Glittery annotations sparkled in the corners. A hastily drawn pink highlighter heart around the phrase “Operation: Emotional Annihilation.” There were three increasingly aggressive doodles of Carlos getting pelted with marshmallows, one of which now had devil horns and a speech bubble that just said “lol.”

You stretched, yawned, and stared at the ceiling beams above your bunk. Birdsong drifted in through the screen windows. Somewhere in the distance, a bugle call blared too enthusiastically for this hour. 

Right. Today was the day. 

You had agreed to seduce Carlos Sainz. 

Okay. That was… not technically what they said. They said “emotionally compromise,” “win the war with your heart,” and “weaponize the campfire glow,” but the subtext was clear. You were going to flirt. Charm. Distract. 

And, if you were being honest?

You were maybe, slightly, looking forward to it.

“Y/N,” Ella whispered, poking her head around the cabin divider. “Is today the day?”

You blinked. “The day for what?”

She gasped. “You forgot? You promised to start psychological warfare this morning.”

“I didn’t promise,” you mumbled, sitting up. “I said fine, let’s do it and then passed out on a log while someone lit a marshmallow on fire and Jo tried to baptize it in Sprite.”

Lucy rolled over in her bunk and grinned into her pillow. “So is that a yes?”

You sighed, shoved off your blanket, and stood. “Yeah, it’s a yes.”

Thirty minutes later, you stood in front of the mirror, the absolute picture of casual devastation. 

You’d found your least condiment stained shirt - a soft vintage camp tee knotted at the waist. Your hair was braided into two impossibly effortful Dutch braids that took three tries, two brushes, and a brief spiritual crisis. A touch of camp-safe tinted lip balm graced your lips that would’ve made your campers scream if they noticed. (They would. They noticed everything.)

“You look like a girl about to ruin a lifeguard’s life,” Jo said approvingly 

“I feel like a girl about to get written up again” you muttered 

Lucy tossed you a banana from the dining hall stash. “Breakfast of champions. Now go. Find him. Smile. Use that weird laugh he likes.”

“He doesn’t like it.”

“He mentioned it.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

They all pushed you out the cabin door anyway. 

Carlos was, of course, exactly where you expected him to be: perched in his lifeguard chair like a smug, sun-kissed gargoyle, sunglasses on, Gatorade in hand, watching the lake like he owned it. 

That sight made your jaw clench. And maybe your heart flutter. Unfortunately. 

You took a breath, then another. 

Then strolled down the gravel path like you didn’t have a military-grade emotional ambush loaded in your arsenal. Like your hands weren’t slightly clammy. Like your brain wasn’t screaming abort mission while your friends hit behind a canoe shed for backup.

Carlos noticed you immediately. He sat up straighter - subtly, almost imperceptibly. But his head tilted. His lips curled, barely. And when you stepped onto the Maplewood dock, he pulled his sunglasses down his nose like he was starring in a romcom you didn’t ask to be cast in. 

“Morning, Maplewood,” he called.

You gave him a lazy, sunshine-sweet smile that felt like slipping on armor. “Hey, Ridge Boy.”

He blinked. Once. Good.

“Beautiful day,” you said casually, like you didn’t have a journal labeled How To Emotionally Destroy Carlos Sainz With Charm Alone.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “Are you… being nice to me?”

You tilted your head, lips parting in mock innocence. “What, I can’t enjoy shared programming and promote cross-camp unity now?”

He stared at you like he’d just walked into a Twilight Zone episode. “Not without something exploding in my bunk.”

You laughed - not your real laugh. The other one. The soft one. The one they told you to use. Carlos froze like he’d just glitched.

You leaned slightly forward, smile growing. “Guess you bring out my nicer side.”

Carlos stared like you’d just sprouted fairy wings. Perfect. 

You popped the banana open, took a bite, and winked. “See you at the campfire planning meeting,” before turning on your heel and strolling away like a girl in full control of her narrative.

(You looked back. One glance. Very discreet. Worth it.)

Carlos was still watching. Still stunned.

At the edge of the woods, Ella and Lucy emerged from behind the canoe shed, jaws dropped. 

“What the hell was that?” Ella asked

“Phase one,” you said, brushing imaginary dirt off your sleeve. “Confuse the enemy.”

“Phase two?” Jo asked, appearing out of nowhere. 

“Make him want to lose.”

The joint-camp staff lodge smelled like sunscreen, dry-erase markers, and unresolved tension.

You walked in exactly three minutes late - not enough to be rude, just enough to make Carlos look up. Which he did. Instantly. His head snapped up like a deer in headlights, only more tanned and possibly having an internal crisis.

Good. 

You wore your nice shorts. The ones with the slightly rolled cuffs and the tinny embroidered stars on the back pocket that screamed coming of age movies. Your hoodie was unzipped just enough to show the glitter paint stain you’d strategically smeared to look like an accident. Your walk was casual. Breezy. Full of righteous “I’m definitely not trying to ruin your life” energy.

Carlos, to his credit, looked like he had been electrocuted. 

He was slouched in a mesh camp chair, sunglasses perched on his head, a pen twirling between his fingers. His posture screamed “I don’t care.” His eyes said, oh no. 

“Hey,” you said, sliding into the seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. 

“Hi,” he replied warily, like he was waiting for cockroaches to fall from the ceiling.

At the front of the room, Maisie and Ryan stood like two long-suffering sitcom parents, faces drawn with equal parts fatigue and the quiet prayer that maybe this time they’ll behave.

“Thank you both for showing up,” Maisie said with a tone so flat it could’ve been an ironing board. “We’re here to start planning a peaceful, meaningful, non-combustible end of summer campfire. Which you two,” she added, pointing with a laminated flowchart like it was a weapon, “are leading together.”

You smiled sweetly. Carlos stared straight ahead like he was bracing for impact. 

Ryan passed out the meeting agenda like it might defuse something. You took one. Carlos didn’t.

“Don’t need it,” he muttered. “Campfire’s simple. Fire, songs, s’mores, bedtime.”

“Wow,” you said, faux-impressed. “Such vision. Such leadership.”

He finally turned to look at you. “Don’t start.”

“I’m being nice,” you replied, voice dipped in honey. “You’re the one being suspicious.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You have an agenda.”

“I have laminated ideas,” you corrected

You held up a glossy print out labeled: Theme: “Two Camps, One Heart.” Complete with pastel stars, doodled campfires, and a tagline underneath in bubble letters Activities for Unity, Not Arson!

Carlos actually blinked. “You made a mood board?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned before leaning in just slightly, your smile curling like smoke. “Does that intimidate you, Sainz?”

There was a moment - an actual moment - where he stared like he forgot how eyes worked. Like the pen in his hand no longer mattered and the air in the room had just changed flavor.

“No,” he said finally. 

But it didn’t sound convincing. 

Ryan clapped his hands like he was trying to summon divine patience. “Okay. Let’s pick songs. The campers will go around and share things they’ve learned, and you’ll both close the evening with a speech.”

Carlos raised his hand lazily. “Can mine be a monologue about personal betrayal and condiment trauma?”

You bit back a laugh. Barely. 

Maisie pinched the bridge of her nose. “If either of you improvises a bit about fart spray, I swear-”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. This is about healing. Harmony. Growth.”

Carlos stared at you again, squinting like he was trying to crack a code. “Did you hit your head?”

You beamed. “Just discovered a new perspective.”

Ryan passed out the song list. You reached for yours, and your hand brushed Carlos’s.

Static. Actual static. Like the gods of teen romance had leaned over and whispered yes, this is the moment. Both of you froze.

You looked at him. 

He looked at you. 

The paper sat between you like a ticking bomb. You snatched it a beat too late, your fingers suddenly traitorous.

“Sorry,” you said quickly

“No, it’s…fine.”

Maisie kept talking, something about timing the sing-along and the optional tambourine distribution, but your brain had fully static-dialed. Because Carlos still hadn’t looked away. And not in the usual I’m studying your weaknesses way. This was different. 

He was watching you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t planned on solving, but wanted to.

You turned back toward your sheet, willing your heart rate to chill out and your face not to betray the wild, reckless smirk threatening to break through. Because you had a plan. You were executing the plan. And Carlos was folding faster than a soggy camp map.

He leaned a little closer. “So what’s the real plan?”

You blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Are you trying to kill me slowly or just drive me insane?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Can’t it be both?”

Carlos made a noise under his breath - somewhere between a groan and a very soft curse in Spanish - and slouched even deeper in his chair like gravity had suddenly doubled just for him. 

Maisie gestured at the whiteboard. “Okay, let’s start mapping out roles. Carlos, you’ll handle fire safety and supplies. Y/N, you’re in charge of storytelling and camper engagement.”

You perked up. “Can I use a puppet?”

“No,” Ryan and Carlos said in sync. 

After a beat, Carlos shot you a sideways glance. “What kind of puppet?”

You leaned over, stage-whispering, “A squirrel with a tragic backstory and a penchant for dramatic lighting.”

He closed his eyes like he was in pain. “I take it back. The glitter was nothing. This is psychological warfare.”

“Glad you’re finally catching up.”

Maisie moved on to logistics. Ryan handed out folders with individual assignments. You spun your pen in slow circles, trying not to smirk. Because somewhere between the puppets and the paper-touching and the word “intimidate,” you spotted it:

Carlos was starting to crack. 

Just a little. Just enough. 

His posture was off. His questions were different. He hadn’t called you a nickname related to condiments in twenty minutes, which had to be a record. 

Jo had been right. 

You didn’t need to win the war with fart spray or fake snakes in the shower drain. 

You just had to smile. Charm. 

And let him fall on his own sword. 

Carlos reached for his folder, glanced at you again, and muttered something you barely caught:

“You’re dangerous.”

You leaned back in your chair, let the overhead fan ruffle your hair like a breeze of victory, and replied, “I know.”

After the meeting, Carlos was back in his lifeguard chair. 

Alone. Supposedly in charge. Supposedly watching the lake for rip currents, paddle board mishaps, and rogue noodle fights. 

Instead? 

He was watching the path that led back to Maplewood. 

His clipboard - meant for sign-outs and emergency contacts - was hanging uselessly at his side, pages fluttering in the breeze like even they had given up on pretending he was doing this job. His Gatorade sat forgotten and sweating in the cupholder. His sunglasses were on, but only because he didn’t trust his face to not betray him. 

Because he was unraveling. 

And it all started with that damn look you had given him in the lodge. 

That smile. That ridiculous, sunshine-wrapped, just for him smile. The one you delivered like a grenade with glitter on the pin. And then the soft laugh. The hair. The stars on your back pocket. The wink on the dock. 

You winked. At him. Like this was a game only you knew the rules to, and he’d already lost.

And now, he was suffering. 

He stared blankly at the lake. Two campers were attempting to stand up paddleboard while playing “chicken fight” with pool noodles - something that should have had him on his feet, whistle in hand, barking safe boating practices like usual. But he barely glanced at them.  

Not his jurisdiction. Let them fall. 

He had bigger problems. Internal ones. 

You were being nice. Not fake-nice. Not truce-nice. Genuinely nice. Like a dangerous new flavor of war, one he hadn’t prepared for. Not one prank. Not one confetti bomb. Not a single centipede in his bag. 

Just smile-laced sabotage.

Carlos groaned, running both of his hands through his hair. 

She’s in your head. Get it together, man.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. This was supposed to be a prank war. A summer long, sparkle streaked, marshmallow stuffed battle of wits. You were rivals. Sworn enemies. A dramatic cautionary tale for future counselor mixers. 

You weren’t supposed to… glow like that. Or sit beside him smelling like campfire, strategy and some kind of mystery shampoo that made his brain short-circuit. You weren’t supposed to lean in close and ask if he was intimidated, like you knew he was. 

Carlos tilted his head back, eyes closing behind the sunglasses. He let the sun beat down on his face and tried to breathe. 

It didn’t help. 

He could still hear your voice. Still feel your fingers brush his. Still see that damn glitter stain on your hoodie like a secret code. 

And the worst part?

You hadn’t even really started yet. 

He knew it. Could feel it. The way you smiled too easily. The way you didn’t argue. The fact that you brought a laminated mood board. In the way you leaned back like you already owned the battlefield. He could feel it in the air - electric, tense, and terrifyingly exciting.

Carlos hated not knowing what was coming next. 

Carlos loved not knowing what was coming next. 

You were going to kill him. And he was going to thank you for it.

Carlos adjusted his sunglasses and slumped back into the chair like it could hold his spiraling dignity. 

“I’m so screwed.”

The next morning, you were elbow-deep in a pile of glitter. Actual glitter. Weaponized, industrial-strength, emotionally compromising glitter. 

It covered the floor of the Maplewood rec room like someone had tried to reenact Frozen with a Broadway sized vengeance and a very aggressive arts budget. Every step left a trail. Every breath stirred up a sparkle cloud. Your shoes had given up somewhere around minute twelve, now permanently dusted in silver like tragic little disco ghosts. 

And the culprit? He had just walked past the building. 

You didn’t even hesitate. 

You stormed out to the porch, slammed the door open with enough force to rattle the screen, and shouted into the sunlight like an underpaid goddess of vengeance.

“Sainz!” Your arm sliced through the air like a traffic officer from glitter hell. “Get in here, now.”

Carlos turned like he knew he was guilty of something. (He was.)

Within moments, he stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like they were armor, hair still damp from the lake, a tank top sticking to him in a way that was somehow criminal and distracting.

His gaze swept over the wreckage. 

The floor was a catastrophe of sequins and sparkle fallout. The craft bins had been raided. Two glue sticks lay melted in surrender. And there you stood in the middle of it all - fists on hips, glitter on your face, holding the empty tub like the ghost of crime's past.

He blinked. “...What the hell happened here?”

You glared. The kind that had sent fourth graders into apology spirals moments earlier. “You happened.”

Carlos raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve been on lifeguard duty all morning. Very peacefully not causing this.”

“Yet somehow, you’re still the root cause,” you snapped, marching toward him with the rage of someone who’d cleaned the same two tiles eight times. “Apparently, you told Cabin Bearly Behavin’ that the ‘glitter rain’ prank from last year was ‘historically significant.’”

He grinned. “I said it was iconic. Which is true.”

“Carlos.”

“Y/N.”

You narrowed your eyes. He smiled wider. 

And then, of course - he stepped inside. 

One step. Crunch. His flip-flop immediately coated in silver and blue sparkles. He looked down at it, mildly impressed. “Wow. It’s like snow. If snow wanted to ruin your laundry forever.”

You shoved the empty glitter tub at his chest with no ceremony. “You’re helping.”

Carlos hesitated like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in a canoe. “Me? Why?”

“Because it’s your fault. Because these are your campers. Because I don’t want to be forced into another painful meeting with Maisie and Ryan.”

He snorted. “Is that a threat or a love letter?”

You hurled a damp sponge at him. Missed. It landed with a sad, flopping slap against the doorway. 

Carlos sighed dramatically, then kicked off his shoes and crouched beside you. “Fine. What’s the plan, boss?”

You blinked. 

Carlos Sainz. Prank captain. Waterfront menace. Maplewood’s #1 enemy combatant. Kneeling beside you with a dustpan in one hand and smile that felt dangerously like truce. 

“...Start with the corner,” you muttered. “Work clockwise.”

He nodded solemnly, crawling to the far side of the room. “You’re the artist. I’m just the janitor.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Same thing,” he said, voice too soft. 

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not with the way his shoulder brushed yours every time he scooted closer. Not with the way he hummed while he worked - off-key and annoyingly charming. 

Somewhere around the fifteen minute mark, you reached for the same glitter pile and your hands touched. Again. 

You froze. So did he. 

The moment stretched.

Glitter clung to your skin like stars, clung to his knuckles like confetti. It would’ve been cinematic - silent tension, sparkling touch, unspoken emotions - if he hadn’t opened his mouth and said:

“If you cry, do your eyes shoot glitter now?”

You punched him in the shoulder. Lightly. Maybe too lightly. 

He laughed, low and quiet, and didn’t move away. His eyes sparkled worse than the floor now.

Something dangerous. Something hopeful. 

“I hate you,” you whispered. 

He winked. “Sure you do.”

You didn’t finish cleaning the floor. 

But you did laugh. 

And when he finally left - hands covered in glitter, hair dusted like a disco ball, that smile still lingering - you stared at the closed door longer than you meant to. 

Maybe this wasn’t war anymore. Maybe it never had been.  

You were supposed to be setting up for tomorrow’s improv games. That was the plan. The chalkboard said “Drama Block Prep - 10am,” and you had every intention of actually doing your job. But instead?

You were sitting center stage in the drama cabin. In a tragic puddle of tulle skirts, pirate hats, crumpled scripts, a rhinestone tiara, and one plastic sword that kept jabbing you in the thigh like it had a vendetta. 

You stared at your war journal like it had personally betrayed you

Because, in a way, it had. 

The page titled OPERATION: EMOTIONAL ANNIHILATION stared back at you - half covered in fingerprints, annotated with Lucy’s handwriting in neon gel pen (“Weaponize the Dimples”), and a crumpled sticky note from Ella that read: Make him beg.

You frowned at it. Hard. Then let your head fall back against the platform riser behind you with a theatrical sigh that would’ve made your campers proud. 

You were supposed to be prepping. Organizing. 

Instead, you were thinking about him.

Carlos. 

Stupid lifeguard. Stupid perfect eyebrows. Stupid way he looked at you during the meeting like you’d rewired the entire emotional infrastructure of camp with a single smile. 

It was supposed to be a game. That was the rule. You flirt, he folds. You wink, he spirals. You’re in control. You’re holding the reins. 

Except… it didn’t feel like that anymore.

It felt messier. Realer.

Like the script had gone rogue.

You slammed the notebook shut and shoved it under a pile of costume capes. Maybe forever.

The worst part?

You liked the way he watched you now. 

Not the usual rivalry glare. Not even the condiment fueled panic. But something else. Like he couldn’t figure you out. Like he wanted to. Not to win. Not to prank. Just to know you. 

Which, to be very clear, was not the plan. 

You groaned again, dragging yourself flat on your back across the paint-splattered stage. The floor was warm from sunlight bleeding through the dusty window panes. Above you, the wooden ceiling beams were covered in graffiti - years of camper signatures, inside jokes, doodles, “Camp 4evr <3” and one “I kissed Tommy here!!!” circled three times in pink Sharpie. 

You should’ve been at dinner. 

But instead you were here, curled into the safe chaos of the drama cabin, wondering when exactly your heart started confusing the battle with butterflies. 

Somewhere outside, a whistle blew. Another activity rotation. 

You covered your face with your hands and muttered, “I’m so screwed.”

Then, the door creaked open. 

You sat up fast, hair full of static.

Carlos stood in the doorway, one arm braced on the frame like he wasn’t sure if he was invited in. No sunglasses. Just his stupidly handsome, slightly confused face, framed by the setting sun and the faint echo of dodgeball whistles in the distance. 

“Was looking for the band room,” he said, voice half-teasing. “Guess I took a wrong turn and found the… emotional battlefield?”

You blinked. “What gave it away? The abandoned tutus or the fact I’m lying on the stage like a post-show ghost?”

Carlos stepped in slowly, eyes skimming over the wall of old costumes, the faded show posters, the paint-stained risers. He looked a little out of place here - all camp tan and lifeguard cool - but something about him softened in the space. Like he’d walked into your world, and for once… wasn’t trying to win. 

“This where you do all your plotting?”

You shrugged. “Only when I need a break from my bunk and I’m trying not to rethink all my life choices.”

He nodded, then crossed the room like it was no big deal. Like stepping onto your stage wasn’t sacred. Like maybe he already belonged there.

He sat beside you on the floor, arms resting on his knees. One of them bumped yours. You didn’t move away.

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not tense. 

Just… full. 

Then he said, softly, “You’re different when you’re not trying to win.”

You turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

Carlos smiled. A small one. The kind that didn’t hide behind jokes. 

“It’s… interesting.”

You didn’t have a snarky reply for that. Not this time.

Because your chest was doing that fluttery, traitorous thing again. The one that had nothing to do with war strategy and everything to do with him.

He looked down, then back at you. His voice dropped, like he was almost afraid of the words:

“You know, whatever game this is - you don’t have to play it.”

That stopped you. Just for a moment.

Because you felt it too. That quiet shift. That steady unraveling of whatever truce you’d pretended to negotiate. Somewhere between the glitter cleanup and the shared laughter and the way his eyes lingered on you just a second too long…something had changed. 

You didn’t want to win anymore. 

You didn’t want a prank, or a victory, or even the thrill of the back-and-forth.

You just wanted to feel this.

Whatever this was. 

You looked down at your hand resting on the floor between you - fingers stained with marker ink, glitter still clinging to your knuckles from earlier. He looked too. And then slowly, carefully, he reached over. Barely touched your pinky with his. 

It was the softest truce in the history of war. 

And you let it happen.

Later that night, the fire crackled like it knew something. Like it was in on the secret.

It wasn’t the end of year campfire that you and Carlos still had to finish planning. This one was scrappier. Unofficial. A kindling pile slapped together by a handful of over-caffeinated counselors who had managed to wrangle a fire permit and a Bluetooth speaker that only worked when held at a weird angle.

The kids were loving it. Sticky hands, smoke-sweet laughter, impromptu group songs that devolved into half-sun chaos. Someone was passing around a bag of off-brand marshmallows and claiming they were “vintage.”

And yet… none of that was what you were focused on.

You were supposed to be. Your job, technically, was to supervise the chaos from the sidelines and redirect campers before they set themselves on fire or broke into an interpretive dance routine involving sparklers. You had a group of kids behind you rehearsing a dramatic retelling of Shrek using Shakespearean monologues and pool noodles. They were thriving. 

But your eyes weren’t on them. 

They were on him. 

Carlos was crouched low by the woodpile, coaxing a flame back to life with practiced ease. His forearms flexed as he added kindling. His nose scrunched when a puff of smoke hit him. His voice carried just enough over the crackling logs that you could hear it - warm, real, and unguarded. 

And he was laughing. 

Really laughing. The kind of laugh that took up space. Easy. Effortless. 

And you were caught. 

Your eyes didn’t just drift - they clung. Every time he moved. Every time he looked like the boy you used to compete against and the man you couldn’t stop seeing now. 

He caught you staring. 

Of course he did. 

Carlos looked up, caught your eyes across the flickering flames, and for a moment, the rest of camp didn’t exist. 

Not the fire. Not the kids. Not the years of pranks or the glitter still buried in his hair. 

Just you and him. 

He tilted his head slightly, like a question. 

You didn’t answer it aloud. Didn’t wave or smile or raise a brow. You just stood. Quietly. Like gravity had shifted and your feet knew the way before your mind did.

You passed Jo on the way out of the circle. She gave you a confused look. You shrugged. Then you veered off the path - past the giggling campers and flaming s’mores sticks - until you reached the trail just beyond the tree line. 

Carlos met you there less than a minute later. Like he knew.

No words at first. Just the rustle of branches. The warmth of the fire still brushing your back. And him. 

Closer now. 

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough from smoke and something else entirely.

You nodded. “Just needed air.”

He quirked a brow. “You’re outside.”

You smiled. “Then maybe I just needed you.”

The air shifted. It was subtle but electric. A hush that wrapped around your bones and made your breath catch.

Carlos took a half-step forward.

“You keep doing that,” he said, almost like a warning.

“Doing what?” you asked, heart already racing.

“Making it impossible to know what’s real anymore.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out - gently, fingers brushing the edge of his Ridge hoodie sleeve - and looked up at him with all the caution you’d dropped somewhere in the drama cabin. 

“This is real.”

He stared at you. Silent. Searching. 

Then, slowly - like he was afraid to spook the moment - Carlos leaned in. 

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He rested his forehead against yours. Hands on your hips, grounding you both. Close enough to feel the words you hadn’t said yet. Close enough that you could kiss him if you wanted. 

You did want to. 

But you stayed there. Held together in the almost.

But moments at camp always ended. 

A branch snapped somewhere up the hill. 

You both turned. Footsteps. Voices. 

“Carlos?” Lando called. “You still on fire duty? That kid just roasted a marshmallow on a stick of deodorant.”

You both jolted back a little too fast - like guilty teenagers, not rival counselors approaching something dangerously beautiful. 

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, already stepping back into his role. “Duty calls,” he muttered, eyes darting toward the trail, voice lower now, quieter. 

You nodded, arms folding across your chest, like if you squeezed hard enough you could hold the moment in place. 

He looked at you one more time. Like he wanted to say something else. Like there was something else. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because the second pair of footsteps was getting closer. 

So instead, he gave you one last look. One that said this isn’t over. One that said I’m trying.

And then he turned. Jogged up the trail. Disappeared into the smoke and voices and distant crackle of deodorant-fueled destruction.

And you…stood there. 

The sounds of camp swirling back in - guitar chords, cicadas, the telltale shriek of someone falling into the lake.

And just like that, the moment closed. Folded. Filed away in a corner of your chest labeled “almost”

You exhaled, slow. 

Then turned, ran a hand down your face, and walked back to your campers. Back to the noise, the stage, the safety of pretending it was all just drama. 

Even if your heart knew better. 

A few days later, it was just past curfew. 

Carlos knew he shouldn’t be out there. Curfew wasn’t optional. The lake was off-limits. He was technically breaking at least three camp rules just by being on the dock alone. 

But he couldn’t sleep. And the water always calmed his head. At least, it used to. 

Now it just made him think about you. 

He was sitting there - hood up, arms draped over his knees, sneakers half untied - when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn. Didn’t want to get his hopes up. Didn’t think it would be you. 

But then you spoke, voice smaller than usual. Tired. Honest. 

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

He exhaled, just barely. “Wasn’t expecting you either.”

You sat next to him without another word. Legs stretched out, your toes brushing the surface of the water, sweatshirt sleeves pulled down over your hands. You looked like the kind of tired he felt - deep, summer-worn, and tangled in something he hadn’t let himself name. 

The silence wrapped around you like a blanket. The sky was navy and spangled. Music drifted from someone’s forgotten speaker in the Ridge’s rec shed. Crickets filled in the spaces neither of you were ready to speak into yet. 

Carlos turned his head. 

And there you were - sitting beside him, not looking at him, but not far. You hadn’t come to win a round or start a war. You’d come as you. Soft. Still. The way he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. 

He swallowed hard. “The other night,” he said. “At the drama cabin…”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Carlos hesitated. His fingers curled into the worn fabric of his hoodie. “Was that real?”

His voice didn’t sound like his own. Too quiet. Too raw. 

You looked out at the lake. At the reflection of the moon across the water, stretched and fractured but still glowing. He wondered if that’s how this felt to you too - imperfect, uncertain, but still bright. 

“It felt real,” you said finally. “But I don’t know what we do with real. Not here.”

Carlos leaned back on his palms. His shoulders ached from lifeguard duty, from not sleeping, from pretending this hadn’t changed everything. “Yeah. Me either.”

You turned to him. “Do you want it to be real?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I think it already is.”

That felt like the closest thing to a confession he’d ever said out loud. But it was the truth. God, it was the truth. 

You leaned into him then. Just your shoulder, warm and barely there, pressing against his like it belonged. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just adjusted so your knees brushed, and let his pinky touch yours - so light he wasn’t sure you’d feel it.

You did. 

“Why’d you leave?” you asked, voice even softer. “That night.”

Carlos closed his eyes for a second. “Someone was about to set themselves on fire.”

“No,” you said, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. “I mean really leave.”

He let the silence hang.

And then, quietly, painfully honestly, he said, “Because if I didn’t, I think I might’ve done something stupid.”

You shifted. “Like what?”

Carlos didn’t answer. 

Instead, he reached for your hand. Finally, slowly. Like it was the most delicate thing in the world. 

And when your fingers curled into his like they’d been waiting all summer to do exactly that - he knew. 

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You looked at him. 

And then you did. 

No teasing. No performance. No sparkly distractions. 

Your mouth on his. Soft. Steady. Sure. 

Carlos kissed you back with everything he didn’t know how to say.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a game. 

The final campfire planning meeting was held in the staff lodge like usual, but it may as well have been on a different planet. 

Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered through the old cabin windows, casting soft gold light across the scuffed wood floors and dust-speckled air. The fans hummed lazily overhead, pushing around warm air that smelled like pine needles, whiteboard markers, and the last days of summer. 

But inside?

Everything felt heavier now - sharper and strangely softer all at once. Like the entire summer had been leading here, collecting moments like embers until it was impossible to pretend the fire hadn’t already caught. 

There was no tension. Not really. Not anymore. But not exactly peace either. 

You walked in before Carlos this time. 

Clipboard hugged to your chest. Hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows like you meant business. Your hair pulled back into one of those practical, messy twist things you did when you were stressed or focused or pretending not to think about the boy you kissed on the dock a week ago. 

The boy you hadn’t really talked to since. 

Not properly. Not like that. 

Carlos came in two minutes later. 

Not late. Just… not early. 

His steps were slower than usual. Not cocky. Not casual. Simply quiet. Like he was measuring each one. Like something was balancing inside him, delicate and maybe a little dangerous. 

He gave you a look when your eyes met - brief, unreadable, but full of too much for a single second. The kind of look that didn’t need translation. 

We need to talk.

You didn’t answer. Not out loud. Just blinked. 

After.

He nodded. Once.

Maisie and Ryan were already there, halfway buried beneath a sea of color-coded schedules, supply lists, and clipboards that made the staff table look like a bureaucratic battlefield. A stack of sticky notes fluttered as Ryan rearranged a packet of skit sign-ups.

“Alright,” she said, voice somewhere between pep and despair. “This is it. Final meeting. Forty-eight hours until the campfire. You’ve both survived. I’m amazed. And I need fifteen minutes of actual adult behavior before my sanity combusts like last year’s marshmallows.”

You nodded, lowering yourself into the seat beside the dry erase calendar. You uncapped a pen, mostly for something to hold. 

Carlos sat across from you, dropping into his chair with less flair than usual. Less anything. Still watching you. 

Ryan, oblivious, flipped his clipboard like it was a mission briefing. “So we got the opening welcome. Camper gratitude circle. Unity skits. S’mores, obviously. And closing remarks.”

You tapped your pen to the clipboard. “Carlos does fire safety and announcements. I’ll handle transitions and storytelling.”

“And the final speech?” Maisie looked between you both. 

There was a pause. 

You glanced at Carlos. He was already looking at you. And then he smiled - small, real, the kind that tugged somewhere just behind your ribs. You smiled back before you could stop it.

“We’ll do it together,” you said. 

Ryan blinked. “Like…alternate lines? Joint monologue?”

Carlos shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Great,” Maisie said, already marking something in red on her list. Clearly choosing to pick her battles. “Last thing - can you guys meet me at the campfire site tonight? Just to walk through lighting, timing, camper rows, all that?”

Carlos looked at you again. A question. Not a challenge.

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll be there.”

The firepit was quiet. No kids. No extra staff. Just the soft crunch of pine needles under your shoes as you stepped into the clearing, lantern in hand, the trees around you whispering with late-summer wind. 

It smelled like smoke and the end of something.

Carlos was already there. 

He’d stacked the extra benches like he said he would, arranged the logs in a near-perfect circle, and checked the kindling twice. The firewood sat in a neat pile off to the side, untouched, waiting for a spark that hadn’t quite arrived yet. 

He crouched by the pit like it meant something. Like if he lined everything up just right, maybe he could control the outcome. Or at least, delay the inevitable.

You stepped closer, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “Hey.”

Carlos looked up. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed to his elbows, and his camp badge was hanging crooked from his drawstring. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it more than once. His cheeks were flushed, not from the heat - there wasn’t any - but from something else. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Gentle. “Thanks for coming.”

You sat on the edge of the nearest bench, feeling the weight of the space around you. It was familiar and foreign all at once - like everything else between you lately. “I said I would.”

“I know.” He sat too, a few feet away. Close enough to feel the warmth if there had been a flame. “I wasn’t sure if that still meant anything.”

Silence. 

Then, you asked quietly, “Why wouldn’t it?”

Carlos looked away for a second, jaw tight. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been pretending too well. Like I could keep things simple if I just kept smiling and didn’t say anything real. Like everything didn’t change after the drama cabin. After the dock. After you kissed me like that,” He exhaled. “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore. And I hate not knowing.”

You stared straight ahead, but you didn’t shut down this time. “I was scared to know.”

His brow furrowed slightly, shoulders tense with things he hadn’t said yet. 

You swallowed, heart in your throat. Your voice was thinner. “The plan was to win. To get in your head, mess with your ego, play the long game. But it stopped being funny. It stopped being a game.”

Carlos blinked like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud. Then he let out a short, almost broken laugh. “Good. Because I’ve been losing so hard it stopped hurting.”

You cracked a smile despite yourself, then bit it back, looking down at your lap. The pine needles shifted gently around your feet with the breeze.

“Carlos…” you said, meaning a hundred different things.

But he beat you to it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I like you.”

You looked up carefully. No smirk. No joke. The truth, out in the open. 

“Not in just a camp crush way. Not because we’re good at teasing each other or because you look annoyingly hot when you’re mad at me.. I like you in a way that ruins games. That way that makes me forget to win.”

Your throat tightened, eyes stinging. 

He kept going. “You make everything feel more alive. Even when we’re throwing condiments at each other. Especially when we’re not.”

You breathed in. Let it fill your lungs and shake your ribs. “I was so busy trying to control it. The story. The outcome. Us.”

Carlos turned slightly, watching you. “And I was just trying not to lose you.”

That was it. That was the moment it cracked. The walls you’d spent summers perfecting, stacking higher with every prank and every teasing smile. They dropped. Quietly. Completely. 

You moved closer. Not dramatically, but enough that your knees touched. Your hand found the bench between you.

“I like you too,” you said, the words trembling but true. “In the way that terrifies me.”

Carlos didn’t breathe for a beat. Then he smiled - real and open and full of something fragile and warm. Like he couldn’t believe you’d just handed him that piece of your heart.

“You think it’s too late?” he asked

You shook your head. “It’s camp. It’s never too late. Just dramatic enough.”

He laughed, low and fond. And then, with a certainty you hadn’t seen before, he reached out. Slid his hand into yours. 

No explosions. No fireworks. Just steady and sure. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder, eyes slipping shut for a moment. The trees rustled above. The firepit stayed cold. But something else - something that had been stuck and waiting - finally felt like it was catching. 

Setting up for the fire could wait. 

You had already found what you needed. 

The clearing was buzzing before the fire even caught. 

Campers swarmed in waves - laughing, clinging to each other, chasing the last seconds of summer across the pine-lined field like they could hold it in their hands. Maplewood and Cedar Ridge campers mingled like there hadn’t once been a very real marshmallow-stick rivalry between them. They darted between benches and counselors, arms slung over shoulders, shirts covered in signatures and Sharpie hearts. Flashlights flickered like fireflies, and the air was thick with the kind of chaos only summer could make beautiful.

Counselors trailed behind them with flashlights and folding chairs, guiding and grinning and pretending they weren’t just as wrecked by the closing of another summer as the kids were. Ella was gathering marshmallow skewers, dramatically arguing with Jo over which flavor of s’mores was superior. Lucy had a clipboard of her own, checking off names with tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. Lando was in the middle of a circle of younger kids, passing out glow bracelets like they were ancient artifacts. 

The sky was painted with that last stretch of golden twilight, streaks of peach and pink bleeding into the dark. The stars were only just starting to blink to life, shy behind the last scraps of sunlight. But the air was thick with that end-of-summer hum - heavy with nostalgia, soft with almost-goodbyes. 

You stood at the edge of the circle, clipboard forgotten in your hand, your breath caught somewhere between nerves and wonder. The benches were full. The fire pit was loaded. The kindling waited. 

And Carlos was beside you. 

Not in front of you. Not across the fire. Not smirking behind a prank or a too-loud joke. Just beside you.

His shoulder brushed yours lightly as he leaned closer, voice low enough that it felt like something secret. “Ready?”

You nodded. Not because you were. But because it was time. 

He lit the match. 

The fire caught slow and bright, curling up from the kindling like a secret, casting light across every face in the circle. The kids oohed and clapped. A few counselors high-fived behind the benches. Lucy wiped her eyes and pretended it was just allergies. 

Carlos stepped forward. “Alright, alright,” he said with his best impression of Ryan. “Housekeeping first - no hair in the flames, no sticks as weapons, and please do not eat ten marshmallows and then cannonball into the lake.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. 

“And if you do,” you added, stepping up beside him, “make sure it’s at least entertaining. You’ve got, what, eighteen hours left of camp fame?”

More laughter. But it softened quickly, gentled by the glow of the fire and the quiet understanding that this was the last time you���d all be here like this. 

Carlos glanced at you, a silent ready?

You nodded. 

Together, you stepped forward. You hadn’t memorized the speech. Hadn’t even kept the draft you scribbled on the back of an old drama script. But this? This felt right. 

“This summer,” you started, voice even, “was a mess.”

Snickers. Jo elbowed Ella lightly.

“A beautiful, chaotic, glitter-coated mess,” Carlos continued, deadpan. “With more mosquitoes and sunscreen mishaps than anyone predicted.”

“And more memories than we can count.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full - of meaning, of breath held tight in chests. 

Carlos’s voice lowered, serious but warm. “You made art. You made friends. You made disasters in the dining hall. And you made this place feel like home.”

You looked around at the flickering faces. “We watched you grow. And fall. And get back up. We saw when you laughed until your face hurt. When you cried because goodbyes feel big. When you sang too loud, or fell off the paddle board, or froze on stage. And we are so, so proud of you.”

Lando cleared his throat behind the snack table. Not subtly. Lucy handed him a tissue without breaking eye contact with the fire.

Carlos continued. “We talk a lot about what you leave behind here - on stage, in the cabin walls, in the ridiculous inside jokes and prank wars. But the truth is…”

He paused. Then looked at you again. “The truth is, you take it with you too.”

You smiled quietly. “Camp doesn’t just end. It echoes.”

You both stepped back then, letting the silence breathe. The fire crackled. Sparks rose like tiny ghosts into the dark. 

Then came the camper gratitude circle. 

Campers, one by one, stood up. Some with practiced speeches, some barely able to talk through their tears. They thanked bunkmates, counselors, best friends, secret crushes. A Cedar Ridge camper admitted he’d never felt like he belonged anywhere until this summer. The fire seemed to lean in, listening. 

After that came the skits.

Cabin Wood You Believe It reenacted the infamous blackout night with bathrobes and glow sticks and a truly cursed Pop-Tart stunt. Ella joined in with a melodramatic narrator voice that made the older campers howl. Jo and Lando brought out guitars for a song they swore they wrote themselves (they didn’t), and somewhere around the chorus, half the staff had joined in - off-key, too loud, perfect. 

Marshmallows were passed. Coco burned tongues. Faces glowed. Laughter mingled with tears. 

And when the last verse of the final camp song drifted into the night, when the fire burned low and the stars blinked overhead like they were watching too, Carlos reached for your hand. 

Just there. Steady. Grounding. Like he’d done it every night. 

No one cheered. No one pointed. 

But Lando winked from across the circle. 

And Lucy smiled through her tears. 

You leaned against Carlos gently, his thumb tracing the edge of your wrist, grounding you to the moment. 

The fire was dying, but the light in your chest wasn’t. 

Summer was ending. But something else had just begun. 

[vitalverstappen]

Book Club - Part 11

pairing: lance x reader, grid x reader

summary: nico finally gets his first podium

a/n: had to bring this out of retirement (fully knowing the non-existent timeline doesn’t match up)

masterlist series masterlist

—————————

The air had a chill to it as you entered the paddock with Lance. Silverstone was always magical, even when rain arrived uninvited. His hand firmly holds yours like you are one strong wind gust from flying away.

“My own team home race and you aren’t in my garage,” Lance pouts, tugging you a little closer as you shudder from the breeze.

“You get to see me all the time, I haven’t seen Kev since he joined WEC,” you gratefully lean into his warmth.

It’s safe to say that you didn’t last too long in the Red Bull second seat. Your relationship with Max wasn’t too impacted by your forced retirement, but you won’t be stepping into that garage anytime soon. It hurt less knowing so many rookies would be stepping into seats, getting to pass on the baton to a new generation. Plus, you’ve received inquiries from Cadillac, so you aren’t totally out of the sport yet anyway. As for those rookies, they tried to join the book club, but all requests were rejected. Although, Kimi was strongly considered.

“I know, I just like seeing you more often than when we were both racing,” Lance sighs as you quickly peck his lips. Your little bubble is broken as you are in sight of the media.

“Are you pregnant? Is that why you aren’t racing this year?” a man yells, a question which you and Lance ignore every race. Lance gives your hand a small squeeze, trying to melt the irritation building up inside you. It’s like clockwork. Every time you miss two races in a row, someone makes a report that you are expecting.

“Y/n, there have been rumors about a possible return with Cadillac. Any comment?” someone else asks. You can feel Lance awkwardly shrinking beside you. You give his hand a tight squeeze like he did yours and the press a smile.

“None at the moment. If they do, then that decision is between my family and the team.” Of course you and Lance have discussed it at length, but you have more hesitations than Lance about it. You push past people to the safety of Aston Martin team house. You quickly make your way to the second floor and Lance unlocks the doors with his code, giving both of you a reprieve from the busy paddock.

“You do know that I would support that, right?” Lance asks for what may be the millionth time since your agent first received an inquiry. Lawrence had offered a reserve driver position to you as well at the start of the season, but you quickly turned it down. Fans begged for it too, but you knew what every headline would read.

“I do know that. Let’s just wait to see the contract,” you cuddle up to him on the plush couch. Lance’s shoulder is your pillow and his arms hold you like a warm blanket.

“It’s not too late to abandon Kevin,” Lance points out again.

“No, he has a book that he just read. Apparently it was a great read during races,” you sit up slightly, grinning as Lance fights his own smile.

“I guess I can let you go for one race,” he jokingly rolls his eyes. You silently enjoy the moment, sequestered from everyone. That peace is only interrupted by a notification from Lance’s phone letting him know it’s time for a meeting.

“I’ll be around the paddock,” you roll your shoulders as you stand up. Lance catches your hand and pulls you back down to him.

“I love you,” his grin still sends a thrill though you, and you are sure you will never stop feeling like a teenager.

“I love you too, Lancelot,” his lips tenderly meet yours. The sound of approaching footsteps sends the both of you scrambling to your feet.

“I’m told you are needed in a meeting that is starting very soon,” Lawrence raises an eyebrow at Lance, the two of you looking like kids caught in the act of breaking the rules.

“Hey, I’ll be cheering you on, just in a garage that is a different shade of green,” you promise Lance before he scurries out.

“Breakfast?” Lawrence turns to you, offering a meal and conversation.

“That sounds great,” you readily agree, giving your father-in-law a break from entertaining sponsors.

“Now, I know you are in negotiations with Cadillac, but the team could use a test driver for the rest of the season,” he says as you sit down, food being brought to you.

“I don’t want it to seem like a nepotism hire,” you frown. “I don’t know if I want to sign with Cadillac,” your voice lowers, keeping the information private. Concern fills Lawrence’s features as he leans in slightly.

“You, my dear, are a damn good driver. That is why we want you. Not as my daughter, or Lance’s partner, but as a race winner who fought brilliantly against Max. I don’t know what Red Bull did to you, Lance won’t share and I respect that, but I do know that plenty of teams have reached out to me regarding you,” Lawrence’s words provide a sort of comfort, a little boost to your ego.

“I don’t want to come out of retirement just to end my career worse than it has already. It really depends on the contract and team,” your skepticism encourages Lawrence to change the topic.

You part after a very good meal and start your search for your favorite viking.

“Kevin!” you spot the blond man just outside Sauber hospitality. Sprinting, you practically leap into his arms for a hug.

“Hey, kid,” he pats your back, letting you enjoy the moment.

“I’ve missed you around here. Our meeting groups are pretty small now, and even I don’t attend every race,” you walk alongside Kevin as he steers you away from Sauber and towards Mercedes.

“Maybe we could do some meetings virtually? I’m sure there is a time we could find that works for everyone,” he suggests, giving Valtteri a quick wave ahead of you.

“No, Dan would hate that. Too corporate,” your laughter fills the paddock. You may not be in a seat this season, but some things never change.

You aren’t too surprised when a camera is pointed at you and Kevin mid-race. You nudge him with your elbow and wave.

“Do you get used to this?” Kevin asks, shifting his weight.

“Standing in the garage? Kinda. I used to be in Lance’s garage or hospitality every race, but lately I’ve watched in his room. I usually split screen whatever show I’m binging and the race,” you shrug nonchalantly.

“Lance doesn’t mind?”

“No. I love him, but it’s hard to watch when I’m not behind the wheel anymore,” you explain.

“Lance is in a great position,” Kevin breaks the silence while he studies the screen, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“He always races well in the wet. He’s tried to help me out on the sim but I’ve never been able to gain in the wet,” you shake your head, clearing the voices of past criticisms.

“They never leave you. The voices,” Kevin doesn’t turn to observe you, he just knows. Every driver knows what it’s like to drive for a team that criticizes every small mistake or fault.

“Nico is doing well too. Really well,” you reply, changing the topic of conversation.

“Do you think he could?”

“I hope so,” your phone begins to buzz annoyingly. What you find elicits a snort as you look at social media. “We made the fans happy. The Haasband and the Admirer.”

Kevin peers at you phone, a small smile at the recognition. As the race resumes, you refocus on Nico and the team. Tension slowly builds in the garage as the laps wind down. Whispers trying not to jinx anything, quiet prayers wishing away the looming Ferrari, legs bouncing up and down anxiously waiting to spring up in celebration. Three laps. Two laps.

“One lap to go,” you mutter under your breath, holding Kevin’s arm anxiously.

“He finally did it,” Kevin grins as Nico approaches the final corner. As the green Sauber crosses the line, you join the loud chorus of cheers.

“Yes!” You scream with the team, instinctively grabbing Kevin’s arm. You barely notice the cameras as you begin hugging random mechanics and engineers, everyone too elated to care.

“You should go see Lance, we won’t get to see Nico until after the his media anyway,” Kevin intercepts you before you get caught in conversation with someone who represents a team sponsor. You glance at your phone, noticing how much time has passed since the podium.

“You’re always right. I’ll bring champagne,” you grin, darting out of the garage and making your way to the other green team.

“Have fun out there?” Lance asks, rubbing his sweat soaked hair with a towel.

“Yeah. You okay?” you grab a clean team polo from his closet and unfold it.

“I couldn’t do much more, the car didn’t have the pace,” He sighs, tossing you the towel before pulling his fireproofs off. His skin gleams with sweat and you can’t help but to stare, your lower lip captured between your teeth. “See something you like?”

“Oh yeah,” you stare for a few moments more before he carefully takes the polo from your hands. “Hey, not fair,” Lance chuckles as you frown, your show ending,

“My love, you can see this any time you’d like, and more,”

“Is that a promise?” you grin like a kid who was promised ice cream for dinner. Lance just shakes his head in amusement, leaning forward to give you a kiss. “You did race very well today, even if the result isn’t quite what you wanted,” you give his hand a squeeze as he sits down beside you.

“Seventh isn’t bad at all, and Nico got his podium. Maybe if you were in my garage it would be me on the podium,” Lance jokes, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to keep you close.

“I think Kev is the good luck charm, not me,” you rest your head on his shoulder, your own adrenaline wearing down.

“I married the wrong person, got it,” you can tell Lance is smiling without looking at him.

“Lance, meeting time. Hello, Y/n,” Fernando knocks on the door, poking his head in to verify that his assumption was correct.

“Hey, Nando,” you rise to your feet and pull Lance up with you.

“I’ll find you at Sauber later then?” Lance asks, knowing the answer.

“Have fun with your meetings,” you give your husband a quick kiss before heading out the door.

“What? Nothing for me?” Fernando asks, feigning hurt. You roll your eyes and cartoonishly kiss his cheek.

“Heading back to Sauber?” Olivia from hospitality asks, a bag at her side.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Can you deliver this to them for us? We have extra champagne and they need more to properly celebrate,” the bag is transferred into your hands and you are sent on your way back!

“Y/n!” Nico cheers when you appear. Someone takes the bag and immediately opens a bottle. You wrap your arms around the podium sitter and hug him tightly.

“I’ve waited my whole life for this, I’m so happy for you. This is beyond deserved,” you squeeze tight.

“I’ll need you in my garage every race,” Nico jokes, grabbing you a glass of champagne.

“That may be able to be arranged,” you laugh, reaching into your pocket to grab your buzzing phone. Nico mirrors your movements, his smile growing more. Your group chat is flooding with messages.

“Maybe my idea isn’t a bad one after all?” Kevin asks, waving his phone at you.

“No, maybe not,” you chuckle, reading each message. Daniel expresses his congratulations and his disappointment with not being in attendance for the party. Checo asks why he wasn’t invited to watch with you and Kevin.

Valtteri arrives soon after with a Mercedes staff member, bringing more champagne. Lewis follows shortly after with Fernando and Lance. It almost feels just like when you were a rookie, dangling off a couch and talking everyone’s ear off. If it weren’t for them, your career would’ve been completely different. You probably wouldn’t have made it through your second year of racing.

“You okay?” Lance’s hand finds yours, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“Just thinking,” you hum as you lean into his warmth. You stand near the wall, observing everyone interacting.

“That’s dangerous,” he teases, his grin growing when you give him a playful glare.

“This is a party, not a stand in the corner and observe function,” Fernando approaches the two of you. “I expect that from Lance, but not you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry, what would you like to talk about, Nando?” you tiredly smile.

“What are your plans for the break?” he asks. You feel Lance rest his chin on your shoulder, unlacing your fingers to wrap the hand around your waist.

“Lance and I are leaving tonight to visit Dad for a couple days then we are going to St Barts,” you reply, glancing at your watch. It’s delicate, a gift from Lance for your birthday.

“We need to leave soon,” Lance whispers, reading the time off your watch.

“That sounds fun,” Lewis joins your little group. “I’m looking forward to spending time with Roscoe.”

“Awww I miss him,” your voice is soft and slightly higher pitched, like you are talking about a baby. Not that Roscoe isn’t a sweet little baby boy.

“You saw him yesterday,” Lewis laughs. “I’ll send you photos. I should go say my goodbyes, I have a meeting tomorrow morning,” he exits the conversation as swiftly as he entered.

“We should leave too,” you sigh. Your eyes scan the room for the man of the hour.

“So soon?” Nico materializes beside you. Everyone expects the party to last well into the evening.

“We have a flight to catch,”

“Thank you for being here. Don’t be a stranger,” Nico tightly embraces you.

“Never. I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

[vitalverstappen]

i LOVE your camp fics they’re soooo good omg the liam one?? IT WASS AMAZING i need more

awww STOPPP im so glad you love reading them as much as i love writing them!

i have one more written that i need to post (with Carlos as the main subject) & i wanna write more of them but i need to come up with plot ideas :(

[vitalverstappen]

Color Me in Your Key - L. Lawson

summary: Between paint-stained mornings and moonlit melodies, something between you and the late-hired music counselor begins to bloom pairing: Liam Lawson x reader, arts camp counselors au warnings: swearing, use of y/n word count: 9k

masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for camp to smell like pine needles, paint thinner, and possibility. Every summer it came alive with barefoot artists, off-key singers, and wild-eyed counselors who’d given up their city internships to live in the woods and create things that might fall apart in the rain. You were one of them. 

As the visual arts counselor, your kingdom was the art barn: a sprawling open-air studio strung with fairy lights, lined with battered easels, paint splattered tables and pottery wheels. It sat on the edge of the woods, nestled between the lake path and the amphitheater, and you could always hear music or laughter drifting in with the breeze. You lived in a permanent state of half-day acrylic and sunburn, your fingers always stained and your clothes dotted with last week’s color palette. 

The kids adored you. The other staff respected you. The new music counselor? Undecided. 

Liam arrived on the first day of counselor training with a dented guitar case, a crooked smile, and no idea where anything was. He was technically a late hire - someone dropped out, and the director had texted you in all caps the night before with: “WE GOT A MUSIC GUY”

You met him fifteen minutes into the first staff meeting. Your camp director, Molly, was off putting out literal or metaphorical fires (no one ever really knew which), leaving you in charge of orientation and the half-asleep group of counselors clustered in the dining hall.

The door creaked open and in stumbled the new kid - sleep tousled hair, camp brochure sticking out of his back pocket, and a cardboard tray with two different coffees.  

“You’re late,” you said, crossing your arms as the room turned to look.

“I’m Liam,” he said, stepping over a duffel bag someone had abandoned and offering you one of the drinks. “Peace offering?” 

You narrowed your eyes. He had that look: boyish, confident, very used to charming his way out of things. City boy swagger wrapped in forest-inappropriate sneakers. The guitar case slung over his shoulder looked like it had lived five lives already. You accepted the coffee anyway. 

“Orientation started at eight,” you said, voice dry.

“Technically,” he said, blowing on his drink, “so did I. But I was making friends with a racoon behind Cabin Monet. We have an understanding now.”

You didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of your mouth might’ve twitched. 

The meeting continued, but you felt his eyes on you. Not in a creepy way, simply curious. Intrigued. Like he couldn’t decide what kind of person you were yet. You hated that you were wondering the same. 

By the time the group dispersed and you were back in the art barn prepping for the first set of workshops next week, Liam had wandered in. 

“This place smells like turpentine and ambition,” he said, leaning against the doorway. 

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

He wandered between the tables, touching nothing, just looking. His fingers hovered over a half-finished candle holder you had been working on. “You in charge here?”

“What gave it away?” 

He grinned, pointing to the whiteboard filled with your neat handwriting, the first lesson plan already scrawled in bullet points and color-coded arrows. Beneath it sat your infamous chipped ceramic mug, the one boldly labeled in red paint: “Do Not Touch Unless You’re Bleeding.”

“You always this intense?”

You glanced over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You always this nosy?”

He didn’t answer immediately - just gave a lazy shrug and went back to slowly wandering the room. But there was a stillness to him now, like wasn’t just killing time or poking fun, but really looking. Taking things in. 

His eyes drifted from the tangled fairy lights drooping across the rafters to the shelf of mismatched mugs in the back corner, each one donated by a camper or rescued from the dining hall’s “lost and found” pile. He lingered on the aprons hung like flags along the wall, their fabric stiff with years of dried clay, gesso, and glitter. His fingers ghosted near the worktable you’d commandeered as your own - covered in half carved candles, unfinished sketches, and a jar of murky paint water that definitely hadn’t been changed in a few days. 

You weren’t used to people being quiet in your space. Not like this. Not the music department. They were usually louder, messier, and a little too in love with their own chaos. Liam… didn’t fit that mold entirely. At least not yet. 

Finally, he said, quietly, “My mom was a painter.”

You blinked, surprised. That wasn’t where you thought this was going. 

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “Watercolor, mostly. Landscapes. The soft, sad kind. I used to sit in her studio and try to paint along. I was awful.”

Your lips twitched “That tracks.”

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the rafters, warm and open and entirely unfiltered. It startled something in you - a laugh that easy shouldn’t be allowed this early in camp. Not when everyone else was still caffeinating and pretending to be more organized than they were. 

“She used to say good art isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s just true.” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

He glanced at the candle holder sitting near the window, your latest half-finished project - dripping with glaze, shaped like something between a flower and a flame. “Anyway. That’s cool. That piece. Looks like it’s about to tell me my future or light on fire. Maybe both.”

You raised a brow. “You always get sentimental before lunch?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress the hot art counselor.”

Your brush slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor, leaving a streak of wet blue across the wood. 

He winced. “Too much?”

“Just bold,” you said, turning back to your workspace like it didn’t matter. Like your ears weren’t burning. Like you hadn’t already replayed the way he’d said hot art counselor three times in your head.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t fidget. He returned to leaning in the doorway, one foot resting against the frame like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving. 

You busied yourself with organizing brushes that didn’t need organizing, mostly just to get your heart rate back under control.

“Do you know where your workshop space is yet?” you asked, mostly to change the subject. 

“Nope.” He popped the p. “Pretty sure I was supposed to follow someone, but I got distracted by the tiny frogs near the garden.”

You sighed, more fond than annoyed. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The music cabin was tucked down a short trail behind the amphitheater, half swallowed by blackberry bushes and shaded by a canopy of old pines. It looked like someone had once tried to repaint the exterior dark blue but gave up halfway, leaving sun-bleached streaks that looked like watercolor washes in a storm.

Inside, it smelled like old wood, dust, and the faint, lingering sweetness of someone’s long-forgotten vanilla candle. 

The windows were streaked. The floor creaked. Someone had left a pile of cracked percussion instruments in one corner, including a tambourine that had been attacked by at least five sticker-happy campers and one lonely maraca with googly eyes stuck to it.

A keyboard sat near the front window, missing its middle C. A ukulele hung on the wall by a nail and what looked suspiciously like duct tape. You spotted a coffee cup still full of something suspiciously green You didn’t ask.

Liam turned in a slow circle, soaking it in. “Alright,” he said. “This place is falling apart.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “So are most of us. Welcome to camp.”

He looked back over his shoulder at you - and this time, the grin was different. Not his earlier smirk, Not performance. A smaller one. Softer. 

“I like it here already.” He paused, head tilted slightly. “Though I do think this place needs a bit of fixing. What’re you doing tomorrow?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you about to lure me into manual labor with charm and vague promises of creative fulfillment?”

Liam put a hand over his heart and scoffed in offense. “I would never.”

You stared at him. 

“Okay,” he amended, “I absolutely would. But also - I’ve got big dreams for this room, and zero spatial planning skills. You seem like the kind of person who alphabetizes your paintbrushes.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping into the room beside him. The floor groaned under your feet. 

“This place needs more than alphabetization. It needs Lysol. And an exorcism.”

“Perfect,” Liam said brightly. “You bring the cleaning supplies, I’ll bring the snacks. And the emotionally supportive playlist.”

You glanced around again - the warped floorboards, the half-collapsed music stand, the broken stool that was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen - and sighed like someone accepted a noble burden.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But only because I can’t stand to see that ukulele suffer another day.”

Liam grinned, victorious. “Meet me here at eleven?”

“You mean before or after I question all of my life choices?”

He laughed. “During. Definitely during.” 

That night, after the first full day of counselor training, you found him again. Not on purpose. You were just looking for somewhere to sit that wasn’t buzzing with small talk and oversharing games. 

The staff bonfire was halfway through a s’mores war. Someone was trying to stack flaming marshmallows three-high. Connor from Theater was quoting Shakespeare dramatically with a mouth full of chocolate. The lake glimmered in the distance.

And there was Liam - perched on one of the logs, head tilted down, plucking at his guitar with the kind of quiet focus that made the whole world feel a little more in tune. 

The firelight turned everything golden - his face, the curve of his hands, the worn wood of the guitar. His expression was soft, brow furrowed in concentration, as though he was chasing a melody through smoke. 

No lyrics, simply music. Raw and half-formed and full of space.

It made you think of skies before a storm. Of bare canvases. Of everything unfinished. 

You weren’t watching him. Not really.

But you noticed the way the other counselors drifted toward him. Like warmth, or gravity. Like he was his own kind of campfire.

Someone asked him to play a song, and he didn’t even look up. He nodded and kept playing, sliding into something richer. More sure. It started low and rough and grew into something that made you stop mid-step.

And stay.

You sat on the edge of the circle, watching the flames flicker, letting the music wrap around you like a thread you didn’t mean to follow. 

You stayed longer than you meant to. 

And later, walking back to your cabin under the hush of pine needles and stars, you realized something. 

You were humming.  

It was the song he hadn’t finished. 

The one you kind of hoped he’d play again. 

You showed up to the music cabin at exactly 11:02 a.m., half hoping he’d forgotten. Or bailed. Or slept through it, like the other counselors who’d spent too long at the bonfire. 

But there he was. 

Sitting on the front steps, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a broom balanced across his knees like a makeshift sword. In one hand, a coffee cup. In the other, one waiting for you. He wore the same band tee from last night, layered under a flannel that looked like it had lived through several garage bands and one mild emotional crisis.

“You’re late,” Liam said, squinting up at you like he’d been waiting exactly that long to make a joke. He held out the extra coffee. “I considered calling a search party. Or the racoon behind Cabin Monet.”

You took the drink, trying not to let your fingers brush his too long. “I had to emotionally prepare for the smell in here.”

“That’s fair. It’s…layered.”

Inside, the cabin was exactly as tragic as you remembered. Maybe worse in the daylight. The sun, slanting through the dusty windows, illuminated every flaw: the fraying curtains, the warped floorboards, the uneven stacks of sheet music curling like dried leaves. A spider had now taken up residence on the keyboard. The maraca with googly eyes sat on a cracked plastic chair like some kind of cursed mascot.

“Still think this is a good idea?” you asked, popping one of the windows open with your elbow. A cloud of dead flies dropped to the floor in a delicate little puff of doom.

Liam looked around slowly, then nodded with utter seriousness. “It’s a fixer-upper. With potential. Like a deeply weird indie film character.”

You smirked. “Charming, but needs therapy.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “And maybe a humidifier.”

You started with the rest of the windows. They resisted. Each one fought you with years of grime and stubborn hinges, but eventually opened, letting in a breeze that immediately made the place feel more alive. 

You stripped the sagging curtains and balled them into a corner. “Donation pile,” you said, knowing full well no one would touch it again until August.

Liam grabbed the broom. And promptly proved he had no idea how to use it.

“Have you… ever used a broom?” you asked, watching him attempt to wrangle dust into a pile and mostly spread it into the air.

“I was more of a vacuum kid,” he replied

“Rich.”

“No, lazy. We lived in an apartment.”

You sighed. And took over.

Liam slunk to the corner, tasked with the instrument graveyard. He rolled up his sleeves - forearms streaked with dust and old ink from somewhere - and started talking to the maraca like it was helping him sort.

It took hours. 

Dusting. Sweeping. Arguing over whether to keep a poster of some indie band no one had ever heard of. You hauled a trunk full of tangled cords from behind the little stage while Liam unearthed a disco ball and promptly wore it on his head like a helmet until you threatened to paint it pink.

You used some of your leftover paint to repaint the peeling window sills in a soft, buttery gold. Liam found a half-broken milk crate and turned it into a shelf for pedals and cables. He strung up a line of twinkle lights across the rafters, stepping carefully along the wobbly bench while humming something soft under his breath.

At one point, you found a warped box of sheet music stuck behind an old filing cabinet. Pages were stuck together, water-stained and curling. 

“These any good?” you asked, holding one up. 

Liam took it from you, thumbed through the wrinkled pages. “Nope, but they weirdly smell like my childhood. That’s gotta be worth something.”

You tilted your head. “You grew up around music?”

He nodded. “My dad played guitar. He was in some cover band for a while, played a bunch of bar gigs in the area.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. 

Instead, you simply watched him - soft in the light, sunlight painting extra gold into his hair, fingers ghosting across the keys of a piano that didn’t quite work. There was something about him that made the dust feel less heavy. Like even the messiest parts could be music if you listened right. 

“You’re not what I expected,” you said before you could stop yourself. 

He looked over, brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“I figured you’d be cockier. Louder. More… theater kid energy.”

“Oh I have theater kid energy,” he said, mock offended. “I just hide it until it’s time to monologue.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True. But I also found the replacement key for the piano, built a shelf out of a milk crate, and survived your glitter bomb drawer. So I think that makes me officially useful.”

You tilted your head. “Marginally.”

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind the trees, the cabin looked different.

Still imperfect. Still crooked. But brighter. Lighter.

The walls glowed in the soft, slanted light. The new shelf stood proudly under the window. The corner stage had been cleared of mystery boxes and dead pens. The spider had been politely relocated. 

You ended the afternoon sitting on the cabin steps with the door wide open, sipping the dregs of cold coffee and watching birds dive across the treetops. Liam settled beside you, guitar balanced on his thigh. His elbow brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“I’ve been trying to finish that song,” he said. 

You looked at him. 

“The one from the fire,” he added. “But it keeps changing. Like it wants to be something else.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him, gentle and golden and halfway to something vulnerable. 

He met your eyes. “It kind of reminds me of this place. A little messy. A little magic.”

Something lodged in your throat. Something you didn’t know what to name yet. 

“Play it for me,” you said quietly. 

And he did. 

Camper arrival day was a storm.

At exactly 10:07 a.m., the camp exploded with life. The quiet hum of the morning gave way to a full-blown sensory stampede: the crunch of gravel under tires, car doors slamming, parents calling out reminders with one foot on the gas, and teens tumbling out of minivans with backpacks bigger than their actual bodies. 

The parking lot buzzed with movement and nerves and oversized tote bags. Music blared from open windows - everything from obscure indie tracks to full-volume show tunes that rattled the trees. One car had three kids singing along to Wicked at top volume, choreographed hand motions and all.

Camp had finally begun. 

You stood near the check-in table with a clipboard in one hand and an iced coffee sweating in the other. Your shirt was already smudged with streaks of ochre from loading paint crates into the barn that morning. You wore it like armor. 

To your left, two of the theater counselors were mid-argument over whether Cabin Sondheim could accommodate six or seven drama kids without imploding. To your right, the film counselor was frantically trying to stop a drone from getting tangled in the overhead pines while three teens shouted ideas for their “cabin intro short film.” One of them was already wearing a beret.

And in the middle of it all, unbothered, sunlit, and completely himself, Liam was perched on the porch rail of the office cabin, guitar in hand, legs swinging like this was just another easy Sunday.

He glanced over when you walked past. “Look at them,” he said, not even pausing his strumming. “It’s like a musical just vomited all over the parking lot.”

You didn’t break stride. “They’re excited.”

“They’re terrifying.”

Right on cue, a girl with pink streaks in her hair ran past yelling, “I HAVE FIVE NOTEBOOKS AND A VISION BOARD.”

Liam blinked. “...And mildly inspiring.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re scared of teens?”

He gave you a look. “They can smell weakness. And insecurity. And I haven’t fully memorized the camp song yet.”

“That’s what the lyric sheets are for.”

“I used mine to swat a mosquito.” He paused, then added, deadpan: “It survived.”

You sighed and pulled a spare from your back pocket, expertly folded into quarters. Without ceremony, you tossed it at his face. He caught it midair, grinning. 

“God, you’re prepared for everything. I respect it. I fear it.”

By mid afternoon, the cabins were filled, the parking lot was clearing, adn the dining hall had devolved into a mix of nametag swaps, water bottle trading, and spontaneous “who packed the weirdest snack” contests. The bunk assignments had mostly settled - along with the usual amount of minor drama and someone sobbing over a forgotten retainer. 

You strolled down the gravel path toward the art barn, relishing the first quiet moment in hours. The buzz of camper noise faded behind you. For a blissful second, it was just you, the warm wind, and the smell of pine and pencil shavings. 

Until-

“Hey, Picasso!” 

You turned.

Liam jogged to catch up, hair a mess from what looked like an intense game of human knot. His cheeks were flushed, shirt rumpled, clipboard clutched in one hand and a marker tucked behind his ear like it had grown there. 

“They’re already asking about your classes,” he said, breathless but smiling. “I had one kid corner me about acrylic vs. gouache for dramatic expression.”

You smirked. “Gabe. Cabin Van Gough. He’s a returning chaos gobin. Last year, he turned the entire ceramics wheel room into a recreation of the French Revolution.”

Liam flipped the clipboard, scanning quickly. “Yeah that tracks. He lit up like a Christmas tree when I told him about Music and Movement.”

“I’ll send thoughts and prayers.”

“You’re not even worried,” he muttered, mock-offended.

“He once made a flute out of bubble tea straws and tears. You’ll be fine.”

Liam laughed. “These kids are wild.”

“They’re brilliant,” you corrected. “They just don’t have any filters yet. No fear of failure. It’s…refreshing.”

He glanced sideways. “Kinda like you.”

That made you blink. 

“What?” you asked. 

He shrugged. “You just… seem like the type who paints first and figures out what it means later. Brave in that ‘please don’t look at me while I’m being vulnerable’ sort of way.”

You rolled your eyes to cover the flicker in your chest. “I am exactly that type.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “I like that.”

You tried not to smile. 

Tried harder not to look like that sentence was still echoing in your chest when you reached the art barn steps and waved him off. 

“Don’t let the chaos goblin eat you alive.”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

As he turned back toward the music cabin, you watched him go - clipboard in hand, sunlight curling around him like it belonged there.

The sun was dipping into the treetops when the amphitheater filled with noise. 

The campers flooded in like a living watercolor - streaks of dyed hair, glittered cheeks, cargo shorts covered in patches and pins. The older ones claimed the back rows like royalty, legs slung over benches. The younger ones bounced between counselors, wide-eyed and smelling faintly of sunscreen and nerves.

You stood backstage, just out of sight, clipboard in one hand, watching it all unfold. 

“Remind me again,” Liam said from behind you, voice low, “what exactly happens at this thing?”

“You pretend to be awake and well-adjusted for about forty-five minutes,” you said, not looking at him. “We introduce the staff. The kids scream. The director makes a speech that’s twice as long as it needs to be. And then we let them loose on the elective board like wolves.”

“Sounds cute and terrifying.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

You felt him glance sideways at you. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Before he could reply, the camp director - Molly, in her signature Hawaiian shirt and combat boots - strode onto the stage, holding a megaphone she didn’t need. Her voice carried without it. 

“Alright artists! Writers! Drama queens! Music nerds! Beautiful chaos goblins - welcome to summer!” 

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. 

Molly held up a hand, grinning like a conductor waiting for her orchestra to settle. “Before we release you into the creative wilderness, it’s time to meet the incredible staff that’ll be guiding you through glitter glue disasters and emotional breakthroughs alike.”

“Let’s start with Visual Arts, give it up for y/n!”

You stepped out to polite clapping, which turned into loud whooping when a few returning campers recognized you. One of them shouted, “We missed you, Van Gogh Vibes!”

You gave a little salute, trying not to blush. 

“And joining us this year for Music,” Molly said, her voice taking on that slight tone of mischief, “a new face with plenty of strings attached - literally - give it up for Liam!”

Liam walked out with that lazy kind of confidence you had come to expect, one hand waving, the other shoved in his pocket. The applause was immediate - mostly from the theater kids, who were clearly already planning to adopt him - and someone shouted, “HE’S CUTE!”

Liam shot you a sideways grin. 

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. 

He leaned a little closer as Molly moved on. “Hot art counselor and a fan club? You’re crushing me in approval ratings.”

“Keep talking during announcements and I’ll ‘accidentally’ assign you the recorder ensemble.”

His smile widened. “Tempting.”

You turned your attention back to the front of the stage where Molly was now introducing the electives list, and the energy of the amphitheater shifted like a storm rolling in - campers whispering and plotting, eyes scanning for clipboards, crushes, and chaos. 

“We’ve got returning favorites and a few new surprises!” Molly announced. “Yes, the pottery wheels are fixed. Yes, we brought back Advanced Stage Combat. And yes, Liam will be leading a songwriting workshop, even though he just found out five minutes ago.”

Liam blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

You didn’t suppress your laugh fast enough. 

“Oh don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll help you make a sign for your table. Something tasteful. Like glittery music notes and a warning label.”

“‘May spontaneously burst into sad guitar solos’?”

“‘Hot mess, but teaches harmony.’”

He bumped your shoulder, laughing. And maybe - maybe - you didn’t lean away.

As the assembly wrapped and the kids swarmed toward the elective sign-up boards like a living tide, you caught one last glance at the stage. 

Liam was helping a camper tune her ukulele, crouched beside her and smiling like he had all the time in the world. 

You felt something shift. Not huge. Just… a click. The kind of moment you’d normally sketch later, trying to catch the quiet of it in lines and ink. 

You turned away before he looked up, your chest a little too warm. 

Summer had officially begun. 

And you had no idea what it was going to make of you. 

The morning sun was already too bright, slicling through the trees like a spotlight as you fumbled with the art barn’s stubborn lock. Your arms were full - canvas panels tucked under one, your sketchbook wedged under the other, and a cup of coffee balanced dangerously on top of a container of charcoal sticks. 

You kicked the door open gently with the toe of your sandal, and the world had changed. 

Inside, the barn was golden.

Fairy lights still glowed faintly along the rafters, even though the sun had taken over. Dust danced in shafts in the morning light. The long work tables were already dressed in chaos: dried paint, gouged cutting mats, a collection of unclaimed brushes resting like forgotten relics in a mason jar. You breathed in deep. 

Turpentine. Wood shavings. Clay dust. Possibility. 

You smiled.

It was time. 

Your first group trickled in just after 9 a.m. - ten kids from a mix of cabins, all different energy levels and outfit choices. Some came quietly, eyes big and nervous behind wireframe glasses. Some already had paint under their nails. One girl wore a hand-sewn cape. No one questioned it.

Gabe from Cabin Van Gogh entered like he was storming the Bastille. 

“Are we doing expressive self portraits?” he asked before even sitting down. “Because I brought colored pencils and trauma.”

You didn’t even blink. “We’re starting with blind contour drawings.”

“Same thing,” he declared, already unzipping a pouch full of oil pastels and strange intent. 

You introduced the lesson, stepping into the rhythm of your role like muscle memory. Already you could feel the hum of creation settling in - the slow, warm buzz of kids unlocking something in themselves. The new girl from Cabin O’Keeffe hadn’t said a word, but her lines were delicate and sure. 

At the far table, two boys were arguing about whether emotions had specific shapes. You let them. You encouraged it, even. That was the point. 

By the end of the hour, there were portraits hung with clothespins along the twine wall, some beautiful, some messy, all strange and wonderful. 

You were still scraping dried paint off a brush when a familiar voice floated in from the path. 

“Permission to steal your chaos gobin?”

You turned. 

Liam stood just outside the barn, framed in morning light like some scruffy storybook hero. Clipboard under one arm. Guitar strap across his chest. His camp tee was half tucked into a pair of track pants, and his hair was a windswept disaster. He looked like he’d already run a mile, lost a bet, and made three kids cry - inspiringly. 

“Gabe,” you called, not taking your eyes off Liam. “Music class.”

Gabe sprang up with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. “Do we get to scream into the woods?”

Liam raised an eyebrow at you. “What are you teaching them?”

“I only plant the seeds,” you smiled sweetly.

His first class was a mess. But somehow, a beautiful one. 

The kids were feral - in that glorious, overstimulated-artist kind of way. They had zero interest in sitting still. Half of them were more interested in the weird noises they could make with the old tambourines than any kind of chord structure. 

Liam didn’t fight it. He leaned into the wild.

“This isn’t about scales,” he said, leaning against the edge of the cabin’s tiny stage. “This is about sound. Feeling, Chaos with rhythm.” 

That got their attention. 

He ran through warmups that involved clapping in odd patterns, making beats with their feet, and pairing sounds with movement. By the time he passed out small instruments, the cabin was alive with accidental harmony. 

You dropped by the back of the room mid-lesson, totally just to bring him the pack of extra mallets he’d forgotten. Really, you just wanted to watch. 

Liam caught your eye as he guided one of the kids through a clapping game in 6/8 time. His smile was a little breathless, a little proud. He gestured towards the girl who was too nervous to speak earlier - now shaking a rain stick in perfect time. 

Liam pointed to her, then looked at you, mouthing: She’s amazing. 

You smiled and mouthed back: You’re doing good.

His ears turned pink. You didn’t mention it. 

By lunch, the kids were buzzing with stories - “Did you see how good the music cabin looks now?” “We made art with our eyes closed!” “I accidentally invented a drum rhythm and it gave me emotions!” 

You found Liam in the shade behind the dining hall, sitting in the grass with his shoes off and his lunch tray balanced on his knees. A breeze moved through the trees. 

He looked up at you with that same quiet, open grin you were starting to associate with real things. Not performance or charm. Just Liam, peeled back a little. 

“You survived,” you said, settling down beside him.

“Barely. But I’ve been offered three bands, two interpretive dance troupes, and one marriage proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gabe?” 

“Gabe.” 

You laughed, head tilted back toward the sky.

He nudged your foot with his. “Hey.”

You glanced over. 

“Thanks for stopping by earlier,” he said, quieter now. “The kids kinda lit up when they saw you. You’ve got that… safe place energy.”

You blinked. A little floored.

“...Thanks,” you murmured, unsure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest. 

“Also,” he added, more casual, “you have blue paint in your eyebrow.”

You groaned and shoved him gently. He caught your hand without thinking, held it just for a second too long. 

The horn blew in the distance, signaling the afternoon rotations. 

He let go. You stood up. 

But when you turned to glance over your shoulder as you walked away, he was still watching you. A little dazed. Like maybe the paint in your eyebrow had nothing to do with why his heart just stopped. 

That night, after lights out, you couldn’t sleep.

The camp had settled into its soft summer hush - the kind that only happened when every flashlight was finally off and even the squirrels had given up their drama. You heard the gentle chirp of crickets, the rustling whisper of pine branches, and, faintly, the occasional distant “shhhhhh” from a counselor trying to stop a giggle fight in Cabin O’Keeffe.

Your bunk felt too warm. Your mind wouldn’t quiet. So you slipped out from under the covers, pulled on your hoodie - the one with the paint-streaked sleeves - and grabbed your sketchbook just in case the sky gave you something to draw. 

The porch boards creaked under your feet as you stepped outside barefoot. The air kissed your skin, cool and clean, thick and pine and dew and the faint trace of lake water. Your breath fogged slightly in the moonlight. 

And there he was. 

Liam.

Leaning against the porch rail of his cabin, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, sockless, strumming softly at his guitar like it was part of his heartbeat. Just sound - quiet, open chords without lyrics, notes that wandered without needing to land anywhere. Like something he didn’t want to forget. 

You didn’t say anything. Just slipped on your flip flops, padded down the steps, and stood next to him, letting the melody settle into your bones. 

He looked over, startled for half a second, then smiled, gentle, tired and glad. 

“You too, huh?” he said quietly, voice barely above the crickets

You nodded. “Too much paint in the bloodstream. Can’t sleep.”

He hesitated. Then reached out his hand.

You took it. 

He didn’t say where you were going. You didn’t ask. 

You walked down the moonlit path together in silence, dodging the glow of motion-activated lights, stepping over roots and pinecones, muffling your laughter when you nearly fell over a rock neither of you saw in time. His hand stayed warm in yours. 

When you reached the lake, the world opened. 

The trees fell away into shadows, the dock stretched into darkness, and the water - god the water - looked like it had swallowed the sky. Stars were everywhere. In the trees, on the surface, tangled between the ripples. The moon hung low and soft, a silver coin held gently between the lake and sky. 

You both slipped off your shoes and sat on the dock, your bare feet just brushing the water - cool, shivering, alive. You could feel your heart slowing, synching with the sounds of the lake, the hush of wind through pine needles. 

Liam set his guitar down beside him and laid back on the wooden planks, arms behind his head.

You glanced at him, surprised. 

“You don’t wanna play something?”

He shook his head, the motion lazy. “Nah,” he said softly. “Just listening.”

You didn’t ask what for. 

Instead, you laid back too - sketchbook on your chest, hoodie hood pulled halfway over your eyes - and stared up with him. 

The sky was impossibly loud with stars. Infinite. Blinking. Watching. 

After a while, Liam spoke again, voice distant and close all at once.

“You ever feel like it’s… too much?”

You blinked. “The sky?”

He paused, “The everything.”

He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer. Like he didn’t need one. Just a place to put the feeling down. 

You let the silence stretch before answering, soft and real. “Yeah,” you said, “all the time.” 

Another beat. Another breath.

“Same,” he murmured. “But you help. Somehow.”

Your chest fluttered - something quiet and warm and true blooming behind your ribs. 

You turned your head toward him. He was already looking at you. 

His eyes were soft in the dark, unreadable and entirely honest. You could see the shape of him in the starlight. The line of his jaw, the mess of hair shadowing his forehead, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly like he was thinking something he might say or might not. 

Neither of you moved. 

You didn’t need to. 

Everything between you was lit with something bigger than the moment - something shy and ure and waiting.

You didn’t kiss. Not yet. 

But you were close. 

Close enough to count freckles. Close enough to breathe the same space. 

And when you finally walked back, just before dawn, your feet were muddy and your hands were cold, but your chest felt full. Tethered. 

You snuck back just before dawn - feet muddy, hearts full. 

At breakfast the next morning, he passed you a cup of orange juice like nothing had changed. 

But when your fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away. 

And when your eyes met across the table, you knew. 

Everything had. 

Sunday evenings only meant one thing: the weekly assembly.

The amphitheater buzzed with the barely-contained chaos of ninety something teenagers attempting to sit still after dinner and dessert. The stone benches radiated leftover heat from the sun, fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of the woods, and the air smelled like marshmallow residue, dried pine, and faintly of glitter. 

On stage, Molly was in rare form, clipboard in one hand and megaphone in the other, though she again, didn’t need it. 

“Cabin cleanliness rankings are posted outside the dining hall,” she was saying in a tone that suggested doom. “Cabin Monet: Congratulations on surviving your war with the squirrels. Cabin O’Keeffe: You are on very thin ice. And if I hear one more story about campers in Advanced Stage Combat actually fighting again, I swear to god, I will cancel it.”

Groans and gasps erupted. 

Usually, you’d be halfway zoned out by now, mentally editing lesson plants or imagining a world where Molly’s megaphone had an off switch. But tonight, you had an announcement to make. An important one. 

You stood near the edge of the stage with your clipboard, pretending to study your notes while actually watching Liam try - and fail - to adjust the mic stand for the third time. 

“Do you need it to be crooked?” you whispered as he squinted at it. 

“It’s for dramatic effect,” he whispered back. “The chaos adds tension..”

You raised a brow. “It adds confusion.”

“Same thing, if you’re doing it right.”

You rolled your eyes as Molly raised her hand with theatrical flair. Instantly, the crowd quieted - not silent, never truly silent, but the kind of organized chaos she could work with. 

“And for one last announcement…” she called, grinning wide. “Quiet down - especially you, Cabin Sondheim!”

A ripple of shushing and snickering spread across the benches. You felt the buzz begin - that almost electric current that only came from anticipation. 

“Now,” Molly continued, drawing the moment out like a master conductor, “I know we’re only a couple weeks into the session, but you all know what’s coming. It’s time to talk about one of the most chaotic, most glitter-infested, most legendary nights of the session…”

There was a long pause - just long enough for the campers to start vibrating with anticipation. 

“The Annual Mid-Camp Talentttt Shooowwwww!”

The amphitheater erupted. Cheers, screams, one air horn (somehow?), and the unmistakable sound of someone from Cabin Frida already beginning a victory chant. 

You stepped forward, barely containing your smile. “That’s right,” you said into the mic, “in exactly fourteen nights, this stage becomes your playground. Your spotlight. Your chance to shine.”

Liam leaned in beside you, grinning like the stage was home. “Singers, dancers, spoken-word poets, jugglers, people who can balance spoons on their noses - this is your time.”

“And yes,” you added, “group acts are allowed. As long as no one loses a tooth this year.”

A voice from the crowd yelled “It was worth it!”

You and Liam both cracked up. 

“Sign up sheets will be outside the dining hall starting tomorrow morning,” you continued, regaining your balance. “You’ll have time to rehearse during electives, after dinner, and any spare moment you can beg, borrow, or bribe for.”

“We will also have a very official panel of judges,” Liam added. “Me, the raccoon behind Cabin Monet, and the ghost of Beethoven.”

You shot him a look. 

“...Kidding,” he muttered into the mic. “It’s just the counselors. But we will be dramatic about it.”

He gave the crowd a smirk. Somewhere, a camper swooned audibly.

You stepped back, giving the mic back to Molly, who wrapped things up with a campfire-style chant that had everyone stomping and clapping along. 

As the sun vanished completely, lanterns flickered on around the amphitheater and the campers scattered back toward their cabins, chattering excitedly.

You and Liam stepped off the stage and watched them go - some already strategizing routines, others doing group cartwheels, one kid trying to convince their bunkmate to let them do shadow puppets with interpretive dance. 

“This is going to be chaos,” you said under your breath.

He grinned. “The good kind.”

And you believed him. 

The talent show was a week away, and camp had officially tipped from playful chaos into full-blown creative mania. 

Every corner of the woods pulsed with rehearsals. The amphitheater thudded with tap shoes and spoken word. The path to the lake had been turned into a catwalk for costume testing. Ukulele chords floated through the trees, interrupted only by the occasional shriek of “That’s MY hula hoop, Gabe!” - followed by someone sprinting past in full costume.

Even your sacred art barn had been overtaken. Half-finished set pieces leaned against the paint-splattered walls. Paper mache planets dangled from the rafters. Your canvases were now roommates with three cardboard trees, one paper mache volcano, and what appeared to be a confetti cannon made from recycled water bottles and hope. 

So when you finally carved out a moment of silence - real silence - it felt like stumbling into a clearing after being lost in the trees. 

It was just after dinner, golden hour stretching long and soft across the hills. Most of the campers were still in the dining hall, finishing dessert and arguing over group names. You’d slipped away without telling anyone - without telling him - and wandered to the only place that still felt like yours. 

The music cabin. 

The lights were off, except for the soft golden glow of the string lights Liam had hung up a few weeks ago. The window was open. Crickets and cicadas chirped. The room felt lived in - worn and warm and kind. 

You had curled up on the edge of the stage, sketchbook in your lap, the image of the stars above the lake coming alive on the page, when you heard footsteps. 

Then guitar strings. 

Then: “You always steal my hideout”

You looked up. 

Liam stood in the doorway, backlit by the last blush of sunset. His guitar was unsurprisingly slung over one shoulder, clipboard tucked under his arm like a half-forgotten accessory. His shoelaces were uneven. He looked like he’d run across the whole property just to be here. 

And from the curve of his grin - tilted and warm - maybe he had. 

“The dining hall was loud,” you offered, smiling just a little. “I needed somewhere that smelled less like ketchup and sugar.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. “Yeah, they were arguing about whether or not a tap routine could be done in crocs. I left before it got violent.”

You laughed softly. “Coward.”

“Survivalist,” he corrected, settling beside you on the stage. He dropped his clipboard with a thunk and sat cross-legged, his knee bumping yours in the process. Neither of you moved.

For a while, you didn’t talk.

The night hummed. Crickets, distant guitar chords, the faint murmur of someone’s bluetooth speaker out by the fire pit. Inside the music cabin, it was just the two of you. And breath. And space.  

Then he glanced sideways at you. “You looked tired today.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “Only to me.”

You let your pencil fall still against the page. “I think I hit the part of camp where everything feels like too much. My brain’s glue. My hands are shaky. I forgot my coffee this morning and actually cried.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. 

He just nodded. “Been there.”

Another beat. 

“You know,” he added, voice quieter now, “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

You looked over at him, surprised. 

“I see how much you do. For the kids. For the other counselors. For Molly. You keep everyone running.” He strummed a soft chord, like punctuation. “But you don’t let anyone help.”

You looked down at your sketchbook again, now slightly smudged from where your thumb had pressed too hard. “It’s easier sometimes. Doing it myself. At least if it falls apart, I know whose fault it is.”

“Yeah, but that means you don’t get to fall apart. And that’s… kind of unfair.”

You didn’t know what to say. 

So instead, you just looked at him, 

At the way his crewneck sleeves were pushed to his elbows, wrists freckled and ringed with a bracelet one of the kids had made. At the way the gold of the string lights warmed the edges of his face. At the quiet way he was watching you, like you were something sacred. 

Then he set his guitar aside - carefully, like it was something living - and reached for your hand. 

You let him take it. 

His fingers laced with yours like it was muscle memory. 

“I missed you today,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.  

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “You never have to.”

Silence stretched between you. But it was good silence. Full.

Then he leaned in.

Slow. Careful. Like he was giving you time to say no, to pull away, to change your mind. 

You didn’t. 

Your lips met in a hush of warmth. Gentle at first, like a discovery. Like the beginning of something that had been building for weeks. But then his hand rose to cradle your jaw, and your fingers curled into the hem of his sweatshirt, and it deepend. 

The kiss turned into color and quiet and all the wild softness the rest of the world didn’t make time for.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads touched. Your breaths mingled. 

“Hi,” you whispered, half breathless. 

He smiled, lips still close. “Hi.”

You stayed like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, breath shared, hearts slowly stitching themselves into something braver. 

Liam’s hand was still resting against your cheek. Yours had slipped beneath the fabric of his crewneck, fingertips brushing the warmth of his side, like you needed proof he was real. 

The kiss had settled something in you. But it had also cracked something open. 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his eyes. They were soft. Unshielded. 

“I didn’t think this would happen,” you said quietly.

Liam cocked his head. “Us?”

You nodded, eyes drifting to the worn wood of the cabin floor. “I don’t usually… I don’t let people in. Not really. Not here.”

“Camp or this cabin?”

“Both,” you admitted. “I’m the one with the clipboard. The one who knows where the extra scissors are, and how to fix paint spills, and who needs a snack before they snap. I’m not the one who gets distracted by guitar boys with crooked smiles and unfinished songs.”

He laughed - just a breath of it. But it wasn’t mocking. 

“You’re not distracted,” he said gently. “You’re just… human. And maybe a little guarded.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Little?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Okay, medium guarded. But you care. So much. And you pretend it’s control, but it’s not. It’s heart.”

That hit something deep. You looked away again, swallowing.

“Hey,” His voice was soft. 

You looked back, and found his gaze still steady on yours. 

“I didn’t come here looking for this either,” he said. “Honestly? I thought I’dbe here for eight weeks, teach a few kids how to strum chords, maybe eat some marshmallows, and leave with sunburn and a funny story.”

“And now?”

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. Let the truth settle. 

“And now, I think I’m going to leave with something I don’t know how to name yet.”

That made your chest ache in the best way.

“I’m scared,” you said suddenly. “Not of you. Just… how easy this feels. How much I already want you to stay.”

Liam leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Then be scared. Me too. But I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Letting it settle. The weight and lightness of it all.

When you opened them, he was still watching you like you were the most important thing he’d ever seen. 

“I like you,” you whispered. “A lot more than I planned to.”

“I’m really glad you said that,” he murmured. “Because I think about you when I’m falling asleep. And when I wake up. And basically every second I’m not being hit in the face with a kazoo.”

You laughed into his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your hair. 

Outside, the night breathed around you. 

Inside the music cabin, something quiet and real was beginning. 

And this time, it wasn’t just a song. 

The day of the show, the camp woke up buzzing. 

Not the usual sleepy rustle of morning bugle calls and cereal spoons clinking - but real, kinetic energy. Like every kid had mainlined sparkles and adrenaline for breakfast. 

Kids sprinted past the cabins in full costume. Someone blasted Queen from a speaker at 7:14 a.m. sharp. Even the frogs seemed louder, as if they knew something big was coming. 

The art barn was in chaos by 9:30 a.m.

Cabin Kahlo’s paper mache wings were missing in action. Theater was demanding last-minute paint touch-ups for their backdrops. The film kids begged you for fake blood for their zombie-musical parody. You shut it down quickly. You didn’t even own fake blood.

Your usual camp shirt had acquired three new paint smears - turquoise, gold, and something you were afraid to identify. Your hair was a mess of bobby pins and pipe cleaners. Your clipboard was clutched like a lifeline. But the rehearsal schedule was color-coded, your iced coffee was still mostly cold, and you were ready. 

Well. Almost.

You hadn’t seen Liam yet.

He’d slipped out of the dining hall early, guitar case in hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He gave you a two-finger salute from across the oatmeal station and disappeared out the side door before you could corner him. 

He was up to something. 

You knew it. 

But there wasn’t time to investigate. Someone was actively attempting to hot glue sequins to their eyelids and another counselor was chasing down a rogue stage curtain like it owed him money.

By lunch, the nerves had started to settle in. You caught glimpses of campers rehearsing in corners, mouthing lyrics to themselves, trying to psych each other up. Even Gabe was quiet. Gabe. 

You found Liam backstage at the amphitheater around 2 p.m., helping set up lights with theater counselor Connor and rewiring a mic that definitely hadn’t worked since 1988.

“Hey,” you said softly, nudging his foot with yours. 

He looked up from where he was crouched beside the soundboard - cheeks flushed, hair tousled, screwdriver in one hand, smile slow and sure. “Hey.”

“Everything holding together?”

“Barely. But we’re running on zip ties and blind faith now, so what could go wrong?”

You grinned. “Any surprises I should know about?”

He tilted his head. “Define surprise.”

You squinted at him. “Liam.”

He stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Okay, so I may or may not have rearranged the closing slot.”

“You what-?”

“For emotional impact,” he said. “And also because I finished the song.”

You froze. 

“The song?” you asked, softly now. 

He met your eyes. That look - the one that always felt like the moment before a summer storm. Gentle, but charged. 

“The one from the bonfire. From the dock. From…this whole summer.”

You didn’t say anything. Simply reached for his hand and squeezed. 

He squeezed back.

That evening, the amphitheater glowed.

Lanterns swung from the tree branches. Campers buzzed like lightning bugs, tugging on costumes, whispering nerves, adjusting microphones. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves.

Molly gave a rousing pre-show pep talk that turned into a dramatic reading of a Shakespeare monologue, and someone from Cabin Monet had already spilled lemonade on the lightboard and a raccoon was spotted near the stage twice.

You stood in the wings, headset slightly askew, heart pounding with secondhand adrenaline. The show had started, and the acts were better than anyone expected - heartfelt and weird and wonderful. 

A group of kids tap danced in swim fins to “Eye of the Tiger.” One trio read haikus about the camp showers. Gabe delivered a spoken word piece about macaroni art and heartbreak that nearly brought the crowd to tears. 

And then, just before the closing act, Liam walked onstage. 

Alone. 

The chatter stilled. The night held its breath. 

He stood at the center of the stage, guitar slung low, dressed in his usual attire - hoodie sleeves pushed up, laces untied. But his voice was steady when he leaned into the mic. 

“This one’s for someone who made this place feel like home,” he said. “Someone who sees the world in color, even when everything feels black and white.”

Your heart cracked open. 

Then he began to play. 

It was the song. His song. Your song. The one you’d heard in pieces, in fragments, around corners and under stars. But it was now full - complete - and it was beautiful.

Soft at first, a slow build. Like memory. Like a sketch becoming a painting.

Verses about summer air and tangled string lights, about paint-stained fingers and hands that felt like safety. The chorus swelled with hope. With want. With something that sounded like falling in love, softly and completely. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Connor handed you a tissue without looking away from the stage. 

When the last chord faded, there was a heartbeat of silence. Then the amphitheater erupted. Campers on their feet, stomping, screaming, howling. A standing ovation. 

But Liam didn’t look at them. 

He looked at you. 

And smiled like he already knew your answer. 

[vitalverstappen]

[vitalverstappen]

snatch em while they're hot

taken from femmelawson on twitter

[vitalverstappen]

💚

[vitalverstappen]

gabi running to meet nico in parc ferme

[vitalverstappen]

Jealousy, Jealousy - L. Sargeant

summary: Logan was never the jealous type... or so you thought pairing: Logan Sargeant x reader (established relationship) warnings: none word count: 1.5k a/n: i had to post this little thing today, in honor of everyone's favorite American's favorite holiday

masterlist

You didn’t know what you were doing at Logan’s childhood home. Sure, you had been there countless times before, but this was different. This was for his little cousin Harper’s sixth birthday. 

The party was full of energy - balloons, cake, and an army of little kids running around. Everyone was excited to celebrate, and you were happy to be there with Logan. But there was one thing you hadn’t anticipated: Logan’s cousin, Owen.

Owen was 14 - shy, sweet, but definitely in the stage of trying to figure out how to act when he had a crush. And today, that crush was you. 

From the moment you walked in, you could feel his eyes on you. Logan was right beside you, holding your hand and chatting with family, but Owen was always there, hovering just a little too close. You caught him stealing glances at you every time you laughed or talked to someone else. And each time, his gaze would linger just a little too long before he’d quickly look away. 

Logan seemed to notice it too. He’d give Owen a quick side-eye whenever the younger cousin hovered too close, but he didn’t say anything at first. He just kept talking, trying to brush it off, but you could tell something was slightly off. 

Later, you and Logan were on the couch, watching the kids run around, half paying attention to the baseball game on the TV. To no surprise, Owen appeared out of thin air, leaning awkwardly against the wall beside you. 

“Hey, y/n, do you wanna check out the backyard? There’s a trampoline,” Owen said, his voice a little too eager. 

You were well aware of the trampoline in the backyard. When Logan first brought you over to meet his parents last year, he insisted on dragging you out on it, even though neither of you were any good on it. 

You looked at Logan, who was trying to hide his annoyance behind a tight grin. “Uh, sure, Owen. I’ll join you in a bit,” you replied politely. But Owen wasn’t having it. He stepped closer, practically standing over you. 

“Right now?” Owen asked, his voice almost pleading. 

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t say anything. You looked at him again, trying to gauge a reaction, but he was staring at Owen with a look that was starting to feel like jealousy. He gave a small shrug, forcing a smile. “It’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “You go ahead, y/n. I’ll be here.”

Even though it was his own house, you didn’t want to leave Logan alone, especially since he was the one who brought you. But, Owen’s enthusiasm was hard to ignore. You reluctantly stood up. “Alright, I’ll come with you for a little while,” you said to Owen, flashing Logan a smile. 

As you walked out to the backyard with Owen, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Logan wasn’t too happy about it. You turned to look over your shoulder, and sure enough, Logan was watching you both from the doorway, his arms crossed tightly. 

Owen led you to the trampoline, and you tried to make small talk to keep the mood light. “So, how’ve you been? I heard you’re into video games.”

Owen, who had been practically vibrating with nervous energy, brightened up at the chance to talk about his favorite topic. “Yeah! I love them. I was actually thinking of showing Logan some new tricks in that racing game we both play.”

“I’m sure he would love that,” you said as you sat down on the trampoline next to Owen. “I know he races for a living, but I think he needs all the help he can get on that game.”

Before Owen could even respond, you heard Logan’s voice from the doorway of the house.

“You guys having fun?” He called out, his tone just a little too sweet. “Do you guys need anything?” 

You gave your boyfriend a reassuring smile, knowing this would be a conversation for later. “We’re good, Logan. Just hanging out.”

Logan nodded, and disappeared back into the house, but you could still feel his eyes on you, even though he was out of sight. It wasn’t like Logan to be this annoyed about anything. 

You weren’t sure how long you were out on the old trampoline with Owen, but thankfully you guys were called in to sing Happy Birthday before Logan could get any more worked up. 

As the two of you made your way into the kitchen, your eyes instantly locked with Logan’s. You gave your boyfriend a mischievous grin as you walked over, his arms wrapping around your waist. 

Owen moved to the other side of the room, where all the other cousins his age were. You could hear their giggles and laughs, most likely teasing Owen about his crush, but you didn’t care. It was all harmless, afterall. 

The whole family gathered around the table, everyone singing a loud, cheerful “Happy Birthday” to little Harper, who looked beyond excited to blow out her candles. You could feel the love and warmth of Logan’s family wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. It was moments like these that made you so glad to be a part of his world. 

After the song and cake, people started to break off into smaller groups, chatting and catching up. You were standing by the dessert table when Logan found you again. His eyes scanned the room, making sure Owen was occupied, before pulling you aside toward a quiet corner of the living room. 

“You good?” Logan asked, his voice softer now, but there was a hint of concern laced in. 

You tilted your head, giving him a playful smile. “I’m good. Are you good?” 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking like he was trying to gather his thoughts. “I just… I don’t like it when Owen gets all weird around you, y’know? I’m just not used to it.”

You leaned against the wall, crossing your arms, the smile slowly turning into a smirk. “Are you jealous?” 

Logan scoffed in response, caught off guard by the question. “Of a kid? No way.”

Your gaze softened. “Logan, he’s 14. He’s just figuring things out. It’s not like he’s trying to make a move on me. He’s just shy, and I don’t think he even knows how to act.”

A small huff escaped Logan’s lips, clearly not convinced, but his features softened slightly. “I know, I know. It’s just… I guess I’m still protective. You’re mine, and no one else gets to think they can have a shot.”

You smiled, stepping forward and gently placing a hand on his chest. “And I’m all yours, Logan. Always. No need to worry about that.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, all the tension seemed to melt away. His hand found a way to your cheek, pulling you in for a quick kiss, a gesture that was both reassuring and a little possessive. “You’re right. I just don’t like sharing you with anyone, even if it’s my little cousin.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him. “You know, I think his crush on me is probably gonna be a running joke at every family gathering for the next five years.” 

Logan chuckled, his arm wrapping around you protectively. “As long as it stays a joke. He’s got a lot of growing up to do before he realizes you’re way out of his league.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully nudging him. “He’s just a kid, Logan. No need to get too smug about it.”

Logan flashed you a mischievous grin. “I’ll get smug whenever I want. You’re mine, and no one else is taking you away from me.”

You shook your head but couldn’t help but smile. “Alright, alright. No one is taking me anywhere.”

As you stood there with Logan, listening to the sounds of Harper’s laughter and the chaos of kids running around the house, you felt a warmth spread through you. Sure, the jealousy might have been a little ridiculous, but you couldn’t help but to find it endearing. Logan was protective, and that meant something to you. 

After a few more minutes, the two of you rejoined the family. As soon as Owen saw you and Logan together, he gave a quick glance away, clearly embarrassed by how obvious his crush had been. You shot him a quick wink, and he blushed furiously, quickly turning back to his cousins. 

Logan smirked, looking down at you. “Don’t worry. He’ll get the hint soon enough.”

You laughed softly. “It’s cute. Besides, who could blame him? I am pretty awesome.” 

Logan rolled his eyes but pulled you closer, making sure everyone knew exactly where you belonged. He was still the one you were with, and it wasn’t like you were going anywhere. 

As the night went on, the teasing about Owen’s crush faded into the background, and you settled into the fun of the birthday party. But every now and then, you caught Logan’s possessive gaze on you, and it made your heart flutter every time. You were his, and that was something no one, not even a 14-year-old with a crush, could change. 

[vitalverstappen]

just realized i dont wanna watch a race without max how do people live like this

[vitalverstappen]

Bortoleto you move me in ways I cannot describe