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Lost (PG10) pt.3

Summary: The world is utterly unfair. He was her most prized possession, her life, her first ever commitment of love. But to him, she was just a mere person lost in his big world.

warnings: ; unrequited feelings; Pierre is a douche , arrange marriage, angst, explicit scenes and languages.

Author's Note~ Heya guys! So it's finally here! Tbe 3rd part of my fanfic.I posted the first chapter of my first ever fanfic! And I'm overwhelmed by the response ❤️ Really Thanks a lot to everyone who had liked the story so far. It's just the beginning of the journey, there's a lot to come. Love You All 😘 Here's my first ever story for you guys. As soon as I finish this one, I'll start taking requests maybe! Till then please show your love and support for "LOST".

Journal Entry - 3

Pain is something that can be forgotten if that one person that you love gives you a smile. Butterflies, jitters, rainbows! Yea, that's my heart right now. I can melt right away. Right in front of him. Pierre Gasly has a beautiful smile!

Those sparkling eyes when he smiles has the power to light up my whole world. But why did he smile at me today?

Let me tell you what exactly happened.

I woke up a little late today because of all the crying I did yesterday. I went into the washroom to take a shower and freshen up and when I saw myself in the mirror I was scared of myself! Like seriously I look like a fucking zombie! Tear stains and melted mascara stains all over my face. But what's worse are my eyes. They were blood red and super swollen. No makeup, no face wash could cover that shit up. But I couldn't let Pierre see me like that. So the only thing that I could think of was wearing sunglasses. BIG BLACK SUNGLASSES! That too inside the house cause I wasn't allowed to go anywhere outside unless it was one of his races or events, where we'd have to pretend to be a super happy and In love kind of a couple. Life Sucks for me. Anyways I changed and was going to go down when I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Other than me no one usually goes inside the kitchen , so who might it be?

A little bit curious and also frightened I went inside the kitchen only to find my ever charming husband sporting the brightest radiant smile I've ever seen. My Husband Pierre Gasly! Standing right there with black shorts and a tight fitting black tshirt. His muscles stretching and struggling from it. The tshirt seems to be too tight but he still looks like a prince.

To be very honest it was a bit weird for me. Okay chuck it! It was very weird for me but I just played it cool by returning a very awkward smile to him.

" Good morning and thanks Y/n" Woah! That was the first time he actually wished me good morning. I seriously felt like I was on cloud 9 but I don't really keep high hopes in life anymore since I have lost a lot of things in this journey.

"Good morning to you too , but why thank you?"

"Oh! Yes, actually thank you for yesterday. You prepared the soup and the medicine for Julia" those words made me want to stab myself . After a whole night of torture and tears he finally finally smiled at me for the first time and that too the reason was Julia. That bitch of a step sister. Who is stealing my husband day by day from me. But who cares if the person who's supposed to actually care does not care about me.

I sometimes think if he ever thinks about me? About my happiness or, I'm just a mere housemate for him? Actually what's funny is that even the housemates are treated better than I am . Also I'm a bit disappointed. Why did he not ask me why was I wearing those hideous sunglasses? Why was I late to wake up this morning? But no, no questions of such were asked by him.

But you know what? I'm not complaining cause this was the first time he actually smiled at me properly.

That's all I've ever wanted. A little bit of genuine recognition from him. Not because of the camera's, not because of the families. Not pretentious.

And so I , Mrs.Y/n Gasly is again LOST!

LOST in His Radiant Smile!

PS - Please lemme know what do you think about LOST and also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list ❤️

@peachiicherries @crimeshowjunkie @oblomovissad @torossosebs @janeholt3

Lost (PG10) pt.2

Summary: The world is utterly unfair. He was her most prized possession, her life, her first ever commitment of love. But to him, she was just a mere person lost in his big world.

warnings: ; unrequited feelings; Pierre is a douche , arrange marriage, angst, explicit scenes and languages.

Author's Note~ Heya guys! So a few days back I posted the first chapter of my first ever fanfic! And I'm overwhelmed by the response ❤️ Really Thanks a lot to everyone who had liked the story so far. It's just the beginning of the journey, there's a lot to come. Love You All 😘 Here's my first ever story for you guys. As soon as I finish this one, I'll start taking requests maybe! Till then please show your love and support for "LOST".

Journal Entry -2

A new episode and a new day of my life. Never in my 24 years of life have I ever thought that I would have to come across this day. This awful day when i would have to sit through a whole day in my room crying my eyes out and coming out of my room only when i'm called for causes like "Julia needs a glass of water, you need to clean Julia's dress, Julia accidentally dropped food on the floor, clean up the mess" so on and so forth. Today was the day when I had to look at the most heart wrenching thing ever...

So here's what happened 

*FLASHBACK*

I was reading a book in my room and suddenly someone knocked at my door. I opened the door and came across Pierre!

"H-hey! you need something?"

I noticed him looking inside my room at our wedding picture hanging on the wall right above my head. Obviously he'd be curious about my room cause he's never been inside my room before. I actually felt a little awkward so i cleared my throat to get his attention.

"Uh! yea actually Julia was having a headache, go and make some soup or something and bring it up to my room  along with some medicine!" There was that tone! Full of despise for me.

"Sure" By saying that i went down to the kitchen to make some soup for her.

That's what my job in this house is after all, looking after the house and the people in it. Oh! Did I mention? We do not have any maids. Cause apparently according to my husband's mistress, I'm not any different than a maid so why waste money on hiring one? Anyways, after making the soup and being satisfied with it I went towards Pierre's room and stopped once I saw something that no married or committed person should ever see. My husband was on top of my sister thrusting deep inside her and them moaning out each other's name. 

You must be thinking that what am i so shaken up about? I should've been used to this by now, Well this is the first time i'm seeing them doing it in front of my eyes. Yes i admit it that i've heard them before but seeing it live, right in front of me is a whiplash of a whole lot of negative thoughts. And what did I do in that situation? Nothing! I just closed the door silently, kept the soup and the medicine outside the room and came back to my room and cried my eyes out! Why did they have to keep the door opened? Did my husband really become so heartless? Did he really want me to see that I can never get his love? Did he really have literally shove it in my face that he belongs completely and soulfully to his mistress and I can never take her place?

Oh! and the agony! My Step sister saw me standing outside the room and smirked!

Yes she had the audacity to smirk at me....

*FLASHBACK ENDS*

I know i'm young and naive. My sister is 27 and i'm 24 years old. She's more mature than I am, sexier, prettier, and more perfect , with an hourglass figure, amazing style. But all that, with a nasty heart it seems. She can easily go out wearing anything and everything that she wants whereas I tend to gravitate towards PJ's, hoodies and oversized clothes. The only time I wear dresses are at the parties that I attend with my husband. But still, he never looks at me the same way he looks at her. She is definitely Pierre's s absolute match in all spheres. And here I am, stupid little girl crying my eyes out inside my room cause my husband is making love to my step sister. 

I, Mrs. Y/n Gasly is once again LOST!

LOST in my sister's PERFECTION!

PS - Please lemme know what do you think about LOST and also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list ❤️

@peachiicherries @crimeshowjunkie

@oblomovissad ❤️

Lost (PG10) pt.1

Summary: The world is utterly unfair. He was her most prized possession, her life, her first ever commitment of love. But to him, she was just a mere person lost in his big world.

warnings: ; unrequited feelings; Pierre is a douche , arrange marriage, angst, heartbreak.

Author's Note~ Heya guys! So I had put out a post about getting motivation to write something up, so thank you to all for commenting and encouraging me! Love You All 😘

Here's my first ever story for you guys. As soon as I finish this one, I'll start taking requests maybe! Till then please show your love and support for "LOST".

Journal Entry -1

LOVE....It's something that i have always yearned for.

Even if it's fake. A little bit of admiration, a simple compliment can make my day. 

It's been like this ever since my brother, Isaac Conti left the world. I started living with my step mother Annie Conti and my step sister Julia Conti. Yes, Isaac was my step sibling too but he never made me feel like i'm not his own sister.

My brother was the only one who actually loved me and admired me to the fullest in this family. My mother was an Indian and was forced to marry my father after she saved him from an accident when he was travelling in India. I was a part of a mistake. Ever since my maa died everyone except my brother treated me like shit. Even my father. 

But then i met him. My love of my life, the most important person in my life. My husband Pierre Gasly, the playboy of the F1 track!

Once again life played a merciless game with me. The man that i'm committed to, married to , bound by vows is in love with someone else. To be more clear he's in love with my sister Julia Conti.

How pathetic am i to have a life like this huh! We've been married for about 7 months now because that was my brother's last wish before leaving us. Pierre was his friend and he thought that getting me hitched would've been the best thing to do, but to think of it , it was his biggest mistake. He knew i've always had feelings for a certain blue eyed boy, thus, his decision, but what he didn't know was that Pierre has always been in love with my sister and married me only to get close to her. Pierre cleared everything out for me once we came back from the reception right after our wedding.

Now it's been a few days, two months to be exact that they've been dating , oh! and also sleeping around. What's sad is that i've caught them a few times during action in his bedroom. The only thing that i could do is simply go up to the terrace, look up to the sky and cry my eyes out calling out my Maa and my Brother. I don't blame Isaac for anything.  It's all my fate. 

I'm a pathetic excuse of a human as my husband likes to call me, who does not deserve anything in this world except for tears and sadness.

If you're wondering if Pierre had always been like this? Then let me tell you No! 

It all started after 1 month of our marriage when  he started talking to my sister more and giving her more attention. The lies that had been fed to him by my Step Mother and Step Sister about me is what he believed at the end of the day.

Life has always been a mockery for me. I am not allowed to speak to anyone, it's not like i have any friends to talk to. The only thing i am useful for is to tag along with Pierre to a few of his races or a few other important events as his trophy wife just cause it's an obligation.

No one really knows what happens in our life everyday, not even his grid mates. I'm sure it wouldn't have made any difference seeing they are his best friends. I'm not even allowed to talk to them even if i've seen them around at parties and races. I think my attitude has probably led them to think that i'm a snobby little bitch just like my Step sister. Oh yes! I do use bad words sometimes cause why not? I'm supposed to be able to do at least certain things in life right?

It's not like Pierre is going to read what i'm writing here? 

I've given up everything, every little dreams of mine, SO if you ask me if i think that Pierre is ever gonna love me back , then my answer is No!I would never even dream about thinking that he's gonna love me back.

But there's one person who always looks out for me, he's my only friend I suppose, and that's a certain ferrari driver with a charming smile that always lifts up my mood.

Anyways,I'll just sit aside and keep loving Pierre forever, even after he leaves me for my step sister after a year of our marriage. Just 5 more months to go. 5 more months to be with him. 5 more months to stay by his side as trophy wife when he goes out for parties and races. 

His world is a big one. Where he has got his grid mates, his family, his fans, his work people , my step sister even my step mom...... Everyone except for good ol' me....

I, Mrs. Y/n Gasly is just a LOST case in his big world...

Let's see where the upcoming 5 months take us....

PS - Please lemme know what do you think about LOST and also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list ❤️

I want to start writing imagines and fan fics for F1 drivers and have got many ideas, but I just don't find the motivation to write/type everything down...

What can make me overcome this?

PS - I'm a Gasly Girl ❤️

just a girl

intro to…

m.list

Addilyn 'Addi' Loraine Jacinthe LeBlanc was born on April 4, 2000 in Long Island, New York. Growing up, her family was close friends with the Leclerc's, and the two families began to put their kids in karting after meeting Jules Bianchi.

Her older brothers Nolan and Louis both quit karting early on in life, Nolan reaching more towards baseball and Louis had his own dreams within golfing. However, the youngest and only girl of the family was absolutely in love with racing, and continued her journey all the way up to Formula 3 until Red Bull Racing signed a contract with her in 2019 to join their Formula 1 team during the 2020 season.

Addi soon became the headline of every news article out there, being the first woman to drive in Formula 1 in over 40 years while also being the first female Red Bull driver. She has a lot to prove, to her family, her team, the media, and herself. She has to prove that she's more than just a girl.

important people/users

nolanleblanc - nolan (oldest brother, new york yankees player) louisjuliusleblanc - louis (middle child, golf player) claire.newbet - claire (nolans girlfriend, fashion and travel vlogger) lori.rynold.leblanc - loraine (mom, artist) matheo.leblanc.3.40 - matheo (dad, ceo)

(ignore her bday on the twitter page, her birthday has changed since a couple times😭)

So the reader and Carlos Sainz Jr. has been best friends and eventually lovers in a secret relationship. (Secret cuz privacy, duh) All was well when Carlos was in f2 but now in f1…Carlos is being crazily shipped by fans with another who’s not reader and it is getting into reader’s mind. Carlos is oblivious?? or naive?? or straight up like “it’s the fans babez ignore them.” Meanwhile, every time the reader and Carlos hang out(which is actually a date), the fans always revert back to “aww they are such cute bestFRIENDS” plz angst angst draw it OUT. I want the gut-wrenching, chest clutching ANGST babez. <3 (+Your creativity shall flourish~~)

Lissie note… I LOVE this prompt. It leaves as much angst as possible up to interpretation. This is really like letting the genie out of the bottle. Great idea!

Few things to note:

Reader is a PR assistant manager

Reader is only a year younger than Carlos

Reader is being delusional for the most part

“Amanda Higgins” is made up by me

Present time is not the 2023 season

This both does and doesn’t follow a specific timeline, so the races are not going to be in order.

This might get re-written or updated, as I was feeling under the weather whilst writing it!

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x PR!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, oblivious and kind of insensitive Carlos, delusional reader

Word Count: 5.2k+

Am I Yours?

“I just wanna be yours…”

Back story

2012-2013

You were a sucker for Motorsports. Growing up with a father who was an engineer for Red Bull, you frequently joined him whenever school would allow it. Although the window of opportunity was small, you always begged your father to bring you along.

From expensive hotels to business class; you were living any 17-year-old’s dream. A life of constant travel. Your father had agreed to let you transfer to do online schooling, rather than going to an actual high school. You only had a year left anyway. With that new lifestyle, nothing held you back from coming to every race weekend.

You aspired to become a journalist and a news reporter. Specifically a sports reporter for Formula One. All you ever did was study. You ensured only the best of the best. Your grades never changed and your GPA never budged from a 4.8. So when you finally decided to get more into the Formula world, you decided you’d start in FIA European Formula 3. You wanted more experience before moving on to reporting on Formula One. Although you were still in high school, any experience was good enough for you. Your father somehow made the necessary connections to let you observe the European F3 races.

My god, did you love it. One driver, in particular, had caught your eye. One Carlos Sainz Jr. His style and his methodical approach to driving were more than just captivating. He was merely a year older than you and had already achieved such great things in life. It was incredible.

Meeting him was even better than just observing him swerve around the tracks. He was kind, helped you with your questions, and was able to calm your nerves.

In the beginning, your friendship with him was fairly simple. He texted you every now and then, and you’d come to all his races. The two of you were both on busy schedules, and it was hard to make things work. However, things were subject to change when you started feeling things. Things that you’d never felt before. Racing heart, shortness of breath— it wasn’t the feeling of being starstruck. No, you were completely, utterly, and foolishly in love with the Spaniard.

During mock interviews he’d help you with, your throat would begin to tighten up and you’d more often than not go for several bathroom breaks. All to calm your heart, so that it wouldn’t beat out of your chest. The way his voice wrapped around every little word he spoke. It was velvety and smooth. Much like his driving. You’d be damned if you didn’t confront him.

So confronting him was exactly what you did. One weekend after the race, you’d asked to speak in private. He’d been generous enough to skip his plans to talk to you. Upon revealing your feelings to him, he was surprised, to say the least. Ecstatic was the following emotion that washed away the wide eyes on his chiselled face.

He only popped the question after you’d graduated from high school. To be more exact, he had offered to drive you to the campus of your college. The car ride consisted of slow tunes and his sweet humming. You never expected to hear him ask you to be his. He explained how he knew he’d regret it if he didn’t ask, but there was no explanation needed. You were just as into him, as he was into you.

Was that going to last forever, though?

2015-2017

It had 3 years since you first entered college. Your hard work had been paying off, especially seeing as you were offered an internship at Red Bull Racing. They wanted you in their PR department. Although it wasn’t exactly your forté, you figured it was the deal of a lifetime. You’d get to see your father more often, and you’d see him more often as well.

Carlos was fresh meat in Formula 1 and had been signed with Toro Rosso for the season. He was racing alongside Max Verstappen. A young Dutchman, who broke the record for the youngest driver to compete in the history of Formula One. It was quite impressive, really.

Due to your boyfriend’s position, you were able to see him every now and then. Your boss would make exceptions and would even let you manage him for some time. Given, he did not know your connection to Sainz. Carlos wanted to keep it secret, which you agreed was for the best. With so many fans and people watching all over the world— there was no telling what a dating rumour would stir.

However, despite your best efforts— dating rumours and shipping eventually made their way through the Formula One fandom. It wasn’t exactly what you expected though. It was much worse than that.

“Oh my god, he’s totally blushing at her,” you read aloud. Carlos was sitting in front of you in your shared hotel room. He was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“Oh wait, here’s another one: Carlos and Amanda are so cute together. I’m here for it.” Your heart was so heavy and your head was swimming in a clouded rage. You weren’t sure if it’d be morally wrong to keep going.

“Corazón—“

“Don’t you ‘Corazón’ me, Carlos,” you spat and scrolled further down the comment section. It was a post that he’d posted of him and the presenter for Formula One. You weren’t usually the jealous and unreasonable type, but it eventually got to you. The way his arm was slung around her waist whilst he smiled at her and looked into her eyes… it was too much for you. The comments only egged on that feeling of despair.

“You know they’re just fans, right? It’s nothing, cariño.” He wasn’t seeing what you were seeing. He couldn’t see how the presenter relished in his touch. Anyone in the comments could see it, so why couldn’t he? You were spiralling. Was he putting up an act on purpose?

“I don’t know…” you sighed and put your phone away. The Spaniard took this as his opportunity to get up and cup your cheeks with his warm hands. The same hands he had on her.

“How about we go out tonight? I’m tired of room service. We can go anywhere you’d like.” You hated the look on his face. It was nothing but pity, but there was little to no energy left in you. Though you wanted to, you were too tired to say no or get too heated.

“Fine…”

It turned out to only add to your anxiety.

As the two of you were seated, waiting for your food to arrive, a fan came over with a giddy spirit. You didn’t mind at all, actually, it was nice to see how much people adored him. All you wanted was to support him in his endeavours. He’d do the same for you, right?

“I’m such a big fan, could you please sign this?” She seemed innocent enough, just wanting an autograph. Harmless. Or so you thought.

“Why isn’t Amanda with you?” Your heart dropped. All week, you’d tried to stay positive. You’d tried to stay calm and rational, but any sense of control was starting to slip. The grip you had on your sense of reality was starting to wither. As long as Carlos defended you, everything would be fine. Your worries would be dampened.

“Ah, no. She’s probably busy.” It didn’t quite sink in until the fan left, satisfied with an answer. You contemplated getting up and leaving, or staying and acting as if everything was okay. Your own boyfriend teased dating rumours with someone else. You couldn’t believe it. Was this really how you were going to live your life?

Present

It had been a year since Carlos and the presenter had started to stir dating rumours. That’s not to say it got better from there. It only worsened. You’d graduated from college, and was a full-time employee and PR assistant manager. You were mostly in charge of Carlos, though you didn’t want to be. Sure, the two of you had been dating for a long time, but the fact that fans had branded you as ‘the other woman’ made you want to drown yourself in a Pinot.

Carlos was still refusing to go public with your relationship. Though you agreed in the beginning, you certainly didn’t anymore. You wanted the truth to be out in the open. All you wanted was for the fans to leave Amanda behind. It almost felt as if your own boyfriend couldn’t care less about you or your feelings. God did it just hurt.

You were walking beside Carlos on the pit lane, taking statements here and there like any other weekend. Except, a man in his early 20s came up with a microphone in Carlos’ face, asking him about the dating rumours between him and the presenter. Although he never admitted to anything, he never denied anything either.

“I think fans like a love story. That’s all, no?” His silly little smile and chuckle would usually lighten any mood, but your heart broke with every little sound escaping from his lips.

Jealousy was a foul beast, but you couldn’t help fostering it deep within you. It tugged at your heart, trying to claw its way into your aorta. You’d really done everything you could to support him, but the relationship felt so empty.

“What kind of response was that?” You whisper-yelled, as the two of you walked into the Toro Rosso motorhome. He closed the door behind him and took a seat in one of the leather chairs displayed in front of a flatscreen.

“What do you mean? You’re the one who keeps telling me to keep all private details of my life private.” He got you there. It felt like you were arguing with a wall. He just couldn’t see what you were seeing. He couldn’t hear the rumours you’d heard. He couldn’t feel the ache that was forming in your gut.

“Carlos… I’m your girlfriend.” That was all you said. His face was that of a puzzled one. You’d stayed quiet for too long about everything. You wanted him to understand. To know what he was doing to you.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, cariño.” His cluelessness was like gasoline to the fire you were beginning to light.

You could care less about being petty. You pulled out your phone and started reading several articles and headlines out loud for him. You wanted every bit of your reality to seep into the pores of his skin. You wanted him to feel guilty.

“Who is the other woman Carlos Sainz is cosying up with? Amanda Higgins has yet to make a statement.” Carlos didn’t even have the guts to look at you. He was dead silent.

“I mean, do you see this insanity? Why are you supporting this, when all I’ve ever done is stand by your side?!” Though emotions were running high, every little nerve in your body told you not to cry.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, princesa, I have not done anything wrong!” His defence was weaker than a three-year-old trying to spoon-feed itself.

“Carlos, can’t you fucking see what you’re doing to me? I’m ‘the other woman’ in the public’s eyes! I have spent nights crying myself to sleep. I keep thinking, maybe one day you might actually leave me… for her.” You leaned against the counter behind you. Carlos stayed seated, watching as your face contorted with anger. You were desperately holding back those salty drops of sadness.

“You know that I love you, isn’t that enough?”

“—but do I really? Right now, I don’t even know if you’re lying. I don’t know if you’re just telling me this because it’ll make me feel better. Even so, it’s not enough. It just isn’t.” A sigh left your lips, and you looked at your hands fiddling with your phone for comfort.

“You’re being unreasonable now. Of course, I love you—”

“But love isn’t enough, Carlos! I need your support. I need you to shut down the rumours! I need you to tell me all of these things. I don’t want to be yours, I need to be yours.” It was a sob party now. Your eyes stung from the mascara you’d put on earlier that morning. Carlos had yet to show much emotion other than distress. Reasonable, but not enough.

“Why shouldn’t I just give the fans what they want? You keep reminding me to keep them at bay, right?” Once again, he’d somehow found a way to completely skip over your feelings.

“Because it’s hurting me! Day and night I dread the next headline! ‘Carlos and his PR assistant are such great friends!’, “Red Bull PR assistant; an insight into Carlos Sainz’ best friend’, I mean, when will it stop?!” Yelling wasn’t productive, but neither was avoiding the subject. If Carlos refused to care, why did you still hold on so tightly? Why couldn’t you let go like him?

“Cariño…”

“No, Carlos. No pet names. I’m done. We’re done. Call me when you have the heart to do something about all of this. Otherwise, don’t contact me. I’m asking to get assigned to Max.” The heartbreak in his eyes was nothing compared to what you were feeling. Your eyes only met him for a moment, but you could already tell that he couldn’t get his words out. It caused a scoff to leave your mouth before you left the motorhome.

It took some time and much convincing to be put in charge of Max. Much to your pleasure, he was rather easy to deal with. He knew all the right things to say and knew when to deviate from uncomfortable subjects. You knew from your years of experience in journaling, that the media would sink its petty little claws into anything. Max was surprisingly skilled in staying out of the big bird’s clutches.

Carlos followed your orders. Almost too well. A week had gone by, and he had yet to shoot you a message or asked you to meet up. Max tried to sympathize with you, but there was only so much a teenager could do. Besides, he had his father to deal with. Burdening the poor soul with your troubles was the last thing you wanted.

Travelling had become boring. It used to be you and Carlos exploring the cities you were in for the race. Now it was merely you sipping expensive Cabernet. It was self-torture. You would often scroll through the sea of headlines and comments about the media’s “IT ship”, and it was starting to drown you slowly.

You were being eaten by a dark matter of doubt, guilt, and self-hatred. Maybe, you thought, maybe you were the problem? Maybe you’d pushed it too far? Was it really your place to lash out over petty rumours?

The more time passed, the more insane and irrational you were becoming. Max was reasonably worried about you, as you’d started to look pale and the bags under your eyes were heavier than his carry-on. The team noted that they were willing to give you paid leave, as they noticed your declining physical state.

You were there, but you weren’t. You lived in the world of Amanda and Carlos. Everything was upside down. Your boyfriend had the presenter clinging onto his arm, your Carlos had Amanda Higgins on his lap, and your life was wrapped around a woman. A woman that wasn’t you. No, you were the other woman. The one who let jealousy eat away at her spindly little feet. The ones that’d been carrying her delusions of a relationship with the Spaniard.

Everywhere you walked, they were there too. Wrapped around each other in pure bliss with fans cheering them on. All the whilst you had to watch from the sidelines. You were just the average PR assistant manager. You weren’t famous like she was. The media was eating the perfect love story up like piranhas exposed to fresh blood.

You wanted to tell someone about your situation, but you knew that it wouldn’t be received well. No matter who you were to tell it to. That was the real torture of it all. Carlos was in a position where he could deny ever making any unprofessional contact with you. Was he that kind of person? Did you even know who he was?

He was another woman’s man… was he not?

Eventually, a couple of months passed without so much as a text. You’d worked yourself tirelessly and to the brink of insanity— if you hadn’t gone over the bend yet, that is. Carlos hadn’t even looked in your direction.

Except that wasn’t true.

Carlos’ reality of the situation was far different from yours. He couldn’t see the problem with his fans and the fandom surrounding Formula One. He’d seen it happen to many other drivers, so he couldn’t understand why you’d be so opposed to it. He truly believed his unconditional love for you was enough. Except it apparently wasn’t.

His chest felt heavy every time you spoke of Amanda. The lady had practically forced herself to be thrust into the hands of the media with him. She was relentless. The Spaniard had no choice but to oblige so that he wouldn’t be subject to a smear campaign.

Yes, he’d been listening to you. All of your lessons. All of your endless boring talks of how to handle the public. He listened to every little detail that left those pouty, pretty lips of yours. In fact, he relished listening to the soft tone of your voice. He loved when it went up an octave if you praised him for his efforts. One might even argue you were the one who kept him going. Your validation meant the world to him.

He only wanted to reciprocate all the hard work you’d done for him. The post of the presenter and him was merely a feeble attempt at writing your name in the sun, except the shade came all too soon.

So when you confronted him about the media, he couldn’t understand why you were so riled up about it. In his eyes, he’d become a loving heartthrob. Essentially, the goal of PR. You weren’t supposed to bring hell on earth, you were supposed to tell him how great he was doing.

The way you questioned his love and devotion to you stung like a stake in the heart of a vampire. He could feel his throat closing up. He couldn’t get the right words out. Any defence he had was like acid burning the sides of his throat, forever stuck there.

He despised Amanda, but he knew what would happen if he started acting aloof and indifferent. He’d be ruined. His image— tarnished for the whole world to see.

When you told him not to contact you, he couldn’t help but feel a growing pit in his stomach. He felt as if the fame had gotten to his head. Had it? Was he really that hungry for the love of his fans rather than his beloved girlfriend? Was he really chasing adoration from fans rather than from his girlfriend?

Carlos was too ashamed— too guilt-ridden to say anything to you. On the days he promised himself to step up, you weren’t in sight. On the days you walked around in all your glory, his had sunken to the bottom of the sea of self-hatred he harboured for himself.

Admittedly, your impatience was starting to show. Carlos would notice the small glances you’d shoot him. It gave him hope, but he was too afraid. He was afraid of hurting you. Though he desperately wanted to salvage whatever the public had desiccated from your romance, he couldn’t find it in him to simply walk up to you.

What made matters worse, was that Amanda didn’t seem to back off either. She continued egging the reporters on. She teased the fantastical relationship between her and the Toro Rosso driver. There was no remorse to be seen on her face. No, she was deep in denial. If that was what it was. She certainly didn’t accept the fact that Carlos was potentially spoken for.

Your reality was like a grey-scale filter. Everything was dark and gloomy. It was hard to see the point of working in the same vicinity as your boyfriend. You’d let your delusions spin so far out— you almost didn’t believe Carlos ever was yours. He was never your friend. You expected too much. You were a nobody, and he was a star.

“You should really talk to Carlos. Not just stand there and yell, but actually talk to him,” you told yourself in the mirror. It was harder to convince yourself to do so than to convince yourself that he’d never even met you.

“Did I walk in on something I shouldn’t have?” Your heart dropped. There was a slight buzz in your ear, as you computed what was going on. You recognized that accent all too well. That smooth, velvety voice. The one that you’d fallen for all those years ago. Oh, and when you turned around. You saw those docile eyes. The eyes you had no problem falling asleep to. The eyes that always reassured your safety.

“Carlos.” The motorhome was empty besides you and him. The weather was horrendous, but the soft pattering of the rain made the ambience comfortable. Carlos came closer. You were sitting in one of the leather chairs. Everything about the situation was giving you major deja vu.

“I had a lot of time to think about what I would—“ You didn’t want to hear his sob story. There was one thing you wanted to know. One thing you needed to hear him say.

“Am I yours?” You gave him a chance to answer this time. You needed to hear him say it. You wanted him to say the words. He never got to say it though. The door to the motorhome burst open, and you saw Max looking at you with a frantic expression.

“Max? Are you alright? You don’t look too well.” Carlos watched as you rushed to his teammate’s side. An external force tugged at his heart, seeing you be so worried about the Dutch driver.

“I just don’t have a ride home. My father stranded me here. You have a car, right? Can you drive me, please?” Max seemed really desperate. Seeing as how his father didn’t even have the heart to stay and watch him race, you felt too bad to say no.

“Of course, I’ll drive you, Max. I’ll grab my keys and you can just wait by the grey Golf outside.” He left in a hurry and you grabbed your keys, giving your boyfriend a last glance before heading out. Getting an answer was less important than getting a teenager home. Having grown up with a functional family, you felt a sense of pity whenever you saw Max alone. His father obviously believed in tough love, no matter the consequences to his son’s mental health.

“What is the deal with you and Sainz?” Max asked as the two of you got in. It felt wrong to lay your burdens onto the teen, so you decided to shrug it off as nothing; saying,

“He just had some questions to ask regarding the upcoming appearance on the big scene. You know, just some jitters before tomorrow.” It was a completely plausible and valid lie, which seemed to work.

“Oh, I see… but why couldn’t he have his own coach answer?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions, Max…” He rolled his eyes and sighed, as he leaned against the window. Lucky for you, your million-dollar idea of turning out the awkward silence with music paid off. Max didn’t seem to mind your taste and would even tap his shoes against the fuzzy floor of the car at times.

After Max thanked you for the ride and went inside his designated hotel, you drove straight to the hotel you were staying at. It wasn’t anything fancy like you used to stay at with Carlos. After putting a damper on your relationship, you decided to stay as far away from him as possible. It was very plausibly your own delusions feeding you the idea, but there were no take-backs.

You stepped into a cold shower, washing away all of your distress from earlier. With every cold drop, you felt pieces of your rationality come back to you. You knew there’d have to be a talk after the next sunrise, but thinking about it made your body ache. It clenched your nerves together tightly.

You got into your silk nightgown, finished your night routine, and threw yourself on the queen-sized bed. It was no king-sized bed like it was with your love, but it sufficed. The pillows were nothing against his warm embrace. The bed felt empty. It felt like the cold clutches of nothingness were holding you impossibly close. It felt as if your head barely peaked above a massive flood. Your throat felt stuffy. Your eyes were pricked with tears. Though you’d promised yourself on multiple occasions that you wouldn’t cry, the thought of Carlos missing by your side cued the waterworks.

Going through your phone and scrolling through the many pictures that fans had taken of your boyfriend with the presenter… It only made things worse. Anything the shower had done for you was quickly reverted back to the way it was before. It hit you like a wild hurricane, sweeping away anything in its way.

Eventually, you ended up crying yourself to sleep. The following morning made you realize that fact, as your eyes were swollen and red. You knew you only had so much time to get ready and get to the big stage. You weren’t going to get up there, luckily, but you still had to debrief Max.

Your makeup job covered most of your swelling, but it was noticeable up close. You didn’t have much time to think about it though, and you had to leave to not be late.

Upon arriving, you saw Max talking to Carlos. Something you hadn’t really seen before. Sure, they spoke to each other on rare occasions, but they were usually kind of stand-off-ish about each other. You swiftly pulled the Dutchman aside to do a quick rundown of appropriate behaviour and vibe on the stage. He seemed somewhat aloof but present. You ignored it and hoped that he’d just make your job easier by doing as he was told.

Amanda was on the stage, looking over the flock of fans. Many of them were holding up signs shipping her and Sainz together. Every sign you saw was like a splinter to puncture your lungs. It stung badly. The ditzy presenter announced Carlos and Max to the stage, and you saw them wave happily to the roaring crowd.

“The stage is yours,” Amanda said and handed a microphone to Max and one for the Spaniard as well.

“Actually, the stage is his.” Max pointed at his teammate with his microphone. You were utterly confused. What was Max thinking? You were starting to second-guess your own abilities to debrief someone at that age.

“Thank you, Max, um…” he hesitated. The crowd went silent to hear him talk, as he looked to be quite nervous.

“I have something important to say before the race, and I think this is one of those times you can’t let the opportunity slip.” There was a strange feeling growing inside your chest. A thousand butterflies had taken up residency within the comfort of your rib cage.

“Firstly, I have to make one thing clear. I know many people think otherwise, but Amanda and I are not and have never been in a romantic relationship. Our relationship is purely platonic.” You heard disappointed sighs from the crowd, but some gasped with delight. Of course, there were always some fans who loved it when drivers weren’t taken, but what Carlos said next… was more than just shocking,

“In fact, I have been hopelessly in love with who I consider my first and last love for years now. She knows who she is, and I would actually like for her to step onto the stage, please.” Your heart dropped. Your stomach dropped. Your ears started ringing. The guts Carlos had to reveal that in front of thousands— if not millions of people… you couldn’t believe it.

You slowly waltzed up the stairs to the stage and felt your heart pump blood out as if it was sped up mechanically. Max gave you a curt but sweet smile, as you walked up next to his teammate.

“Hi…” you mumbled. He pulled you close to him by your waist and showed you off like a championship trophy. In some reality, that was what you were in his eyes. His very own trophy.

There was some irony to the situation. You were a PR assistant manager, yet you couldn’t handle the stage. You saw the many peering eyes and the judgemental looks of jealous teenage girls.

“This is my beautiful girlfriend. We’ve been together since my days in European Formula 3.” The crowd had mixed emotions, but many managed an “aww”. You simply let Carlos do all the talking because you were frozen. Everything felt so unreal.

“Mi reina,” his voice was shaky as he turned to face you,

“Yesterday you asked me something I’ve been wanting to give you an answer to for as long as I can remember. I know that we’ve gone through so much lately, and I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you. My angel, my princess, you are the love of my life. You are the reason I stand here so proud today. You asked me, ‘Am I yours?’ To this, I say, you tell me.” Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull as you saw your boyfriend ease down on one knee. From his back pocket, he pulled out a gorgeous diamond ring. The crying you’d done during your break was a puddle compared to the waterfall that spilt from your eyes.

Everyone was dead silent and waiting eagerly for your answer.

“I am. I am yours,” you choked out through your tears. The crowd went wild, people were cheering and throwing whatever merchandise they had on them on the stage. The Spaniard pulled you in for a sweet and long-lasting kiss. All the delusions, all the doubts, all the distrust— it melted away with the embrace of who you’d be spending the rest of your life with. You couldn’t wait for the future. Pulling away from the kids, you saw that same hopeful look in your lover's eyes, that you fell in love with all those years ago. His smile was so genuine. Everything about him was genuine. You took a moment to admire the rock on your ring finger. It suited you perfectly. All that was left was the wedding and the rest of your lives.

You were his and he was yours.

𝗥𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻...

𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚!

𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

©vettelsdarling

𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗱𝗮𝗽𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺— 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻.

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

Hey! Can you write something like the reader loves Nick, but it's one sided cause he loves Noah but they'd never work out in the future.

Ending can be Happy or Sad.

Love your work btw ❤️

It's always been you. - N. L.

hi nonnie, I am very glad that you like my work, thank u so much for reading it and I also hope you enjoy this. <3

Pairing: Nick Leister x Reader.

TW: Angst but fluff at the end.

Summary: Nick and you were best friends, but you fell in love with him, he felt in love with Noah, or that's what you thought.

Words count:

You and Nick met early in high school and have been inseparable ever since. From what you saw him go through all of his relationships, including the one he had with his stepsister, Noah.

You realized you had a crush on him at high school graduation but decided to keep it to yourself so you wouldn't ruin anything.

And when you were about to tell him how in love you were with him he decided to start a kind of strange relationship with his seventeen year old stepsister.

For several nights and days you wondered what he had seen in her that you didn't have. The whole time you compared yourself to her, making you feel bad.

The last straw was the pool party that Noah's boyfriend had attended. You were sitting at a table that was outside in the garden while Jenna and Lion dried the boy who apparently was called Dan. Jenna noticed you were in a bad moment and moved closer to you.

"What is it, queen?" she questioned sitting next to you and looked towards the direction in which you were looking. "I see."

"I'm leaving." You got up feeling completely ignored by your best friend and took your things.

"Wait..." Jenna exclaimed trying to stop you but Lion stopped her.

"Calm down, she'll be fine."

On your way to the main entrance you ran into Noah's mother, you offered her a gentle smile since she had never received you badly or anything like that, she smiled back with some doubt about your sudden departure.

And finally you left.

On the other hand, with Noah and Nick, they were still kissing between the inflatables for water when Rafaella called the black-haired man.

"Nicholas!" Nick held up his hand to get her attention and let her know he was still there. She broke away from Noah and swam toward the shore where Rafaella was.

"What's happening?" he asked with a smile on his face from the interaction with Noah from a few seconds ago.

"y/n left." She crossed her arms looking at him and the smile faded from Nick's face.

"What?" He quickly got out of the pool.

"What you heard, she's gone."

"Why? Hasn't she told you anything?" And he ran towards the entrance of the house without waiting for the woman's answer.

When he left, he saw how your car was leaving the house, he rushed to go to his cell phone and call you being received by voicemail.

"Fuck!" He cursed under his breath as he entered the house. Noah, seeing his condition, walked towards him.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" she asked worriedly and he denied without looking at her.

"Nothing, forget it."

"Okay, do you want to go to your room or to the pool?" Noah questioned placing his hands on his cheeks, and he nodded. "Okay, let's go."

"Precious, what's wrong, hmm?" Jenna asked seeing you just move the food around on your plate. You had both agreed to go out to eat after what happened at Nick's house.

"I'm in love with him, Jen." you sighed, letting your fork rest on the plate to look at her.

"Ay mi chiquita." He looked at you understandingly and you sighed resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

"I don't even know why I fell in love with him knowing how he is and the arrival of Noah in his life didn't help much." You took a sip of your peach juice and she took your free hand.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Maybe one day if I'm not a coward." You wrinkled your nose at the thought of even ruining what you had.

"You are not a coward." she denied with a gentle smile. "You only fell in love with your best friend."

"Ugh, that sounds worse." you joked and you both laughed finishing eating.

You both returned to Nick's house where Lion was still there. When Jenna saw him, she approached him to greet him with a kiss and Nick approached you.

"Hey." you greeted barely arranging your bag on your shoulder.

"Why you left?" he asked looking at you intently, you sighed and looked at the guys, giving Jen a significant look, which she understood instantly. You were going to confess your feelings for him.

"Okay, we're leaving, bye Nick, bye y/n."

"Bye..." you muttered looking how they left.

"I wasn't going to take another second of watching the guy I've loved half my life making out with another girl he just met." you admitted, leaving him speechless, he opened and closed his mouth to speak but didn't know what to say. Never in his life would he have imagined that you would feel something for him.

"I..." Once again, he didn't know what to say.

"Don't worry, leave it like that, I knew this would happen." You started walking towards your car. But his voice stopped you.

"I've always loved you." it took you a few seconds but you finally turned around to look at him in disbelief.

"Really?" You stayed still in your place and he came closer to you.

"Yeah, I realized that things weren't going to work out with Noah, because she wasn't you." He put his hand on your cheek and you still looked at him without believing it.

"Seriously?" He laughed nodding leaning little by little towards you. "But you..."

"Shut up." He sentenced and then kissed you slowly.

Finally you separated and he looked into your eyes with intensity.

"It's always been you."

Make your requests.

colin bridgerton serie 

ep nine - s2

words count: :/        fem reader! x Colin Bridgerton

warning: friends to lovers trope

summary: y/n Dayton and Colin Bridgerton were friends and they swore they'd always be but it takes a great deal of bravery to love someone, more to keep loving them when it hurts the most.

English is not my first language loves, trying my best, enjoy :)

That evening the Bridgertons had just entered the hall of the Hamiltons’ manor, a respectable, for the most, family of the ton. 

It was the third ball of the season and everyone was shaken by curiousness since even if the season had already started, the queen still had to chose her diamond. 

That night in particular was special because the Queen decided to participate, triggering the gossip of the ton. 

"I shall marry the diamond, brother" Anthony spoke, his eyes hard as he inspected the ton.

"we’ll be happy to introduce y/n to our family then" Benedict spoke as Colin’s head flew to the direction of his brothers "what?".

"Stop now, you three" Lady Bridgerton spoke, dismissing her sons with a hand gesture, "we must look collected, since THE VISCOUNT DECIDED TO TAKE WIFE THIS SEASON". 

Her words getting louder as a turbine of girls made their way toward the viscount. 

Colin had moved towards Eloise as he whispered to her "you really think y/n is going to be the diamond?". 

The younger looked amused as she answered: "I don’t know, I believe she really doesn’t need it since half of the men here are desperate to even cross eyes with her". 

Colin felt like throwing up. 

"You still haven’t talked to her?" Eloise asked seen his brother sudden loss for words, (Colin always knew what to reply). 

"I’m finding it difficult, she won’t speak to me".

El nodded her head, suggesting "maybe try harder?". 

But Colin needed no pushes, he knew how to get to a woman, even better, how to get to her.

Y/n’s eyes were shining under the enormous chandelier as she was bowing to her dance partner: "thank you mr Byron, it has been lovely". 

The man promised to return with a glass of cold lemonade when she let her guard down. 

Appearing behind her, Colin touched her elbow softly, his fingers trailing down y/n’s arm as she looked startled. 

"Mr Bridgerton" she muttered but Colin had already snatched y/n’s carnet from her wrist and was writing his name. 

"just in time, it looks like I’ve occupied the last blank space of your carnet, mrs y/n". 

His tone was playful but her gaze was making him unsure. 

Either way, she was trapped now. 

When he took her by the hand, making their way to the dance floor, he was determined to make things right. 

The music had just started when he spoke nonchalantly: "you look angry".

Y/n huffed witch made Colin smile slightly, he had shoot a great shot. 

"That is because I am mr Bridgerton".

"And why may I ask?" 

"You tricked me into a dance I didn’t want to have".

Colin shook his head as he replied "so you prefer to not give me an explanation to why you suddenly seem to deny me of your friendship?".

Y/n took a step forward, her face mere inches from Colin’s, but there was no love in it, only pure and impetuous rage. 

"My friendship must have departed with you on that ship"; her voice was stern and her mouth dry.

Colin was startled but he kept on speaking any way: "I see you are holding a grudge".

Y/n smiled, distancing herself enough from the man as she twirled, "oh no my lord, I have no intention of wasting any more of my feelings on you, not even anger".

Now Colin couldn’t help but feel hurt as he replied stern "yet you seem to use it so well on me". 

"What I may seem or seem not to you is nothing of my concern Colin", they got closer again, their hands meeting up as they slowly covered their faces, only to travel down towards the floor. 

She could feel his breath on her cheeks, which made her the more flustered.

When y/n spoke again, her voice was much softer "you left to never look back".

"I did write you, countless of times".

"It was not enough" Y/n exclaimed, a bit too loud than acceptable. 

"Your words didn’t fill your absence" the music coming to a stop as she declared "so I learned to fill it differently". 

The man was looking at her, maybe for the first time in his life; she was indeed beautiful, even when she was furious, even when she was threatening to abandon him.

Has she really always been this beautiful?

"Goodbye, Colin".

There were two things Colin knew in that moment: one, she was far from feeling nothing for him and two, he needed her to feel something for him. 

ep eight <- -> ep ten

masterlist

mia

© 2023 of Mia (arosesstorm). All Rights Reserved.

Unmasked

9/?

<<< previous part

Word count - 3.5k

Both Bahrain and Saudi Arabia were what felt like near perfect starts for the team - only Max outscoring you both in the second race of the season, so going into Australia you felt confident. You were hoping that continuing to perform like this, the team would finally break and talk to you about Thirty, and whilst that conversation was currently benched, you’d managed to get a 2-on-1 meeting with Mattia about you and Charles.

Sure the relationship was still fresh but you wanted to let him know sooner rather than later that their media co-ordinated relationship had turned into something more, that you had very real feelings for your teammate. The Monaco native kissed the back of your hand softly as you waited for the team principal to join you. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“I’m not sure, but they were the ones who put us together… so…” you giggled, leaning over to kiss him.

You heard the door open and close behind you. “Hmm, I had a feeling that was what this is about, your little show had become a bit too convincing.”

Your boss circled the desk and sat in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him as he studied you both - the way Charles’ thumb brushed over the back of your hand, the way you look more relaxed than you had in years.

“Well yeah, it’s kind of not fake anymore.” You chuckled softly. “And well, we’re not planning on breaking up any time soon so we wanted to know how you wanted to proceed.”

He pressed his lips into a line as he thought, eyes flickering between you both. “This is a conversation I’d already planned to have, as I said - your acting was getting too good. For now, we’ve decided to continue to use your relationship as a distraction from you being Thirty until we think of something else. While we know the media has zeroed in on you being a woman, the laundry list of potential candidates is still long and we’d like to keep you as close to the bottom as possible.”

“Speaking of Thirty, I-”

“We’re not having that conversation. Not now. Keep performing and we’ll have that meeting.”

Charles watched as your jaw clenched and you slumped back into your chair - he hated the way they were using your reveal as a carrot on a stick, encouraging you to keep racing. You were a talent without the blackmail, and it was frustrating to both of you; Charles knew he could try and step in and argue your case but Mattia wouldn’t hear a word of it without the rest of Team Thirty to back him up. He simply stood up and placed his hand on the small of your back as you both exited the room. “I’m sorry, mon amour.”

“I know, I know…” You sighed, looking up to face him. “Hey, at least they’re chill about us, right?”

Your teammate smiled softly as you lifted your hand to cup the back of his neck, gently brushing your thumb across his skin. His eyes flickered across your face before leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips. “We best get going, free practice starts soon.”

Once you stepped into the paddock again, you were fully clad in your racewear - bouncing a little on your feet as you tried to warm yourself up ready for the weekend to begin. As much as you didn’t want to let Mattia and the rest of the team hold your reveal over your head depending on your results, getting the job done was still important. You had a championship to win and with Charles currently ahead of you, everything was to play for.

*****

******

To say you were fuming was an understatement. After a piss poor qualifying and car issues putting you in 9th and hard tires relegating you to 14th at the start, you didn’t think it could get any worse. But with only the first lap of the race complete, you fucked it completely and slid across the track, off into the travel at the exit of turn 10.

You didn’t stay for a second longer in the garage than you had to, slamming the door of your driver’s room and screaming into a pillow. It was a stupid mistake, you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself for it - you’d gone too hot into the chicane and ruined your own race. You turned on the TV to catch the rest of the race, too nosey to not know how everyone else was getting on but it only frustrates you further.

The gap between you and Charles in championship only grew with your teammate getting his second win of the season, Max also not finishing the race. The Monegasque had 71 points to your measly 33 and you wanted to be happy for him, you did, but it was bittersweet watching him lift the trophy above his head and you hadn’t even finished the race, let alone got on the podium.

You watched with a straight face as he sprayed Carlos and George down with the champagne, his face a contrast to yours - a smile that would usually brighten your day but it didn’t help at all. Instead you opted to flick off the TV and flop back on your sofa - just letting your eyes closed shut.

However, getting a moment of peace was not to be when your handler and PR manager practically ripped the door off of the seams to come into your room, their faces paled.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” You frowned, sitting up.

“…we’ve got a problem.”

******

*****

This time in Mattia’s office, you were outnumbered. Charles was still down in the garage, celebrating with the team but you were being stared down by the team principal and the two members of Team Thirty who had burst into your room not even moments ago. The public reaction to you not being at the barricade to congratulate Charles was… negative, to say the least. It was the third time you’d not been there for his podium and despite someone posting a photo from your behalf on your instagram story showing you were watching from hospitality, it wasn’t enough.

His die-hard fans were starting to hate you. You weren’t good enough for Charles.

It wasn’t the effect on your mental health that this character assassination that Team Thirty was concerned about, it was the public reaction to you being revealed. All this was doing was making them question everything you’d been working towards.

“I’m not sure how you expect me to be in two places at once.” You grumbled. “Sure, today I could’ve been there but the first two races I was with him on the podium.”

“We know.” Your handler sighed, the last few months had aged him - the once jet black hair he sported now featured more than a few greys and his frown lines had deepened. “So, we’ve always tried to avoid this but, if you both finish on the podium in the next race, we’ll have to bring in a body double.”

You frowned. “…how’s… in what world would that work?”

“At Imola, the cars will be parking on the track at the end of the race - and whilst Charles is talking to the press, we will get you inside, changed and out the front while your double goes on the podium.”

A groan left your lips and you ran a hand over your face. “Why don’t you just let me-“

Your handler agent slammed his hand down on the desk, making you cower back in your chair and the two other men in the room’s eyes widened. “Everything is on the line, y/n, don’t you understand?”

He didn’t give you even a second to protest before he seemingly magicked your contract out of thin air and placed it on the desk in front of you. “We have done nothing but try to protect you, why can’t you see that? This contract was put in place to make sure you had a racing experience without the stigma of being a woman… revealing you now? After all this negativity about you being Charles’ girlfriend?”

The man tutted and leant in closer, and you swallowed heavily - your breath caught in your throat as his dark eyes flickered across your face. “You have no right to fight for a reveal after your piss-poor performance today. Charles is a race winner, you haven’t won us a championship in years… you’re lucky to even have a seat.”

Mattia and your PR manager stayed silent, letting the words hang heavy in the air - you wanted to fight back, give them a piece of your mind but you couldn’t help but think he was right. Instead, you simply excused yourself from the room and went to the last possible place they would think to look for you and thankfully, the person you were hoping to see was standing right outside.

“What do you mean you lost her?” Charles frowned, stood in your driver’s room with your handler who was pacing nervously. He’d come up to check on you after your DNF to make sure you weren’t blaming yourself too hard but instead he was met with a very stressed looking staffer.

“We had a bit of a disagreement and I haven’t seen her since.” The man admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And it would be too suspicious if I put out a MIA memo for some random staffer so we’ve just had people keeping an eye out.”

Your teammate shook his head. “You are unbelievable, mate.”

Before the staffer could get another word out, Charles left the room - he couldn’t even call you, your phone was currently stuffed in his pocket after he saw it left on the side table in your room. He could feel the panic bubbling in his chest as he walked through the paddock, every flash of red catching his eye. Clearly, he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his stress because more than one person tried to stop and ask him if he was okay and as much as he was grateful people seemed to care, you were still at the forefront of his mind. Where the hell were you?

He was moments away from shouting out your name when a firm hand was placed on his shoulder - Charles turned to say he was fine but when he was met with the dark eyes of Carlos he simply frowned. He felt himself deflate, his eyes desperate as he looked at his rival.

“She’s with Max.” He said quietly, and almost immediately Charles could feel his heartbeat ease. “Because the last place people would think to look is with Redbull, no?”

“Did you see her? Is she okay?” His volume matched the Spaniard’s as they walked in the direction of the Redbull Motorhome, noone batting an eye at the two drivers chatting away - nothing out of the ordinary. “How did she even get in wearing her kit?”

Carlos shook his head. “I didn’t see her, Max texted me that they were together so I don’t really know how or why she’s in there but I saw the panicked look on your face and guessed you didn’t know either… definitely won’t be able to sneak you in.”

The Monegasque nodded. “Can you tell her I’m out here… please?”

The Redbull driver gave him a gentle smile and another friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing inside the navy blue motorhome - leaving Charles feeling very out of place standing outside of somewhere he definitely shouldn’t be. Thankfully, he didn’t have too much time to overthink before you stepped out of the motorhome, still clad in your Ferrari polo. He took your biceps in his hands and studied your features, eyes puffy and nose as red as your team wear- those bastards.

The driver pulled you into his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, shielding you from prying eyes. Max wasn’t too far behind you, a sorry smile on his face. “Thanks for looking out for her.”

“Wouldn’t hesitate.” The Dutchman said. “But, you might want to get her out of her before too many people notice.”

Charles’ nodded and guided you out of the paddock, doing his best to keep you tucked into his side as to avoid too many prying eyes. Unlike other races, he simply waved at fans - allowing you to keep your head ducked down beneath your Ferrari cap as you head to the carpark, still not speaking a word. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, Charles could feel the weight of it dragging you both down. He locked eyes with Sebastian across the parking lot and the older driver gave him a concerned frown as he watched the young Monegasque help you into the car.

He waved his phone a little at Charles and the Ferrari driver nodded before slipping into the driver’s seat. Charles would be sure to ring Sebastian later but right now you were his priority - you sat slumped in the passenger seat, playing with the skin around your fingers. He’d seen you defeated before but there was something else going on here, he could just feel it.

“Y/n…”

“Can we just get out of here?” You finally met his eyes as a single tear rolled down your cheek. “Please.”

He didn’t even hesitate, driving as quickly but as safely as he could back to the hotel - ushering you into your shared room where you didn’t even hesitate to yank your polo over your head and throw it across the room before dropping to your knees and sobbing into your hands. You felt an intense guilt about breaking down like this in front of Charles when he’d such an amazing weekend - you felt like you were taking away from his accomplishments.

But when you felt his knees brush yours and his strong arms wrap around you, you simply melted into his chest - gripping onto him for dear life as you cried. You felt so betrayed by your team, you’d given them years of your life and your handler had just thrown it back in your face like it was nothing.

“Cherie… talk to me.” He whispered, rubbing his hand up and down your back.

You grumbled into his chest. “I-I… your fans hate me. So if… If we get on the podium in the next race they’re swapping me with a body double so I can meet you at the barricade. Like a good girlfriend”

Charles scoffed, pulling back to take your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks to wipe away some of the tears. “That is a whole new level of stupid… why can’t they just bite the bullet and-”

“Because they’re trying to protect me.” Your tone was mocking. “Because I’m not fucking good enough anymore, Charles.”

He went to speak but you shook your head and stood up, grabbing a T-shirt from your suitcase to change. You let out a pained laugh, running your hands over your face before putting the shirt on - hands shaky as you worked on the button of your trousers. “I should be grateful I even have a seat, they said… so, maybe there’s no point revealing me because by the end of the year I’m not going to be here anymore anyway.”

“Hey.” Charles grabbed at your wrist a little - you didn’t look up at him. “Don’t let them get in your head, y/n. You’re a champion… they’d be absolute fools to even think of letting you slip through their fingers.”

Your teammate could tell their words had really impacted you, your quiet thank you wasn’t convincing as you gently pulled your wrist away from his grasp. “You should call Sebastian, he’s worried about you…”

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I’m here for you, okay? Don’t shut me out.”

“I know, I know… I… this just hurts. I at least thought they had my best interests at heart but…”

You sighed and Charles simply nodded. “I know, Cherie. They’re idiots. We’ll get you out of this soon, I promise.”

This time your thank you seemed genuine as you kissed him, a gentle smile on your face - you were eager to believe him but remained cautious. Simply getting out of the rest of your uniform and slipping into bed, the other driver not far behind. “How did you get into Redbull anyway?”

“Max just took me in, no questions asked… I honestly think he could get away with anything.” You chuckled softly, propping yourself on your elbow to look down at your boyfriend. “He didn’t even hesitate to help me, I almost feel bad we’re going to absolutely destroy him in the championship.

Charles laughed, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “There’s my girl. You do still need to call Sebastian though before he hunts us down.”

“I know, I know. I just have to be careful about what I say to him or else he’ll fly out to Italy early to burn down the headquarters.” Your cheeks flushed a little, reaching over to your nightstand to grab your phone; dialling the German’s number. “Hey Seb.”

“Hey kid, how are you doing?” His voice was gentle, you could almost picture the softening of his eyes. “You looked pretty down.”

“That’s a nice way to put it.” You laughed weakly, eyes flickering across Charles’ face. “I don’t think my reveal is going to happen any time soon…”

There was a shift in his tone of voice. “What? Why? Do you need me to go down there myself and talk to them because I will-”

“I’m not performing well enough, and the public opinion of me is apparently bad because I’m not greeting Charles at the barrier…” You explained, letting the fingers of your free hand trace across the skin of Charles’ jaw. “I’m actually worried that I won’t have a seat at all at the end of this year if I don’t start winning races.”

“Y/n, if Ferrari let you go then other teams would fight to the death for a chance to have you… they’re not idiots. They’re just threatening you so you keep feeling loyalty to them and honestly? I’m starting to doubt they deserve it.” The soft tone of his voice had returned, you could hear him chopping up something in the background. “If you’d let me, I’d like to sit down with you and go through your contract. See if we can find anything, not only as a GPDA rep but as your friend.”

You took a deep breath, your mentor always knew exactly what to say. “Thank you, Seb. I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay, well, I’ll let you get some rest. Say hi to Charles for me… he’s a good kid, I’m glad you found each other.”

Charles watched the corner of your mouth tug up into a fond smile - your eyes sparkled at the German’s words but he couldn’t hear them. “Me too. I’ll see you in Imola. Bye Seb.”

“What did he say that got you smiling like the… what's the expression… the cat that got the milk?” He hummed, making you giggle softly.

“Close, it’s cream not milk.” You said, voice fond. “He’s gonna go through my contract with me, see if there’s anything in there we could use to help me… there… there has to be something, right?”

“I really hope so… We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” His hand came up its home on your jaw, the warmth of his touch soothed you - you pressed a gentle kiss to his palm. “Me, you, Seb… Max and Lewis if it comes to it. You deserve to be celebrated.”

Charles simply let you draw shapes on his face, his chest, his neck as you studied him intently - the sunset slipped through the gap in the curtains illuminating the greens and blues of his eyes like the swirls of a watercolour painting. A beautiful ocean brimming with life and warmth, inviting you to dive in. You weren’t afraid of drowning in them, you felt safe as he looked right back at you, the gentlest smile on his face.

He observed you for a moment longer before leaning in and pressing a meaningful kiss to your lips, one you hoped would cement his words and it did. You felt more in that one kiss than any other you’d shared, any doubts you had about his feelings for you seemingly melted away in that moment. You were falling for this boy, hard.

If there was one good thing to come out of the mess that Ferrari was orchestrating; it was him.

And you were starting to think, maybe, just maybe, he was worth every second of it.

***

*****

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tightrope. 09

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warning: Mature content. Word Count: ~11K

If you gaze into the void for too long, you will quickly realize that it seems to grow. The sight of the sea at night, both mesmerizing and frightening, is the perfect demonstration of this. There's nothing. It’s nothing. Just an endless void, a vast expanse of blackness that seems ready to swallow you whole.

The boat was moored and the sea danced under and around us. Carlos breathed quietly against my neck and his arms, warm and heavy, were wrapped around me. His gentle breathing and the lazy waves against the yacht lulled me into a half-waking state, where I felt myself float through the boundaries of sleep and wakefulness.

My body was anchored there, but my mind drifted away.

What were we doing? What was I doing?

I shouted these questions into my conscience, and the only answer I got was the warm feeling of being held, the bliss of feeling his breath against my skin, and our scents fused into one.

It was good. It was right. I had no doubts about that.

But what was next? What was going to happen after this?

I had spent the last few years looking back, wanting to go back, and now I couldn't face the future. Old habits die hard, Nonno always says. Despite feeling the present in my skin, my mind was stuck in the past, on the unpleasant goodbyes and the unanswered calls. The hard reality we had to face.

I had to face.

Alone.

A nagging ache ran from the small of my back to the curve of my hip, jolting me back to the moment. Sharp pain. I moved slightly, and Carlos pressed me closer.

I tapped his arm slightly. “You’re squishing me,” I whispered, my voice shaky and tired.

A soft moan escaped his mouth when I got out of his arms. Immediately, as I stood up, the soft breeze became a cold wind, and my whole skin turned to goosebumps. Naked and cold, and under his attentive gaze, I walked to my dress and, after sliding it over my head, I put on my sweater.

When I looked back, Carlos was already up, sliding up his trunks.

“Oh, that face…” he said huskily, walking towards me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Reality hit me in small waves as I took in his request, and felt the words start lining up in my throat, pricking me like thorns.

“Do you want me to be honest?” I asked.

“Always.”

“You’re gonna hate me for this,” I said in a whisper so low I thought he didn't hear it, but he just shook his head. “I can’t help but think we messed up. I can’t help but feel this…” I paused, not sure how to put into words what I'd been saving inside. One of my hands hovered above my chest. “This…hole in my chest…In less than 48 hours, I'll be back in Madrid, and real life will just do its thing, and…” I looked up. “You know how it goes.”

He nodded, gentle, almost imperceptible. But there it was, a hint of insecurity and vulnerability in his eyes, peeking through a thick wall of self-assurance and confidence. His gaze swept across my face, eyes taking in every one of my features like he was trying to memorize them. I felt trapped there, between his eyes (for the first time not so full of hope) and my restless mind.

He buried his hand in the nape of my neck, navigating to my hair. His scent intoxicated me, nullifying the pain in my throat. My mind was taken by radio silence when our mouths collided.

From then on, every touch, every kiss, every time our eyes met felt like a desperate attempt to imprint each other onto our memories. Deep down, I suspected he felt the same I was feeling. Perhaps he knew exactly what was going through my mind; There was a time I truly believed he knew and understood me even better than I knew myself; maybe that time was coming back.

Or maybe his intense gaze could truly read my thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, as our lips parted for the last time, it felt like a goodbye. But then, as we gazed into each other's eyes, gasping for air and trying to contain the intensity of our emotions, I realized it couldn't possibly be the end.

“Does this feel wrong?” he asked, his nose touching mine. “Does this feel like a mistake?”

I shook my head in response, unable to form words.

“Does it, for you?” I asked, searching his somber eyes.

“No, Eva," he replied, his hand still cradling my neck.

The sadness and sincerity in his voice, when he spoke my name, sent shivers down my spine. The way he pronounced it—with a sweet blend of his deep Spanish accent and a light Italian twist, and with a subtle movement of his lips, tugging up in what seemed like a smile… I wondered if it was just the particular way his lips moved naturally, or if just saying my name made him smile.

“And even if it was,” Carlos broke the silence, again, “the only way I’d wish I hadn’t done it, would be just so I could experience it again for the first time.” His words etched themselves into my skin like a tattoo. I could feel the weight of them settling inside me. “How…" he hesitated, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "How could this be a mistake?"

My fingers wrapped around his fist, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against my skin. I slid my fingers up to his palm, taking his hand in mine, and pulled it away from my lips.

“Because it's you," I murmured, feeling the weight of his hand on mine. "I searched for you everywhere. In every man, every… race… every city I visited.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “I thought about you all the time. I wondered if you thought of me, too. I just wanted that, you know?" I slowly looked up, almost afraid of meeting his eyes. He wasn't frowning, he was patiently listening. "I—”

"Eva—"

"No, let me..." I interrupted him before he had the chance to speak, or the words I was desperately trying to find disappeared from my mind. "You showed up when I thought I was okay with you not being in my life. And you shifted everything. Both literally and figuratively. Rio is leaving. My team is gone. And for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm seeing a version of me I forgot existed. Every time you look at me, I feel like I'm being seen differently. And that doesn't make any sense, I know," I rushed to say, "but that's what your presence makes me feel. You make me remember why I loved waking up at 6 am on Sundays to go karting in the pouring rain until my hands went numb and my lips turned blue."

"And isn't that good?"

"That's so good," I said, exhaling. A hint of a smile showed up on his lips. "But I don't feel like... I mean—I need to be this person. I need to see this version of me when I’m alone. I'm so afraid of going back home and losing all this hope you awakened. I don't want to stop seeing the person you make me want to be the second I find myself alone just because you're no longer around.”

Carlos frowned. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No, that's..." I took a deep breath, and both my hands held his, almost like I needed to be reminded that he was still there. "Rio is leaving and I can't trust you to stay. And now there's no way I can pretend I can deal with the idea of not having or not feeling you again. So, yes, this could have been a mistake."

"You can't trust me to stay?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"A week isn't remotely enough to heal whatever is going on inside me. This... this didn't help."

"Did it make it worse?"

"No," for some reason, I felt sort of defeated. I took a small break, trying to sort the thoughts rushing inside my mind. "It's just that now, more than ever, I understood I can't fight this."

Carlos looked down, and a quiet chortle came through as he took a small step back. My hands didn't leave his. My eyes followed his face, looking for his gaze. The moonlight brought a new colour to his eyes and softened the shadows on his face. Vulnerability spread over his features.

"We've done that before, Eva. We've done that for years. Fighting this, pushing each other away.” This time, it was him who needed a break, to take a deep breath. I waited. There was fear and pain in my blood, and I was not sure why that was. “Eva, if you knew how many times I wanted to act on this, how many times I waited in front of your door, gaining the courage to ask you out." He paused. "That damn dinner, taking you out for dinner, driving you around the town, making fun of Rio because that's the only way I wouldn't freak out for being out with you alone for the first time…"

I only noticed I chuckled when he did it too.

"You knew it then?" I asked him.

"That I wanted to be with you? That you were just not a friend? Yes, I did."

"And why didn't you act on it?"

He took a deep breath before answering. "Because I was scared. The same fear you're experiencing right now, I felt back then. Our friendship was too important, and I was afraid that if I told you, it would ruin everything. And… my career, your career… And Rio… Then, you started dating someone from your class, and I thought you could never see me in the same way that I saw you. Even when you were single and before I moved away, I didn't have the courage to act on my feelings. I fucked up. Then I moved away, and I was thankful for a while. But I quickly realise there’s not a place in the world that would make me forget about you. And from that realization to realizing that I couldn't force you to settle for less than what you deserved… It happened too quickly. I tried so hard to push those feelings away that I ended up pushing you away.”

"And why now? Why did you show up now?"

"I—I realised I couldn't wait any longer," he said softly.

His voice was barely audible, but it made my heart race. I could feel my pulse beating in my chest, and a mix of resentment and longing filled me.

“I was a coward before,” he continued. “I didn't act on my feelings for you, and I didn't ask you about yours. I thought that you would be better off without me and that I couldn't make you happy. I believed that pushing you away was the right thing to do, but now I know I was wrong. So, I will ask you now: What do you want? What do you need from me?”

Once again, I looked down at his hand, which I was holding tightly. It was what I needed—him. Anywhere in the world, at any given time. To know he will see in me what the dense fog hides inside my being.

“I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I really don't know.”

“Love, you can't just leave it at that. You have to give me something to work with here.”

Love.

I could use some of that too.

"Just—" I looked up and met his gaze, and for a moment, I lost myself in the depth of his eyes. They were like diamonds on a dark night. "I just need to know that you still have hope in me. No matter where we are, I just need to know you believe in me. I can’t ask for more.”

Without any hesitation, Carlos pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me.

"I have all the hope in the world in you,” he whispered into my ear. “There are amazing things waiting for you. And I've lost enough of them."

                                                        * 

With a low thrum of the engine and the sound of glass clinking, we turned back towards the shore. The shoreline emerged in front of us, and the lights along it grew brighter and larger until the mass of light patterns on the dark ground became an array of perfect lines, perfectly arranged in the cliffs.

As we approached, the house that had once been just a blur of light out at sea slowly materialized into a perfect drawing. The engine died down, and the sea breeze mingled with the scent of pine and freshly cut grass. Strong Hispanic and Italian accents, along with the sounds of laughter and banter, wafted down to us with the wind.

It was like something out of a movie scene.

The lights. The sounds of nature and men. The man by my side.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Any other day, I would be capable of drawing his face from memory, but that night it all felt so new. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed, and the way his lips curved when he spoke certain words. My name, especially. The way his hand always finds the perfect spot on the small of my back, like it was meant to be there.

As we climbed the steps, one after another, our friends' laughter and voices became more distinct. They were sitting around the table, plates and glasses of wine scattered all around; candles and fairy lights flickering in the darkness. As we emerged from the stairwell, all heads turned to us.

"Oh! Look who decided to join us!" My brother's voice rang out. "Getting bored out there?"

As we approached the dinner table, Carlos's hand remained on my back, sending shivers down my spine. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my clothes.

"Just very cold, mate," Carlos replied, giving me a subtle caress before letting go of me and landing the basket on one of the chairs.

"The sunset looked amazing from here," Ana said, her eyes darting between Carlos and me. "It must have been even more amazing out there."

"Yeah, it was beautiful," I said, stepping closer to the dinner table and reaching out for a slice of bread. "But Jesus it was so cold—I'm still shivering. I really need to change out of these clothes before I freeze."

"Go on," Marjorie said. "I think we'll stay home for the night. You've got time."

"Movie night or—?"

"God, no," my brother interrupted me. "Poker. I'll get the chips. Chili, go get the Brandy."

"Ana, can you take care of that?" Carlos asked his sister, motioning to the house with his head. "I need a shower and to rest. I’ll pass tonight.”

"No problem," Ana replied with a nod before she stood and stretched. "What about you, Evita?”

I exchanged a look with Carlos, as subtle as I could. “I think I’m going to pass, too. I need to enjoy one last night of peace. Heard we’re going clubbing tomorrow.”

“Damn yes, we are!” Marjorie exclaimed from her place. “For your information,” her finger traced a line over the men around the table. “No boys allowed, tomorrow.”

Carlos’ thumb moved on my back, pulling my attention to him. One last look and he gave a small nod. “Yeah, we’ll see you guys tomorrow. Have fun.”

“And behave with the drinks,” I completed. “G’night.”

As we turned to head back into the house, I could feel the eyes of our friends following us. The silence became a melody of messy whispers, getting louder as we entered the house. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking, what they were saying.

We'd been dancing around each other for our whole years, and even if we were not totally aware of that, they were.

The inside of the house was quiet in comparison to the boisterous atmosphere outside. After I took the first step up the stairs, I turned to Carlos, walking two steps in front.

"What do you think they think we did out there?"

He stopped for a second, brows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. Just… trying to prepare for what to expect, I guess."

"Well, nobody can really know what happened," he said, resuming his walk. "But they probably think we did exactly what we did out there."

“Even my brother?”

“Especially your brother.” I stopped in my tracks, and Carlos, who was a few steps ahead of me, turned around to face me. “Does that change something?”

“I don’t know. Especially my brother? What does that even mean?”

Carlos shrugged. “He’s your brother. He knows you. And he knows me, probably even better than my own sisters. Does that bother you?”

I rested my hand on the railing and leaned my body against it. “It’s not that it bothers me, but…” Carlos nodded, giving me his undivided attention. “It’s just that the expectations… He’s going to work with you. Also…. He’s your best friend. I’m his sister. Don’t you guys have a code for that stuff?”

“I don’t think he cares about that code, Eva,” his lips were trying to suppress a smile. “And even if he does, he’ll just have to suck it up.”

“Right. What about the rest?”

“The rest?”

“Your sisters… Marjorie—”

“I think they noticed I’ve been spending the last few days staring at the office door,” he said softly, extending his hand in my direction. “What if they know?”

“You didn’t know, certainly.”

Carlos chuckled and led me up the stairs, walking in front of me. When we reached the first floor, he let me walk ahead of him. As I looked over my shoulder and caught him still standing near the stairs, he spoke again.

“I didn’t think I deserved it just yet,” he said, walking over to me. “But I can’t say I didn’t think about it.” The confession sent shivers down my neck. “Now go take a shower before I make sure that no one has doubts about anything tomorrow.”

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to face him; his lips were slightly parted and his eyes big and dark. A shower was the last thing on his mind, and suddenly all my worries and concerns dissipated too. I opened my mouth to say something, probably some incoherent mumbling that would get me nowhere, but before I could, his lips crashed onto mine.

And just like the first time, it was desperate.

His hands were everywhere, pulling me closer, pressing me against him. It was passionate and intense. That strange feeling of longing for someone who was right there.

“I really need my shower,” I whispered, trying to pull away from his hands, to no avail. His hands only grabbed me closer.

“Is that some sort of invitation? Do you need help dressing your pyjamas?”

“No,” I giggled. “I can do it alone, you know? I’m not like a certain someone.”

“Certain someone? I wonder who.”

I laughed. “Though night, the other day. I really thought I would have to carry the three of you upstairs.”

“Well, I would have loved to see you try,” Carlos stepped back, crossing his hands over his chest. “But curious about your pyjamas. Do they still have unicorns on them?”

“Negative. Corgis.”

“Corgis?”

“Aham,” I nodded. “Any problem with that?”

“Eva DiMaggio,” he paused. “Will you ever get less weird?”

I rolled my eyes. “Says the guy finding excuses to see me naked. It’s not been an hour. Are you that needy?" I teased him.

Carlos chuckled. “Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “But it’s not like you’re complaining.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. He was right, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I was enjoying every moment we had together, even if it was just stolen moments like this.

“Go on,” he said, motioning towards the door. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

"No," I said, just as he was about to turn around and enter his room. "Feel free to visit in about 20 minutes. To see the pyjamas."

Carlos' smirk grew wider as he turned back to face me. "I might just take you up on that offer."

My pyjamas were neatly folded and placed under the pillow. As I approached the bed, the calming scent of lavender filled my senses. Few things have the power to soothe me as lavender does—yoga, music, the roar of a V12 and my recent rekindling of Carlos' presence are the other things on that list.

A tingling sensation hits my skin as I’m enveloped by the soft, freshly laundered fabric of my pyjamas.

I felt comfortable, at peace. Body and soul.

It was an odd feeling. Too strange to ignore.

When I entered the bathroom, the reflection staring back at me looked almost as perplexed as I felt. The slight redness in my cheeks, probably caused by the alcohol or the sun, popped up when a knock on the door cut through the silence.

“In here!” I called out.

The sound of the door opening and closing and slow, lazy steps followed. In a matter of seconds, Carlos joined me, standing beside me in the mirror, leaning against the bathroom door. The fluorescent light from above illuminated his chiselled abs. I couldn't help but notice how revealing his sweatpants were.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?" I said, my mouth full of toothpaste, focusing my gaze on his, through the mirror.

He smirked, his eyes flicking down to my shorts. "Not at you. At the corgis. Adorable.”

I scoffed, spitting out toothpaste into the sink. “Very smooth, Sainz, very smooth.”

The sound of water hitting the sink filled the room, and Carlos's laugh mingled with the sound. I just smiled and splashed the cold water over my skin while he watched me intently, analyzing every gesture of mine. As I picked up my cleanser and pumped the foam into my hands, his eyes and hands travelled to the small array of bottles on the sink.

“These are all for your face?” he asked, intrigued.

“Almost all of them, yes,” I replied.

“At once? All of this?”

I nodded, laying my finger on top of my toner. “This one always comes before any of these,” I explained, as my finger made a circular motion over all of my serums and oils. Carlos nodded, intrigued by the information. “These have rules. More complicated, but… They don’t matter. In the end, always, moisturizer.”

“And this one?” he reached out and touched my face, taking out a bit of the foam from my cleanser.

“Just some cleanser,” I said, giggling. He nodded, but the expression of a confused golden retriever didn’t leave his face. I could feel myself melting. “Just to clean the skin,” I completed. “Wanna try?”

Carlos extended both hands towards me, and soon both of our hands were filled with foam. We turned to the mirror, each one focusing on our own task. As he closed his eyes in pleasure, I couldn't help but watch him. His full lips were parted, and the way his long fingers lathered and moved over his face was so gentle. My fight-or-flight response was about to kick in. A siren blared in my mind. I wasn't ready for this. I didn't want to get to this point: lowering my walls and welcoming him inside. And yet, I found myself doing just that, each time allowing him to go further and stay longer.

As he opened his eyes again, he caught my eye in the mirror, and I could tell he noticed my look. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on his lips.

"You like what you see?" he teased.

“Yes, I can’t resist men who do skincare, especially if they’re half-naked in my bathroom,” I picked up my serum. “It’s my weak spot.”

Carlos laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Good to know,” he said, rinsing off the foam from his face. “Maybe I’ll have to make this a regular thing.”

I shook my head, trying to hide the smile on my face. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

He chuckled. “It’s a bit too late for that.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't deny the warmth that spread through me at his words. Maybe I was getting too comfortable, but that thought was pushed aside as I focused on the familiar routine of my skincare. Carlos let go of the towel he was using and leaned against the counter, looking at me. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and I knew he was up to something.

"What now?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Can I try some of that too?" he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Ahm…” I wasn't sure where that sudden interest came from, but I couldn't deny such a request. “Yeah. Sure. Why not? Sit down.”

He complied, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. I squirted some serum into my fingers and walked towards him. As I got closer, he opened his legs inviting me to stand between them.

“This one is for fine lines and wrinkles. You don’t actually need this,” I said, bringing my fingers to his cheeks.

Once again, he closed his eyes. “I think I do. My face is an important asset, you know?”

“More important than skill, these days,” I teased.

He chuckled. “Like you would know.”

“I’m still a fan.” I paused. My thumbs massaged his forehead, tracing a line above his eyebrows. I couldn’t help but notice the line of his eyelashes, casting a shadow under his eyes, the curve of his lips shaping a tender smile. “And I’m on social media. I know what people say.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting mine. “Oh, if half my followers knew what I’m doing right now.”

I smiled. “Half of them would probably be jealous.”

He chuckled. “Well, yeah. To compensate for half that would think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Balance, right?”

He nodded, smiling. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my belly through the buttons of my shirt. It felt oddly intimate but comfortable and familiar. I had barely any more product to massage into his skin, but the softness of his cheeks kept me hostage. He had a strong presence. Masculine features, and strong lines on his face, yet he had the prettiest eyelashes and lips any girl would die for. He was pretty.

So pretty.

"So, how does it feel?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Amazing," he replied, his voice low and husky. “You’re good at this.”

The silence grew deeper, and with it, the need to fill the air with mindless chatter slowly disappeared. His presence alone was enough to calm me down. I reached for the moisturizer from the counter and squirted a dollop into my hands. As I began applying it to his face, I could feel the tension in his forehead begin to ease. His breathing had evened out, and his skin glowed under the soft bathroom light.

"You're all done. Ready for bed," I said, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Not yet," he replied softly, standing up to grab the moisturizer from my hand. "Let me return the favour," he added, motioning towards the seat I had just occupied.

I couldn't refuse his offer, as my body moved on its own accord. The sense of intimacy and tranquillity was overpowering any other emotion rushing through me. As I sat down and leaned my head back, I watched him pick up the tube and squirt the product in his hands. He smelled good, fresh and warm, and I closed my eyes as his fingers touched my skin. With a sigh, I let go of any tension.

"You need to be cared for too," he said, his voice low and gentle, running his fingers over my cheekbones.

His touch felt like feathers, so soft and gentle. As he neared my lips with his thumb, he stopped, and I opened my eyes. I knew that feeling too well. The weight of his thumb near my chin, slowly approaching my lips. Tempting.

"Can I kiss you goodnight?" he asked in a whisper.

A nod was all I could manage. "Please do," I replied.

Satisfaction and relief flashed in her eyes, and her lips curved into a smile. God, this man had me in the palm of his hand. How could he think I would say no? How could I say no when his kisses taste and feel like a storm fading over the horizon, like waves inside ceasing existence, emptying the tide and revealing parts of me I wouldn't previously claim as my own?

We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension between us palpable until Carlos cleared his throat and pulled away from me.

"I think it’s time I let you sleep," he said, his voice a little rough. But instead of letting me go, he held me closer. "You're joining us for golf tomorrow, right?"

"To days in a row?" I protested. But then again, when had Carlos ever not gotten what he wanted? He gave me that special look of his and suddenly I found myself nodding. "I'll bring my Kindle."

"You wouldn’t dare,” he stepped forward once more, just to kiss my forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight then," I said, barely above a whisper.

"Goodnight," he replied, giving me a small smile before turning and walking away.

The silence of the room was almost deafening, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness as I collapsed onto the bed.

I reached for my phone, and before I knew it, I was scrolling through social media, mindlessly absorbing every post and photo that came my way. It wasn't until my phone vibrated with a message that I looked up from the screen.

My dad.

We will talk once you’re in Madrid.

And then it was all back.

                                                        * 

As I moved my head, the refreshing breeze greeted me, relieving my eyes of the tangled locks of hair that had been obstructing my view. The day was relatively cooler than the previous ones, and the sky was painted with a mix of grey and white clouds. It seemed like the island was getting ready to say goodbye. Even though, the sight of the lush green grass of the course stretching out before me, with its scattered sand traps and water hazards, composed a breathtaking view.

I looked around once more, taking it all in. I was not ready to let the sunshine go.

On my right, Carlos was getting ready to take his last shot. The morning had been pleasant. Rio and Marjorie were now to the side, distracting one another. Marjorie was a pile of anxiety, that morning. She missed her kids and the kids missed her.

I never saw Olivia cry as much as she did when we called my mother during breakfast. Not even Rio’s antics made the little kid smile. That had put a toll on Marjorie’s mood for the whole morning.

My dad had put one on me with the text he had sent me the night before and the conversation he had that morning. The conversation didn’t move on from the “We’ll talk later, enjoy the time out.”

My mind was elsewhere, clearly.

Anxiety resided in my gut, craving a huge hole in my stomach. Surprisingly, golf had helped.

Carlos swung his club, the hush it made cutting through the air and the mutated thumb of it meeting the ball made me turn to him once more. Gracefully, the ball curved in the air, landing not too far from the hole. It would be my job to seal the deal.

"Ah," he grunted, holding his club loosely. "Nearly missed it.”

“It looks nice,” I remarked, walking towards the cart and expecting him to follow me. However, Carlos didn’t respond, his attention diverted elsewhere. "You’ll get your hole-in-one next time—Are you listening?"

"Sorry,” he turned to me. “I'm just—Can you see that?" he asked, pointing towards the horizon.

Following the path from his index to the horizon, I approached him. Nothing. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out what he was referring to. “What, exactly?”

"There's something there. Moving," he replied, his excitement palpable.

I followed him down the hill, holding my club. "A mole?"

"Probably," he said, his strides becoming longer as he approached the hole. Peeking its head out of the hole, we saw a tiny ball of dark brown fur, looking up at us with its beady black eyes. It seemed out of place amidst the immaculate green grass, as if it had crawled from a completely different world. I couldn't resist taking out my phone and snapping a quick photo.

"Look at it," Carlos said, grinning widely. Adorable. How can a grown-ass man be this adorable? "It's so cute!"

He took out his phone as well, and I sat down on the grass, watching him. Wide grin, big eyes, the long hair curving over the brim of his hat… a kid. And then, his voice—that goofy voice I hadn't heard in years.

"Hello there, Mr. Mole," he said, looking at me over his shoulder. I couldn't help but laugh as he carried on a one-sided conversation with the tiny animal. "Welcome to the golf course! Do you like it here? Are you planning on staying?"

I giggled, shaking my head as I leaned back on my arms. "I can’t believe I’m witnessing this. You're ridiculous."

"Don't listen to her, Mr. Mole.” He grinned at me, pocketing his phone, and then turned his attention back to the mole. “She's just jealous of your adorable little nose."

“Should I be offended by that?”

“Eh…” he leaned his head, shrugging. “I would pick my battles better if I were you.”

I chuckled, feeling the tension of my worries slowly dissipating. The moment of lightheartedness made me momentarily forget about my concerns. It was nice there. Easy. And yet, he never stopped being an enigma to me, even having known him since we were kids. There were moments when he seemed like a completely different person.

Like now.

He looked so intense, so focused. His eyes never left mine, and I found myself struggling to maintain eye contact.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sitting down near the hole.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, averting my gaze and focusing on the little animal, already hidden in the dirt, only its bottom visible. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You tell me,” he replied, the corner of his lips curling up in a small smile. “You’ve been distant all morning. Not a good look on you.”

People always tell me I’m not a great liar—something about my too-bright eyes and how easy they are to read. Carlos was one of those people. He had a way of seeing right through me, even when I didn’t want him to.

“Too many long nights in a row. I need a good night of sleep,” he didn’t seem convinced by my excuse. Carlos licked his lips and got up, offering me a hand. As soon as we were standing in front of one another, he raised his eyebrow. “And my dad,” I admitted. “He’s been… strange.”

“Strange how?”

“You know how he is. Lately, he’s been worse. More distant. And I don’t know if I'm imagining things or—” I trailed off. “The point is that he’s being weird and making me anxious.”

“Is this about the email from last night? The one Rio mentioned?”

I nodded. “Yup. Racing stuff.”

Carlos tried to hide his smile, but a fragment of it lay on his lips, tainting his eyes and making them shine. “What racing stuff?”

“A meeting with Deborah Mayer,” this time, his grin expanded wide. “Don’t get your hopes high, Sainz. Just a talk. And I don’t know if I’ll get it.”

“I’m just happy to see you acting on it. The idea of you in an office doesn’t make sense to me,” he shrugged, walking towards the ball. “Racing shouldn’t be a hobby.” He pointed his club to me. “Not for you, at least.”

“Let’s finish this hole, shall we?” I mumbled, taking my stance and aligning my club with the ball. “Can’t fail this one. I rather eat the ball than lose to those two.”

Carlos looked up towards the hill, where Marjorie and Rio waited by the cart. I felt the weight of his gaze when he looked back at me.

“Yesterday you told me I make you want to be better,” he closed the distance between us and stood in front of me. His fist grabbed his club with a strength that didn’t reflect itself in the light and adoring gaze of his eyes. God. I wanted to fill them with pride. “Let me help you do it.”

“No—” I shook my head, raising my hand and shaking it too. “No. Don’t—I don’t need that.”

“Don’t be so proud.”

“It’s not pride. Or stubbornness, before you go that way,” I tilted my head to the side. “I’ve done it alone until here, I can do it from here.”

“But you don’t need to. You’re not alone.”

Silence.

Three seconds of peace and utter tranquillity, and then anxiety hit me in the chest, like the waves against the shoreline. A feeling way too familiar. Way too powerful to ignore. My heart hammered in my chest, my blood rushed in my ears.

I glanced at him for a second, he was looking at me. Waiting.

What did he want me to say?

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t focus if you keep talking.”

“And I can’t help you if you keep ignoring me,” his voice was soft and soothing. Like a music box winding down.

I looked up. His shadow covered me almost completely.

“I forgot how fucking annoying you are.” Carlos offered me a smile but his gaze remained serious. “Can we finish this up and talk after lunch?”

The shadow over me didn’t move, and Carlos didn’t make any sound until I heard a long exhale and the ruffle of his sneakers walking over the green.

“Sure. Go ahead.” Deafet and tired, he walked to my right. “Easy on those wrists,” After repositioning my hands, I looked up for approval. He was smirking, “I know I test your patience, but we don’t need that kind of strength right now.”

"Is that so?"

"The hole is less than 10 meters away,” Carlos pointed like it was obvious and I couldn’t not chuckle at his answer.

“I was talking about the I know I test your patience part.”

It would have been hard not to smile at him at that moment. His eyes were wide and pleading, although a small curve of his lips suggested that he wanted to smile as well. It was impossible not to smile when Carlos Sainz smiled at you with such genuine affection in his eyes and his heart that you might even believe that he would do anything for you.

“Go ahead, Eva. Hit it. We’ll talk later.”

“As you say, professor,” I said, swinging my club and hitting the ball towards the hole. The ball rolled slowly across the grass, falling into the hole with a soft plunk. "See?! This is what happens when you don't bother me about emails or my posture.”

"Eh! Come on..." He moved his hands dramatically and it was clear that he was spending too much time with my brother lately. "If I hadn't, you wouldn't have been able to hole this one out."

"Admit it," I said, moving forward in mock indignation. "It was all an excuse to grab my hips.” I winked at him coyly. “I won't judge."

“Always a flirt, aren’t you?”

“Look at you,” I said, leaning on my club, again. “Can you blame me?”

There was a thing about Carlos Sainz I'd completely forgotten. How easily his expression shifts. A small shift can change the atmosphere around him. The dark strands of hair that fall over his eyes make them seem impossibly deep, the perfect setting for a pair of long lashes to rest against. His eyebrows are slightly uneven, but they fit with the rest of his face perfectly. As if he's been sculpted out of clay and left to stand beside me like a sculpture in some museum garden. It takes as much time for him to take a step and blink as it does for my heart to go out of rhythm.

And that's exactly what happened there. I could feel the tension grow inside and around me, my chest imploding at the same time.

But with a shake of his head, it all went away — his face softened and he shook his head before picking up the ball from the hole and sliding it into his pocket, "You're a bad influence," he joked, before extending his hand to me and signalling to follow him. "Let's go distract them."

Under the slim shadow cast by a palm tree, Marjorie observed her husband. Rio was a couple of steps away, ready to teed his back and take his last shot. Carlos sat down on the driver’s seat of our cart and attentively observed my brother. The ball flew off down in an awkward arc. Before it even hit the green, a dissatisfied grunt was heard.

“You can start celebrating,” he said, walking back to us. “Fucking wind.”

                                                        * 

The afternoon and the night flew by as if they were minutes and the clock had no patience to wait for us to find time to be alone. That day, Marjorie and Rio joined us in our snorkelling attempt and later that night, Ana did not take no for an answer when it came to going clubbing. With each passing second, the reminder I would leave soon and the bubble would burst.

Nevertheless, he was always around.

His gaze was on me when I was cooking lunch with the girls. His arms protectively wrapped around me as we rode the jetskis around the house, almost like he was begging me to not leave. On that night, his eyes lingered on mine one more second than necessary before I got up off the couch and headed to the club with his sisters and Marjorie.

I wanted him, just one last time before reality hit, and reality was a couple of hours away.

Just a night of sleep, breakfast and a short ride to the airport away.

So, I fell asleep thinking of him and tracing with my fingertips all the places he had kissed and adored, replaying his tender touch in my mind, wishing for him to be there when I opened my eyes, to take over and replace my desperate caresses with his passionate touch. The memories blended into a dream and a restful, peaceful sleep.

Like all mornings in Costa Del Pins, my room was taken by the sunlight when I woke up.

The expectation was that this time, I was awakened by the yellow hue of the Mediterranean summer, not the ring of my alarm. I remembered dreaming about Carlos. I remembered the too many glasses of sangria and all the shots Ana had brought to the table.

I had missed this. This was summer just like I remembered it.

Wine and laughter and long dinners by the sea, that stretch until the night and the sleep take the best out of us. Ana and her darling smile. The sun and the salt and the sweat.

The thin white sheets were twisted around my legs, holding me in place. I stared at the white ceiling, enjoying the shadows of the waving curtains drawn on it—the movements as soft as the sea waves. I didn’t want to leave.

Everything seemed to work in the same way in Mallorca. Everyone seemed to vibe at the same frequency. And Carlos was there. He wouldn’t be in Madrid.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I kicked off the sheets, trying to pry them from my legs.

“come here when you wake up”

And despite not wanting to leave the bed, my limbs moved alone. My bare feet touched the cold floor when they slid to the floor, barely touching down as I rose from bed. And still drowsy from sleep, and feeling in my body everything that had happened the day before, I walked over across the hall.

His door was slightly open. All the other doors of the hallway were closed.

I knocked, nonetheless.

“Hi,” I whispered, entering his room.

Laying in bed, he gave me a lazy smile. It was impossible to not feel my entire self melting at the view. Arm underneath his head. Puffy eyes. The stubble. The hazy morning light accentuated his features, making them ascend to the category of a classic painting.

“Morning,” he replied, slowly sitting up.

The sheet crumbled at his waist, revealing his naked torso. I sat at the foot of his bed. My silk shorts contrasted against the white bed linen.

“No morning run today?”

“No…” He shook his head and then yawned. “I mean—yes. I was waiting for you, but I think I fell asleep waiting for your alarm.”

“You hear my alarm from here?” He nodded, dragging his hands over his face, stopping to rub his eyes. “That’s why you leave the door open?” Once again, he nodded. “I turned it off, today. I needed to sleep.”

His hardened body softened as he eyed me up with a faint smile grazing across his lips.

“At what time is the flight?”

“Around four.”

He nodded. “And when will I see you again?”

“I don’t know…” I crossed my legs and tilted my head. “Monza? I’ll be there, for sure.”

Instantly, the man in front of me shook his head. “Monza? That’s in almost a month.”

“I know. I mean—” I paused. “We can try to meet before, but you have your stuff, too. Monza is the only promise I can make.”

“Zandvoort,” he suggested. “For my birthday.”

His birthday. The 1st of September. Amanda’s event was in September, around that date if I was not mistaken. Carlos squinted his eyes, probably because I was already giving him a negative answer with my expression.

“I think I have a work thing. In Berlin.”

“Berlin is not that far…” He raised his eyebrow, the corner of his lips tugging up. His pretty face was on the verge of making me give in. “Come ooon... You can get from one city to another in less than two hours.”

I dropped my shoulders. God, this man.

“But I can’t promi—”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything,” he interrupted me. And then, his voice softened. “I need you to try.”

Fighting him had no use when he smiled that way.

“Fine. I’ll try.”

“See?” He smiled and called me closer with his hands. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Crawling over the sheets, still warm from his body heat and smelling like him, I made my way closer. The aroma of his skin lingered in the air and my nostrils flared as I took it all in. I could live in his embrace forever. I could live wrapped in one of these sheets. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer and mitigating the gap between us.

Inches apart, his eyes locked onto mine. My heart pounded against my chest—a reminder that I hadn’t yet learned how to deal with this man’s antics. Deep down, I wished to never get used to it.

“Here’s another thing…” he said, in a soft whisper.

I brought my hands to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath he took. “What?”

“I’ll be flying over Europe. And so will you. Madrid, Maranello, Milan… and for the races. Tell me where you are, and I’ll get to you.” He paused. “I once expected you to be the one to drop everything and follow me around. It was not fair," he admitted with a sincerity that caught me off guard. "But now, I know what not to do. I can drop my stuff off once in a while and go to you. And you’ll need to let me do it. Okay?"

With those big brown eyes staring back at me, all I could do was nod. "Okay," I managed to whisper.

“And that’s something I want you to promise.”

“What?”

“That you will let me get closer.” Carlos leaned in, his lips hovering over mine. “Physically, mentally, emotionally.”

Breaths mingling, hot and heavy, tension building between us. I closed my eyes and succumbed to the moment, letting his lips capture mine.

Sleepy. Slow. Kinda sloppy.

“I can promise to try,” I said, eyes closed to savour the sensation of his lips down my jaw.

“Good enough for now,” he murmured; his hands roamed over my body, tracing the curves and lines of my skin. Every touch felt electric, sending shivers down my spine.

I moaned softly against his lips, feeling his smile against mine.

“We need to stop,” I put both my hands on his chest. “I need to go pack.”

He let out a low groan, his hands still roaming over my body. “Right,” he said, his voice husky. “We need. But because we're going out for breakfast. Go get dressed before my sister catches you awake and steals you away once more.”

                                                        * 

The melody of the waves washed over my senses the second he opened the car door, carried by a tiny breeze that made my hair dance against my neck. Before moving away from the car, he looked back at me, his sleepy eyes squinting to battle the bright sun. We were parked not too far from the market and I could sense the aroma of fruits and flowers.

We walked together, feeling the morning sun warming up our skin, the rhythm of our feet pounding against the pavement in perfect unison. The world around us began to blur, and all that was left was the sound of our voices and the rhythm of our conversation, light and carefree, about rocks, flowers and the two wild cats sleeping on a bench.

Reality seemed a foreign concept when he was involved.

Eventually, our steps brought us to the bakery. Two clay pots with brightly coloured flowers were placed outside, on both sides of the door. As we stepped through, we were met with a cosy atmosphere, with three families sitting around, enjoying their breakfast and a lazy dog snoozing away underneath the fan. On the counter, near the register, were three carton boxes with familiar purple ribbons.

The bakery. The croissants.

“Do you wanna sit, or—” he asked me, looking over his shoulder.

“We can sit,” I didn’t let him finish the question. “I appreciate the air conditioning.”

He chuckled, turning back to me and placing his hand on the small of my back. I walked to a booth in the corner of the bakery, sitting on the sofa facing the window. The view was breathtaking—the sea was a bright blue that expanded itself until the tenuous line on the horizon. Sharp cliffs surrounded the beach in front, framing the crowded sand. I moved my eyes to Carlos when he sat in front of me, a smile being automatically drawn on my lips as he took off his hat and passed his fingers through the sweaty strands of his hair.

“It’s terrible, no?” He asked, making me immediately frown. “I just cut it before France.”

“And it was an absolute crime,” my words came wrapped in a small laugh.

“Do you like it long?” Once again, he passed his hands on his hair, the locks easily followed the lines his fingers were drawing.

“I do,” I nodded. “And I like your beard, too. It’s a shame you shaved it today.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we meet,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

From my right, the figure of a round lady appeared. Her silver-grey hair was meticulously braided over her shoulder and tied with a delicate purple elastic at the end, a perfect contrast to the vibrant blue and yellow tie-dye apron that draped over her beautiful floral print dress. When she spotted Carlos, her face lit up in recognition and a warm smile spread across her lips. Her hands clasped together in front of her chest, beaming with joy as he turned to her.

“Buenos dias,” her voice was gentle, kind and inviting. “What should I get for you two?” She asked. “Despite the croissants Carlitos usually chooses of course.”

Carlos gazed at the woman expectantly, and asked, "What would you like?" He added with a hopeful smile, "The cinnamon rolls I brought you the other day were good too, no?"

The woman nodded thoughtfully, her heavy gaze studying me. “It’s a new recipe,” she said, her voice full of anticipation. “I’m still trying to perfect it.”

“Oh, I—” my gaze shifted from one to the other, both of them looking at me expectantly. “I loved them, I wouldn’t change a thing. You can bring me one for now, actually. And an espresso, por favor.”

The woman nodded, her eyes glistening with pride from my compliment. “And you for? The same thing?”

He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, that can be. Just bring me a water bottle, too."

The woman nodded and made her way to the kitchen, humming a melody under her breath. Carlos and I exchanged a smile, and soon the scent of freshly made croissants and cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“Rupert is gonna kick your ass when he finds out how much sugar you’ve been eating,” I said, my fingers fidgeting with the napkin.

He chuckled, his eyes still on the kitchen door. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and almost inaudible. "But I think I'm allowed one last splurge before I head back home."

“One last splurge? You’ll spend, at least, five more days in here.”

Carlos leaned back in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar pack while he looked at me. “My dad can be a bit controlling. He says I won’t fit my seat, otherwise.”

“Well, if you keep eating croissants for breakfast, I’m afraid he’s not wrong.”

Carlos laughed, his gaze flickering out the window before returning to me. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to make the most of it while I can.”

I leaned back on the sofa, feeling the cool air of the air conditioning caress my skin. “You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this. No worries, just the sea and the sun.”

Carlos leaned forward, his eyes intense as they bore into mine. “That sounds too easy for you. You would get bored.”

It was not a lie. I would get bored. I needed the challenge, the compressibility but... These last few days? The bubble we had constructed without noticing? I needed a bit of that, too—the slow living I never thought would be a fit for me.

“Don’t you wish for this, sometimes? I know you love your job and everything it implies but… don’t you wish to be home, sometimes?”

“Of course,” the woman returned with our drinks and pastries, placing them on the table with a gentle smile. Carlos broke his sentence to thank her, and then his attention diverted to me, again. “Of course, I want to be home. I love Italy and I feel welcome in Maranello, but it’s not home.”

“And Ferrari?” I heard a confused “hm?” coming from his lips. I moved in my seat until I felt the words lining up correctly in my throat. “How do you know you’ve made the right choice? At first, how did you know it was right to join McLaren?”

He looked at me, surprised by my sudden question, and then back at the croissant he was pinching “I didn’t have much choice, to be honest.”

“Okay,” I paused. “What about Ferrari?”

"It was my dream," he said quietly. Right. "You will never know, Eva," he said, his gaze meeting mine briefly before his expression became unreadable again. "I guess you just have to trust your gut. There’s no right or wrong, and you can think a certain team is right for you and your goals, you can dream about that team for years, but you can never be sure if you are stepping into a dream or a nightmare until you are too deep into it."

My grandmother used to often tell me that condemnations can be disguised as blessings, and I couldn't help but think of her words at that moment. No matter how much you plan, God has already something sorted out for you.

"You know what they say," he said. "The only way to know is to take a leap of faith."

I nodded, the words resonating deep in my core. I let out a deep breath, my gaze fixed on the passing landscape, the big stain of blue appearing interrupted between the branches of the trees planted between us and the sea.

“But why the sudden doubt?” Carlos asked. I turned my head to him. “You seemed excited yesterday, talking about Mayer.”

“All this wait is making me second guess myself," I said, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I mean, what if it’s not the right move?"

Carlos shook his head. "You can't do that…. Second guess yourself like that," he said. "Iron Dames is an excellent fit for you. Explore the field, try new stuff, meet new people. Test things.” He paused for a second. “If it’s not right for you, you step out.”

“Okay, but—” I could see his forehead crease and he slowly tilted his head. “Won’t I be losing a year if it’s not right?”

“No, you will still learn something.” I relaxed my body against the comfortable seat; Carlos kept going. “But if it’s right and you run away from it because you’re afraid? It’s just a lost opportunity.”

For a brief moment, the bakery seemed to go silent, his words lingered inside, ricocheting on the walls and meeting me. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “No need to thank me.” I couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence acting like an elixir and calming my nerves.

We kept talking about the possibilities, about faith and about trusting our guts. Carlos filled me up on the things I had missed, brief stories about race weekends and vacations I did not witness with him.

He was eager to share.

To fit me in his stories.

Carlos told every story with a tenacity I hadn’t felt in a while, sharing even the smallest detail, as if he wanted to bring me there, to take in the sights and sounds of the journeys. Even though I appreciated it, and it brought me joy to hear him talk, it filled me with a longing for the days I used to be able to witness it firsthand.

The thrill of the race weekend, the tensions of the hours before the race and the joyful hugs at the end. The smell of his cologne mingled with the rubber. The vision of his sweaty hair moulded by the helmet. The way his arms tightly wrapped around me in a hug after the race, like since the moment we last saw each other in the garage for a quick goodbye, he had been scared that he would never be able to do it again.

It didn't surprise me when he mentioned golf at least three times, and Lando even more times than that. He told me about his burgers and the ongoing competition amongst Team 55, the people in Maranello and how I could actually be a good help to bring some life into his apartment.

I told him about my recurrent work trips to London and Milan, the amazing trip my family had done to Scotland and how excited I was about going to Fuji with WEC, just a few weeks from then.

Between all that, the thought that I wished I had met him differently, or that we could just be different people.

Two strangers in London. Or Madrid. Two strangers who bump into each other on a street or a crowded bar, find each other in a city where the cobblestone streets are lined with pubs and cafés and double-decker buses drive by. See our reflections shining against the wet asphalt. Kiss him in a crowded bar and dance with him under the frenetic lights. To be as anonymous as anyone else dancing around. To feel the earth rumble under our feet as we walk down dark alleys, taking a shortcut under the cover of darkness.

To go through all the motions and emotions and fall in love again, in slow motion, slow enough to take in every detail I let go of.

And, this time, to not let go.

So, I'm baaaack! I'm alive! I really want to apologize for the time it took me to post this one, but the last weeks were really difficult. I'm going better, now, but I can't promise to be back next with with another chapter. I'm so sorry for the wait. Hope you still remember me. All the love! 🤍

just a little bit of your heart

─── i heard a little love is better than none

pairing: pierre gasly x fem!reader warnings: google translate french; profanity

There is a bit of comfortability in the love you share with Pierre. It’s simple, it’s cohesive, it just works. Though it does beg the question of how? How does it work so well? Better yet: why does it work so well? He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city, continent to continent, while you stay just outside of Paris wrapped up in your own work. How can you love a man who spends more time away from you than in your arms?

You don’t have an answer, just that it does.

It works because he calls you every night to hear about your day. He sends selfies and photos of the world he sees, and buys you snowglobes because he knows how much you love to collect them. He calls you beautiful, tells the world he’s the luckiest guy in the world to be loved by an ‘ange comme toi’. Tu es mon ange, he says. Always calling you angel, his angel. He had his way of making you feel so wanted and loved, even from a thousand miles away. 

In the quiet time between race weekends, Pierre always finds his way back to you. It was always on a Tuesday when he’d let himself in with his spare key, dropping his bags in the hallway by the door. He would call out for you and you’d come running. His smile was always wide, crinkled by his eyes as he held his arms out ready to catch you. And when you’re finally in them, god did it feel like home.  

He’d hold your hand when he drives you into Paris, taking you to your favorite restaurant. He orders for you because he knows what you like. He lets you drink as much white wine as you’d like, even if he knows he’d have to carry you up the stairs when you get home. But he doesn’t mind, because when he’s holding you up you like to touch his face. You pepper wet kisses along his jaw and make him laugh when you give him grief for not growing out his mustache. You make his heart warm when you touch him sweetly. 

Pierre knows your nighttime routine like the back of his hand. He sits you by the sink, hand securely resting on your hip to steady you. He knows to use the cleansing balm first, and then after taking off all your makeup, he picks the serums in the order you usually use them in. He knows nothing of the names, but the different sizes and colored labels are enough to help him figure it out. You’ll have your arms slung over his shoulders lazily as he gently rubs your moisturizer into your skin. You smile lazily, eyes hooded with alcohol as you hum softly.

"Tu m'aimes?" You slur. You love me?

He smiles, nodding. "Bien sûr que je t'aime." Of course I love you.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

"Je t'aime, mon ange." I love you angel. 

He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

Tuesdays grow to be your favorite day, because that means he comes home. It means that sometime in the afternoon, there would be an echo of him throughout your home. The familiar smell of his Valiant cologne would fill the air, it will wrap you up, and once again you’ll feel complete. 

You sit on the couch and you wait. The hours tick by, the afternoon comes and goes, and soon the sun is setting and the sky shifts to pitch black. 

Pierre arrives at eleven that night, bag dropping onto the floor and far too preoccupied on his phone to announce that he’s home. You hear his steps, heart anticipating his voice calling out for you. But instead you watch him walk into the room, eyes glued to his screen, stopping by you on the other side of the couch. He types and types and types, while you patiently wait for his attention. You can’t deny the way your heart aches, this overwhelming feeling of self-pity that takes over you as you keep your eyes on the man you love with every part of you. You’ve never felt more pathetic. 

But he finally looks back at you, and those blue eyes convince you to forget that he was late, convince you not to ask him where he’d been, and to be happy he showed up at all.

The past Sunday doesn’t end how either of you would hope, with Pierre having to retire with only five laps to go. You were sitting at home the whole time, throw pillow clutched to your chest as you watched your boyfriend climb from P13 to P5, only to have all that hard work shattered by a collision with a Williams. You send him a text, reminding him how much you love him and how sorry you are that the race turned out the way it did. He doesn’t respond, but you chuck it to media duties and post-race meetings. You expect a response before you to go to bed, maybe even in the form of a phone call. But it was radio silent. Not a peep, not an update. One second he was in the car and just over forty-eight hours later, he’s standing before you. 

At least he’s here, right? 

“Pourquoi n'as-tu pas appelé?” Why didn’t you call?

He sighs softly, taking the hand that was just reaching out to you to rub his face– clearly frustrated. 

“J'étais occupé mon amour.” I was busy, love.

Mon amour rolls off his tongue like it tasted bitter. It hurt. 

His phone pings and Pierre is quick to unlock and read whatever it is that is on his screen. You watch the way his face breaks out into a grin, the way his fingers are quick to type a response, lip tucked between his teeth. You wonder if he ever looks at his phone like when you text him. 

“Qu'est-ce?” Who is it?

“Personne. Qu'y a-t-il pour le dîner?” No one. What’s for dinner?

You sit with him at the dinner table while he eats, and he pays no mind to you. He stares at his phone, taking call after call from his team, and answering texts close to his chest. You watch Pierre like a movie, one you seemed to not be a part of. Insecurity is a weed, flourishes without needing to be nurtured and can only be rid of with proper care. But no one seems to care, not even you. You sit patiently, letting vines of self-doubt bury you while you hope the man before you would notice.

But he doesn’t. He never seems to notice you these days, too occupied with his phone and the car. He’d leave with a chaste kiss to your cheek and then he’s rushing out the door. No more invites to see him drive, no more plans of grandeur spent together. More Tuesdays are spent alone in your apartment, while you hold yourself and believe the lies that he’d be coming soon. You watch Pierre’s life unfold through a screen, no longer a part of his story even if you considered yourself to be. 

You grow to hate Tuesdays. It means he’s home, that there would be an echo of him moving about your space. Tuesday means it’s the restart of a game you play with yourself. The one where you swear you’re done, that you’ll leave, that you deserve better. And when you think you find the courage to do so, he’s waltzing through the door and planting a kiss on your forehead. Nevermind the lack of twinkle and adoration in his ocean blue eyes when he sees you, nevermind that he kisses you and retreats to the bedroom. The smell of his Valiant cologne suffocates you, drowns in you in a false sense of hope that at least he came home to you. 

This Tuesday comes like it does, with your chest puffed out and chin tilted to the sky until you see him and he gives you a passive smile you mistaken for affection. You let him hold your face as he presses a brief kiss against your lips before walking into the bedroom. You follow in his footsteps, leaning against the doorframe and watch as Pierre sets his phone down next to him– screen down. He looks up at you with a questioning stare. 

“Allons dîner. Nous n'avons pas été à notre place depuis un moment.” Let's go to dinner. We haven't been to our spot in a while.

“Je ne sais pas... Je me sens fatigué.” I don’t know… I’m feeling tired.

You frown, a lump in your throat suddenly growing as you find it in you to beg him for just a piece of his time– time that seemed too precious to share with you.

“S'il te plaît? Tu me manques.” Please? I miss you.

He sighs, like he’d been burdened with something. Tears begin to gloss over your eyes, shaking your head. 

“Pas grave. C'est stupide.” Nevermind. It’s stupid.

You walk away, shielding yourself and frailty, hiding your tears as you scurry down the hall to the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the ache in your chest. You try to forget that look on your boyfriend’s face, the rejection given in the form of a frustrated stare. Running water hides his footsteps to you, you don’t hear him shuffling behind you. You don’t even realize he’s in the room until you look up from the sink and see him behind you in the mirror. 

“Ne sois pas en colère contre moi mon ange. Je suis vraiment fatigué.” Don't be upset with me angel. I’m just really tired.

No words, just a slow nod. 

“Je t'emmènerai demain. Nous irons à Paris. D'accord?” I'll take you tomorrow. We'll drive into Paris. Okay?

You nod again, this time hard enough for a tear to fall onto your cheek. Pierre’s expression falls, a sad exhale coming from him as he takes a step closer to you, wrapping his arms around your frame as he leans down to press a kiss against your cheek. He whispers in your ear, asking you not to cry. Repeats his promise of taking you into the city and to your favorite spot. You want to ask him if he still loves you, asking him to say it to you over and over again ‘til you believe it. 

But you were afraid of the answer.

So you take his affections for love. You allow it to mend the ache in your heart even if you know deep down it’s temporary. 

He keeps his promise, he drives you into Paris. He takes you to his favorite restaurant, and you’re seated in the same spot you sit at since you both started coming here. He orders for you, because he knows what you like. But you eat in silence. He taps away on his phone while you nurse glass after glass, until the white wine has your head swirling. Your cheeks feel hot, and the room seems to tip left to right ever so slightly. 

“​​Ralentir.” Slow down.

Pierre’s request makes you feel guilty. It makes you put the nearly empty glass down and eat your dinner quietly. You watch as he smiles at his screen, twirling pasta in his fork with no intention of eating it. It’s busy work, doing what he can to pass the time. 

You’ve developed a sort of jealousy to the world around you, most especially to the phone in his hand. You envy the smile it gets, one you hadn’t seen directed to you in god only knows how long. You wonder who is so lucky to see it, to receive its warmth. 

He doesn’t hold your hand on the ride back, doesn’t carry you up the stairs like he used to. He walks several steps ahead of you, only gracious enough to hold the door open for you. You flop onto the bed, undoing your jewelry and slipping off your shoes. You watch Pierre do the same, trading the dressier ensemble for jeans and a t-shirt.

“Où vas-tu?” Where are you going?

“Je vais rencontrer des amis. N'attendez pas, d'accord?” Going to meet some friends. Don't wait up, okay?

You nod wordlessly, watching as he slips his shoes back on before he walks back over to you and presses a kiss on your forehead. It lacks a spark, a warmth that you used to feel. 

"Tu m'aimes?"  You love me?

He stops in the doorway of the room, looking back at you with a soft sigh.

"Bien sur que oui." Of course I do.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

The air is thick. You wait for him to say it, for sweet words to reassure you the way they used to. 

“Tu sais que je fais. Pourquoi dois-je le dire?” You know I do. Why do I have to say it?

You nod, gaze moving down to your lap. He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

“D'accord. Fais attention. Je te verrai plus tard.” Okay. Be safe. I'll see you later.

You watch him walk out, listen to his footsteps move further and further away from you until they disappear behind the front door shutting. When you’re sure he’s gone, you pull yourself off the bed and stumble into the kitchen to grab a half empty bottle of wine. You don’t bother with a glass, making your way back to bed as you turn on the TV and drink straight from the bottle.

Some time in the night, the wine lulls you to sleep. It’s dreamless. Your body feels heavy, sinking into the mattress. The alcohol numbs you, helps you forget the impending despair and self-loathing waiting to settle in your bones when Pierre comes home– if he comes home. 

He does, the door slamming shut, pulling you from your sleep. You take a quick peek at the time. 3:08am. You squeeze your eyes shut when his footsteps come closer, and the door to the bedroom squeaks open. Your heart beats quickly, listening to Pierre attempt to move quietly around the small room. Rustling, padded footsteps, fabric falling to the floor. It isn’t long until the bed is dipping behind you, and you can feel his body heat against you. But you don’t feel his arms, no kiss, no form of affection. It’s cold as he slips into bed with you, facing the wall instead of you. His soft snores fill the space in no time, and you allow yourself to open your eyes. You quietly slip out of bed, eyes scanning the now messy bedroom. Clothes are strewn across the floor, shoes kicked against the wall. You shuffle quietly, cleaning up after him as he sleeps in your bed.

It’s when you pick up his shirt do you catch a whiff of a sweet rose scent that’s not yours. You hate the smell of roses. 

You spend the rest of the night on the floor of your bathroom, his shirt balled in your fist as you cry angrily but quietly.

There’s a bit of fear in leaving the only love you truly ever known. A fear in confronting the fact he was no longer yours alone, and that he had likely found someone else. How do you choose to tiptoe around him, to allow yourself to fall into a false sense of security time and time again? How can you love a man who has fallen for another? How does loving him work? 

He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city anyway. He was never truly there to begin with, even on your best day. Maybe your love never truly worked to begin with.

But you both stay, even if you know how much it breaks you. 

It’s complicated. An age-old term to describe the limbo between friends and something more, between I love you and I’m sorry, between love and its end. It’s used to describe two stubborn people unwilling to let go of the other out of their own selfishness. Because that’s the truth. You stay, selfishly taking what he has to offer as enough, lie to yourself and say the very little he gives is enough to sustain your heart even as it cracks under your chest. You both lie through your teeth when you say you’re happy together, when you face friends and family who see the loveless stares you exchange at the dinner table. But no one has the heart to call you on it. They take a page from your book, and stand idly by. They watch quietly as you lose pieces of yourself everytime Pierre walks out the door without you. 

The fact of the matter is that neither of you wanted to be alone. You’d rather sit in a room with ‘complicated’ than to be alone. But you love him, you really do. And you think that maybe he does too, because why else would he stay… right? There was at least a bit of comfort in the fact that a bit of love exists in the space. And sometimes a little love is better than none. 

NOTE: i kinda fast tracked this one bc i got a surge of inspiration. so sorry if it doesn't make any sense. i tried to proof read it but im a dud when it comes to my own work. yes, sorta almost based off 'just a little bit of your heart' by ariana grande. hope u like this one & as always, feedback is always greatly appreciated.

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HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT | PG10 X reader

Summary: she falls in love with someone, but he only sees her as his best friend's little sister.

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x fem!Leclerc!reader

Warning/contents: brother's best friend trope, unrequited love, one-sided love, mentions of alcohol and smoking, age gap(the reader is born in 2000),  mentions of sex, Mick being reader's best friend, sad ending.

Au: the reader is the adopted sister of the Leclerc brothers, I'm trying to make my fics more exclusive <3 Love, Mari (special shout out to my cherie for the title idea)

2019 Better luck next time

Never in a million years had she thought she would fall for her brother's best friend, but then it happened. During her 19th birthday, Charles insisted on throwing a big party. Unable to say no, she agreed, which turned out to be a mistake.

For as long as Y/n could remember she never had met her brother's friends. She kept to herself most of the time or stayed for Arthur, who was a year older than her. 

But she knew she had to meet her second oldest brother's friends at one point or another, and tonight at the party was the time. That's when she met Pierre. 

Pierre Gasly

As Charles introduced them to each other, butterflies crept into her heart and stomach. It was love at first sight but she knew he wouldn't feel the same. How can he?

As the night continued, the French man never left her mind. Alcohol in her system she had enough courage to go up to him and talk, but her plans were soiled as she saw him disappear into an empty bedroom with a beautiful girl.

Better luck next time

2020 But she never really quit, she’d just say she did

After that party she didn't see him again, the exception being when she went to watch the races in person, but during moments they were in the same room, Pierre didn't even look at her. So she found something else, smoking. Smoking helped her keep her mind off the man she had fallen hopelessly in love with.

So there she was, on the rooftop of the hotel, quietly smoking the last cigarette from her pack. Charles had begged her to join him and his girlfriend Vivian. She was nice but all that was on Y/n’s mind was the same French driver that had made a home in her heart and mind on her birthday last year.

“Those will kill you one day” Mick sat next to her, looking at the busy streets of Vegas.

“Do you think he is still out there? Or if he already found someone” Her voice was quiet but audible for her best friend.

“I don’t know… Liebling” he wrapped his arm around her as she leaned against him. 

The tears she had held in all weekend finally came out, crying quietly in the arms of her best friend she whispered. “I'm going to quit him, I'm done”

But she never really quits, she’d just say she did

2021 wish you were sober

Yes, she wanted him to notice her. But not in the way he noticed her right now. Drunk Pierre sat next to Y/n, talking about some girl that he had liked but she didn't like him back. She listened closely, pretending it didn't hurt, pretending like she didn't care. It hurt, and she did care, the man she had been in love with for the last two years was next to her, talking about a woman, probably more gorgeous than her. Probably someone worthy of Pierre. 

“You're perfect Y/n, and beautiful” Pierre slurred which caused the young woman to get up. “Come on Pierre, you're drunk. Let's get you to bed” 

Even if she wanted those words to be true, she knew they weren't. She knew Pierres type, who were the women he would call beautiful. Shaking those thoughts out of her head she helped him up and led him through the crowd of people to one of the guest rooms. 

Pierre let out a groan as he fell on the soft mattress, it caused Y/n to sigh and walk over, using all her strength to move the drunk man onto his back. Accomplishing that, she began undressing him. It will be nowhere comfortable to sleep in thigh pants and a long-sleeved shirt. While doing something she deemed innocent, a smirk only grew wider and wider on Pierre's face. “You should undress me more, chérie” He mumbled, even if she was far away from his face, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

Y/n just shook her head, she pulled the blanket over him before walking to the door

Real sweet but I wish you were sober

2022 They could see in her eyes, that she wants to get out

When Y/n heard about Pierre's girlfriend and his plan to propose to her, she knew it was over. She finally had to quit him, stop loving him. She had lost him and his love that she never had, when she congratulated him, she held back tears that were about to burst.

That night, she couldn't sleep, her head kept replaying all the moments she should have realized he would never see her more as Charles’ little sister. Not even his friend. 

Even if it hurt, she got up and grabbed the suitcase from the back of her closet and began fitting in everything necessary. She couldn't stay in Monaco, it didn't matter that Pierre lived in Milano, everything about her home reminded her of him.

She did everything out of impulse, and in less than two hours, she was on her way to Edinburgh, a place that wouldn't remind her of the man that tainted her heart and brain with just his existence. 

They could see in her eyes, that she wants to get out

2023 fuck love, fuck you, dark hearts don't break they bruise

It had been a year since Y/n moved away from her home since she left her loved ones behind and him. The hurt in her heart was replaced with anger. A part of her hoped he would miss her, but when Pierre was asked about how he felt about the move, he had the audacity to ask ‘Who?’.

She hated him, she hated him more than anything. She fell for him hard and now hated him just as much. It wasn't until a few days ago that her phone began ringing. It was the number she still hadn't deleted from her contacts.

At first, it was easy for her to ignore them, but now they were consistent. Never-ending, even if Pierre was on the other side of the world he would call, not caring about the price of the call.

Finally fed up, she picked up the phone. “What?” She asked, only to be met with silence. “If you're not going to say anything fuck you, fuck you Pierre Gasly. You broke me, and I hate you” Before the man on the other end could respond, Y/n ended the call and blocked the number.

fuck love, fuck you, dark hearts don't break they bruise

Don’t hurt yourself

Chapter 1 - Intuition

Masterlist

Prologue

Warnings: Mention of possible cheating, mention of relationship neglect

Words: 2.372

“I tried to make a home out of you, but doors lead to trap doors, a stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when you go quiet?

It's a cold day, the heater is on, and I’m wearing more layers than necessary, but I’m still getting goosebumps. I might even start chattering my teeth if I gave in to what I'm feeling. But I don't think it's just because of the cold, It's less than 8 degrees outside, but the heater is doing a good job here.

I haven't looked at her in a few minutes, I sit in the chair by the window, and the only view I have is the bustle of the city below me.

“The view of Monaco from this window is beautiful. It's a great location.” I remember that was the first thing I noticed when I stepped here for the first time five years ago.

“Y/n…” The woman stares at me while sitting in her armchair in the middle of the large room. “Why are you avoiding this matter?”

“I'm not avoiding it.” I still don't look at her.

“I think you are. You ran away from me as soon as I mentioned his name. And it's been 10 minutes that you don't even look at me.”

I take a deep breath before taking my stare off Monaco and back to her.

“What do you want me to say?”

“We don't need to talk about it. But every matter we start leads us back to him. Did you notice that?” I can barely look at her. Susan always calmed me down, and that's the reason I started doing the sessions with her. I always enjoyed our conversations. But not today, today I just want this to be over so I can get away from here.

“As it should, he is a very important part of my life.”

“Of course, he's your husband. He is the person quoted by you in every session of ours. But not in the last month.” She wears a friendly half smile, and her hands are resting on top of her crossed legs. She doesn't have her notebook today, which is unusual, but it doesn't bother me, I never like to see her taking notes regarding what I say here anyway.

“Y/n…”

Another 15 minutes and I'm out of here.

“What happened in the last month?”

Her voice comes out almost like I'm underwater. My thoughts are so loud that I can't focus on anything else. I need a few seconds to understand what she just asked me.

A humorless laugh seeps from my vocal cords.

Where could I start? For the part where he completely changed in such a short time? Of how overnight, Lewis was someone else? A cold person, who stopped calling, stopped with the flowers, with all the caress, with the dozens of “I love you” said every day? That I don't look like a wife anymore but more like a roommate? Or maybe I should talk about the times he came home at four in the morning and woke me up when he was almost inside me, desperate for some relief, desperate to release whatever God knows who put it in him? From the reclined car seat or the cheap feminine perfume impregnated in the seat belt. Which of these things should I open up and tell her about now? And how do I do that without feeling like an idiot, without the huge guilt monster that's inside of me creeping out again?

I shrug as I feel my throat burn with the painful memories of the last few weeks.

“Maybe I'm just too insecure. Or dramatic. Or both.” I don't talk to her anymore. My spoken words are more like external thoughts.

Susan doesn't say anything, she looks at me as she waits, and the silence makes me want to talk more and open up.

“He's in one of the worst moments of his career. There's too much going through his head, I know that. I can't freak out thinking he's having an affair just because he is distant, right? It doesn't make any sense. I can't be that cunt.”

“Do you think he's having an affair?”

“No. That's the point. He wouldn't do that. He's too good to do that.”

Susan shifts her position and leans towards me. Her gaze doesn't stray from mine for even a second.

“The real Lewis wouldn't do that or the Lewis you created in your head wouldn't do that?”

I look at her and the confusion is clear on my face.

“What?”

“Don't you think that maybe you put more into him than he gave you? That you created a version of him that doesn't really exist?” My heart is pounding like it's going to jump out of my chest at any second. I want to look away from her, but I can't. I need her to finish her reasoning. I don't want her to think I'm not ready to hear this, so I keep still as I wait for her to continue.

“You've always tended to romanticize things, which is understandable with everything you've been through. But maybe that led you to believe in some things that were almost not there while letting other important things pass right under your nose unnoticed.” Now it's my turn to lean to her. “You told me once that you always dreamed with a fairy tale, and that when he appeared, it showed you that it was all real, with butterflies in your stomach and vows of eternal love, everything as in your biggest dream. You fell head over heels in love with Lewis. So I ask you Y/n, which one wouldn't do that to you? The real Lewis or the one in your imagination?”

I try to assimilate what was said and play her words over and over in my head. For the first few seconds, it sounded almost like a joke, it was so ridiculous. But the tightness in my chest got bigger, and suddenly some things started to make sense.

“Think about it this week.” Susan gets up and walks slowly to the door.

That's the cue, my cue to get up, thank her for the session, and leave this room. But I can't move, I'm still sitting in the chair staring at the Buddha-shaped figurine that rests on her coffee table as if it's going to come to life and tell me what I need to do.

“Y/n.” I feel Susan's hand on my shoulder, and I come out of my trance. I turn to face her. “I didn't mean to say that what you live is a lie. But sometimes we do this kind of thing. We intensify what we feel and put a lot of feelings into things without even realizing it, so we can convince ourselves that something we really want is really happening. But that doesn't take away the shine and beauty of any of it. It doesn't take away the fact that everything you feel is real to you. For everything you tell me here, I'm sure you have a beautiful life with him, and that kind of thing doesn't go away. My job here is just to try to show you the things that are clear around you, what you're going to do with it, no one can tell you. Because no one would know how.”

I continue to look at the woman in front of me for some time. Trying to assimilate everything.

“We're done for today, okay? It was all very intense, and anything we talk about now won't have any effect anymore.” I nodded to her. “I'm going out to take a break, but you can take as long as you want here, Y/n. Take your time. Everything is fine.”

“Thank you.”

I watch Susan leave the room behind me, and as soon as the door slams, I'm back facing the city. I could stay here for hours, but I know I have to move and face what is waiting for me.

I don't even know how long I've been looking out the window, I'm only taken out of my trance when I hear the notification noise coming from my phone. I check the device quickly before getting up and grabbing my purse.

“I'm waiting for you down here ;)”

All the way to the outside of the big building, I feel weak, and numb as if my movements are being commanded by someone else. A thousand worries in my head, until my stare met his. Even though he is the biggest cause of all the chaos in my life at the moment, at the same time, he manages to remain my biggest font of calm.

“You didn't tell me you'd come to pick me up.” We are already very close to each other. There is no need for me to try to get closer because Lewis does not take a second to pull me closer to him.

Lewis join our lips in a quick kiss, and that shocked me. It's been a while since he last showed any interest.

“Where did that come from?”

“Can't I have missed my wife?” I feel uncertain, and I know it shows on my face, he barely looked at me in the morning, and now he acts this way. It is an unfair and single-player game. “I saw that you left your car in the garage, so I deduced that you could use a ride.”

We live two blocks away from here.

I've been walking back for five years now. It's almost like part of my therapy walking down the beach to get home on the way back.

I wish I didn't feel like something was very wrong, but I can't. After these last few days, everything he does sounds suspicious to me. And living that is like a living hell.

I push away any negative thoughts and smile at him. He seals our lips quickly before opening the passenger door. I settle back and take a deep breath before facing him again, who's now sitting next to me.

He's too good to do that.

Not a second after he turns on the car, Lewis takes his hand to my thigh and squeezes it lightly. I look at him who already has his gaze glued to mine. I can't help but smile at him. He let his hand rest on top of my thigh as he takes speed with the vehicle.

“Mercedes will organize a charity dinner on Saturday.”

“Cool. Here in Monaco?” I was already expecting something like that, another day without him, I guess.

“Yes. It will be the usual boredom with investors. But it would be nice if you came with me. Are you up for it?”

I look away from the street and look back at him. There he is, the man I've been looking tirelessly for the last few weeks. All of this is so confusing that suffocates me. Change so much in just a few hours, it's almost scary. But I decide to hold on to this moment and believe that I have my husband back.

“Sure.”

Lewis smiles before removing his hand from my grip and placing it on the steering wheel. I look away from Lewis when I notice the car pull to a stop. Only then do I realize we're at a gas station.

“I'm sorry, I need to fuel up. Otherwise, I don't think we're going to be able to get home.”

“No problem.”

“Do you need something?” He says while opening the door to get out of the car.

“No. I’m good. Thank you.”

He slams the car door, and I watch his figure make his way to the inside of the convenience store.

Maybe it was just a bad phase, and as usual, I tried my best to become something about myself. Thinking about it, everything could have a good explanation.

I'm an emotional person. I tend to overstate all my feelings, and almost always this leads to a bad place, which hurts me. As the masochist that I am.

I have no reason to imagine such a thing. Lewis wouldn't do that to me. I know who I married, and I also know that we've changed and grown together long enough that we can't do that to each other.

Maybe I was too over the top to think and doubt him and my trust in him. Maybe.

I try to turn on my phone screen, but the only thing that comes up is the low battery icon.

I open the glove compartment to look for the charger cable while still looking at the device in my hand, when pulling the white wire, I hear the metal falling on the floor, and only the low sound emitted is enough to make me worry. I close the glove compartment calmly before taking my hand to the floor to pick up the object.

I can identify what it is as soon as I pick up the small object. My stomach drops. I don't remember leaving any jewelry here. I bring the piece to my vision and stare at the small bracelet in my hand. A bracelet that isn't mine.

I snap out of orbit as I stare at the object. There's nothing else around me but me, this ridiculous bracelet, and my wedding ring burning on my ring finger.

No. No. No.

He's too good to do that.

He wouldn't do that to me.

The real Lewis wouldn't do that to me.

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lust 01 / anthony bridgerton

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: the man you despise so much is suddenly in the arms of someone else and that makes you realize you actually have real strong feelings for him

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 1.3k

a/n: hii everyone! long time no see, a lot has been going on. but i have missed writing so much because it is my special place where i get to write and escape reality for a moment. and so i have finished watching bridgerton season 2 and… i was SHOOK. had to write something about mr anthony, hope you like it!

part 02 | part 03 | part 04 | part 05 | part 06

—–

Anthony Bridgerton. One if not the only person that has been irking you and continues to mendel with your life. It’s like everytime you think you got rid of him… there he is again. Although it is not entirely his fault. Your Mama has been eager to get you married this season even though you were not picked as the Diamond this year. Which was unexpected as everyone and their mother thought it would be you. But to you it was great, as you did not wish to marry someone just so you can get a title or have someone to sponsor you. You wanted something real, real love which seemed impossible. But that brings us to the person mentioned in the beginning,

Anthony.

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analepsis - series’ masterlist

𓂀 The Ton is nothing but a mere fragment of history, the context of Jane Austen’s novels. Nothing more. That is, of course, until Y/N finds herself in the middle of those long dresses and social codes, two hundred years in the past. She may have read Pride and Prejudice, but one thing is certain, she is no Elizabeth Bennet.

Pairing; Anthony Bridgerton x TimeTraveler!Reader (she/her pronouns) Genre; Time Travel AU + fluff, angst

𓂀 CHAPTERS. 

One; History is boring and Y/N sucks at it. She hasn’t started her essay on the Ton⏤courtesy of Mr. Anderson⏤and yet, it’s already a pain in the ass. 

Two; coming soon 

Three; coming soon 

𓂀 DRABBLES. 

coming soon

Summary: You had always loved him, would always do, however, did the oldest Bridgerton brother still like you after all that had happened between you? Are there any feelings that come back to the surface, after not seeing each other for years? Was the love truly unrequited?

Unrequited

Part 5

“Hmm..”, you had begun. “I think Daphne is going to marry a Duke someday. I just have a hunch.”, you had continued as you had leaned towards Anthony

“A Duke?”, Anthony had spat out. You had only raised your eyebrows in amusement. “What exactly is wrong about a Duke?”

Anthony had just shaken his head. “Just that every Duke I know is not a respectful man.”, Anthony had stated.

“I think the son of the Duke of Hastings is. He’s going to be one some day. And he’s quite hands-“

Anthony had rammed his elbow into your stomach, trying to silence you and looking at you in annoyance.

“What?”, you had laughed. “I think he’d be an excellent choice for your sister.”, you had grinned.

“Oh! And what about Lord Toussaint! He’s going to be a Duke someday, too. Oh I bet he’d be a nice husband.”, you had added, enjoying the way Anthony’s jaw clenched.

“None of them are going to marry Daphne, I assure you.”, Anthony had answered.

“Oh, come on! I’d marry one of them and Daphne would and we’d both be Duchesses.”

Anthony’s eyes had widened, turning to you with a stern look on his face. “Absolutely not. You are not going to marry Francois.”

You had leaned your head on Anthony’s shoulder, feeling more than safe when you had inhaled his scent. “Well, a Viscount wouldn’t be so bad, would he.”, you had mumbled, before your eyes had closed. You had been tired the whole day and feeling Anthony near you had brought you immediate comfort.

Anthony had needed a second to process what you had just said, and when he had, you had already drifted off into sleep.

And he had sat there, with you sleeping on his shoulders and a stupid love-struck grin plastered onto his face.

“And, did the Duke find a wife yet?”, you asked Francois, focusing on his shiny blonde hair rather than the stage.

You were avoiding it as long as you could, you would only be looking when the opera began, keeping your eyes on Francois as long as you could.

“He did not, unfortunately.”, Francois smiled at you. “I haven’t found the right one yet.”, he added quietly.

“You’re marrying for love?”, you rose your eyebrows, clearly surprised. Many men, such as Dukes, married only to seal an heir, a mere business arrangement.

“Mais, bien sûr! Of course! I’m a hopeless romantic.”, Francois laughed a little, his eyes sparkled when he did.

“I’m happy I met at least one man that believes in it.”, you grinned at him. “Why exactly though?”

Francois did not even take a second to answer. “I think love is the reason for our lives. We love to find love, to experience the feeling of it as it consumes your whole body and mind. We love to feel that pang in our chest, to feel our breath being taken away, to feel our heart beat quicken. I mean why else are we living? I wouldn’t want to have a wife who I don’t love, who doesn’t love me.”

You held your breath as Francois talked, thinking of Anthony the whole time he did. How he took your breath away, how your heart beat when he was near you, how your hands grew sweatier. “You’re very sweet, Francois.”

You could hear as the people grew quieter, the curtain slowly opening. You took a long breath, adverting your eyes from Francois to the scene in front of you.

You admired all the golden details admist the read of the opera, you admired that the Duke had his own box in there, assuming he was visiting the opera quiet often.

And when a beautiful young woman stepped into the stage, having brown curly hair and wearing a white shining dress, your breathing abruptly stopped.

Siena Rosso was beyond gorgeous, her hair shinier than yours, her eyes brighter than yours could ever be, her dress more beautiful than any you owned.

It was not only her appearance, it was the way she moved her hand so elegantly, the way she began singing and made it sound like a sweet poem whispered into your ear.

It seemed like she was everything you weren’t. The thing that hurt the most was not about how she looked, but that she had the thing that you wanted the most.

She had won the heart of Anthony Bridgerton.

When Francois caught on your distraught, he moved his hand over to yours, silently asking you for permission.

You looked down at your hands on your lap, before you nodded. Francois slowly took your hand into his, intertwining your fingers.

It brought you comfort, the way his hand was so warm, the way he slowly stroked it with his thumb. He wanted to help and you gladly accepted it.

“You know what my mother always told me?”, he whispered quietly, not expecting an answer.

“S'ils ne voient pas que l'amour fait partie de leur vie, alors ils ne méritent pas d'en faire l'expérience.”

You looked up at him, the words sounding more poetic than Sienna’s singing. Francois’ voice was so soothing, sounding absolutely beautiful to you.

“And what does it mean?”, you murmured, fascinated by the French language.

“If they don’t see that love is a part of their lives, then they don’t deserve to experience it.”

“It’s beautiful.”, you let out a shaky small laugh. “If he doesn’t see that love is a part of his life, he doesn’t get to experience love with you, ever.”, Francois explained to you, his thumb still stroking your skin.

You nodded at the man. “You’re right, my Lord.” Francois shook his head. “You can just call me Francois.”

“Thank you Francois.”

The two of you left your seats after everyone else, spending more time in catching up on your lives and talking than listening to the singers.

However, you knew that Siena had been a great singer, that her voice was beyond description beautiful.

So, as the two of you slandered along the seats, watching everything in awe, Francois took your hand and led you to the opera singers at the front.

You were lucky everyone had left, Francois taking your hand would be beyond scandalous. Nevertheless, the opera singers did not care.

“Bonsoir, Ladies.”, Francois smiled at them. “It was delighted to see you all, your performance was exceptional.”

You carefully watched as Siena scanned the both of you, looking between you suspiciously. “Your voice is truly a wonder.”, you addressed to her.

Siena turned to you and as much as you wanted to hate her, you couldn’t. It was not her fault in the slightest, she probably did not even know about your existence.

And when she offered you a small smile, you knew that she was just a woman like you, who had fallen in love with the undeniable charm and sweetness of Anthony Bridgerton- or former sweetness that is. ”You are flattering me.”, the brown-haired woman grinned.

You smiled back at her, Francois‘ hand squeezing yours in a sort of comfort. “I’ve never seen you around, are you new hear, my Lady?”

You shook her head. “I was living in the countryside for a few years. I must say, none of the opera singers their are even half as good as you all are.”

Siena grinned at Francois. “I already like her.”, she whispered as your eyes swiftly wandered around the opera, now empty and without the eyes of the ton on you.

“Thank you. And I guess you two-“, Siena brought your attention back, looking at your intertwined hands, then at your face and Francois’.

“Oh, no, we-“, you began, but Francois beat you to talking. “Not yet. I might have to prove my dancing skills to her and Lady Danbury to even be considered as a suitor.”, Francois looked down at you, his eyes shining with adoration.

You bit your lip, your cheeks getting warm as you looked at your feat, trying to hide your blush from both Siena and Francois.

“Well, I only wish you the best. Future Duke and Duchess.”, Siena winked at you, excusing herself in a rather rush as she walked to the changing rooms.

You furrowed your eyebrows, but brushed it off as you nodded at Francois to get going.

You shouldn’t have looked back one last time. You should have just walked out, without sparing the opera one last look.

You should have kept your attention on the man next to you, should have had a evening without any overthinking, without thoughts plaguing your mind the whole night.

However, something inside you had told you to look at it one last time, to let go and understand that Anthony Bridgerton could never be your man.

And when you saw the familiar brown hair, even if only the back, you felt quite literally like someone tried to push a dagger into your chest, trying to reach your heart.

Nonetheless, only when you let your thoughts wander even more, seeing as Anthony moved to the direction of the stage, quite possibly wanting to go behind them, your mind seemed to fully comprehend the situation.

He was walking into the same direction Siena had just rushed to. The dagger in your chest pushed harder until it finally did reach your heart.

Anthony was going to see Siena, their relationship was not an old one like you had hoped the whole time, Siena was still his mistress, his lover, the one who got to know the feeling of his soft lips on her, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his hands on her waist, of her hands in his, she could-

Siena was able to get to know what Anthony’s love felt like, because she was the one receiving it.

When Anthony entered the living room with sweat dripping down his forehead, a frown spread across his face and hair standing everywhere but where it should, Eloise and Benedict quickly hid the newest Lady Whistledown behind their backs, knowing exactly that if Anthony would read it, his state would only worsen.

“What is it?”, Anthony asked, stalking forward. Eloise’s eyes widened as she looked at Benedict, silently asking who should run away with the paper.

Before either of them could even stand up, the paper was snatched away from their hands, Anthony’s eyes scanning it carefully.

Eloise only watched as his jaw clenched, his fists balled. The oldest Bridgerton shook his head, mouth slightly agape as he spared Benedict Bridgerton a look.

Tears were already evident in his eyes, but he would never dear to shed them in front of his siblings.

Benedict shot him an apologetic look, trying to offer him a smile. Anthony just bit his lip and crunched the paper in his palm, throwing it as far away from his as he could, before stalking out the room with heavy steps.

Violet Bridgerton furrowed her eyebrows, picking up the paper and trying to unfold it, before reading what had made Anthony as mad.

And as it appears, dear readers, the Duke of Florence, Lord Toussaint, has finally set his eyes on a beautiful Lady, old childhood friend of his and without doubt the best choice for a new Duchess. Lord Toussaint was seen with her at the opera just yesterday, both of them leaning into each other a little bit too close for friends, whispering things without listening. However, as the author was not in the same box as them, I can only assume that their talking was surely not about the beautiful singing. I can only wish this to be the next love marriage this season.

“Well, I guess we have to invite Lord Toussaint for dinner tomorrow, too.”

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Let me teach you - Anthony Bridgerton x reader - chapter 4

Masterlist here

“You are not going out now. Haven’t you seen the weather, young lady?” Emily was already on her way out, as you entered the dining room for breakfast.

“I already promised Eloise that we could go to the market.” She complained to her parents.

“We cannot have you running around risking being sick. The Grosvenor house debutante ball is next week!” Your aunt was screeching and you tried your hardest not to grimace. Your uncle however didn’t hide his expression and the newspaper in his hand couldn’t distract him from this conversation.

Keep reading

⋆⋆✵ Perfect Imperfections ✵⋆⋆

Chapter 1

Genre : Arranged Marriage AU! Angst! Explicit Sexual Content.

Rating : 21+

Warnings : Ableism , Chronic disability. OC has limited use of her left leg, Emotional infidelity? Mild Cheating ( nothing very physical.. a kiss or so )

Summary : Marrying Jungkook is a mistake. Falling in love with him? Definitely the worst exercise in masochism .

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

No one tells you how easy it is to imagine yourself in love with a beautiful man. Especially when you don’t have a clear understanding of what love actually is. 

When I met Jungkook, even knowing he was in love with my sister hadn’t done much to douse the flames of hope and attraction. He was a lot of things that other men in my life weren’t. Kind without being pitying. Concerned without being overbearing. He took care of me without making me feel helpless. And there was always such a thin line between these things that I found myself impressed by his ability to toe the line so well.

Jungkook took care of me without making me feel like a burden and I suppose, some part of me had assumed that this could, in due time turn into love. But I was clearly wrong.

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Cry Me A River | Masterpost

— pairing: bts x reader

— genre: angst, slight fluff, poly!au, mafia!au, arranged marriage!au

— status: ongoing

— warnings: (triggering topics! please read at your own discretion) childhood trauma, mental abuse, allusions to physical abuse, child neglect, manipulation, gaslighting, violence, mentions of assault, hurt and comfort, divorce, emotional neglect, minor character deaths, kidnapping, some emotionally unstable scenes

↳ there will likely be more specifics in certain chapters. just know that this series highlight some things that can be triggering to some

one. the breaking | you tried so hard to be enough

two. the lie | a house made of cards, they lived in your beautiful fairytale

three. the promise | if you told them about the darkness inside of you, would they still look at you like you're the sun?

four. the gentle heart | keep your heart warm, no matter how cold they have been to you

five. the void | no matter how many times you read a story over and over again, it always ends the same

six. the puppeteer | father wanted perfection, you fell in love with disorder

seven. the trial master | the only way to get rid of a buried memory is to face your past

eight. the scarlet drop | you can wipe someone's tears but not their memories

nine. coming soon...

A Drop of Heaven (M)

Pairing: ot7 x reader, bts x reader

Summary: Seven vampires have secretly been roaming the darks of your world for millennia. Each brother selects a Feed who becomes supernaturally bound to him, whose blood will be fed on until their inevitable mortal death. They have spent their eternity hunting for the exorbitant rarity that is angel blood - the most heavenly of food for vampires that fuel them with desire, lust and satiety. So what happens when they find you, the first angel-blooded being they’ve encountered in two centuries and all want to side you as their Feed?

Genre: vampire au, poly au, smut, angst

Warnings: domestic abuse, depression, death, blood (of course), violence, a lot of sex and kinks

Disclaimer: This contains descriptions of abuse in the reader’s past which I am in no way shape or form glorifying, nor is this a romanticism of Stockholm Syndrome at all. This is purely based on the fictional supernatural concept I’ve created around the bond between a vampire and a Feed. Please proceed with reader’s discretion.

A/N: Each chapter will be member-centric, but please read every part in order to follow along with the overarching plot. As usual, lmk if you want to be tagged. ❤︎

❦

Prelude

I - Sir(e)

II - Doll

III - Broken Skin

IV - Playtime

V - Lovebitten

VI - Indulge

VII - First Taste

Epilogue

❦

last updated: 03/10/2019

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