#this was an interesting interview to read

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (i)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record 

summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae @ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

chapter 2 will be up tomorrow <3

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit 

The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.

You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."

But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.

The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.

"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."

But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.

"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.

Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.

"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.

"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"

The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.

Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"

The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."

Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"

His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."

Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.

"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."

The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.

"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."

He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."

As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.

FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit

The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.

The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.

But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.

“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”

Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets. 

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar. 

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor. 

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri. 

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped. 

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head. 

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort. 

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed. 

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly. 

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you. 

He clicks it immediately. 

The headline strikes first: 

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen. 

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third. 

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air. 

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside. 

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay. 

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.” 

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration. 

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. 

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury. 

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out. 

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him. 

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after. 

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet. 

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him. 

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching. 

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak. 

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.” 

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless. 

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?" 

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.” 

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been." 

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised." 

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore. 

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield. 

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.” 

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you. 

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.” 

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes. 

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought— 

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded. 

You don't finish the sentence. 

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal. 

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1. 

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat.  But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room. 

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

[meazalykov]

the past does not exist

lena oberdorf x interviewer!reader

summary: after a year, the both of you came to accept that you cannot change the past.

it was a job you loved—interviewing the best and brightest in women’s football, seeing the beauty and heartbreak of the sport that brought you so much love.. love for someone who never made it professionally. 

you had a thing for drawing out stories no one else could, peeling back the layers of the players' lives beyond the pitch.

it wasn’t just about asking the right questions; it was about knowing how to listen, being caring, and respect. through this job, you were able to make friends with many of the footballers.

you weren't a gossip interviewer, you knew what to post and when to keep your mouth closed and mind your business. mainly sticking to growth stories, interviews about games itself, and tactical commentary. the players respected you as much as you respected them.

when you stayed in wolfsburg during the 2023 champions league final, the town seemed excited for the team that shined throughout the season. the final was in eindhoven, but wolfsburg fans decked out in green and white as they prepared to cheer on their team against barcelona in the dutch city. 

for you, it was another opportunity to dig deeper into the lives of players, and the wolfsburg squad was nothing short of intriguing. to you, lena oberdorf stood out among them. she is a tough midfielder whose intensity on the pitch was matched only by her charm off it.

your first interview with lena was.. interesting to say the least. she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed casually, a mischievous glint in her eye as she teased you about the list of questions you had prepared. 

“come on, these can’t be all you’ve got!! be nosey for once,” she’d said, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

you laughed, adjusting your recorder on the table. 

“trust me, oberdorf, i’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

“good,” she said, leaning forward slightly. 

“i wouldn’t want this to be boring.”

what followed was a conversation that felt less like an interview and more like a sparring match. she was sharp, witty, and unapologetically confident. you couldn’t help but be drawn to her energy. over the next few days, lena sought you out whenever she could—whether it was a casual chat after training or a quiet drink in the team’s hotel bar. 

it was there, amid the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, that your connection deepened.

one night, as the team celebrated their victory in the semifinals, lena pulled you aside. her usually playful demeanor was replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. 

“y/n.. i don’t know what it is about you,” she admitted, her voice low enough that only you could hear. 

“but i can’t stop thinking about you. you’re so beautiful, and i can’t stop hearing your voice. is that weird to say? i am not sure, but please tell me that this is not one sided..”

it didn’t take long for your professional boundaries to blur. you spent nights tangled in lena’s sheets, stolen moments in hotel rooms where the world outside ceased to exist. 

it wasn’t love, not at all, but it was something raw and undeniable. 

wolfsburg lost the champions league final, which sucked horribly. that means that you had your next job to do– the 2023 women's world cup. you were in australia, assigned to be following the uswnt as they sought to defend their title. 

that means that you couldn’t be with lena or germany. it sucked, but you and lena kept contact. until, germany’s shocking elimination in the group stage. it was a blow to lena and her teammates. 

when you texted her to check in, she didn’t respond. calls went unanswered, messages left on read. 

you understood that lena was hurting. the weight of expectations, the sting of disappointment, it was a lot for anyone to bear. however, her silence cut deep. you wanted to be there for her, to comfort her, but your job demanded your attention elsewhere. 

as much as it pained you, you told yourself to let it go. lena owed you nothing. you weren’t hers, and she wasn’t yours.

still, it hurt.

months passed, and you threw yourself into your work. you interviewed aitana bonmati after her world cup final heroics, sat down with leah williamson to talk about england’s near chance at winning it all, and made a documentary on the rise of young stars like lauren james, salma paralluelo, and trinity rodman. 

lena became a ghost in your life—a memory you tried not to revisit, though it lingered at the edges of your thoughts.

then, over a year later, the news broke: lena oberdorf is leaving wolfsburg for bayern. the transfer sent shockwaves through the football world, and as one of the leading journalists in women’s football, it was your job to cover it. 

except your coworker, matt, stepped in before you could even begin.

“i’ve got this one,” matt said casually, leaning against your desk. 

you looked up from your laptop, frowning.

“since when do you cover transfers? you only do injury status stuff..”

he shrugged. 

“since i know this one’s a little... complicated for you.”

“complicated?” you repeated, your tone sharper than you intended. 

matt raised an eyebrow, unbothered by your reaction. 

“look, everyone knows that you and oberdorf had... something. i’m just trying to make it easier for you.”

“i don’t need you to make it easier for me,” you snapped, though the tightening in your chest betrayed you. 

“i can handle it.”

“y/n,” judah, matt’s husband and your other coworker, spoke up, his voice softer. 

“you don’t have to prove anything. let matt take this one.”

you wanted to argue, to insist that you were fine, but the truth was, the thought of facing lena again—even from a professional distance—made your stomach churn. 

you hated that she still had this power over you, that the mere mention of her name could unravel the carefully constructed walls you’d built around yourself.

“fine,” you muttered, closing your laptop with more force than necessary. 

matt gave you a reassuring smile. “i’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

as he walked away, you leaned back in your chair, exhaling slowly. you told yourself it didn’t matter. lena was just another player, another story. you’d moved on. 

except, deep down, you knew that wasn’t entirely true.

paris had this summer’s energy with the olympics. the streets were alive with fans draped in flags from all over the world, and you were in your element, weaving through the chaos to chase stories that mattered. 

the united states had just played germany in the group stage, a tense match that ended in a 4-1 victory for the americans. the post-match adrenaline was palpable, and you had just wrapped up an interview with sophia smith. 

it was nice seeing one of your favorites again, sophia’s grin mirrored your own as she walked off toward her teammates to the dressing room, the tension of the match now replaced by joy.

you adjusted your microphone to turn it off. you turned to walk away, preparing to call it a day when you nearly collided with lea schüller. 

the blonde woman’s presence was commanding, her expression soft yet serious. you’ve interviewed her a long time ago while she still played for essen, but now she’s grown up. 

“oh, lea,” you said, recovering quickly. professionalism kicked in as you gestured toward the camera crew that was starting to pack up. 

“did you want to do a quick interview too? i can call them back.”

“no,” lea said quickly, shaking her head. her tone caught you off guard—there was a weight to it, something unsaid pressing at the edges. 

“i don’t want the cameras.”

your brow furrowed as you lowered your microphone and put it away in your bag. 

“are you okay? i mean, this is about the olympics, right? you should be focusing on that.”

“i am,” lea said, her voice steady but her gaze unwavering. 

“but this isn’t about the olympics. not entirely.”

you tilted your head, curiosity prickling at your skin. 

“then what is it about?”

lea hesitated, glancing around as if to make sure no one was listening. 

“can we just talk? no microphones, no cameras. just you and me.”

you hesitated. as much as you respected lea, this wasn’t normal protocol. the look in her eyes—earnest and almost pleading—nudged you to agree. 

“okay,” you said softly. 

“what’s on your mind?”

lea exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. she stepped closer, lowering her voice. 

“i’m here to apologize. not for myself—but for obi.”

your heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. you hadn’t spoken about obi in months, hadn’t even allowed yourself to think about her for fear of reopening old wounds. 

here it was, her name hanging in the air between you and lea like a ghost.

“apologize?” you echoed, keeping your tone neutral. 

“for what?”

lea shifted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable. “i know about you and lena. about... what you had.” she paused, watching your expression carefully. 

“she’s really sorry for how things ended. or—how they didn’t end, i guess. for ghosting you.”

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. 

“she told you about us?”

“she did, but honestly she didn’t have to,” lea said gently. 

“i’m her best friend. i noticed how different she was after you two stopped seeing eachother. she’s not great at dealing with her emotions, and back then...” lea trailed off, sighing. 

“she was going through a lot. losing the champions league final with wolfsburg hit her hard. then germany getting knocked out of the world cup? it was too much. and she didn’t know how to handle it. she shut everyone out, including you. shit, it took me a few weeks to get to her again.”

you wanted to look away, to shield yourself from the vulnerability of the moment, but lea’s gaze held you in place. the blonde’s words twisted something deep inside you—part anger, part sadness, part longing. 

“i get that she was struggling,” you said finally, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“but she could’ve said something. anything. instead, she just... disappeared.”

“i know,” lea said quickly. “and i’m not trying to make excuses for her. she knows she messed up. that’s why she asked me to talk to you since she can’t be here.”

you blinked, the weight of her words settling over you. 

“she asked you?”

lea nodded. 

“she wants you to know she’s sorry. she didn’t mean to hurt you but she also knows that an apology coming from me isn’t enough.”

you folded your arms across your chest, the defense mechanism almost automatic. “it’s not,” you admitted. 

“if she wants to apologize, she should tell me herself.”

lea’s expression softened, and she gave a small nod. 

“i understand and i think she does too, but she’s scared, y/n. scared you’ll never forgive her.”

you took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay composed. 

“i’m not saying i wouldn’t. but it has to come from her. not you.”

lea studied you for a moment, then offered a small smile. 

“honestly, you’re a good person, y/n. she doesn’t deserve you, but if she gets the chance to explain herself, i think you’ll see she’s been trying to be better.”

you didn’t respond right away. part of you wanted to dismiss the entire conversation, to pretend it didn’t matter anymore. the truth was, it did. lena still mattered, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

“thank you, lea,” you said finally, your voice quiet. 

“for telling me.”

lea smiled again, this time with a hint of relief. 

“of course. and for what it’s worth, i think she’ll reach out. she just needs to find the courage.”

as she walked away, you stood there, the noise of the olympic village fading into the background. you weren’t sure how to feel… relieved? angry? hopeful? 

it started innocently enough—moments stolen between interviews and training sessions, quiet conversations that lingered long after they ended. obi was magnetic by a vulnerability she rarely showed to anyoen except for you. 

she made you laugh when you least expected it. over time, those stolen moments grew into something deeper. the teasing smiles turned into lingering glances, and the casual touches—her hand brushing yours, her knee pressed against yours under the table—became harder to ignore. 

usually, you were able to keep your professionalism for footballers, but lena made you feel ways that you didn’t feel for a very long time until that spring of 2023.

for lena, you were different. she had always been wary of letting anyone get too close, but with you, it felt effortless. you asked about her family, her dreams, the books she read when she needed to escape the noise of the world. however, you asked because you wanted to know– not because you needed something new to write about for an article. 

obi, in turn, wanted to know everything about you—your favorite coffee order, the places you dreamed of visiting, the stories you carried behind your composed demeanor as an interviewer. it scared her how much she wanted to know, how much she wanted to keep you close.

the nights you spent together weren’t just about the sex, though that was undeniable. it was about the quiet moments after, when lena would trace lazy circles on your skin as you talked about nothing and everything. 

it was in the way she’d insist on walking you back to your room, even when it was out of her way, or how she’d send you random texts during the day—pictures of the sky, a meme she thought you’d find funny, a simple compliment. 

it wasn’t just hooking up, not to either of you, even if neither of you said the words out loud.

the semifinal was here a week after lea and you talked. the united states against germany, again. 

you adjusted the strap of your bag, walking alongside matt and judah as you made your way to the front-row seats reserved for the media.

matt was mid-story, animatedly describing america’s pre-match routine as he holds judah’s hand. you’re set to interview lindsey horan after the match. your media company is collaborating with the united states to put out a documentary if the united states win the olympics. a contrast to being eliminated from the world cup a year before. 

matt was talking when suddenly stopped in his tracks. his hand reached out to grab your arm, his eyes wide. “y/n,” he said, his voice dropping in volume.

“don’t freak out, but... is that who I think it is?”

you followed his gaze, and the world seemed to tilt for a moment. lena. sitting in the crowd just a few rows behind where your seats were, her presence as sharp and overwhelming as a gust of icy wind. 

she was next to lea, who was also sidelined due to injury, both of them out of action yet here to support their team. lena’s leg was propped slightly to accommodate the brace on her knee—a harsh reminder of her recent acl surgery. 

your breath caught in your throat as her eyes locked onto yours. there was a softness in her gaze, an unreadable mix of intrigue and something else that made your chest ache. she smiled lightly, not quite coy but just enough to make you feel unsteady. 

beside her, lea glanced your way and offered a small, sympathetic smile that only twisted the knot forming in your stomach. 

“shit,” you murmured under your breath, quickly looking away and focusing on the crowd in front of you. your heart raced, a thrum so loud you were sure matt and judah could hear it. 

“are you okay?” matt asked, his tone cautious, concerned. 

“fine,” you said quickly, your voice tight. 

“just wasn’t expecting—her.”

“do you want to switch seats?” judah offered, ever the considerate one.

“no,” you said, shaking your head even as your hands trembled slightly. 

“it’s fine. i’ll deal with it.”

it didn’t feel fine. it felt like your chest was caving in, the air around you charged with tension. lena wasn’t supposed to be here. she was supposed to be in germany, recovering. why was she here, in france, sitting just a few rows behind you? 

you made your way to your seat, determined to ignore the weight of her presence. matt and judah settled on the left side of you, chatting about the potential lineup changes for both teams. its 0-0 in the 40th minute and its clear that both teams might need changes. you nodded along absently, your thoughts spinning in a dozen directions. you glanced at the pitch, and latched onto lindsey horan’s familiar figure. you reminded yourself that you were here for a reason. lindsey. you had a job to do.

it was impossible to shake the sensation that someone is looking at you. it crawled along your skin, pulling your attention until you couldn’t resist. you turned your head slightly, your gaze flicking over your shoulder—and there she was.

lena.

she wasn’t watching the game. the german’s eyes were on you, unflinching and intent, as if she were trying to read your every move. obi’s expression wasn’t smug or teasing; it was quieter than that, almost searching. 

beside her, lea was fully immersed in the match, cheering loudly as the germans pushed forward. however, lena’s focus was solely on you.

your stomach flipped, and you whipped your head back around, your pulse thundering in your ears. you clenched your hands into fists in your lap, willing yourself to calm down. the last thing you needed was to let lena see how much she still affected you. 

“she’s looking at you, isn’t she?” judah’s leaned in, his voice feminine but low enough that only you could hear.

you didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded slightly. judah sighed, his tone softening. 

“forget that she’s even there.”

easy for him to say. judah didn’t have the weight of months of unspoken words and unresolved feelings sitting just four rows behind him. of course he didn’t, neither judah or matt understood lesbian relationships.. or situationships. the married couple didn’t have to confront the ache of seeing someone who had disappeared from their lives without explanation.

you tried to watch the game and it worked for a while. as the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but wonder if this moment, this game, this crowd, was lena’s way of trying to find her way back into your life.

it was. 

the americans kicked out germany to secure their place in the gold or silver medal match as germany will fight spain for the bronze medal. you finished your interview with lindsey in record time. it helped that she was a close friend, making the questions flow naturally. 

after the camera crew packed up and moved away, lindsey squeezed your shoulder affectionately. 

“good luck with... whatever’s on your mind,” she said, her knowing smile hinting that she’d picked up on your unease before and after the interview. before you could respond, she jogged off to join her celebrating teammates, leaving you standing alone at the edge of the media zone.

then, you saw her.

lena was on crutches, moving slowly through the thinning crowd. the brace on her leg was unmistakable, but it was her eyes that made your chest tighten. she was looking right at you, determined, like she’d already decided this conversation was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not. 

you froze. part of you wanted to turn and walk away before she reached you. however, your feet could not move. your pulse quickened as she stopped in front of you, her presence commanding despite the vulnerability of her injury. 

“hi,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unfamiliar mix of nervousness and resolve.

you nodded, keeping your tone professional. 

“hi, lena. how’s the leg?”

her lips curved into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“it’s... getting there. rehab’s gonna be tough, but i’m managing.” 

you nodded again, the words sticking in your throat. 

“that’s good. um, do you want to—”

“no,” lena interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind. 

“don’t do that, y/n. don’t skip around what happened. we can’t just act like it didn’t exist.”

you blinked, caught off guard by her directness. 

“lena, i don’t think—”

“please,” she cut in, her tone softening as she adjusted her crutches to steady herself. 

“let me talk.”

you swallowed hard, nodding. she took a deep breath, her gaze unwavering as she began.

“i messed up,” she said, her voice low but steady.

“last summer... after the champions league final and the world cup, i was in a bad place. i felt like i’d failed at everything that mattered—my team, my country, my family, and you.” she paused, her brows knitting together. 

“i was embarrassed. i didn’t know how to face you because i thought you deserved better than the mess i was. so, i ran and that was the worst thing i could’ve done.”

obi’s words hit you like a wave, stirring up emotions you’d worked hard to bury. you opened your mouth to speak, but lena pressed on.

“i thought i needed space,” she continued. “and maybe i did, but i didn’t realize what i was losing until it was too late. until you were gone. and i’ve missed you, y/n. every day. not just what we had, but you. your laugh, the way you understood me even when i couldn’t find the words.” she paused, her voice catching. 

“i haven’t forgotten about you. not for one day.”

you looked away, trying to steady your breathing. “lena,” you began, your voice shaky. 

“do you have any idea how much that hurt? you just... disappeared. no explanation, no goodbye. i thought—i thought i didn’t matter to you.”

“you mattered,” she said quickly, her voice firm. 

“you still matter. i know i hurt you, and i’ll never forgive myself for that. but i’m here now, and i’m asking... can we start over? i have so much time on my hands now with this injury. time to make it right, if you’ll let me.”

you hesitated, the weight of her words settling over you. “maybe you should focus on your recovery,” you said finally, your tone careful. “that’s what’s most important right now.”

lena nodded, her expression serious. 

“i am. my therapist said part of my recovery is being honest with myself though and the truth is, i want you back in my life. not just as something casual. i want us to be official, when the time is right.”

obi’s words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. then, you nodded slowly. 

“i’ll be in munich when bayern plays their first champions league match,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“we’ll see where things stand then.”

lena’s face broke into a smile—genuine, relieved, and filled with something you hadn’t seen in her for a long time: hope. “okay,” she said softly. “okay.”

she stepped closer, leaning down slightly despite the crutches to pull you into a hug. her arms wrapped around you tightly, and you felt her press a small, lingering kiss to the side of your head. it was grounding, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

as she pulled back, she met your eyes again. “you can stay at my place in munich anytime,” she offered, her tone light but sincere. 

you gave her a small smile. 

“okay.”

just like that, the past felt smaller, less significant. the past did not exist anymore, since the future was all you and obi have. 

masterlist

[yuurei20]

"Vil has possibly never acknowledged having friends, or even school friends." I'm confused. Are you talking in that one event or in general? If it's the latter...what? Vil has said that Jack is his childhood best friend, and seems to be friendly with Rook, possibly seeing him as one. That statement contradicts the canon.

Hello hello! Thank you for this question! 👑🐺

I have not been able to find a line of Vil calling Jack his childhood best friend ("best friend" itself seems to be a word that has only been used four times in the whole game!), but if you happen to have a chapter or screenshot it would be very much appreciated! Always happy to update with the most accurate information m(_ _)m

The closest I was able to find is Vil's ceremonial robes vignette where he refers to himself and Jack as "同郷のよしみ," but in this case the word "friend" might be oversimplifying the nuance of what he is actually saying: Vil is acknowledging that they have something in common--their hometown--without referring to Jack as his friend! He is acknowledging their pre-existing connection without implying friendship or an emotional bond.

EN chose to go with "old friend" for this particular line, but it is not uncommon for EN to introduce the word "friend" into dialogue where it does not exist, which is why this series is based on content from the original game rather than the adaptation :> English adaptations will often simplify nuances for accessibility!

EN uses the word "countryman" earlier in this conversation, which I think is a perfect interpretation ♪

The realization of how very rarely anyone actually says "friend" (and Yana's interview where she says that the theme of the game is making problem children get along with one another) was the inspiration for this series!

Malleus, for example, has never referred to the prefect as his friend, but the word was not only added to his EN dialogue but the word "human" was replaced with "acquaintance"!

Between Halloween Year 1 and Halloween Year 3 Malleus promotes the prefect from "acquaintance" to "friend" in relationship development that hasn't actually happened in canon! Which I find fascinating ^^ The EN game really is its own unique experience!

Returning to Vil: he does seem to be friendly with Rook, but he has never actually said out loud that they are friends!

This does not mean that they are not actually friends, but refusing to acknowledge friendship aloud is also a theme:

Ace seems to be friendly with the prefect, for example, going to Ramshackle alone late at night so that they can watch horror movies together, but when others comment on how they are friends he will deny it 📝

Ace: "We're just in the same class. You don't have to read anything into it!"

It has been very interesting to track which characters seem adverse to the concept of friendship and which are not--are things building up to a climactic moment where characters like Malleus, Vil and Ace actually do admit that they have friends?

(In a mirror image of Ace we have Deuce, who is one of the only four people who have ever said "best friend" 👀📝)

I am certain to check new content as it releases for examples of anyone saying "friend" aloud and am updating this information as the characters evolve ^^

Am very excited to see if there will be character development and/or plot points in the future where the characters finally do refer to one another as friends!

[pxvonine]

some Aventurine content that wasn't officially translated into English, for your perusal:

1. Aventurine's interview with ANAN magazine - I couldn't find any English translations of this online (they apparently get taken down very quickly) but here is someone's summary of the questions & answers on reddit:

2. The 'A Date With Director Aventurine' video posted on Bilibili. Here is a youtube video with (fan-translated) captions in english. The video is less than 3 minutes long, but I'm putting a transcript under the cut in case that's easier for anybody.

[Setting: A hotel room in the Dreamscape]

Aventurine: Oh, there you are. Wanna play a round before we set off? Just a simple game - guess the coin toss. Let's see how lucky you are today. But hey, don't worry. Win or lose, all expenses are on me today.

[Setting: Clock Studios Theme Park]

Aventurine: Looks like we’re in luck today. Let's go. I’ll take you to see the truest, most ordinary side of Penacony. Our first stop: the Clock Studios Theme Park. What an interesting place.

Hmm? Why don't you see any other visitors? Take a guess.

Alright now, don't just look around. We have the entire theme park to ourselves today. We’re quite safe here. Merely a customized service.

[Setting: Oti Mall]

Aventurine: If you're tired, let's head to Oti Mall for some food. We’ve burnt quite a lot of calories today. Order anything you like. Also, don't forget - we’re in a dream, after all.

[You both are now next to a storefront]

Aventurine: You’ve turned to look at this store quite a few times now. Sure you don't want to go in? The design and material both look pretty good. It should… suit you quite well. My taste is always impeccable.

[Setting: Aideen Park]

Aventurine: Aideen Park, my favorite place in the entire Golden Hour. The attractions here really suit my tastes - you know how it is. Since we’re here, how about another round? If you win, I’ll agree to a request of yours. Anything at all. After all, this is the land of dreams… Penacony.

[Cut to Aventurine lying in bed on his phone]

Aventurine: The Family sure knows how to push their agenda. Why does the Penacony project… also include filming a promotional video?

[The Screen fades to black]

White text appears reading: ‘Approval Comments: Not Approved’

[deanmarywinchester]

best sf/f/horror I read in 2024

hello esteemed colleagues. here’s stuff I read in 2024 that I liked, in no particular order outside of the ranking tiers. find previous years of this reclist here

top 5

the bright sword by lev grossman: “lev grossman wrote a shockingly melancholy, hopeful, and expansive novel that hurts a little to read, about a young man who dreams of the age of heroes but finds that that age is over” and other unsurprising statements. this one is a take on Arthurian legend that happens after Arthur is dead, and is really interesting to me for how it portrays England as abandoned once by Rome’s great architects and then once more by the magic of Arthur’s court. with the age of legends twice dead, can anyone bring it back for real or can they only try to make it RETVRN?

the traitor baru cormorant + sequels by seth dickinson: there was a version of this post, before I went back and checked my list of what I read this year, where the top 5 was only Seth Dickinson books. these books are about how far you’ll descend into evil (ie how many war crimes you’ll commit as an imperial operative) to save your colonized home. they’re all good but the first one goes CRAZY. the author was a police bias researcher and it shows. portrays lesbian desire really really well. “hard fantasy” isn’t REALLY a thing but it’s this, they’re barely fantasy and more political drama

exordia by seth dickinson also: what if a reality-warping anomaly was hotly pursued by the US military while they were hotly pursued by aliens with planet-killing power? what if you got your whole village killed as a child and now you’re in a romcom with an alien? the Acknowledgements say, nearly word for word, “i wrote this between Barus for fun because those really take it out of me. anyway I’d like to thank the researchers who helped me with astrophysics, nuclear weapon functions, Kurdish feminism and history, and translation into five languages.” read if you like meticulously researched thrillers, Annihilation, and Challengers situations.

everything for everyone by eman adelhadi and m. e. o’brien: told with a framing device whereby the authors mention their own experiences with activism and revolution after the 2020s and compile an oral history of the future anarchist New York Commune, each chapter of this book is an interview with someone about a different aspect of how they contributed to revolution and setting up a new society. my gripe with this book is that I wish it talked more about problems that will still (or newly) exist in utopia, but I still loved it.

we have always lived in the castle by shirley jackson: I finished this book and immediately went to that blog that was running the literary incest tournament earlier this year because I was certain that Merricat and Constance had placed and lo and behold they had. those gothic themes are gothic themeing. read if you want jackson’s theme of small-town distrust and paranoia and isolation taken to the extreme

honorable mentions

the raven tower by ann leckie: what I love about ann leckie is her ability to write non-human protagonists without sci-fi jargon and with totally alien concerns and viewpoints that you can nonetheless buy into. this protagonist is a rock living on a hill that is a local god. read if you like folktales, loners, and twist endings.

the sapling cage by margaret killjoy: even though this is middle grade, all you had to say to me was “Margaret From Podcasts does transfem anarchist Song of the Lioness” and I was in. in a medieval fantasy world without a concept of transness, a trans girl swaps places with her friend so her friend can become a knight and she can become a witch and discover who is leaching the life from the forests for their own gain. the witch politics/interpersonal drama is done with the eye of someone who’s lived in communes most of her life and the way it straddles lingering love of knight tales and distrust of armed people with the legal right to kill you is refreshing

do you dream of terra two by temi oh: the most elite graduates of a cutthroat boarding school are selected for a mission to explore a potentially habitable planet in this character-driven meditation on what it takes to believe in something you can’t see and may have to give up your whole life for

monstrilio: a piece of flesh from a woman’s dead son grows into a person of its own, initially shaped like a monster but molded by his parents into a more-or-less normal-looking young man with a taste for human flesh. cringe moment but this is what Jack Supernatural could have been. to me. litfic with themes of monstrousness/normality, grief, and the various meanings of consuming flesh.

long live evil by sarah rees brennan: listen I know how it sounds but I’m putting this book so high up this list because I had a blast. a teenage cancer patient gets isekai’d into a book series that her sister loves but that she only half remembers, and has to use her vague memory of the plot to avoid execution long enough to obtain a magic item that’ll cure her in the real world. it has something to say about how it feels to live in a body that’s healthy after being desperately sick but it’s also just catnip for your inner teen fangirl daydreaming about getting your first kiss from a tortured prince

the terraformers by annalee newitz: in three different stories of people at different times in the planet’s political development, the story of a privately-owned planet terraformed to be habitable is told. this is for you if you like future politics about privatization and the rights of non-human persons a la Murderbot

silver under nightfall by rin chupeco: this book was selected for me by my friend and favorite bookseller @literally-irreverent because i like romance IN things but I don’t usually like when romance is the whole plot. anyway this is about solving a dangerous strain of vampirism while having a vampire/vampire/vampire-hunter romance that is. mwah. chef’s kiss. read if you like politically disastrous polyamory and The Witcher

the adventures of amina al-sirafi by s. a. chakraborty: i read the daevabad trilogy and I liked it but didn’t love it, but I liked this book a lot. mostly I think it’s really fun to have a seagoing adventurer who’s a mom, and it was done with a lot of care for her perspective.

runners up

to shape a dragon’s breath by monquill blackgoose: in an alternate history New England, an indigenous teenager finds a dragon egg and must become the first non-European to attend a school for dragon riders near her island. YA with prose that skews young and easy to read but with a good story. themes of colonialism and resistance.

things have gotten worse since we last spoke by eric larocca: I don’t love larocca’s prose but I felt like this book succeeded because it’s written in internet dialogue + therefore hid larocca’s tendency to get purple prose with it. horror about the quick rabbithole that is getting socialized/groomed mostly online.

the lion will slaughter the lamb & the barrow will send what it may by margaret killjoy: novellas where a group of wandering punk-house dwellers find out what’s raising supernatural horrors and how to stop them from killing again

running close to the wind by alex rowland: this felt like an attempt to bottle the Our Flag-type chaos and comedy pirate romance vibes without feeling like straight-up fanfiction. a pathetic meow meow of an ex-intelligence agent tries to sell state secrets without getting caught aboard his ex’s ship, while the two of them bet on who can break a hot monk’s vow of chastity first

the gone world by tom sweterlitch: this felt like christopher nolan writing a detective novel, as government agents travel to parallel realities to solve a murder

autonomous by annalee newitz: in a future society, this follows a scientist on the run from the governments and pharma companies that are out to get her for her work to make patented medications available on the black market, as she tries to fix a mistake she made in making an addictive treatment available to the public. this book is broadly about intellectual property and about the concept of property at all

the deep sky by yume kitasei: weirdly this book is a very different take on the same concept as another book on this list, do you dream of terra-two, where graduates of an elite school are sent on a generation ship to start a new colony. the twist is that all the characters are expected to bear two children to carry on the generation ship, which leads to some wild mostly-unexplored gender dynamics. this one is much more sci-fi/mystery to Terra-Two’s character-driven drama.

the atlas six by olivie blake: well-written dark-academia thriller that is obvious booktok fodder. with the vibes of the mortal instruments (everyone is so hot and powerful and tortured!) meets the secret history, a group of young magicians is recruited to learn the secrets of the library of alexandria

Ursula, kill this clown: dishonorable mentions

I don’t have enough dishonorable mentions for their own post this year but HOLY FUCK. THE FIVE BOOKS OF ROBERT MOSES. this book is FOURTEEN hundred pages of absolute dogshit that I should have DNFed but I liked the concept so much that I wanted to find something to like in the execution. Nope! the pitch is “a dirty bomb turns NYC into a wasteland and the city is picked up and moved wholesale, with the maps of the five boroughs remaining more or less the same, into a Nevada desert refugee camp guarded by the army, and a major character is Robert Moses’ disaffected younger brother.” on a petty level, this is the New Yorkiest pitch possible for someone who absolutely doesn’t give a shit about developing the new desert New York with any interest or fidelity. on an unpetty level, this is a slop “political” “thriller” that doesn’t develop a strong political perspective and moves at a sloth pace. skip.

[therollingriceball]

Of Cartoons and Cuddles [ Aventurine x Fem!Reader]

A/N: I recently got hold of the Anan Japanese magazine with interview of Aventurine and it have an interesting tidbits I don't know if available in English or not-- one including that he mentioned that he used to enjoy Clockie cartoons as a kid. So I tried to write something based on that.

---

You knew Aventurine had been tired and overworking himself for a while now, even if he didn't express it clearly. While he had been suggesting a date out for you two for a breather, you're afraid of his perfectionist side that would've just made him busy in other side of the idea of a 'perfect date'.

So you very much insisted on a house date. With cartoon marathons. Clockie cartoons for exact.

Nothing could go wrong with Clockie cartoons-- they're a classic for a reason. You initially thought of watching mindless romcom movies with him, but right now nothing really strikes your fancy. And suddenly, you remembered that time Aventurine casually mentioned that he used to watch Clockie cartoons as a child.

While he might meant nothing much by it--- given you two's age range, Clockie cartoons are the thing most people around the same age have in common about their childhood-- you also knew of how he kept dear of all the happier things on his childhood, like his love for his family.

And so, under numerous blankets-- season being winter, after all, with popcorns and hot chocolate ready, on his cozy sofa in front of his television that seemed too grand for the choice of old cartoons, you two begin your watch-along marathon.

One thing though, you forgot telling him of your choice of movie as opening reels plays along.

"I thought we're going to watch Christmas romcoms." "Huh. Didn't I tell you? We're going to watch Clockie cartoons... or do you prefer romcoms instead? Sorry." "No, it's fine. It's just... a pleasant surprise."

Aventurine chuckled. It may be just be the body's cold weather measure, but his face is reddened. He didn't have the timing to say so, but he's really happy you remembered something he mentioned rather offhandedly.

In between little giggles and laughter the cartoons bring along your watch, he held you close to a cuddle. Too close, even, you could feel his breath on your neck. It caused your cheeks to be the redder one now.

"Heeey. I can't focus. This was my favorite episode as a kid!" "What a coincidence. It was mine too!" "Then let's focus on the show, shouldn't we?" "Nah. I already memorized this episode for a while. I have a good memory when it's about the happier sides of my childhood, you know." "Huh. Fine then."

To those words of yours, Aventurine just giggled-- his giggle made you felt vibration on your neck. He's too close, and his held on you felt quite tight.

"Hey." "Hmm? What is it, Aventurine?" "Nothing. Just... I'm happy you're here to spend time with me. It feels like a reward for working hard recently, if you don't mind me thinking so."

It might not be in the spirit of the comedic, child-friendly cartoon, but now you wanted a kiss after seeing his genuine smile and hearing his whisper-y voice saying those words. But you're a little too shy to say that. So instead--

"Of course I don't mind. Just treat it as a reward if you want to--" "Then, I'll take it."

---of course he could just read through your expression. You two have dated for a while, after all.

And in between you two's shared childhood favorite, you two kissed gently, sharing another memories just for the two of you...

[doubledeadstudio]

Hello, happy holidaysヾ(＾∇＾) I apologize for this being a long question but I've been thinking for a long time and I really have to ask if you would ask the RH crew (Mars, Abel and Fleur too if that's okay) for book and/or movie recommendations, what would they give ? If it's not a spoiler, what media inspired their depiction, if any? I want to practice English so I find new things I like, and I hope my words make meaning when I use translation. Have a happy holiday (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

Happy Holidays! This is so sweet. Good luck on your language journey.

Recommendations:

Crux Hertz - The Ritual (2017) or Bones and All (2022) (movie), Siddharta by Hermann Hesse or No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai (books)

Black Lumaban - Mad Max: Fury Road (movie), The Conquest of Bread by Peter Kropotkin (book)

Vincenzo Fontana - Possession (1981) (movie), The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde or Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (book)

Florentin Blanchett - The Substance (2024) or Dead Ringers (1988) (movie), Stiff by Mary Roach (book)

Abel Valencia - American Psycho (2000) or Wolf of Wall Street (2013), no books because he's stupid but I will give a TV show... Desperate Housewives

Inspirations:

So, the thing about this is really complicated because I'm an avid art fan and I consume all sorts of media, from books to movies to tv shows and music. Generally, I get a concept then my brain starts piecing things together. (Crux is the hardest to explain because he originally started off as the child of two of me and my husband's oldest OCs... and he became a whole separate beast on his own.)

But I can give characters that really remind me of them!

Crux - Sans (Undertale), Gojo (JJK), Loki (Marvel), Shawn Spencer (Psych) (This is the worst list of all time), also Markus (Red Embrace:Hollywood), and Lee (Bones and All). Hozier and Will Wood remind me of his aesthetic.

Black - Guts (Berserk), Lio Fotia (Promare), Fenris (Dragon Age), Warren Peace (Sky High), Bigby (Wolf Among Us), Juri (Utena). For music, grandson has his vibes.

Vincenzo - Lestat (Interview with a Vampire), Orin (Baldur's Gate 3), Gilbert (Kaze to Ki no Uta), Mahito (JJK), Alois Trancy (Black Butler), Ryo Asuka (Devilman Crybaby). His storyline was largely inspired by HP Lovecraft's Dreams of Witch House. For music, near everything by Emilie Autumn and Mindless Self Indulgence.

Abel - Ashley (The Boys), Rhys (Tales from the Borderlands), Nathan (Life is Strange). (I won't lie, a huge part of him is directly inspired to parody Right Wing pundits lolol) For music, no lie, Laufey and Lana del Rey, LMAO.

Florentin - Griffith (Berserk), Viktor Frankenstein, Dr Herbert West (Re-Animator).

~~~

For Mars:

Hello, Clovis here, creator of Mars! Thank you for the interest! Mars likes classic films with lots of sexuality and violence. Kill Bill, Pulp Fiction, Chicago (he loves a good musical if it isn't too sugary-sweet). He'll go for the stereotypical Dad Movies too as long as he thinks they're suave enough, like James Bond and Indiana Jones. For books, he reads a lot more than you'd think and enjoys being well-read, but let's say A Song of Ice and Fire, because there's political drama and everyone's suffering. (Their misfortune and crushed innocence amuses him.)

Mars is inspired heavily from the Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood depiction of Greed. While not a direct inspiration (I've had the character for years), Sukuna from Jujutsu Kaisen is hilariously similar to him. Vintage mafia movies are where a lot of his aesthetic comes from. If you like crime thrillers, I would highly recommend the television show Fargo for bastard men that you love to hate, are scary as hell, and are darkly comedic. — Clovis @VileFable

[poeticsandaliens]

Aight so I keep seeing these discussions about what the Arcane creators did and didn't say and whether that means Jayce and Viktor are canon platonic or romantic or some secret third thing and I would like to make a case for ignoring irrelevant things that writers say in an attempt to clarify their creation. And I say these words as a writer who peppers my AO3 shit with random endnotes commenting on my creations, which you can feel free to throw in the trash.

I'm not arguing that we should all just clamp down our ears and go lalalala, nor am I arguing for full-on Death of the Author. I just think if a storyteller has to clarify a textual detail in an interview or on Twitter (looking at you Joanne) then it doesn't actually matter. Because if the creator CARES that much about how we as an audience interpret that detail they should put it into the fucking text. If it matters that much to the text it should be in the text. And if it's not in the text then it doesn't really matter and I'll go on interpreting. This especially goes for taxonomizing murky relationships. We often desire taxonomy, but ambiguity can say compelling things about the way we navigate human connection.

Like there're shades of gray to this. But specifically with respect to Arcane I'll argue that a creator actually gets no bearing on whether you read Jayce and Viktor as erotic or platonic or whatever. Because they chose to tell a story about the power of love and part of that archetype is its slipperiness. Love to the point of literal cosmic singularity. Soul-bonding shit. It doesn't matter to the text whether they're having filthy lab sex in our imaginations.

Normally I wouldn't write a little thesis about it, but I adore love stories where love is hard to pin down. And this reminds me of Achilles and Patroclus. Classicists will argue forever about whether or not they were fucking, and we'll get into historical context, and Athenian traditions that post-date them, and so on. And it's a fun conversation but it's also deeply not the point. I read Achilles and Patroclus as a complicated slippery relationship where war and love and lust get their wires crossed and you've known someone so deeply for so long you can't HELP but cling to them body and soul. But what's so interesting is that clinging body and soul can be any combination of sexual/erotic/platonic/worship/etc. I read them quite erotically but what matters to me in the end isn't whether they're fucking it's how wholly and wildly they loved each other. What matters isn't the taxonomy; it's that when Patroclus died, Achilles dragged Hector's mangled corpse behind his chariot in a fit of grief and feral rage.

Anyway I feel very normal about this.

[princess-of-songs]

Happy 8 months of Challengers!!! Justin Kuritzkes interview with Al Horner

Shout out to Al, for asking great

questions!!! I thought this was a great interview.

Some of my favorite highlights from the interview:

AH: There’s a reading of this film and Tashi’s arc in particular that kind of like explores the idea, I suppose that like Tashi’s sense of injustice at what was taken from her as this tennis starlet who very much anticipated living one type of life is that like she has this kind of obsession with tennis and winning. She’s trying to vicariously live through Art, but it’s never going to fully satisfy her. And it leads to this, particular love triangle in which, well, the read online is “Patrick loves Art, Art loves Tashi, but Tashi is kind of incapable of loving either because she just loves winning so much, to the point it’s such a point of obsession.” I don’t know if I quite agree with it because like, I do think there’s genuine love for both parties there. But I’m curious what your take is or how you thought of the character as you approached her on the page.

JK: Yeah, I don’t think anybody is that simple, and I don’t think anybody ever wants one thing. I think it, it would be very tidy and very neat to say this one really wants -“He really wants her. She really wants him. All of that.” That I think is kind of like that’s just not as interesting to me as what I feel like is the truth about them, which is that they all want conflicting things. And you know, I think what’s frustrating for Tashi about these two guys is that in a way, I always thought of her as somebody who’s really hungry to be seen fully and to be understood fully and met as she is. Patrick and Art both see parts of her and are both in love with different parts of her. But neither one is in love with the whole thing. Neither one can accept the whole thing. And she is in love with parts of each of these guys, but can’t love the whole thing because they’re deficient in some way. And in a way that demand makes is her deficiency. You know, that sort of stubbornness is her deficiency, but also how could she demand less? She has too much respect for herself. So I think that then gets reflected in the way they all play tennis. Patrick plays in this very wild, naturally gifted, sort of explosive, athletic way. Art plays in this well mannered, studied by the book, disciplined way. But Tashi before her injury, had both. And that’s how you become a great tennis player. There’s a great essay by David Foster Wallace about Roger Federer. He talks about how there was a moment when tennis moved from being classical music to Metallica and that there was a sort of trend around the time that Federer became ascendant of power baseliners, like Nadal, for the most part, that his game is a lot of just power from the baseline. And of course, Nadal does a lot of other stuff very well, but that’s the predominant mode of his tennis, right? This overpowering of the opponent. It’s a very muscular sort of tennis. And what David Foster Wallace says about Federer is that he somehow managed to play classical music and Metallica at the same time. To watch that is liking meeting God. To watch that in person is like a religious experience. And so that was very much what I was thinking about when I was thinking about just how good Tashi is.

AH: There’s a crucial moment later on in the movie where Tashi secretly meets up with Patrick to ask him throw the upcoming match he has against Art and she’s doing this out of love for Art. She wants to boost his ego and arguably their marriage is on the line. It’s tied up in this game. She and Patrick have this explosive argument that leads to them having sex inside his car. And again, in terms of the ambiguity in this film, purposeful ambiguity, there is some debate as to how much of that was premeditated, how much of it was transactional almost, and I’m curious on how you approached all this on the page. Were you kind of aware or were you letting the characters dictate you on what they were doing or what was your read on the granular details of what everyone is doing in that scene?

JK: Well, I think, again, sometimes people are doing things for more reasons than they know, and sometimes people are not on top of their own motivations. And that’s a very exciting place for a character to be because there’s a tension between what a character is saying and what their body is doing. A character is revealing themselves in ways they’re not intending. And I was just as surprised by all of that as I was writing it, as I think people watching it probably are. That was really at that point in the movie, I was trusting the characters to go where they wanted to go. So, yeah, I think I like that you said that she is doing it some respect out of love for Art. Because I do think there is a real part of Tashi that is genuinely trying to make this marriage work for her. And she knows herself well enough to know that if he gives up right now, if she has to watch him completely give up on his career and on his potential and resign himself to being done before he’s forced to by time for instance, that she will not be able to love him. She won’t be able to be there for that. So there’s that. There’s also the fact that Art is the person through whom Tashi has been playing tennis for 10 years or however long it’s been. And so she knows that the moment that Art’s tennis career is over, that’s the end of her tennis career, and she’s not ready to give that up. So she needs that. And at the same time, she probably really, there’s a part of her that really wants to see Patrick and really wants to get into that car, and she wants to jolt Patrick out of his slump and out of his self pity and out of his bullshit. So I’m not sure she knows at the moment that what she’s really after is what ends up happening at the end of the movie, where everybody’s cards are out on the table and they’re all pushing each other to in some ways be the best selves and in some ways be their most naked selves. I don’t know if she’s got enough of a handle on the situation to have a fully planned to that’s where she’s trying to lead everything. But I think she’s got a lot of different competing stories that she’s telling herself about why she’s in the car.

And Patrick is the kind of guy that goes, you do want to fuck me, you’re here because you want to fuck me and you’re so full of shit, you won’t admit it to yourself. And that says everything about why she feels the way she does about Patrick, both good and bad.

Tashi has easily become one of my favorite characters and it’s nice to hear when your interpretations are similar to the writer and actress’s interpretations. It feels like I’m not just spitballing lol.

Justin also talked about how the signal was something that was always there and he was writing towards it. Also shoutout to pega on Ao3, Justin said if Art wasn’t playing tennis, he’d be in medical school. You cooked on that one. He also talked Luca mentioning the corners of the love triangle literally touching and how important it was to include a scene where all 3 of them have a moment of togetherness and it being a major thing that the 3 of them are trying to get that feeling back again.

[oacest]

-interview with Paolo Hewitt, 20th January 2015

[genderkoolaid]

Tranny. Many people don’t know the history of the word, they assume it was an assigned hate term or slur along the lines of the “n” word. That’s not how it happened. Tranny was invented by us in Sydney, Australia in the 1970s where drag was a big deal, and still the best drag shows ever are in Sydney, Australia – they’re amazing. So a lot of trans-identified women who were assigned male at birth did drag, that’s how you made your living. And so they were transsexuals, transvestites, drag queens, and they were all doing drag to make money. They all bickered amongst each other who is better than who, “Well the drag queens are better,” “No, the transsexuals are better.” “You are all freaks, we’re better.” And on and on and on. But they worked together and they were family together, so they came up with a word that would say family and that was tranny. In Australia they do the diminutive, that’s how they come up with words. So tranny. I learned the word in the mid-1980s, late 1980s from my drag mom in San Francisco, Doris Fish, who was the city’s preeminent drag queen and she’d come from Sydney. And she schooled me in this word tranny, she said, “This way it means we’re family, darling.” “Thank you mama.” [...] So we used it and we were trannies together. And F to M was just beginning to start, the trans men were just beginning to become visible, Lou Sullivan was a neighbor of mine around the corner, and he was the first big out trans man, wrote his book. So trans men and cross dressers . . . cross dressers were also family. Transsexuals, we were all trannies and that felt good. That got into the sex industry and became a genre – there was tranny porn, there were tranny sex workers – chicks with dicks, she-males. [...] And, my only guess is that people who . . . because the only way they would have found out about the word is if they were watching tranny porn or having been with a tranny sex worker and then hated themselves so much that they turned it into a curse word. So it’s not really technically correct to say we’re reclaiming a word – it was always ours. So, many people mistake the word for the hatred behind the word and, in my generation, and I’m sure in future generations of trans people, tranny is going to be a radicalized, sexualized identity of trans in the same way that faggot is a prideful identity in the gay male community – not all gay men are faggots, but those who are are proudly fags and those who are dykes are proudly dykes within the lesbian community, trannies are proudly tranny within the transgender community. Does that mean we can’t call ourselves that because some trans woman does not want to be called a tranny? No. I’m going to keep calling myself a tranny. To the trans woman who gets called tranny, I’m sorry – as soon as . . . you’ve got to look at why you’re getting called tranny and if you don’t pass, you’re going to be read as a transgender person and then you fall back on the cultural view of trans folk which is freak, disgusting, not worth living, we can hurt you. It has nothing to do with the word, it has everything to do with the cultural attitude. So the word has stirred up a shit storm, but it’s not the word.

— Kate Bornstein on the word "tranny" in this oral history from the Digital Transgender Archive

[katabay]

WOW this has been ROUGH in the Life Events category of things, but. slowly crawling out of that. hopefully

this was the opening scene for a something I started writing after watching the Manben inverview with Nishi Keiko and thinking back to all the classic shoujo manga I stayed up reading back in the day, like damn that's so true Urasawa Naoki

it's partially a love letter to all the greats of the genre that I read, and also to the late night teleseryses that captivated me over the years lmao. it'd be nice to find the time to tackle it properly as a comic, but I'm having fun working on it recreationally :)

✨but since it's recreational, some character info✨

the first character seen is lawrence 'law' valenciano (late 30s), the one with the glasses is cris volante (mid-later 20s). law works at a karinderya, cris is an extremely broke university student.

⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app / insta / tip jar!

[nashvillethotchicken]

A lot of people in the iwtv Fandom regurgitate antiblack talking points particularly wrt Louis being femme/effeminate/gnc and it's genuinely so disgusting like no, Louis is not making his partners engage in domestic labor when they participate in the businesses and investments they are partial owners of. No, Louis is not being the patriarch of rue royale when lestat leaves the house after beating Louis within an inch of his life. No Louis is not "masculine for his culture" especially when compared to other black men in the same time period. People will actively ignore canon to make Louis into this hypermasculine black brute and Lestatr or armand into these shrinking violets that are oppressed by Louis when he's not that at all. The only times he's ever acted even close to that stereotype is to assimilate into a white supremacist society that expected that of him in order for him to earn a living and to please Armand, which causes him great distress and visibly worsens his mental health to the point of Louis lashing out at Claudia and being so entirely numb that he self harms. Louis is not this hypermasculine black brute and a lot of people try to make him into one bc of unconscious bias surrounding black people (black people have been stereotyped as hypermasculine, angry, overly violent and sexual deviants since the 1700s) or to absolve their non black favs of the actual patriarchal and oppressive violence they enact on Louis and Claudia or a combination of the two. It's disgusting, do better

[evidenceof]

irl smokey making dick jokes about dick to his face and in front of both their wives + the french man who hid in a sinkhole during their brecourt manor assault.

"did they all point north, or just the compass?"

Source: Transcript of Dick and Ethel Winters, Walter and Betty Gordon's visit to Louis De Vallavielle at Hotel Sainte Marie Paries, September 1987

[and-fishing-equipment]

genuinely my favorite thing about louis is the atrocities. he's cute and all and he's funny and kind sometimes but also...... he makes terrible decisions, hurts others and himself, is arrogant and avoidant and has depression as well as terrible taste in men. he frequently manipulates himself and others without even meaning to and the lies he's told himself about his own life have influenced him so greatly that he can't even recount events from his own life without unintentionally twisting them to show him in the position that is most cathartic for him to talk about. through all of this i still love him unconditionally. it's such an interesting character concept. what if your protagonist and narrator was so unreliable and whiny and biased all the time but you're hearing a nuanced portrait of his feelings as he made all these dumb as hell decisions. would you still sympathize with him? could you do it?

[daftmooncretin]

big bummer that lestat slept through the 60s… like rip king you should have fucked simon and garfunkel