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cuteandhughesy · 4 days ago

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Don’t Ever Let Me Go | Brandon Carlo (F1 AU)

summary: mclaren; the home of your superstar, race car driver brother. ferrari; the home of said brothers biggest rival, brandon carlo. brandon carlo is good. good at racing, seducing woman and displaying the perfect combination of charisma and determination. he’s also good at keeping secrets, one that includes you.

[word count] 30.5k (this is a movie, buckle up)

paring: f1 driver! brandon carlo x reader

a/n: i’ve been in such an F1 kick recently and what better way to celebrate my fav player coming to my fav team by combining the two! 🏎️🧡 also prepare for spelling mistakes and grammar errors per usual!

🎵 sports car by tate mcrae

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"stay close to me." your brothers voice is barley audible above the roar of the crowd. what feels like hundreds of F1 fans are screaming and watching at every turn, all repping various teams colours and logos. flashes of orange and red and greens among the others. cheering kids and starstruck adults combined with reporters, all scattered throughout the area for media day makes it almost impossible to focus on anything other then the bustling atmosphere.

mat looks at you over his shoulder, clad in mclean orange. he eyes you with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. curiosity stemming from your lack of response to his rather firm demand, and well, the excitement self explanatory.

and you feel it too, weighing heavy in your chest as your brothers first professional season nears an opening. in just a week he'll be living out his dream in a mclaren race car—zipping around the track the only way he knows how to. with precision.

"this is insane," you mumble into your brothers back, the logo for mcleran starting back at you. that in itself has an uncontainable grin forming over your lips.

mat smirks. the corner of his top lip curling upwards. "I can't fucking believe this, y/n."

it doesn't feel real yet—even with paparazzi cameras flashing in your and mat's face, kids shouting his name with adrenaline lacing their voices. it still feels like a dream, for you and your brother. it seems like just yesterday the both of you were kids, eyes wide with excitement as you watch talented drivers zip around a track.

mat has always loved mclaren, ever since he was old enough to make the conscious decision to pick a favourite team. and with him being your older brother, you had followed his lead with almost everything—including his interest in F1.

go kart racing for birthdays, and pretending his tiny toy cars where the real deal—zipping around the living room and kitchen with them clutched in your hands. mat has always dreamed of driving for mclaren, and he worked his fucking ass off to get here. he deserves it, without a doubt.

with his first race only a week away, he was understandably nervous. mat was prepared—he always is—but still nervous nonetheless. this is a big fucking deal. for him and you and your entire family. so when your brother asked if you wanted to join him on his first season, travel the world and watch him compete, of course your answer was yes.

it sure as hell beat staying at home and doing nothing but waiting for a university acceptance letter to come through—like you've been doing for the past two years. it's been a pathetic journey really. picking an art program at one of most prestigious universities back home when you knew the chances of getting accepted were low. but it's what you've planned to do, so you keep at it. even when it feels impossible.

so yeah, traveling with your brother and his f1 team beats moping around for another year at home.

the cool burst of air conditioning rushes over your skin as mat pushes open the double glass doors into the media building—goosebumps puckering over your skin. the chaos is more controlled inside, mostly due to the fact that the building is for drivers, team personals and reporters only. it's essentially media central to promote the upcoming season. which is obviously vital to your brother and the mclaren team.

if you're likeable with the media, you're going to go far. watching formula 1 for as long as you have, you've seen plenty of drivers—and you know how much a negative persona can change the tone of their career.

banners line the hallway, the faces of this seasons drivers staring back at you. each set of banners are displayed above their teams respective media spot, making it easy for reports and journalists to find who they're looking for. it's already busy though, and it's barley even started. a mix of people—some dressed in casual wear, while others in business suits—walking around frantically, setting up for the long day ahead.

you spot the familiar orange quickly, and so does your brother—both of you blindly making your way down the hall and towards the mclaren area. mat keeps getting stopped, usually by event coordinators and management. you don't really pay attention to what they're talking about. the building is too bustling, making it almost impossible to focus in on one thing, much like outside.

a flash of red at the end of the hall catches your eye, and the ferrari logo has your heart doing a funny little jump. because yes, like you said earlier, you and mat have always been all in on mclaren. but when you turned 15, something about ferrari caught your attention—or rather someone.

speaking of drivers with personalities. brandon carlo was 20 back then—5 years older than you, making your teenage heart thump wildly and spine tingle in a way it never had. you simply thought he was hot. turning 15 brought on a whole new wave of emotions, including lust—which was just embarrassing. and brandon carlo was the sight of your infatuation. you even had a few posters of him on your bedroom wall—god you're pretty sure there is still one in your closet. and you know there’s one on your wall.

you didn’t have the heart to take them down. always the sentimental one.

but as you got older—and as brandon got older—you realized a few things about ferraris golden boy. brandon carlo is good. good at racing, that much is obvious. but he's also good at seducing woman and displaying the perfect combination of charisma and determination. which in other words, is a PRs worst nightmare.

years of reading articles and reports about fuckboy ferrari superstar, quickly snapped your crush away and out of your head. brandon carlo would be dangerous, and full of surprises—two things you hate. not that you ever had a chance, but regardless. he's flirtatious and a party boy and just...not the kinda personality you'd get along with.

mat's voice has you snapping out of your embarrassing stare, tearing away your eyes from the posterized picture of brandon carlo and his gray eyes. the eyes you used to dream about.

"i've gotta go get my mic put on, you wanna come watch the interviews?" he asks you, voice still raised so ensuring you're able to hear him. the main door swings open behind you, a wave of screeching fans disrupting your hearing before the door shuts again.

however, once mat takes one look at your wonder struck face, he's shaking his head—a mixture of amusement and understanding. mat lets out a breathy chuckle, "you wanna check everything out don't you."

you send your brother a sheepish grin, "so badly." you can't help it—this building is quite literally a dream. there's tables full of merch and drivers walking around and team representatives and it's all just so surreal. every corner, booth and open door is calling your name.

mat laughs again, "I get it, fuck I wish I could join you." his agent, a young pretty girl who barley reaches his shoulder, sends him an unimpressed look. that only makes mat grin. "kidding, i'm very exited for interviews," he corrects himself.

"i'll send you pictures of everything, matty." you pat his shoulder reassuringly, "good luck today." you send a look to his agent.

"thanks," he breathes.

you quirk a brow sarcastically, "I was taking to your agent—god knows she'll have her hands full with you today." interview and media days were not for the weak—especially for someone who's never done them before. and with someone like your brother, who is so far from being properly media trained...let's just say she'll need all the good fortune she can get.

"har har." he grumbles, making your smirk grow tenfold. "stay out of trouble." mat tells you, already beginning to make his way toward the mcleran lounge with his agent at his side—the latter already adjusting his mess of hair to look presentable.

you salute in his general direction, eyes already on the booths, "always do."

you weave through people naturally, eyes wide as you take in everything. the smell of rubber tires and various colognes and perfumes clog your nostrils—it makes you feel like you're in the stands at your very first F1 grand prix. a bright smile pulls at your mouth at the thought, continuing to causally walk through the building scattered with media and management companies.

you're already excited for the season and the actual racing hasn't even started yet. you tighten your spring jacket around your torso as you walk under an AC duct, driver pass digging into your sternum uncomfortably. but you don't even care because it's a reminder that it's there—a reminder that you're here.

this is your idea of a perfect carnival. the rides replaced with model cars and screaming kids kept outside. whatever, call you a grinch but kids are unpredictable and so are rides. you prefer order and predictably—life is easier that way. when everything is planned out, it makes everything flow smoothly. that's why you can't give up on art school. you've already started planning your life around art, and changing that is scary. so even when it feels like you can't do it—don't want to do it anymore—you push through and persevere.

you make it to the end of the long hallway, down to the ferrari room. surprisingly the door is open, giving you a nice view of the red leather couches and walls full of sponsorships logos. there's nobody in the room, which is another surprise. the space intrigues you. you tell yourself it's because it's an F1 room, and not because it's ferrari specifically—but it all feels tomato tamato.

you gnaw your lip, taking a quick peek over your shoulder to ensure nobody wearing red is coming towards you. the coast is clear. it can't hurt to look around, right? after all, it's not like you shouldn't be in the building—you have a pass.

with all that in mind, you step past the threshold and into the room. your blood bubbles with excitement as you stare at the various memorabilia. shirts and jackets on a rack, ferrari pillows lining the couches and racing helmets displayed on a wall of shelves.

your shoes click on the ceramic white tiles as your body naturally gravitates towards the wall of helmets. you shoot another cautious look towards the door, ensuring you're alone. with a shrug, you pick up one of the red helmets to examine it.

"fucking hell," you curse lowly. it's surprisingly heavy, definitely heavier than the ones you used to wear go karting with mat as kids. it makes sense though, with the speed these drivers are hitting, protection is vital.

you can't help yourself from slipping the helmet on, covering your face completely. the buzz of the air conditioning unit becomes muffled under the helmet, and really the only sounds you can hear is your own breathing. you smile, flipping down the tinted visior.

a laugh bubbles out your chest as you spin, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. you look a bit ridiculous, mostly because the helmet is way too big for the broadness of your shoulders. so much so that you resemble a bug.

you snap a picture and send it to mat with a horse emoji attached, which you're sure he'll hate. which like you suspected, he does—a reply coming through only a minute later that says nothing besides yuck.

you pocket your phone just as the sound of a voice grows closer. through the mirror you watch a body clad in ferrari red entire the room, and panic bubbles in your chest. you know you should move, take off the helmet and excuse yourself, but your feet are cemented to the polished tiles under your boots.

brandon carlo looks at you—or rather the back of you, his brow raised curiously. even through the tint on the visor covering your eyes, you can see he looks even better than he does in the posters. he's also way taller than you expected—the kind of tall that makes you feel small regardless of how tall you may be.

his hair looks like it was styled, but he's been running his fingers through it repeatedly, messing it up and giving him a rugged look. through the mirror you watch him look you up and down—blatantly checking you out.

you're mortified. and flustered. and feel ridiculous with a helmet over your head. clearly, brandon isn't angry—too busy eyeing your jean covered ass to feel annoyed, in this moment anyways. and that thought has you moving, spinning around to face him quickly.

his gray eyes lazily slide up to your face—or rather, the helmet covering your face. but that doesn't deter him from looking at you with an expression you can't quite place on his face. brandon gives you what looks like a half smirk, making his way towards you. his calm and cocky demeanour has your breath hitching.

you raise your hands cautiously, swallowing thick spit as he grows closer to you. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking..." you trail off when brandon reaches you. he grips the hard driver's pass hanging around your neck between his thumb and index finger, analyzing it. "y/l/n," he repeats your last name, eyes darting back towards the visor. "I think you're in the wrong room."

you nod, helmet bobbing comically. "I can see that, yes."

brandon hums and then drops your pass, the hard plastic swinging back and hitting your chest with a soft thump. it doesn't hurt, but it makes you want to shrivel in on yourself—most likely due to the fact that brandon is like...looming over you. plus now his gaze has turned a little more pointed. like he's unsure of you and your intentions.

and you must say, it's not looking good in your favour currently—not while you stand there awkwardly infront of him with a face covering on.

"you his wife?" you watch as his eyes move between your pass—your last name, written in all block letters specifically—and your visor shaded eyes. for a second you're confused, but you're pretty good with using your critical thinking skills to piece his vague question together.

brandon is asking about the name around your neck—one that links you to his new competition. "mat?" you ask through a laugh, the sound coming out all breathy and nervous. "god no, he's my brother."

"right," he hums. you can't tell if he believes you with a response like that, and you're not planning on pleading your case to try and convince him. but regardless you're ready to get out of here and away from brandon carlo. so you don't wait for him to elaborate—if he was even planning to—and reach up towards the helmet strap.

brandon just watches you move, a curious glint in his eyes. the silence settles between you, a weird yet undeniable tension lingering between you. one that you're not about to try and unpack."need help with that?" he asks you measuredly, like brandon is already aware of your response before you do.

you shake your head quickly, fingers still tugging away at the stubborn buckle keeping the ferrari branded helmet on your head. "no," you huff, "i've unbuckled a driving helmet before." you don't mean to come across as snippy, but you totally do. you don't have the time to feel guilty about your attitude though when it makes brandon snort a laugh.

"F1 helmets are different," he tells you, voice all knowing and kinda of condescending—which fucking obviously, because he's the professional. you're so stubborn. "let me," brandon gently pushes your hands away from the strap, and you drop them to your sides quickly and helplessly. he doesn't wait for a response before he's all up in your space. you can smell whatever expensive brand of cologne he's got on, even through the helmet.

the buckle clicks open quickly, and before you can register the sound, brandon is lifting the helmet off your head—revealing your wide eyes and staticky hair.

brandon's lips curve into a smirk at the sight of your bare face, "hi there."

"hello," you nod curtly, running a unsteady hand over your hair in an attempt to tame to frizzled mess. unfortunately for you, it only makes it worse, resembling one of those static electricity globes they have on display at hot topic.

brandon gives you the helmet that he just took off of you—the sweat gathered on your hairline and at the nape of your neck a disgusting reminder of being under there—clearly not intending to put it back himself.

you clear your throat awkwardly, grabbing on to the sides of the red plastic. your fingers brush along brandon's long ones, and it's enough to have you jumping, practically yanking the helmet towards your chest—yanking your touch from his. brandon's lips part like he wants to comment on your skittish behaviour, but thankfully he doesn't—however his eyebrows do raise, so you know he finds your actions somewhat amusing.

you can't wait to crawl into a hole after this interaction and never come back out.

your eyes flicker back to his. you honestly forgot that brandon is 5 years older than you—especially considering he looks almost the exact same as he did when he was a 20 year old rookie on your tv screen. if it wasn't for the crows feet starting at the corner of his eyes, and the wear and tear on his hands, you'd think you were looking at the poster in your bed room.

a poster that you really should take down, my god. how embarrassing. not that brandon will ever see it, but for your own embarrassment and peace of mind, you should fucking burn that thing. because looking at him right now, it's all you can think about.

"do you want a picture?"

you blink at his seemingly out of context question, your brows pulling down towards your nose in confusion, "excuse me?"

"you're staring at me," brandon's smirk doesn't waver, if anything, it only deepens at your questioning glare. "you a fan?" is he being serious? based on the arrogant look in his eyes, you fear the answer to that question is that he’s deadly serious.

"of you?" you ask, voice all high pitched and breathy. for a brief second you think you must've said something about the poster out loud—but then you remember brandon carlo is a cocky ladies man, who is so self absorbed in his party boy image that he thinks every girl he comes across is a fan.

but not you. well, not anymore. and that's not even an assumption you made up regarding ferraris golden boy. you're pretty sure you recall brandon calling himself that before in interviews. okay, maybe not those words exactly, but something similar. you get the point.

"i'm the only one in here, aren't I?"

you practically scoff, and if it wasn't for the helmet pressing against your ribs, you would be crossing your arms defensively. "no. i'm not a fan."

it's not really a lie, but at one point in your life it was your truth. and it's like brandon can sense that. he squints doubtfully, "really?"

"really," you repeat incredulously. "and i'm almost offended that you assumed so—my brother races for mcleran." if it wasn't for the white hot anger coursing through you, you'd be embarrassed at yourself for pulling the brother card.

brandon’s eyes dart down to your lanyard again, "I gathered."

your lips part just enough to let out a disgruntled exhale. you're not sure what gives him the right to act so...arrogant. especially around you—somebody who a) he's never met before, and b) the sister of somebody he will inevitably be sharing a podium with sometime in the next few weeks.

and the fact he hasn't introduced himself to you, most likely assuming that you knew his name, only boils your blood further. if you were more confrontational, you'd tell him off. give brandon a piece of your mind and ensure he never speaks to you again.

but you're not confrontational. and there's media everywhere. the last thing your brother needs his first week in an F1 seat is some news article going around about his 'crazy sister ripping into brandon carlo'—or whatever ridiculous headline they'd undoubtedly come up with.

so instead you just nod, lips pursed tightly. "yeah so..." you trail off softly, taking a step away from brandon and his ferrari wrapped chest.

"so?" he prompts.

"I'm going to leave now."

"you do that."

you resist rolling your eyes, "here's your helmet." you thrust it towards his chest before he can react. brandon’s quick reflex's laugh at you though, and his large hands dart out and grab the helmet before it can clatter to the polished floor. the sheer size of his fingers splayed across the shiny red helmet make it looks small—which makes you even more annoyed.

stupid giant man.

brandon smirks at the ground as you brush past him, something fruity and sweet wafting in the air as you move. he tucks the helmet under his arm—something he's done more times than he's willing to bet on—and turns to follow your fleeting figure.

"surprised you didn't try and steal it." he's not being serious, that much is obvious by the playfully tone he uses. not that it makes his comment anymore tolerable. "red's not my colour." you tell him pointedly, almost daring him to look at the orange shirt under your jacket.

"not sure about that." he pauses, a curious pull over his expression. "what's your name?" brandon calls out as you reach the exit of the ferrari lounge.

"don't worry about it!" you make the conscious choice to not look at brandon as you wiggle your fingers in a dismissive wave—which only makes him laugh behind you, all low and breathy and annoying.

too wound up from the interaction with your old celebrity crush—who proved to be just as infuriating as you read about—you decide that your exploring time is done. everything has been tainted, and all you can see is gray eyes and ferrari red.

after a bathroom break where you splash cool water on your face in an attempt to cool off, you make your way to interview room B—which a nice lady running around the mclaren room told you the drivers were in, doing media and other things.

there's about 10 rows of chairs, mostly taken up by old man with comb overs with microphones and papers sprawled around them—no doubt asking ridiculous questions that make the drivers have to fight off eye rolls. just the thought has you stifling a laugh, which earns you a glare from the middle aged male reporter closest to you.

you cough awkwardly and then move to the side of the room—standing between a woman with her kids and a few teenagers.

"y/l/n," the reporter pauses and waits for your brother to look his way. "is there any added pressure facing against guys who you grew up watching? what is the mindset going into a situation like that?"

the question is actually pretty normal compared to some you've heard on tv before. you direct your attention towards mat, who’s sitting comfortably on the couch in an orange cap and polo. your brother nods thoughtfully, and gives a half smirk, half smile.

you already know his agent is shaking her head somewhere in the room.

"there's definitely a pressure," mat nods, "not so much with racing, but more so with learning and adapting to them. with guys like carlo here for example—you know my sister and I grew up watching him compete. so it's pretty surreal and i'm excited for the opportunity."

you feel his presence before you look at him. "making me feel old, y/l/n." the room laughs lightly as brandon's jab. but not you. you didn't even notice him on the couch when you walked in, and seeing him now—so at ease between your brother and his ferrari driving partner—only makes you feel worked up again. which is annoying because you just got the colour red out of your head.

you zone out for the rest of the questions, choosing to scroll on your phone and shut out brandon and what is surely his stupid and annoying responses—ones that probably have his agent sweating.

soon enough the room is packing up, and mat is making his way towards you. he's tossing a bottle between his hands, the plastic crinkling loudly. "how was your exploring?" he questions, brow raised.

your shrug, pocketing your phone in your jeans. "honestly, didn't really see anything worth while."

"just the helmet?" he references the selfie you sent to him earlier, a glint in his eye that tells you he's about to relentlessly bully you for wearing ferrari memorabilia.

you open your mouth to reply, but you’re cut off—brandon's deep and teasing voice halting the words before you can even get them out. "y/l/n, good job up there. handling the questions like a pro already," he claps mat on the back.

mat just laughs, while you debate if you're going to make a run for it. unfortunately for you, your brother turns to you, an encouraging and teasing look his face that lets you know you're fucked.

"thanks man," his hand gestures to you, and brandon's eyes follow naturally, gaze meeting your familiar one. "this is my sister, y/n."

well there goes your plan of brandon never knowing your name. his plump lips tug up—barley, but enough for you to catch it, a triumphant expression flashing across his face. "y/n," brandon repeats slowly, as if he's testing how your name sounds coming from his mouth.

meanwhile you're too flustered to even blink.

of course, mat keeps going—elbowing your side playfully like the nuisance your older brother is. "she'd never say it but she's a secret fan."

your jaw practically hits the floor.

but brandon? he's not even fucking phased. he actually looks pleased, because mat is only confirming what he already knew. but because he's a little shit, much like mat, brandon plays into some kind of aloof position. "is she?"

his stormy eyes flicker between your crazy ones and your brothers mischievous ones. finally, you manage to close your mouth, shaking your head in another attempt at defending yourself. "not really." you correct, shooting daggers at mat—who raises his hands in surrender. but the look on his face says he's not sorry at all.

you're almost surprised he didn't just go straight into how you have brandon's picture above your bed. brandon lets his eyes linger on you for another painfully long beat before he turns away, "well it was nice to meet you, y/n. i'll see you on the track, y/l/n."

mat snickers, "not when my smoke is clouding your vision."

"classic cocky mclaren driver, you'll fit right in," brandon smirks over his shoulder, the banter between the two rival teams already brewing like expected.

your brothers smirk mirrors brandon's. "learned from the best."

all you can do is try not to melt into an angry puddle of disbelief and shock.

throughout the next week you find yourself unable to get brandon carlo and his stupid red suit out of your head. it doesn't help when he seems to be at literally every corner—weather it's passing by in the paddock or catching eyes in the hotel lobby, or walking passed the mclaren garage —you see him.

and god you hate that he makes your heart jump and skin heat. you also hate how time has been good to him. brandon's legs and ass look so fucking spectacular in his race suit, annoyingly enough.

ferrari is mclaren's biggest rival. brandon carlo and your brother will be fighting for the top spot on the podium all season long. it makes whatever you're feeling for brandon pointless. but he's so hard to ignore.

it also doesn't help that anytime brandon carlo sees you, he says your name in greeting—words dripping off his tongue slow and syrupy. like it's a game. like him knowing your name is some sort of triumph. god, one time you tried to pretend you didn't hear him as he passed behind you—your name falling from his lips all quiet and deep—and he tugged the end of your braid in retribution.

the action earned him a glare. which he obviously was expecting because he was waiting for your response with a smirk on his face.

but this weird thing between you—whatever it is or whatever it grows to become—must be ignored. for your sake and your brothers. this is mat's dream, and you don't want to ruin it for a silly little crush you had almost 8 years ago.

brandon though? he has no intention of letting you pretend he doesn't exist. so unfortunately for you, this week is just the beginning. because brandon carlo is intrigued by the girl in tight jeans and an attitude reserved only for him.

─────MONACO GRAND PRIX─────

by the time you're walking through the lobby of the hotel, the smell of burning tires is only just starting to fade. it clings to your clothes and nostrils in a way that you could only pray perfume would.

the race today had been electric. and intense. and so long. if it wasn't for mat battling for first place the entire race, you'd most definitely would've been nodding off. unfortunately, he never overtook brandon—who of course took that top spot on the podium. and of course when he popped open the bottle of champagne, he made sure to drench you in the sticky warm liquid. when you wiped your eyes and sent him a glare, brandon just winked. you hated how that little flirty move made your lips twitch—desperately willing you to smile.

you wish you were immune to his charm, but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore brandon carlo.

you shake your head, shaking the thoughts of brandon's face and the champagne dripping off his wet lips and chin out of your mind.

the elevator doors ahead of you begin to close, making your naturally quicken your pace, shoes clicking on the tiles as you attempt to reach the elevator before it closes. your hand darts out between the diminishing opening just in time, and the doors slowly slide back open.

you smile in relief, stepping inside.

"hey there, y/n." brandon drawls.

the way your eyes widen in surprise is almost comical, quickly averting your eyes and directing them towards the marble floor. you clear your throat twice, something he notices you do anytime you feel awkward.

"brandon," you greet quietly, fattening down the front of your white dress—the rings on your fingers clinking on the decorative gold buttons lining the garment.

but he's not alone. the scent of cheap roses replace the scent of champagne and burning tires quickly. your eyes dart towards the other person in the elevator as you catch sight of auburn hair—hair that definitely doesn’t belong to brandon. a person with both auburn hair who just so happens to be tucked under brandon's arm.

her cherry red looks almost ferrari coloured under the cool fluorescent lights of the elevator. she's looking back at you warmly, gum smacking irritably between her teeth. the woman is grasping at brandon's thick fingers from the hand that is hanging loosely over her shoulder.

a surge of jealousy washes over your skin, and you look away again, pressing the button to your floor a little harder than necessary.

"i'm melody," her cheery voice slices through the tension clouded elevator. clearly she's oblivious to social settings, because reading the room is something melody has seemed to of skipped over.

you send her a tight lipped smile. "hi."

"sorry, y/l/n can be a bit of a grouch." brandon tells melody. whoever his attention is directed at you, his eyes burning into the side of your face—which he can see perfectly due to the way you've slicked it all back.

your head snaps in his direction, so quick that your braid smacks the side of the elevator. brandon gets a whiff of the alcohol he douced you in merely an hour ago. "that's not true."

his brow raises like you've just said something funny. "oh so I must just be special then." brandon concludes.

"wait," the fake redheads voice has you blinking. "y/l/n? like mat y/l/n?" she repeats your last name questioningly, a grin working its way onto her face like she just figured out something other worldly.

you hum, "the one and only."

melody gasps, the sound all breathy and giggly, "he's cute!"

her claim makes you send brandon a deadpanned and pointed look. unfortunately, he doesn't give you the satisfaction of finding this interaction insane—which it totally is. he just shrugs the shoulder that's not around melody, lips twitching into an almost smile.

"I'm not sure what i'm supposed to say to that." you chime kindly after a beat, looking away from the pair of them—your shoes suddenly just got a lot more interesting.

"oh gosh!" she whines and covers her fake tanned face, "I shouldn't have said that! i'm so silly."

brandon clears his throat and looks down at her, "don't worry about it, melanie. y/n is just being annoying."

"melody." you correct without looking up from the ground.

"that's what I said."

"mhmm."

"so do you guys like...know each other then?" melody asks after a moment, eyes darting up at brandon and then over towards you. she doesn't even look awkward—if anything she looks excited.

her question finally pulls your attention off your heels. god, could this elevator go up any slower?

you watch the way she continues messing with brandon's fingers—so casual and intamite. even worse, brandon doesn't even look bothered about the affection. that either means he doesn't care because he's so used to female attention, or that your presence doesn't matter to him. you're not sure which is worse.

you purse your lips together, anger simmering in your blood as you force yourself to once again look away. "yup."

"oh yeah, me and y/n are good friends." brandon must be feeling like the most smug little shit right now. he's looking at you easily, a half upturned smirk on his face. the way that he doesn't even appear to be feeling a little awkward about this situation, only spikes your irritation more.

"good friends?" you repeat incredulously.

melody cuts either of you off before you get the chance to speak. "ferrari driver and a mclaren fan! wow, that's so funny."

"actually melanie, y/n is a secret ferrari fan."

"melody," you correct him again, "and that's not true."

brandon grins, "it so is."

your lips part in retribution, but the doors of the elevator ding before sliding open. "well, that's my cue to leave," you straighten up, "have a nice night doing whatever it is you're planning on doing." you wave your hand in a vague way in their general direction.

"I can give you the itinerary if you'd like."

"please don't," you step into the hallway, "good night brandon, melanie."

brandon snorts, "melody." he corrects you just as the doors slide shut, cutting off your and brandon's impromptu eye contact. the metal doors of the elevator capture your reflection of dark eyes and annoyed pout. and god your fucking pulse is thumping. you wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped right out your skin.

the look of yourself—so wound up from brandon—only has you feeling more angry and incredulous. you stomp away before the universe decides to torture you further and have the doors reopen, giving you another front row seat of brandon and his girl for the night. a sight that made your skin itch.

──────MIAMI GRAND PRIX──────

miami florida—one of the biggest and most notorious party spots of the country. and with the grand prix being here this week, it's even more lively. drinking, and clubbing and other things you really don’t want to know about. and that's just during the first day.

arriving at the hotel yesterday, you immediately went to sleep. the traveling back and forth between time zones—although it's only been just over a month—has definitely taken a toll on you, and by the time 8pm rolled around, you were face down in the fluffy hotel pillow, snoring like a bear during hibernation.

meeting mat for breakfast in the morning—which back home meant it was only 3 a.m—was a difficult task. you almost nod off three separate times. one time you actually did, leaving mat no choice by to catch your face before you nose dived into your glass of apple juice. regardless of your sleep stature, your brother was full of energy.

him and his driving partner, travis, had gone out to one of the infamous nightclubs last night, and based on mat's story telling, you're pretty positive he might still be a little drunk. even though partying isn't your thing, something in your chest pinged at hearing about his night. you felt a little left out. being completely alone for most of the time while mat is off doing his job, gets a little lonely.

so a few hours later when mat and travis decided they're going out again—and asked if you'd like to join them—you agreed. if there was one place on this tour where you could let loose and forget about your self inflicted strict morals, it’s miami.

that's brings you to now, under the neon flashing lights of the nightclub, nursing some fancy drink that you asked the bartender to surprise you with. it's really sweet, and you kind of have to choke it down—but you're determined to drink it. hopefully it'll loosen your limbs up a little bit. help you fucking relax.

but that's proving to be difficult when you know brandon is somewhere in the club. if you knew that other drivers besides the mclaren duo would be joining you at the club, you would've stayed home. you would've stripped out of your sparkly skirt and dangerously low cut top and crawled right back into bed. point blank period. you deal with brandon enough as it.

but you didn't know, and now your muscles are all ridged and tight and your eyes are peeled wide open. you tell yourself you're only looking for brandon so you're able to stay clear, but you know that's a lie. in the past couple weeks he's been an enigma. no matter how hard you try and avoid him, brandon's always about—tempting you with mystery.

which, you hate mystery so you're not sure why you're so intrigued with the ferrari driver. maybe because he still gets your heart racing 5 years later. his stormy eyes and plump lips, and the way his eyes always seem to find yours when he's spraying champagne up on the podium—

no, don't start. you shut down your brain before it has the chance to dip into dreamland. quickly, so you don't gag, you down the rest of your drink—crystallized sugar and tequila burning your throat. it makes you shiver, skin breaking out in pebbly goosebumps.

you push off the wall you'd been calling home for the past 20 minutes and join the crowd. it's a bit hard to move through the what feels like thousands of sweaty, dancing people—getting bumped into more times than you can count, your heels sticking to the floor. you don't even want to think about how many liquids have been spilled under your feet.

you're practically getting jostled around, men twice your size almost send you tumbling at every step you manage to take. you're trying to get to the bar. or find mat. or even just get outside for some fresh air. but that is proving to be difficult with this crowd.

"hey, you dropped this!"

you look over your shoulder, squinting through the strobe lights, trying to locate the sound of the voice. the man in question isn't talking to you—which makes sense because the only thing you'd be able to drop is your phone, and you can feel it still tucked against your boob.

you turn your attention forward again, only to walk into someone's back. you get a face full of crispy blonde hair, and the sequins on her top scratch at your chest. it makes you jump away, "i'm sorry!"

the girl turns, a smile on her swollen lips, "you're good!" she's clearly in the middle of making out with someone, which only makes embarrassment claw deeper into your chest. your eyes flicker past her, intending to apologize to whoever she's locking lips with—but the words die on your tongue.

because brandon carlo is looking at you, eyes a little hazy and his already plump lips even more so—slick with a mixture of his spit and the blonde girls in front of you. to make matters worse, he's fucking smirking at you.

your lips part even though you don't intend to say anything. not to him anyways. like you don't even exist, the blonde turns her attention back to brandon—who accepts her kiss instantly. they continue on like you never bumped into them, which is sort of unsettling.

brandon's eyes flutter open, lips still locked and sloppy over hers as he looks back at you, making your breath hitch near the back of your throat. his eyelids flutter as the girl turns her head, attempting to deepen the sloppy exchange—but they don't close.

you urge yourself to walk away, but your feet are frozen, cemented to the tiles. your jaw tightens in…envy? disgust? you don't fucking know. all you know is that this whole exchange feels dirty and wrong. but there's something about the way brandon is looking at you that has your belly fluttering. and your eyes stay on his.

the smallest smirk tugs at brandon's top lip—not even masked by the girls glossy kiss—and it has you blinking. brandon watches the tendons in your jaw twitch under your skin as you clench your teeth tightly—clearly frustrated in some capacity. it only makes brandon’s smirk widen.

you send him a pointed glare, a mixture of fury and disbelief, before finding your legs again.

you push past them, brandon's eyes slowly following you as you move. your skirt almost blinds him, the neon lights reflecting off the sequins decorating your clothes. but brandon doesn't care, and it doesn't stop him for grabbing your arm before you get too far.

his lips detach from the woman’s in front of him—a woman who's name has escaped his mind. after 8 years of racing, partying and hooking up, every one kind of blends together. brandon turns towards you.

"what are you—let me go," you stutter. brandon's grip on your elbow isn't harsh, but it’s still firm, unwilling to let you slip or disappear back into the crowd. his fingers cover most of your skin, hand warm on your sticky skin.

brandon ignores you, "where are you going?" his voice is quiet, but you can hear him. there's something about in the way he says it though—something that has you going still. his eyes dart between yours, searching for a response before you can give one.

it's something brandon finds himself doing often when it comes to you. you blink, eyeing the way he's still holding you. "outside." you say after a pause—even though you didn't really know what your plans were until you just spewed them out.

he doesn't respond right away, instead taking a moment to digest your words with his usual measured stare. "by yourself?"

"you say that like it's a bad thing." you swallow.

"you're a fucking twenty something tipsy girl wearing a skirt that leaves little to the imagination in a party capitol," brandon tells you incredulously, "so yeah, it's not the smartest idea."

you want to ask him to elaborate. you want to push him towards the edge of the dangerous cliff you've both been teetering on the last few weeks. but you don't. you're too stubborn and letting brandon have his way—not matter how twisted it seems—is not something you want.

you want to bicker with him. you want to get him riled up just like he does with you. the girl who had been sucking his face a minute ago is now gone, gone back to her friends like nothing even happened—like she wasn't just making out with a formula 1 driver. but neither you or brandon notice her absence, both too busy with the weird eye contact game you’ve found yourselves in more than a few times. swimming in a pool of silence that somehow says more than words can.

"and what's your solution to that?" he releases your arm when your words turn sharp. "you gunna be my bodyguard or something?"

brandon shrugs a shoulder, "if that's what it takes."

you shake your head, hoop earrings clinking against your warm face—expression tight with disbelief. disbelief with what you're hearing, and disbelief with the nerve of the ferrari driver in front of you. "you don't even know me."

another wave of silence settles between you, so thick that it feels like you're choking on it. brandon then blinks, a scoff of laughter leaving him. his eyes move from yours—just for a moment—as he registers your claim.

when his gaze settles back over you, your throat tightens. "you know, you can act like you hate me all you want, but we both know the truth."

you raise a brow. "and what might that be?"

"that we want each other."

his words hit you like a smack—skin heating so hard that it feels cold. toes tingling and heart race increasing to an impossible level. brandon's eyes gleam with triumph. like he knows that he's right. and that in itself has you pushing down your shock, quickly replacing it with frustration.

"ha!" you faux laugh, "that's funny."

his mouth—which is still covered in that woman's lipgloss—turns up in a smirk. the sight makes you want to punch him and kiss him all at the same time. "i'm not joking," brandon grumbles.

"I know," you stress, "that's what makes it funny." your words are definitive—final—like you can't believe he'd even say such a thing. but it's something that doesn’t necessarily shock you coming from brandon's mouth. your annoyance with him only grows with his words. because brandon is right. you do want him.

you wish you didn't, but you do.

"funny like when you were watching me kiss that girl?" and just like that brandon's teasing question has you flustered. around him you're a never ending cycle of anger and arousal. it's dizzying.

"you call that kissing? she was practically choking you with her tongue," your grumbling only eggs him on.

"didn't deter your eyes."

"or yours." you retort.

brandon grins, "touché."

a smile wants to grace your lips, but you don't let it—you're not giving him that kind of satisfaction. you clear your throat, choosing to address his earlier point. "for the record, I never said I hate you."

"didn't have to," brandon leans down, closer into your space than before—which was already stomach turning. "I can tell by your eyes. maybe not hate, but something about me makes you all...flustered."

you swallow thick spit, soothing the itch in your throat. you're taking this as a sign to learn how to control your emotions—because brandon is reading you like a book. "oh can you?"

his fingers graze your wrist. just enough to have you freezing. "I can read woman pretty well," brandon whispers, eyes locked on yours. the various colours of lights make his usual stormy eyes seem deeper, which you didn't think was possible. it makes you want to get a good look at him in the sun—

you need to get a grip.

"so i've heard." you lick onto your bottom lip. brandon smirks, pulling the pads of his fingers away from your wrist. you hate the way your hand twitches. searching for him.

he raises a pleased eyebrow, "keeping tabs on me?"

"impossible not to." and it's true. with a party guy like brandon being the face of one of the most successful formula one teams, his face and name is practically plastered all over the world. you've read more about his sex and party life than you care to admit.

"do you always have something to say back?" his head tilts, curiosity coupled with something you can't decipher evident on his face. you think the latter of the two may be amusement based on the soft way his lips pull. kind of like a tired smirk.

a moment passes before you decide to answer him, not that brandon seems to mind—he looks pretty happy analyzing you like you're some sort of alien. "with you?" you confirm, "seemingly so."

"let's go." brandon's demand comes out of nowhere, and if wasn't for the way he was looking at you—with a stupid smirk and hooded eyes—you would think he's mad at you.

"where?"

"outside. remember that little piece of information you gave me earlier." his warm palm touches your back, making it hard to focus. brandon's fingers loop around the waistband of your skirt, holding you lazily.

"oh. right."

brandon sends you another one of his infamous smirks as you both make your way through the crowd. you're a little envious how people move out of his way—parting like the red sea to let him through.

you allow yourself to lean into him, accepting the envious look women shoot at you when they realize who's walking you out. you don't see your brother or his teammate on the way out, which is a relief, because you really don't want to explain the closeness between you and their competition.

especially now that brandon has completely wrapped his hand around your back, palm settling comfortably on the sliver of skin exposed between your skirt and top.

you don't know how much longer you'll be able to pretend brandon carlo doesn't get your heartbeat racing.

you feel sort of envious watching all the kids zip around in little duo seated go karts. laughing and chasing after their favourite f1 drivers—who by the way, look ridiculous in the small karts.

you remember being a kid and wanting nothing more than to be in their position. and know you're here, on the sidelines once again, just watching other kids have fun. expect now you're an adult, so you're not participating for other reasons. even though you really fucking want to.

every year the formula one company holds a racing event for young fans. it's never televised for protection reasons, but it gives the kids a chance to ride around with their favourite drivers and rep their favourite teams—of course in much safer conditions and karts than the professionals drive, but that kind of goes without saying.

you were so excited for this day. you thought with mat being apart of the mclaren formula one team, you'd get the chance to ride in one of the dinky karts with him—but a little kid, with your last name on his back, was so excited to meet mat and have the chance drive with him. and you would never take that opportunity away from a sweet little baby.

so here you are. spectating. scratch that actually—you were watching, rather peacefully may you add, until brandon carlo pulled up to the side of the track. tires screeching obnoxiously, ferrari red kart almost toppling over due to his force.

the majority of his handsome face is covered by a helmet, so you can only see his eyes, but even still you can tell that he's grinning. up to no good like usual. surprisingly enough nobody is with him—no kids in his passenger spot.

you quirk an eyebrow and cross your arms over your textured tank top, "no passenger? do the kids not recognize you anymore?"

he laughs, eyes crinkling at the edges. you wish you didn't find that so attractive, but alas here you are.

a few nights ago after brandon guided you out of the bar, he walked you home like a gentleman after you told him the humid air was making you feel a little funny. which, yeah, that was a white lie because it wasn't the air that had your stomach turning, but rather him.

since then you've been a bit more civil. you're not as snappy with him, because, well it's honestly exhausting pretending to be constantly annoyed with him. brandon carlo does annoy you, but not in the way you let on. plus, he's actually fun and playful and intriguing. above all, he seems pretty determined to be around you. so you dusted your hands off and decided to just let it happen.

"guess I'm too washed up or something," brandon answers, thumb lifting off the wheel causally when he shrugs. "they're too busy paying attention to your brother actually."

you step closer to the kart, bending your torso so you can peer into the open kart. plus, the roar of the engine makes everything a little difficult to hear. "makes sense," you tease, "he is better than you, after all."

you can't see but brandon tongues his cheek in an attempt to stop his growing smirk. "get in." he all but demands. yes, not asks but rather tells. he does that quite often, you notice.

"and why would I get in with you?"

"maybe that way you'll get a taste of what I go through every race."

you snort, "you make it sound like you're struggling to preform on the track."

brandon's gaze turns pointed, voice dropping an octave so it's even more gravelly. "I don't struggle in any kind of performance."

"ew." you groan, nose crinkling like a bunnies—or like you're smelling something yucky.

he picks the spare helmet up off the passenger seat, clearing it for you—because he knows that you'll get in eventually. might as well speed up the process. "you like it, now c'mon—i'm burning perfect gas here."

you laugh breathily. "your own choice, but whatever." you make sure to send brandon a pointed look before sighing, standing up to your full height before tugging on the black handle.

the karts door squeaks loudly, and it has brandon smiling even wider beneath his helmet. he watches as you carefully get into the kart, jean covered ass fitting the leather seat perfectly. it truly looks like you're meant to be in his kart, and that has brandon's dick twitching.

he clears his throat as you buckle your seatbelt, "your helmet." you take the red protective headgear from his outstretched hand—only one because just one of his hands is big enough to hold a helmet, unlike your two pudgy ones that can barley grab it—and pull it over your hair.

"got the strap this time?" brandon teases.

you hum, the sound muffled by your helmet. "you seem to forget putting the helmet on wasn't my problem." you side eye him knowingly.

brandon shrugs again, shifting his right hand so that it’s wrapped around the gear shift, "must've forgot once I saw your face."

"just…drive."

and drive he does. the kart squeals loudly as brandon presses down on the gas, the dinky vehicle jerking the way it does—making your stomach drop with adrenaline. you make a noise of joy, similar to a breathless laugh as he moves the car into the second lane of the track, cutting off his partner.

brandon laughs as his partner gives him the bird, and you can only be thankful there's no kid in that kart either to witness that—the fuck you or reckless driving. regardless, you can't help but laugh along, shooting a quick glance over your shoulder to watch the friendly competition—or disaster—unfold.

the wind whips through the open windows, and if it wasn't for the helmet containing your hair, it would be a mess. the feeling is amazing—so much so that you can't help but smile. brandon is driving with such reckless movements—a perfect reflection of his personality. but oddly enough you feel nothing short of safe.

maybe that's because you know that brandon knows what he's doing, working the track like he knows nothing else. which you suppose he doesn't. a driver doesn't get as many points and podium wins as brandon carlo if they don't know how to drive a race car. apparently that extends to go karts.

the kart jerks again, eliciting another delighted bubble of laughter from you—a sound that is barley audible over the rumbling engine. but brandon hears it, your giggle capturing his attention dangerously. he takes the risk and looks over at you, only to find that your eyes are already on him.

brandon smiles automatically, eyes crinkling like yours do. he can barley see your face but even still he's never seen you look so beautiful. so happy. most of the time brandon has to fight to get a half grin out of you—but this? this is new. and he's fucking addicted to the sight.

"keep your eyes on the road, carlo." you squint playfully, voice carrying over the sound of the kart.

his smile grows as he tears his gaze away from you. brandon takes you around the track a few more times before slowing down, pulling into the garage. the rumbling noise echos off the concrete walls before completely quitting.

brandon tugs his helmet off with practiced ease, running a hand through his damp and wild hair, pushing it off his warm face. his eyes flicker towards you just as you pull your own headgear off, hair falling around your face and shoulders delicately.

"what?" you ask once you catch brandon's eyes.

"oh so I cant admire you but you get to admire me?" he questions, "doesn't really seem fair."

you laugh out a scoff, "I wasn't admiring you."

"mhmm hmph," brandon hums dismissively, leaning across the centre console. "whatever you say, y/n." his eyes slowly fall from yours and settle upon your lips. they linger there, his won lips parted and eyes pooling with desire.

you hold your breath naturally. you don't want to move—you can't move. patiently and carefully you watch brandon. you can't tell what he's thinking, and that makes your skin prickle with an anxious shiver.

brandon's eyes dart back to yours. there's a shift, subtle but unarguable, between you. one that feels dangerous and wrong but yet so so right. suddenly you're 15 again, looking at the glossed over image of brandon's stormy eyes. your heart is racing and fingers are twitching—desperate to reach out and touch him.

and right now you could. with the way brandon is looking at you, nothing expect the gentle hum of engines in the distance to be heard, he'd let you.

brandon reaches for your helmet and pulls it off your lap. he tosses it in the sad excuse for a back seat, and then his own helmet follows suit, plastic smacking together before rolling still. now, there's only the console between you, but it feels like nothing it all.

you know you're breathing—but it really doesn't feel like it. not when brandon tenderly tucks a piece off lose hair behind your ear, fingers ghosting down your neck and over your jaw. it’s so gentle that it feels like nothing but everything at the same time.

he licks his bottom lip, tilting his head ever so slightly. mere inches separate you. your stomach is twirling and your pulse is surely jumping under brandon's touch. weeks of teasing and unspoken words are sitting between you—a reminder that yes, you have wanted him all along.

right now, it doesn’t matter what the press will say, you want him. and if you get burned, then you can only blame yourself.

just as brandon starts to close the gap between you, the sound of voices grow closer—one voice in particular that sounds a whole lot like mat. that in itself has you both pulling away, chest heaving as your adrenaline spikes and falls all at once.

you don't look at brandon again before opening the kart door, getting out to stand on shaky legs. it was a close call, one that should deter you from ever spending time in a secluded area with brandon again. but you're not deterred, and if anything, it only makes you want him more.

brandon gets out of the kart just as mat and a few other drivers walk into the garage. you watch him cautiously, trying to decipher his body language. unfortunately—or fortunately—he doesn't look flustered. you're not sure how you feel about that. not yet anyways.

your brothers partner says something to you, pulling you into his side and shaking your shoulders in what feels like excitement. but you don't hear him. more accurately, you aren't listening. not when brandon looks at you, catching your eyes with an expression you can't quite understand. his jaw bone twitches, tendons moving around as he clenches. his eyes trace over your figure once—slowly—before he walks away.

─────SPANISH GRAND PRIX─────

you didn't see brandon other than in passing for the rest of the week. the longest you saw him was after the miami grand prix qualifying race in the paddock. you were standing between mat and travis, both wearing champagne after finishing 3rd and 2nd. ferrari of course took 1st, but much to your surprise, it wasn't brandon, but instead his driving partner.

he'd breezed past you and the guys, gaze pointed and jaw tight. clearly he was disappointed with what you can only assume is the outcome of the race. brandon's eyes found yours at the last second, holding your gaze tightly before he had no choice but to look away.

something about the exchange left you feeling a little uneasy—something in his eyes, an emotion that can only be described as anger, unsettled you. you could only hope that his hostility was directed at the race and not at you and your almost kiss incident.

the entire journey to spain all you could think of was brandon and his lips. it was almost embarrassing how much of your mind he's taken up. especially considering that a month and a bit ago you didn't even think you liked him. but here you are.

as soon as you arrived in spain you obviously took a nap because sleeping is still one of those changes you haven't gotten used to. but when you woke up, neck stiff and limbs feeling heavy, you decide to check out the luxury hotel hot tub. after all, how many more opportunities after this season will you get to lounge in a luxurious jacuzzi?

the answer? probably not many.

you slip into one of the two bathing suits you packed and then wrap yourself in a fluffy hotel towel. just before you head out, you toe on a flimsy pair of sandals and then make your way down to floor level.

the pathway leading to the hot tub is dimly lit and lined in beautiful greenery that makes you feel like a princess walking to her outdoor bathing chamber. you wish you were a living as princess and brandon was your noble body guard that had no choice but to be near you. that fantasy would make life a whole lot easier.

the steam coming off the water makes everything feel a little hazy—you blame that for being the reason you don't notice another person already in the tub.

"if i didn't know any better i'd think you're stalking me." brandon's voice has you jumping back from where you are seting your towel down. you spin in his direction, shoes squeaking on the damp stones lining the jacuzzi, hand held to your frantic beating heart.

his hair is damp, and it's grown out enough in the past few weeks for it to start curling at the ends. brandon looks so hot that it's unfair. he's casually leaning back against the wall, arms out of the tub and resting along the edge. it gives you a nice view of his shoulders and pecks, water dripping along his skin and then back into the water like he’s some kind of aquatic god.

you swallow roughly. after a moment you manage to get your heart beat back to a safe speed, and the sound of blood pumping in your ears becomes dull enough the the noisy hum of the jets becomes audible again.

brandon quirks a brow at you through the steam, urging you to respond. there seems to be no lingering anger on his face—not right now anyways—instead replaced by a playful smirk. one that reminds you of the first time you met.

"says you." you retort quietly. you make no move to get in yet. seeing brandon here has you feeling a bit starstruck. the place you've come to try and unwind and forget about your growing feelings for the ferrari driver, have now been tainted with said driver.

his eyes trail over your figure, tongue darting out to wet along his bottom lip—which tastes like chlorinated condensation. "you're stressing me out just standing there," brandon mumbles lowly, hips shifting underneath the water.

you breathe a laugh while kicking off your sandals. they land next to the athletic slides that must belong to brandon. "oh apologies, I didn't realize I was with the formula 1 king." you tease him lightly, stepping up onto the stairs leading to the hot tub.

you dip your toes into the hot water, testing the temperature before completely sliding your feet and legs in. brandon is opposite from you, eyes trained on the way your thighs expand on the edge of the tub, ass sitting dangerously on the slippery wall of the tub.

"formula 1 king?" he repeats with a grin, "that title sounds nice coming from your mouth."

you send him a look, which only makes brandon's grin widen, before going further under the water, submerging up to your shoulder in a deep scoop style seat adjacent to his.

you sigh like you're relaxed, but your shoulders are still tight. simply due to the fact that brandon is shirtless and still looking at you. if you stretched your legs out, your toes would surely graze his thigh.

brandon's gaze lingers on your face for a minute, something unrecognizable swimming in his eyes, and then he breathes a laugh, moving his gaze to the waters surface. “why are you sitting so far away?"

you blink. "i'm not?" you so are.

"y/n," he breathes, fingers twitching over the water as they dangle off the edge of the tub, "I can't even see you under the water that's how far you are."

your lips part in a way that makes brandon think he's rendered you speechless. "you tryna sneak a peek, carlo?" you eventually inquire, a teasing melody to your voice that brandon has missed so much.

he's been distant since the last race, and he's well aware of the fact. after he almost devoured you in the garage in the rickety go kart, brandon knew he was fucked. the feelings he has for you—a younger woman who's related to his biggest rival—is unlike anything he's ever felt before.

he knew he had to take a step back before things got complicated, even though he wants nothing more than to have you. it helped that travis, the piece of shit brandon fucking despises, couldn't keep his hands off you after you got out of the kart. as well as anytime after that, travis always seemed to be near you. it made brandon fucking rage.

but right now the only thing he can focus on is you and your damp eyelashes blinking at him across the tub—clad in a bathing suit that hugs you so perfectly it has him half hard under the water.

brandon shrugs without shame, "got a pretty good one when you got in, so can't complain."

you jaw goes slack, "oh my god!" your shriek is his favourite noise. you splash water in his direction half heartedly, the chemical infused water splashing up his bare chest and neck. which only makes his skin look more desirable so that plan backfired.

brandon just blinks, "oh really?"

you point an accusatory finger at him, but your lips are pulling into a grin, "you started it."

"did I?" brandon pauses, brow raising in amusement, "or did you start it with that fucking indecent bathing suit." he stresses the word like it's poison. like your bathing suit is physically doing him wrong. which, unbeknownst to you, it is.

"it's not indecent."

"I can see..." he takes a hesitant pause, breath hitching as his eyes focus on anything but your face. "everything." brandon concludes. and he means it—fuck your nipples are practically poking through your bathing suit.

your breath catches, biceps tensing against the edge of the tub. you'd been miming brandon's posture, but now you want nothing more then to submerge yourself completely again, and get away from his lingering gaze.

but you don't want to give him the satisfaction of getting flustered—because knowing him, he'd get off on that. although that doesn't sound bad to you right now, but regardless. "thought you couldn't see me under the water," you repeat his earlier comment back to him, voice light and playful.

"right now you're not exactly submerged."

and yeah, I guess you're not. you peek down at your chest and see that your nipples are in fact pointed and perky—pushing against the material of your bathing suit lewdly.

without knowing what else to say you just squeak, arms falling from the side of the tub so you can splash more water in his direction.

brandon just snickers, sliding closer towards you as you continue pelting him with strong scented water. you stop pretty soon after you start, but brandon thinks he'd let you splash him forever if it made you happy.

"you know I like you much better like this," he admits gently once the water stops rippling around you.

"half naked in a hot tub?"

"obviously." he smirks, sarcasm dripping off his tongue—the sight automatically makes you follow suit.

"perv."

brandon rolls his eyes teasingly, and that makes your grin widen. "now that we're friends I mean." he elaborates.

"we're friends are we?"

"oh, definitely."

you hum like you're deep in thought, head tilting to the side. "I don't know how my brother would feel about me being friends with someone so much older than me."

his mouth opens as a noise of surprise falls out. "okay, ouch."

you continue, "and such a bad influence."

brandon's gaze narrows in on you, but the way he's still smirking says something. he likes your teasing. "you're really asking for it," he pauses, letting a light beat pass between you. "what happened to snippy y/n who wanted to bite my head off?"

"she's still here," you chime.

"oh yeah?" brandon snickers.

"mhmm."

brandon purses his lips in a half hearted manner, turning his torso even further in your direction. the dim light only highlight the muscles of his chest, distracting you. "I give her permission to bite me if that's what she still wants to do." his low and tumbling voice has you blinking, heat shooting down to your toes.

you take your bottom lip between your teeth as his words settle over you. "i'll relay that information to her."

"please do." he whispers. then brandon reaches for you, hands sliding up your slick thigh before settling at your ass. he uses the leverage to drag you through the remaining space left between you, water sloshing up both your bodies as brandon sits you over his lap.

your hands find his shoulders instinctively despite the way your body tenses in shock. you can feel him under you, half hard and warm. it's exhilarating and dangerous. suddenly brandon's comments since you've gotten in the hot tub feel dirtier than before.

you blink down at him, nose almost touching his. "what are you doing?" your voice doesn't raise above a whisper.

"what's it look like i'm doing?" brandon's voice is just as soft as yours, the rumbling tone sending a shock wave of arousal down to your core. "i'm sitting in the hot tub."

you try and laugh, but it comes out like a breathless sigh. "brandon."

"y/n." he says your name firmly, "want me to stop?"

"I don't think—"

"don't think, y/n," brandon cuts you off gently despite his firm tone. "do you want me to stop?" his large hands rest on your ass—so casually like he's not actively kneading your plump skin. the very tips of his fingers slip beneath the edge of your bathing suit, teasing you.

it makes your brain short circuit. your lips are parted, chest heaving as you attempt to find your words. you want brandon, that much is certain. and based on the way his dick is pulsating against your core, he wants the same thing. but last week still weighs on you—the way brandon seemed angry with you.

sure he wants you now, but back in the kart you think he didn't. you gulp, pushing down your desire in favour of talking it out like the responsible adult you are. "i'm sorry about last week. what happened in the go kart."

brandon shudders, "that sounds like thinking."

"I know," you nod, "but my brain hasn't stopped running in circles since it happened. are you upset with me?"

his eyebrows pull together in obvious confusion, "for what?" brandon's hands are still running up and down your thighs, making it hard to keep talking. but somehow you manage to give a shaky response.

"we almost kissed. I think?"

"you think?" the side of his mouth pulls up.

you nod all too quickly, "yeah."

"don't apologize unless you wish it never happened," brandon mumbles, gripping at your hips under the hot water. "is that what you wish?"

"do you?" you gulp, eyes growing into his stormy gaze.

he shakes his head coolly, lips almost forming into a pout. a pout that you want to kiss and suck. "no."

"oh," you breathe, "okay." hearing brandon say that he doesn't resent you for what happened in the go kart, has the utmost relief rushing over you. you wish you didn't get so in your head about the whole situation now. but you're simply just a girl.

"your turn to answer," brandon mumbles, fingers dipping beneath your bathing suit once again, pulling you out of your momentary daydreaming.

he's looking up at you so tenderly, nothing but patience in his gaze while he waits for you to digest everything. it's so sweet and cute of him that your heart feels like it's grown two sizes. at this point boys your age would've shoved your bottoms aside and stuck it in.

but not brandon.

"I don't wish it never happened, either." you admit for the first time out loud, and it sounds right coming off your tongue.

"okay. good. can I kiss you now? or is there anything else you wanna talk about while you're on top of me." the response is so brandon that it has you laughing, mouth agape in a mixture of laughter and disbelief.

"you're so—" whatever you were going to call him dies on your tongue as brandon reaches out and takes ahold of your face, lips slotting with yours.

you whimper in shock against his mouth, body tensing briefly before you register what's happening. but as you realize that brandon is actually kissing you, you melt into him.

brandon's mouth works yours slowly and expertly as you catch up to him. your legs squeeze around his strong thighs as you begin to drag your core over his, which only makes brandon's kisses turn desperate.

his grip tightens on your hips and then slide up your back, feeling the soft skin under his calloused palms. you feel better than he could've ever imagined. it's exhilarating. so much so that brandon doesn't know where to settle his hands, switching between your back and legs and face like clockwork.

you gasp into his mouth as brandon's kiss turns deeper. he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, running it over yours smoothly. your hands wrap around brandon's thick neck, which only pulls your chest tighter against his. nipples rubbing against his skin in a way that has you moaning.

brandon pulls back, but doesn't stray too far. his forehead presses against yours, chest heaving as you both take the time to collect your breath.

but by the look in his eyes, you know he's nowhere near done with you. if anything, he's just getting started.

"so pretty, y/n," brandon mutters, kissing the line of your jaw. "making those little noises, god making me fucking hard." he shifts under you, which lets you feel just how hard he's gotten.

"brandon please—" your whine is cut off as the sound of laughter floats through the air, followed by another unknown voice. you slip off brandon’s lap, panting from the rush of adrenaline that washes over you.

and brandon? he's just as wrecked. a hushed curse leaves him, running a wet hand through his hair in an attempt to tame the tangled mess your hands created.

the source of the voices that cut your and brandon’s heavy make out short, round the walkway to the hot tub. you recognize the two men, both drivers for alpine. thank god you heard them, because if they had caught you locking lips with your brothers rival, it surely be an issue. one that would inevitably get back to the press, and even worse, mat.

the seem oblivious to the tension between you and their formula one rival as they slip into the tub, whatever conversation they were in the midst of having briefly pausing as they say hello to you both.

you don't wait another moment before rising out of the water and stepping out of the stuffy hot tub. after a kiss like that you need to have a second to breathe. and better yet, a cold shower to go along with it.

you wrap the fluffy towel around your chest, covering your wet, bathing suit clad body from any peering look the alpine boys may send your way. unfortunately for brandon—who of course was checking you out, still rock hard—his peep show is cut short.

"you leaving?" he slides into your previous seat, looking up at you causally.

you shoot another look at the guys, only to see them both back in conversation, hands moving animatedly. you look back at brandon, "yeah, I should go to sleep."

"okay," he says lowly, "i'll see you tomorrow night then?" your eyebrows pull in confusion before he elaborates. "at the gala." brandon confirms, which has you breathing a quick—but shaky—laugh.

"right," you nod, "yeah."

"alright," brandon sends you a panty dropping smirk, "goodnight y/n."

"goodnight, carlo." you walk away before you jump back into the jacuzzi to kiss him again, because that's not a smart move. a smile blooms on your face under the glow of the moon, thoughts of brandon's gentle yet dirty words and kiss all you can think about.

it has you counting down the hours until the charity gala tomorrow evening—knowing that whatever happened between you and brandon carlo was just the beginning.

the polite conversation and soft clinking of champagne flutes is driving you insane. the gala moves around you at a turtles pace. quite literally. the stunning ballroom that must cost an arm and a leg to rent—although that's nothing for formula 1–is full of old business men and sponsors.

the music is dull and the snacks are a little off putting. it's boring, to say the least. but what can you expect from a gala put together by old, rich white men.

you nod along thoughtfully at the older couple in front of you. they're babbling on about some kind of expense to do with their business. mat and travis are with you, looking all too interested in that rather pointless conversation. clearly, the two mclaren drivers have mastered their craft when it comes to pretending to care about things that don't concern them.

that's sport media training for you.

you sigh to yourself and begin fiddling with the bracket around your wrist—the jewels sparkling under the gala lighting. a part of you thinks you're only feeling bored because you haven’t seen brandon yet. in fact, you hadn't even seen him in passing since the hot tub last night.

your body responds to the memory involuntarily, warmth seeping up your veins and heating your skin. brandon's lips that kissed you so tenderly at first, like you were his favourite desert to savour, but then turned desperate, kissing you the same way he drives. fast, hard and unpredictable. you know it's dangerous but you crave more.

you swallow roughly at the thought of brandon's mouth and hands splayed over you, turning your attention away from the conversation. you scan the busy gala floor, catching sight of familiar faces and mysterious ones who most likely belong to owners and employees and sponsors you’ve never met.

at the bar stands the man of your desires, dressed in a perfectly tailored all black suit. his hair styled in the same effortless manner he always seem to wear. the air catches at the back of your throat as you notice that brandon's eyes are already on you.

he's been watching you. waiting patiently for you to find him. a game of cat and mouse, and you thrive under the idea of being his prey. the way brandon is looking at you should make you feel worried—worried that somebody will see the way you're looking at one another.

but it doesn't. all you can feel is pure, raw need. the need to feel his hands on your skin and his lips on yours—gasps and breathless sighs the only sounds between you.

ever so subtly, brandon's top lip slides up in his usual smirk, making your stomach twist and twirl in its own kind of dance. he jerks his head at you, gesturing towards the dark hallway leading out of the ballroom.

brandon doesn't wait for you to move before he leaves, slipping between unsuspecting guests and into the hall. and like you can't control yourself, you follow. you part ways with mat, travis and the couple who's names you no longer recall, muttering some excuse about needing the restroom before following brandon's path, slithering between bodies until you're in the dark hallway.

your heels clicks to a stop on the polished tiles, body naturally slowing as you squint through the lack of light, searching for brandon. but just as you think you'll need to call out for him, his familiar touch encloses around your wrist.

you spin around to meet his delicious smirk and luxury scent. "fucking missed you," he mumbles so deeply that you swear you can feel his admission in your bones. brandon's hands slip around your waist, pulling you against his chest quicker than you can blink.

his lips are on yours in an instant, kissing you with just as much intensity as last night. immediately your limbs feel like jelly, and you whine against his mouth. your hands find his jacket, fingers gripping onto his lapels like your life depends on it.

brandon guides you backwards until you meet the delicate wallpaper covered wall, never once breaking the kiss. one of his hands slides up your front, bunching your silk dress momentarily and passing over your peddled nipple. his palm cups your cheek, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss.

brandon's tongue sweeps along your bottom lip, and you part like clockwork, letting him enter your mouth—tongues moving with one another like silk on silk. the distant sound of chatter fades to nothing in the presence of brandon. making it feel like you're the only people—not only in this room—but in the world.

he pulls away from your mouth in favour of dragging his lips along your jaw and down your neck, taking extra time to suckle your pulse point and the spot behind your ear that has your legs shaking. "brandon..." you whine breathily, attempting to grind down on his thick thigh that he'd pushed between yours.

"my name sounds so pretty on your lips," brandon admits so quietly that you're not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. you catch the sight of his rosy face and slick lips—which was quite the sight to behold— before he's coming back down to your lips, kissing you firmly.

this kiss is slowly becoming dangerous. of course you're in a dark hallway, and away from the public eye, but there's still people here. just on the other side of the wall. all it would take is an unsuspecting guest to wander into the hall and catch you two.

and god, the chaos that would cause. headlines of formula 1s most successful and decorated playboy claiming mcleran rookie's younger sister flash through your head like a sick and twisted newspaper. an impending doom. it's scandalous and fun and that's why you and brandon are falling into it.

an adrenaline junkie and a girl who is trying to step out of her comfort zone, bonded together by mutual attraction and something unknown—still brewing at the deepest point in their cauldron.

the press and reports and stupid gossip twitter accounts would also think you and brandon hooking up is scandalous. but mat...this would ruin him. always protective of you, your brother has never been one for being civil towards boys you showed interest in. if anything, mat would purposefully go out of his way to be an asshole to them.

and if he found out you and brandon were...doing whatever this is, he'd be pissed. brandon carlo is his biggest competition. always will be.

"what's wrong?" brandon pulls away from your lips, his question sitting heavily between you. you hadn’t realized how your shoulders tensed in thought, or how your lips stopped moving with his. but obviously brandon did. "I can feel your brain working."

you blink, hands slowly falling away from his suit lapels. you trace your swollen bottom lip with your tongue, chest heaving from lack of oxygen and anxious thoughts.

brandon's just as swollen lips pull into a frown. he tucks a loose piece of hair behind your ear, eyes trained on your unsure expression. "hey, tell me what's going on in that pretty head."

you don't know how to express your doubts without sounding like either a) a goody two shoes who's scared of her brother, or b) an asshole who only wants brandon for his dick.

neither are true, obviously. well, maybe the first one, but that's besides the point. your eyes flicker up to meet brandon's, and you take a deep breath. "we can't date. my brother will freak and the media will just turn this into a whole mess and I don't want that."

it comes out so fast and jumbled that you're not even sure if you spoke english. does brandon understand what you're trying to explain? is he mad at you? did he even hear you?

you watch him cautiously and anxiously, lips parted as quick breaths leave and enter your lungs. but brandon doesn't even looked phased, which makes you think that he definitely didn't hear you.

but then—"okay."

"okay?" you repeat.

"yeah, okay." brandon nods, cupping your cheek once again. his thumb smooths over your cheekbone, your glittery highlighter smearing over the pad of his thumb. "we don't have to date for me to be able to touch you." he presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw.

"and kiss you." brandon kisses the corner of your mouth, the usual light gray colour of his eyes replaced with a raging storm colour. his lips drop within a mere inch of yours, "and fuck you."

your breath hitches just as brandon closes the gap between you again. he holds your mouth with his for 5 seconds, giving you one firm and lingering kiss that makes you dizzy.

"talk to me, y/n." he says, giving your hip a firm squeeze. "don't go shy on me now." brandon teases, smile slowly returning.

a beat passes before you answer him. "i'm just thinking."

brandon's past whirls through your mind. all the gossip pages about his sexual escapades and reports about partying and drinking and fucking girls as often as he eats. it's intimidating and scary. is that all you are to brandon? just another pussy for another year of racing.

you know yourself. if this thing continues between you, you'll inevitably fall for him. just because you can’t date doesn’t meant you wouldn’t. and the thought of getting your heartbroken by not only the brandon you now know, but also the brandon you used to dream of, is a scary one.

"stop thinking," brandon scolds you, but his tone is so soft and playfully that his words have no bite. "you'll just get in your head. do you want this or not?" he asks you again, accompanied by another stroke of his thumb over your cheek.

they way he's looking at you now has a lot of those thoughts floating away—probably against your better judgment. you're weak and you like him. and right now, that's enough for your doubts.

this is you letting go of your own self and doing something reckless. this isn't art school or your oldest pair of reliable jeans. this is brandon.

so you swallow down any remaining doubts and let yourself just feel. "I want this," you tell him, "I want you."

a slow smile draws on brandon's face, "fuck. dreamed of you saying those words." he leans back down in search of what will no doubt be another earth shattering kiss, but you push his chest, stopping him.

no angry, but firm. "but-" you start.

"not buts."

you laugh lightly, fingers slowly sneaking under his suit jacket because you simply can't help yourself. "yes. it's an important but," you pause, sending him a pointed look so he knows you're serious. "this stays between us. if my brother finds out..."

more like if the world finds out, in which your doubts will surely creep back in.

brandon kisses your lips, quick and steady. "my lips are sealed."

─────BRITISH GRAND PRIX─────

brandon was pissed. he didn't truly have a reason to be pissed, but that just how he gets when he feels out of control—or better yet, when he feels jealous.

when you told him that travis—that piece of shit mclaren driver who brandon is going to try really hard to not punch in the face next time he sees him—asked you on a date, brandon wasn't too upset. sure, he was annoyed because what the fuck kind of claim does travis thinks he has on you? not that brandon has that claim either, but it still gets his pissed.

but when you told him that you agreed, brandon was in disbelief. pure, white hot jealousy had clouded his vision and made his fingers twitch. you quickly followed it up with how mat was in hearing range at the time, and you were worried that if you declined, it would look suspicious. and then one thing would lead to another and then your brother finds out about brandon.

it's been almost a month since the kiss in the hallway at the gala, and since then you and brandon haven't slowed down. any possible opportunity and moment of privacy, you two are sneaking away and ripping each others clothes off. if you thought brandon kissed you perfectly, well, you were in for quite a surprise the first time he fucked you. you came three separate times, and each orgasm was more intense then the previous.

regardless of brandon's hatred for travis and the jealous rage that comes over him anytime he sees travis standing too close or looking at you, brandon knows that going on the date to get mat off your trails is smart. even though all you and brandon have is considered nothing more than friends with benefits, it’s still important to you to keep it private and away from mat.

so if going on a stupid date with mcleran trash is what you think is best, brandon agrees. but that doesn't mean that brandon wasn't going to hide in his room and pretend the date’s not happening. absolutely not—he too possessive for that. no, he's spraying himself in the cologne that drives you insane and fully intending on intercepting you and travis before you leave the hotel.

you know, because he can.

the elevator doors slide open smoothly into the grand lobby, and brandon steps out, eyes insanity searching the marbled surroundings for you. it's not hard—he'd recognize your hair, even from the back, from a mile away. the way it sits and how the light reflects of the colour. the perfect shade for you.

your back is turned towards the elevators as you peer out the large wall of windows and the revolving door. you've got your phone clutched in your hand, screen on. clearly you've been splitting your gaze between the night time streets and phone.

brandon makes his way towards you easily, coming up behind you—standing close enough so you know that he's there, but still leaving enough space between you that any pass byers won't bat an eyelid.

and the way your body reacts—shoulders tensing and head turning back just slightly—brandon knows you're aware that he's behind you. he catches a whiff of your perfume, although it’s nice, it’s not your usual scent. it's darker. sexier.

"you wearing that perfume for him?" his voice is rumbly in your ear, sending a wave of shivers down your spine.

"for me." you spin aorund, which unintentionally gives him another wave of the scent. brandon hates that you're wearing something new for someone so minuscule. it makes him want to throw you over his shoulder, bring you up to his room and claim you and the new smell like some kind of animal.

he hums, "I like it."

"do you?"

"I do," he confirms, dropping his voice a tone lower, "smells like sex."

your eyes glaze over with lust at his admission, body naturally swaying in brandon's direction. you only word the perfume because you left your usual scent back in spain by complete accident. clearly, brandon likes it, and that has you forgetting about the supposed date with travis and rather focusing your attention on the man in front of you.

that is until your phone buzzes in your hand, a text from mcleran's sophomore driver lighting up your screen. you read the message quickly—essentially some half assed apology about having to cancel.

"oh."

"he canceled didn't he?"

you swallow, "it's fine." you wave a dismissive hand and pocket your phone in your jean pocket. "i'm not bothered, honestly."

but brandon? brandon is fucking bothered. he's not sure what's going through travis' thick skull, but clearly it's not anything in regards to your time or feelings. "not really." he grumbles.

brandon grabs your hand because right now he couldn't give a flying fuck about anybody else. he feels the tendons in your hands flex under his finger tips. that combined with the way your eyes widen, looking around the lobby cautiously, he knows you're worried.

worried about prying eyes and judgement and the word getting back to your brother. but brandon doesn't let go of your hand, and he tugs you closer, "let's go."

you blink, "what?"

"we're going out," he repeats, walking the both of you towards the glass doors that lead to the cool summer evening air.

"together?"

brandon sends you a smirk, "obviously."

"I thought—" you stop yourself. there was a part of you, one that you kept deep down, that feared brandon only wanted to fuck. and it wasn't that crazy of a thought to have. his past combined with how the both of you only tend to kiss and fuck in the privacy of either of your rooms—what other conclusion were you supposed to draw?

and you were fine with that. if that was the only way you got to have brandon you'd be okay. but this, right now, has your feelings swishing and swirling and growing—feelings that you've been trying so hard to suppress and keep under control.

"thought what?" brandon urges you to continue as you step out onto the sidewalk, the fresh crisp air enveloping you. it makes you shiver, fingers tightening between his instinctively.

you shake your head and once again push aside your doubts and fears. "nothing." you send him a closed mouth smile, which brandon mimics before tucking you into his side. the heat of his body is familiar and has you already forgetting about your inner turmoil.

"alright, c'mon then," he whispers into your hairline before he presses a lingering kiss there. the time of night and lack of people in the streets has brandon feeling bold.

"don't waste an outfit that pretty on a piece of shit guy who didn't even show up." brandon mutters, tossing his arms around your shoulders. his hand dangles off your arm like an invitation, and before you overthink it, your grab ahold of his fingers. keeping him close.

"because this outfit..." he blows out a long exhale, his eyes slowly trailing over your body. your jeans, which he's pretty sure are the ones you wore when you first met, hug your body in a way that makes his mouth actually water. and the top you’re wearing, dipping so low and accentuating your cleavage, is even better.

you brush off his compliment with a playful eye roll. "careful, talk about your competition like that and karma will get you."

brandon snorts, "oh, he's not competition."

you roll your eyes again, a smile tugging at your lips. "you're so cocky."

brandon shrugs at your claim as the two of you continue the casual stroll down the england sidewalk. shops light up the streets in their last few minutes of business, casting a warm glow over the both of you. a comfortable beat of silence passes, brandon's fingers flex against yours. "so, what were the plans? with the dick."

you laugh once and dig your elbow into his side, a silent way of telling him to behave. "dinner at that fancy place down the street. the one that's got Italian food." you tell him.

"your idea or his?"

"his."

"thought so.” brandon gives a short laugh. “fucking sucks."

your lip twitches, "don't be rude."

brandon sends you a knowing gaze, "that's me being nice."

"it's you being possessive." you correct him, sending him back the same look. it makes brandon smile. he slows in his steps before coming to a stop. brandon tightens his arm around your shoulders, pulling you right into his chest and slotting his lips with yours.

it lasts for a beat longer than brandon intended it to, but he simply can't help himself when he feels you melt against him, and sigh into his kiss all light and airy like you always do. brandon knows how to kiss, and it wrecks you every time.

he pulls away but then immediately leans back in for another peck. and then another. and then one more that makes you giggle against his boyish grin.

"so where are we going, carlo?" you question once the two of you start walking again—you still a little warm for the flurry of kisses.

"it's a surprise." he sing songs, pulling you into him ever tighter.

you pout, "I hate surprises."

brandon doesn't even blink. "why?"

at first you just shrug, gnawing along the plump skin of your bottom lip as you contemplate your words. you think about brushing it off and giving some kind of lighthearted excuse—but that's not the truth. and there’s something about brandon—the way he talks to you, and touches you and kisses you—has you wanting to open up.

and somehow, it's not scary.

"I don't like things out of my control," you admit, swallowing the anxious lump in throat before continuing. "I prefer planning things out—it makes me feel weak and anxious when I don’t." you could go deeper into it, but there's truly nothing else you're keeping for him. your admission is the truth—simplified—but straight to the point.

which brandon appreciates. it's not some beat around the bush, lengthy response that has him questioning what you're actually talking about—something past girls in his life tended to do that made brandon feel he was a carousel of contradictory claims.

he hums thoughtfully, "I can understand that. I get that when i'm racing sometimes."

"you do?" you whisper.

"yeah," brandon shrugs casually. surely. "when you can't control what's happening around you or in front of you, the chances of getting hurt—physically or emotionally—become higher. and it can be scary. it’s essentially putting your trust in someone else’s hands.”

his response has you blinking in surprise, because yeah, he hit the nail on the head. all you can do is just mumble dumbly, and blink again. "right."

brandon kisses your cheek, the smooching sound echoing through the empty streets. "the beach," he says against your warm cheek.

you hum in question.

"that's where we're going." and that makes you smile. no surprises for you. at least, not tonight.

you raise a brow, "do they even have beaches in britain?"

brandon laughs, "yeah silly girl, c’mon."

you try not to let yourself think too hard about the way brandon is acting with you. taking you out tonight was something he didn't have to do—you could've gone up to his room and just had sex like usual. but not tonight. it has those funny feelings resurfacing once more, and you're not sure how much longer you'll be able to repress them in his presence.

and then when you're at the beach, brandon lets you use his bicep as a pillow—protection from the sand and rocky terrain—as you look up the stars. and yeah, you're so fucked.

────SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX────

"oh my fucking god, baby."

the only response you can manage to give is another high pitched mewl, back arching impossibly higher off the bed. brandon's hands tighten where they hold your hips, the pads on his fingers almost bruising your delicate skin.

it's the best kind of pain, one that only makes you moan louder. he's got your entire lower half—hips and ass—practically off the mattress, keeping you at the perfect angle to thrust into your slippery entrance.

brandon's hips smack into yours impossibly hard and fast, the perfect combination that is dragging you closer and closer to your already nearing edge. the pulsating head of his cock switches between plunging against your spongy walls and kissing your cervix. and each time it catches you by the best kind of surprise—you’re practically fucking squealing.

if it didn't feel so good, you'd be embarrassed. embarrassed of the pornographic level of noises you're emitting, and embarrassed of the way you're completely soaking brandon's length and dripping down onto the hotel bedding.

“look so fucking hot, y/n," he grunts, eyes falling away from where you're connected and settling upon your blissed out face. "look so pretty on my cock."

your puffy lips part, a half mumbled response falling from them. brandon doesn't even know what you're saying but he doesn't care. you're so fucked dumb on his cock that your nonsense response only urges him to go faster. deeper. harder.

you look a mess. your hair, which is usually styled or pulled back, is loose and tangled, sprawled over the mattress and framing you like an angel. mascara coloured tears are running down your temples, and your mouth is almost bruised from brandon’s kisses. and the creamy ring of slick at the base of his cock—that's the cherry on top.

"fuck, 'm cumming." you manage to grunt, voice impossibly breathless. but brandon gets the jist of it. he doesn't slow his thrusts as he falls to hover over your quivering body. brandon attaches his mouth to the spot just under your ear, suckling on the patch of sensitive skin.

it's the final push to have you completely snapping, pussy spasming around his cock as you reach your peak, creamy fluids dripping from your entrance and adding to the mess already pooled beneath your ass on the sheets.

"oh fuck," brandon groans into your neck, "such a good girl—you're gunna make me cum."

"brandon." you gasp, legs shaking and shuttering where they’re hooked around brandon's waist, as he works you through the shockwaves of your climax.

his name falling off your lips is what makes him grunt out, cock twitching inside you as he too reaches his orgasm. the coil in his abdomen tightening and snapping, ropes of sticky cum coating your walls.

once brandon finishes emptying himself in your gooey entrance, he wraps his forearm around your back, using the new leverage to roll onto his sweat misted back and bring you with him.

you giggle into his chest, listening to his thumping heart beneath your warm ear. you used to think that you hated cuddling after sex. it always just seemed so yucky and dirty. both of your covered in sweat and body fluids—panting and a little overstimulated.

but with brandon it's not like that. the first time you fucked, he didn’t even give you the option to slip away—he was dragging you against his sweaty chest before you even could blink.

it's nice with him. everything is.

you feel brandon’s lips sweep along your forehead, his touch so featherlight that it almost tickles. he's smiling against you.

you tilt your head up to gaze up at him, legs tangling together over the sheets. you're sure soon enough, once your bodies come down from their respective highs, the sweat will become unbearable and cold. but right now neither of you could care.

"you okay?"

you hum, "yeah."

brandon smiles again, but you barley get a chance to see it before he's swooping down to steal a kiss. his hand scratches at your scalp absentmindedly when you pull away, making the muscles in his bicep shift under your neck. it's so simple, yet so comforting.

you take the moment of silence and calmness—something you don't often get in the traveling life of the formula 1 world—to admire brandon. his soft, flushed skin and the wrinkling near his eyes and smile lines. a clear indicator that he's often smirking and grinning. just the thought has a smile blossoming on your tingling lips.

the slope of his nose and the dip of his top lip—lips that kiss you with the perfect mix of greed and gentleness. his eyes, which ones remind you of a storm, now only show you a deep ocean—mysterious, intriguing and beautiful.

you gently reach out and run your finger over the dull scar on the apple of his cheek. it's flush to his skin, almost nonexistent under the pad of your index finger, but it still makes you frown. "how'd you get this scar?"

brandon grabs your hand and brings your fingers towards his mouth, nipping at them playfully. "fighting a shark."

you laugh, pulling your hand back and tuck it between your ear and his chest. "brandon, be serious."

"my sophomore year racing, when I was still acting young and stupid—"

"are you implying that you no longer act young and stupid?" you interrupt teasingly.

brandon's mouth turn upwards, choosing to continue his story without commenting on your quip. "I went go-karting with a couple of the older drivers. we were all coming back from the bars and broke into this place. my kart rolled and this scar is the result." he looks down at you curiously, "bad ass, right?"

you hum in faux thought, "more like ridiculous." he breathes a laugh, pulling you tighter and closer against his chest. "have you always wanted to be a driver?" you ask after a beat, soft and curious.

"since I could barley walk."

"really?"

he nods, "yeah. had my own tiny ferrari cars that I used to bring everywhere. driving was ingrained into my brain before I even knew what a car was."

brandon's story makes you think about you and your brother, and how the two of you would play with tiny toy cars. you suppose every formula 1 driver has dreamed about it, and something about that pulls on your heartstrings. and for someone like brandon, who has been so successful and has raced for so long, it must be more than surreal for him.

"what about you?"

your eyebrows draw inward, and your fingers still against his chest from where they previously traced nonsense shapes. "what about me?"

"what's your dream?"

the answer comes in autopilot fashion. you've been practicing the career question response since freshman year of high school when you first started to realize your childhood dream of art school was fading. "I want to go to art school. learn about history and culture that paints the most famous pieces in the world."

brandon is silent for a moment, quietly digesting and analyzing your response and the tone of which you say it. "and now?" he prompts easily. like he knows the words coming out of your mouth aren't authentic. and you think maybe he does know it, and for the first time that doesn't frighten you.

you push up onto your elbow, peering down at brandon with a new found sparkle in your eye. "I want to be a writer."

"what kind of writer?" he smiles.

"novels primarily. romance specifically."

"why romance?"

"I don't know," you pause and take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with the chain hanging loose around brandon's neck as you articulate your thoughts. "there's just something so special about reading about love. cuddling up after a long day and just emerging yourseing into this perfect, fictional world. authors like tessa bailey and elsie silver—both write such fun stories and write so beautifully and just completely encapsulate the reader. I want to be that for someone else."

brandon just looks at you, and suddenly that makes you feel silly. becoming a writer is hard, and having to create scenes on paper the way you see them in your head is even harder. it's an almost impossible dream. you laugh half heatedly, blinking hard, "but I don't know...Im still trying to get into art school."

"what?" he mumbles, confusion lacing his words, "why?"

you shrug causally, even though the look in your eyes is anything but. "because that's what I wanted to do."

you say it like it's simple. like it's the right choice. it makes brandon want to shake your shoulders until you change your mind. the way he just heard you talk about writing the way you did, had him feeling all sorts of things. fuck, the look in your eyes talking about creating a novel...it's a look he's never seen on you before.

"wanted," brandon reminds you, "past tense."

your brows pull downward towards your nose again, "but it's the plan, and I can't mess up the plan."

he almost wants to laugh. "fuck the plan."

"it sounds easier than it is," you sigh gently.

"well," brandon starts after a lingering pause of silence, "whatever you end up doing...I know you'll be great at it. especially writing."

you grin shyly, chin dropping down to his peck. "you think so?"

"know so," he confirms while pushing some frizzy hair away from your face. then a boyish look begins morphing over his expression, and instantly you know he's about to say something that will have you simultaneously rolling your eyes, and suppressing a smile. "besides you can always use us as inspiration for your first book." brandon pitches, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"you're stupid." your words turn into a squeal as brandon quickly shifts you onto your back. he hovers over you again, smirk unwavering as he leans down and runs the tip of his nose down yours.

"stupid for you." brandon says lowly before he leans down and claims your lips once more. a lingering and firm kiss that has butterflies going crazy in your lower belly, and your legs wrapping around his naked hips.

"who knew brandon carlo was so cheesy," you smile as you say it, momentarily stopping the kiss due to the stupid grin on your face.

he breaths a sound that sounds like a short laugh, cupping your face gently before leaning down and continuing the kiss. brandon rolls his hips into you, his already hardening member sliding between the mess still between your legs.

you know he's nowhere near done with you tonight.

───────US GRAND PRIX───────

there was only thing your mom always said—when your brother got a seat with a formula 1 team, she'd invite the entire grid to your childhood home for a barbecue. you always thought it was a little weird and random, but your mom always waved off your concerns, claiming that there was no better way to celebrate mat's new achievement.

and she kept that promise, much to your surprise. now here you are, childhood backyard full of drivers and their families alike—chatting happily and laughing with one another in between sips of beer and bites of food. mat is at the center of it all, beaming with a stupid kiss the chef apron on, flipping burgers and hotdogs on the grill top.

even through the glass door that separates the yard from the cozy kitchen of the home, you can hear how easily they all get along—pushing differences and competition aside for the day. it's refreshing, and for a moment you forget about it all. the traveling and hostility and podiums. a much needed end of summer break for not only you and the drivers families, but for the drivers themselves.

beside you at the island, your mom sighs happily while she's busy mixing the punch into the orange juice filled bowl—turning the liquid an electric colour. your mouth waters at the sight and smell of fresh citrus wafting through the air.

you drag a knife down the centre of a lemon, slicing the fruit into two perfect halves. "want the whole lemon cut up, mum?"

she shoots you a quick glance, "yeah, might as well—it'll favour it more." she adds some extra ice cubes—shaped like race cars—into the punch bowl, keeping it cold even though it inevitably will melt under the heat of the sun. your mom smiles at you, "i'm sure all those people will drink it up in no time anyways, and we'll be back in here doing it all over again. good thing I bought so many fruits."

you laugh, slicing the lemon into almost perfect rounds. "yeah, it's nice that they all came out."

a moment passes before your mom speaks again, "I noticed that brandon isn't here yet."

your hands still along the red handle of the knife. a colour that you can't help but relate to the man in question. it's true, brandon isn't at your moms home yet. in truth, he didn't even know if he'd be able to come. when brandon told you that he wasn't sure if his flight from his families place in colorado would get back in time for the barbecue, you had brushed it off, easily masking your disappointment.

brandon didn't have to be here. there was no obligation just because he was fucking you. but that doesn't mean you don't want him to come—meet your mom and spend time in the house you grew up in. admire your childhood art work that's still on the fridge and the baby photos of you in the hallway.

it's dangerous territory thinking of brandon so domestically, but you can't help it. you've been thinking of brandon as more than a fuck buddy for quite some time now. of course, neither of you have actually disclosed anything about the status of your relationship, but friends with benefits—great benefits may you add—is the closest thing. so maybe him not coming is a blessing in disguise—no matter how hard your heart protests that idea.

"I don't think he can make it." you shrug nonchalantly without looking over at your mom—because if you do, you know she'll see right through you.

your mom hums, "I wouldn't be too sure of that honey, because it looks like he's coming in here right now."

"what?" you breathe, knife and fruit quickly forgotten as you direct your attention to the glass doors of the porch. instantly you see brandon, dressed in a loose linen shirt, his top three buttons undone to spare you a nice view of his collarbones and the top of his chest.

he pulls open the door, his familiar scent immediately finding your senses. you can't help the smile that grows on your lips as your eyes catch his.

"hey," brandon breathes through a grin, "mat mentioned that you guys were in here. hope i'm not interrupting." brandon's eyes flicker between you and your mom, a curious glint over his expression.

the punch ladle hits the counter top with a click, and your mom immediately rounds the kitchen island, "no of course not!" she beams, pulling brandon into a hug before he can answer. you'd be embarrassed at your moms straightforwardness if it wasn't for the easy look on brandon's face, indicating he doesn't mind. thank god.

"i'm brandon, it's lovely to meet you." he breezes. clearly, he's one of those people who are just naturally good with parents. must be the charisma and all that.

your mom pulls back but keeps a friendly hand on his bicep, "oh, i'm well aware of who you are, brandon. it's so lovely to finally meet you, y/n has told me lots about you." she sends you a playful look over her shoulder, one that makes you want to drown yourself in the punch bowl.

and brandon? he eats that up. "oh has she?" he smirks, meeting your eyes over your moms head, gaze nothing but teasing and amused.

"oh yes—"

"mum." you interrupt her incredulously, a bubble of panic settling over your chest and face.

she waves you off, "don't mum me honey!"

much to your embarrassment, brandon just laughs. thankfully though, he doesn't want to torture you more, because he changes the topic before your mom continues. "these are for you," brandon grins, handing off a bouquet to your mom, full of beautiful purple and pink flowers.

you blink in surprise. you didn't even notice the flowers in his hands. that's what you get for eye banging him like a teenager.

"oh! aren't you sweet, they're lovely. thank you, brandon." she gushes, taking the flowers and immediately walking further into the kitchen for a vase. she finds one easily, turning her back to the both of you in favour of filling the glass up with water.

brandon takes the moment of half privacy and walks towards you, easily resting against the side of the island. he's got another bouquet, this one full of sunflowers and baby breathes. it's so ridiculously beautiful. "and these ones are for you. hopefully this isn't too much of a surprise." he adds teasingly, passing you the arrangement while referencing a secret you told him back in england. it makes your heart swell.

you take them, although in a little bit of a daze. you don't think anybody has gotten you flowers, and it's really doing a number on your heart. your lips part, pausing to admire the flowers. after a beat, your eyes flicker back up to brandon. "nah, just a suck up."

his grin widens, "and i'd do it again." and you know he means that. brandon keeps his gaze on you, unwilling to look away—a playful expression on his face. it has you crumbling, and you bring the bouquet up to your nose so you can hide the embarrassing smile that blooms across your lips.

"you know brandon," your moms easy voice breaks you apart, "y/n used to be so obsessed with you."

you can physically feel all the blood drain from your face. brandon looks away from you at that point, a curious raise to his eyebrow as he urges your mom to elaborate."what do you mean?"

"oh my god, mum. can we seriously stop." you mange to squeak out a a response. the last resort you have to save yourself from a lifetime of embarrassment. you know exactly what your mom is going to tell him next, and the thought is nauseating.

your mom completely ignores you and your pleading expression with a playful glimmer in her eyes. "she used to have your posters up on her wall—actually there's one still up. don't think she had the heart to take them down."

brandon breathes a pleased, short laugh, jaw going slack and eyes narrowing in your direction. not that you would know though, because you've completely diverted your gaze to the lemon juice pooling on the cutting board under the half sliced fruit.

"oh, I have to see that," he laughs.

"no. you don't."

your mom tuts her tongue and plops the flowers into the vase, "y/n, show him!"

"yeah, y/n, show me." brandon's voice lowers to almost a whisper, leaning close enough that you can feel his body heat.

you sigh after a painfully long beat. "fine," you grumble, looking up at brandon and his triumphant grin. you shove an accusatory finger in between his pecks, "but only if you promise to never speak of this conversation again."

he grabs your hand between his, holding you to his chest. "cross my heart."

if you knew how this stupid barbecue would've turned out—with the guy you're hooking up with finding out about your embarrassing teenage crush on him—you would've preferred brandon to stay away in colorado with his parents. at least than you wouldn't have to face him.

your mom, ever the instigator, just breezes past the both of you, punch bowl in her arms. "have fun you two." she smiles and then slips back out into the yard, leaving you and brandon alone in the kitchen.

his smile hasn't wavered, and it only makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. brandon tilts his head at you, eyes filled with something you can't decipher, and then he takes the flowers out of your hands.

in an instant, you groan dramatically, covering your face with your palms in some kind of attempt at hiding from his intense, humor laced gaze.

brandon laughs shortly, and pulls your hands away from your face, "no point in hiding now, y/n. I know your deepest secret now." he mumbles through his boyish grin before leaning down to kiss you slowly, dragging it out until you think you could pass out. "I knew you were obsessed with me."

"first of all," you say, "I wasn't obsessed with you."

his brows draw down towards his nose, "no?"

you're still a little dizzy from the kiss, but somehow you manage to respond—teasingly at that. "no," you shake your head, "you were too old for me."

brandon laughs once, loudly, head tilting back and giving you a delicious view of his toned neck. "old jokes can't get you out of this one, y/n." he responds once his eyes meets yours again, reaching and out interlocking your fingers together.

he pulls you into his chest. "you sure?" your voice is laced with skepticism coupled with playfulness—hesitation and anxiety about the situation clear. you know you're not going to get out of this one. and like you expected, brandon shakes his head no, a weird grin on his face like he can't decide if he's amused or pitying your clear embarrassment.

it makes you groan dramatically, forehead meeting his sternum. brandon snickers into your hair, letting go of your hands in favour of rubbing a hand up and down your spine. the frilly fabric of your blouse wrinkling under his palm.

"you're fine," he hums, "now let's get up to that bedroom." his eyebrows waggle suggestively.

you narrow your gaze, "i've never had a man so excited to go up to my bedroom to see his own face before." you note, (reluctantly) pulling brandon down the narrow hall off the kitchen that leads to your bedroom.

the eyes that had previously been peering at the various picture frames covering every inch of floral wallpaper, flicker towards you as the comment registers in his head. "don't talk about other men going up to your bedroom," brandon grunts.

your top lip twitches, "why? you jealous." you turn to face him, falling back against the white wooden door that separates you from your once sacred room. for a moment you think about seducing your way out of the situation—bat your lashes, or grope him, or flash your tits if you're feeling drastic enough. after all, if brandon doesn't see it. then it's not true.

but you know him well enough to know that he's never going to let you live this situation down, and he's getting in that room one way or another. yes, even if your tits are out.

slowly, brandon just shakes his head, denying your suggestion about him being jealous thinking of other guys in your room, even though he totally is. "no, because you're just stalling right now."

the hopeful smile you'd been sporting quickly falls.

"c'mon." he kisses your check in some kind of wordless apology, which of course works in his favour.

you groan dramatically again, hand blindly finding the doorknob that you can feel digging into your lower back behind you, where you then reluctantly open the door. it swings with a creak, and brandon is hit with the familiar scent of your shampoo and perfume.

despite your orderly personality, your bedroom is kind of all over the place—a complete contrast. your bedding consists of different patterns and bright colours, and the lilac paint on your walls is a colour brandon has never seen you wear. the desk under the window is a complete mess of notebooks, novels and loose mail—accompanied by picture frames and a few tiny stuffed animals that don't fit on your bed.

all brandon can do is blink, slowly spinning in the middle of your room to take in your space. you gnaw your lip in a mixture of nerves and anticipation. it's only a matter of time until he sees the picture of him above your bedside table.

and just like that, he stops, eyes narrowing in on the poster—the glossy image illuminated by the polka dot bedroom lamp you left on. brandon takes slow steps towards it, but with his long ass legs it's barley a step and a half before he's there.

brandon pinches the corner between his thumb and forefinger. the paper feels thin under his thumb, years of wear and tear evident. it looks like one of those posters you get in a magazine with the t shaped crease running through it.

"wow." he muses.

"don't even start," you send him a deadpanned look as his bewildered eyes meet yours over his shoulder.

he releases the picture of himself in favour of spinning back in your direction, hands held out in a mocking surrender at your biting tone. "no no im just...did you used to kiss it before going to bed?" brandon continues twisting the knife in your chest, a smirk on his face while he does it.

you can't decide if you want to kiss him or shove him out your room and never look him in the eye again. "shut up," you grumble.

brandon steps into your space, your chest practically brushing against his toned stomach underneath his thin linen top. "hey, just a question," he reassures you playfully, hands finding your hips under the hem of your top. brandon squeezes your bare skin. "I totally think you did though."

"you wish."

"want me to sign it?"

"fuck off." you snort, gripping at his wrists and weakly attempting to pry him off.

brandon just laughs, not done with pushing your buttons just yet. "hey, no need for profanities. lots of girls would kill to have me in their bedroom, don't be ungrateful—oh look there's another picture of me."

and there it is, the bigger poster of him on the backside of your closet door—the closet door you'd left open not thinking anything of it. god, how could you have been so naive? you should've known brandon would con his way into your bedroom like a horny teenage boy some way or another.

you should've never just assumed his flight from colorado would be on your side.

"oh my god," you whine, "this is so embarrassing." you manage to slip out of his grip, sluggishly moving towards your unmade bed to then only flop down on the bouncy mattress. you grab one of your fuzzy throw pillows and cover your face, whining again into the fur.

it doesn't sound like a whine as much as a dying cat, but brandon gets the jist of it. he follows your path, climbing on the bed, thighs on either side of yours. "it's not."

"you're only saying that cause you like looking at yourself." your muffled tease makes brandon's grin widen.

"like looking at you more, c'mon." brandon mumbles, pulling the pillow away from your face, revealing your pout. he smiles again, this time softer. "there she is." brandon's voice is no louder than a whisper.

you swallow, "you just gunna keep looking at me or are you going to put me out of my misery?"

"misery? nah, I'm loving this," he nudges his nose against yours, "you're cute when you're embarrassed."

"i'm glad my pain brings you joy," you quip.

"you're so dramatic." you don't get a chance to respond to brandon's tease before he's claiming your mouth. all thoughts of your banter fades away as he kisses you, mind and body completely surrendering to all thins brandon carlo.

your hands find the tender muscles of brandon's neck, fingers sliding around to the back and sliding into his soft hair. you pull him in deeper, carefully dragging your tongue along brandon's bottom lip in an attempt to deepen the kiss.

but brandon doesn't let you. he pulls off you, and you whine pathetically and wriggle underneath him like a desperate fish. "i'm not fucking you in here with your family and the entire grid outside."

"but-"

your protest is cut short.

"i'm gunna make you cum though," brandon grumbles. "gotta stay quiet for me, okay?"

you can only manage a gasp, and that's the only sound brandon needs to hear to know you're more than okay with the idea. which, yeah, you need him badly. slowly, he tugs down your light wash denim shorts, almost at an antagonizing pace, until they're on the floor, leaving you in just your panties and top.

brandon easily adjusts your body position, manhandling your legs until you're spread open the way he wants, giving himself free range to look at the damp center of your underwear. underwear that's barley covering your pussy, mind you. which is just torturous for brandon.

he curses, settling beside you on the stack of pillows with a hungry look in his eyes. brandon sandwiches your one thigh between his, not only keeping you spread, opening you up even further, but also trapping you. brandon knows you're a squirmer, especially when his fingers are inside you.

you watch with baited breath as brandon's hand slides over the edge of your thing, settling between your leg—teasing you until the last possible second like usual. two of his thick fingers hook onto the side of your underwear and pull them off to the side.

the feeling of the cool air hitting your slick heat has you mewling lowly, your hips jerking in an attempt to create some friction. "oh god," you sigh desperately, head falling on brandon's shoulder as he stars pawing at your clit, rubbing the bud in precise, slow circles.

"I know," he coos lowly while his index and middle finger slip down your slick folds, not only spreading your arousal but also teasing your entrance. brandon curses, "you're so wet. I love your fucking pussy so much—always ready."

your jaw goes slack when he begins to ease his two fingers into your gummy entrance. the stretch is a familiar sensation, one that you've been desperately waiting for and trying to replicate in the weeks you and brandon have been apart. but nothing—not even your own hand—can replicate brandon's touch.

your reflex to combat the overwhelming sensation is to grab ahold brandon's wrist. you're not even sure what you're asking for, but brandon always seems to know, giving you exactly what you need.

"missed you," you babble, chest heaving under your tank top, "been so long."

"m' can tell," he grumbles through a half smirk, "practically drenching my hand." brandon missed you as well though, even if he doesn't say it out loud. fuck, he missed you so much that it had his body feeling hallow. you're all he could think about—all day and at night where he'd dream of you.

but saying all that right now probably isn't the sexiest thing. so his teasing remark will do.

"shut up—fuck." the words die on your tongue as brandon's hand moves, angling upward so that the heel of his palm is now smacking and rubbing against your clit achingly good, while his fingers continue there languid yet expert pace inside you. brandon stokes are calculated, ensuring you feel him all over—making a mess of you.

you moan again—definitely too loud for the setting, but it's so easy to forget that the entire grid is in your backyard, just a hallway away, when brandon is pleasing you like this. the pads of his fingers perfectly rub against the spongy spot inside you, turning the already amazing feeling into pure, white hot pleasure.

"yeah that's it baby," brandon grunts, forearm flexing against you as he continues the pace. "you gunna cum?" he asks even though he's already well aware of the answer. brandon can tell that you're on the brink of an orgasm simply based on the way you're fluttering around him. your arousal collecting in a creamy ring around his knuckles. it's sticky and messy and just how brandon loves it.

"uh huh."

he smirks at the sound of your mindless, fucked out hum of a response. "that's my girl, fuck, c'mon."

your lower belly tightens at the term of endearment, brandon's praise pushing you over the edge and plummeting you into an orgasm. you walls contract so tightly that it's almost impossible for brandon to continue pumping his fingers in and out of you—riding you through the shockwaves of pleasure.

"fuck, oh fuck." you cry, nails digging into brandon's forearm—feeling the ridges of muscle and delicious veins under the pads of your fingers. brandon doesn't let up yet, keeping the vigorous pace in and out of your overstimulated pussy until you're sobbing, "brandon, too much."

"you're okay." he coos. every so slowly, brandon slows down, allowing you to catch your breath, hips falling back down to your bed as the overwhelming pressure begins to ease. "did so good f'me." brandon smiles against your skin, kissing away the single tear that escaped you.

you can only hope that this is the only kind of crying brandon will cause, because your heart has slowly but completely transferred into the palm of his hand. and it's scary. scary when brandon's lips finds yours, fingers still nestled inside your pulsating heat, palm over your clit like he's just holding you.

it's scary when he pulls out of you and mumbles against your mouth that he missed you. it's scary when you both walk out to the yard 15 minutes and a blowjob later, and nobody bats at eye at the way you're looking at him.

and it's so fucking scary how you never want to look away.

──────BRAZIL GRAND PRIX──────

people always describe tragic events as time moving in slow motion. the clock completely freezing as the concept of seconds evaporate into nothing short of molasses. one second turning into an hour. stop motion scenes that turn your stomach and head.

but as you watch the front end of the bright red ferrari car spin out on the slippery track, time doesn't slow down—it makes sure you witness every antagonizing movement as it happens. brandon is surely trying to jerk the wheel, a desperate attempt to get the car back on the track, but it's no use.

the track is too wet from the rain. the rain that is still pelting down all over the track and cars. the car spins again, all the way around and barley misses the back end of the first astin martin, before ramming into the wall. the crunching sound is sickening, echoing through the garages. fuck, you can even hear the sound over the mclaren headphones.

even if it wasn't for the noise of the crash, your brothers voice through the headphones covering your ears inform the crew of the accident, meaning you would've known regardless.

you can see it. even through the downpour, you can see the way the engine smokes, tires all bent and flat as the car just sits there like a loaded gun. it's all happening so fast. the ferrari staff storming the track, ambulance on stand by for brandon. just in case.

the thought of him being hurt in there makes you feel physically ill. your body is frozen in place. you can't move or blink or do anything besides wait. because although the crash was fast, waiting for brandon to get out of the half mangled car was taking forever.

just when you start to think the worst, you see the ferrari staff help brandon out of the car. you let out a breath you don't realize you were holding in. the sight of him, standing on his two feet is enough of a relief for tears to prickle at the corner of your eyes.

brandon rips his helmet off and immediately throws it to the pavement, the anger fuelled action followed by a guttural scream—the curse echoing through the garages and leaving a weight on your chest.

he's angry. angry about the crash and with himself for not being able to control the car. he's failed his fans and ferrari and himself today—something he never ever wants to do. something he can't do. brandon runs a hand through his sweaty hair, tugging roughly at the root as he starts stalking away from the scene.

you watch him cautiously, tears threatening to spill over your waterline and track down your cheeks, until he disappears into the ferrari garage. vanishing from your direct line of sight. instantly you're pulling off the clunky orange headphones, body acting on autopilot as you begin to make your way out of the garage.

you follow brandon's footsteps easily—through the blinding white back hallways that connect all the lounges together. anxiously peering into every room and past every open door, looking for him. your body feels numb, limbs and head heavy and weak. and when you do stumble across him—pacing in the ferrari room with his head down, muttering to himself about things you can't quite hear—that's when you finally break.

physically he's okay, and even though you saw brandon walk in here himself, there was still a nagging worry that had your stomach in knots. you've never been so distraught over someone in your life—thankfully you haven't had to be. it's a strange and new feeling, one that has you completely loosing your composure and emotions.

at the sound of your hiccuped gasp, brandon spins to face you. in an instant his anger and self dissatisfaction fades away. because you're there, hands shaking and tears streaming down your face, looking at him like you've just seen a fucking ghost.

brandon rushes to you, "hey, hey come here." the sob you let out is obscene as he grabs ahold of your face, thumbs instantly trying to wipe away the mess of mascara and salty tears under your eyes. brandon's eyebrows pull in worry, "what's wrong my baby?"

if you weren't so damn silly and distraught, you would've been sent into outer space at the nickname. brandon only calls you baby when he's inside of you. but right now, you're so upset that brandon can't even think about trying to be careful with his words. you're his baby and he wants nothing more than to soothe you and kiss you until you're okay.

"I just feel sad for you," you mumble between hitched breaths, blinking up at him in a way the resembles as abandoned kitten.

brandon shakes his head before pressing a lingering kiss to the center of your forehead. "i'm okay." and it's the truth. of course, he's fucking pissed off about having to DNF a race this late in the season, but the doesn't compare to how upset he is at himself for making you so upset and anxious about it.

the last thing he wants to do is fail you. you're all he has. brandon doesn't want you to feel sad for him. or disappointed or anything else. before he can start mentally spiralling about how he's let you down, your meek and tear stricken voice completely has his attention. "no matter how many times I watch crashes happen, seeing it never gets easier. and then when I saw it was you..." another round of unshed tears dare to fall.

you take another shaky breath, cold fingers wrapping around his thick wrists. keeping brandon there, cupping your face. "I thought you may of been hurt."

brandon can only blink at first, unsure what to say. usually when somebody comes to find him—after a great race or a terrible one—it's never to do with concern for the driver. only his performance.

but you? you don't care about the cars or the stats or the podiums. all you care about is him.

"I know," he swallows roughly after a tense beat, "I'm okay though...see i'm in one piece."

you nod tenderly before resting your cheek on the damp material of his red under-suit. brandon's arms wrap around your shoulders simultaneously, holding you against his chest as you continue to cry. he presses kisses to the top of your heat, butterfly whispers of reassurance that it's okay. that he's okay.

and it's just what you need—heart beat returning back to a normal speed, limbs beginning to find their gravity once again—all while brandon rubs your back and holds you like nothing else matters.

"i'm sorry about the race." you tell him earnestly, tilting your face up as you do, chin nestled on his chest between his pecks. "I know that you're upset with how it turned out."

he purses his lips in a half frown, and then brandon shrugs dismissively, "there'll be another race." one of his hands runs over the top of your head, smoothing your hair, "i'm sorry that it got you worked up. didn't mean to scare you."

you shake your head. "just kiss me." you whisper, pleading.

brandon surges down, slotting his lips over yours tenderly.

he's sweaty under your touch, and you can feel the dissatisfaction radiating off of him about the result of the race—even though he declines it. however, his apology to you—sincere and soft—is nothing but the truth. your heart clings to it. clings to him and his kiss and his body.

brandon carlo is nothing you've ever had before. spontaneous and playful and would rather never race again than plan out his life. he is your opposite. he pushes you in the best way, makes you feel things you've never experienced. the way he talks to you so sure and sweet, and how he kisses you tenderly coupled with passion.

the sex doesn't even matter anymore. it's always been more than the benefits for you. with brandon, even when you told him that's all it could be. it was a lie. because it's always been about everything else.

you're falling in love with ferrari's golden boy.

"y/n?" mats voice echos down the long hallways, footsteps sounding closer as he searches for you. "are you down here?"

you pull away from brandon just before your brother rounds into the lounge, still wearing his racing suit around his hips. his dark eyes flicker between you and brandon with a look you can't decipher.

all you know is it makes you feel guilty. mat's hard gaze settles on brandon for a beat longer than necessary, only making your anxious feelings multiply by a tenfold.

mat looks back at you, "what are you doing here?" his tone is ever suspicious, and unsure.

brandon answers before you even have the chance to open your mouth. "she's just checking in on me." his tone is firm. final. protective.

it only makes mat angry. he jerks his head towards the door, a silent command for you to follow. "it's time to go, y/n." and his tone? it's unarguable. you know there's no point in disputing with mat, especially when he gets like this. always protective, your brother. always quick to think the worse and jump to conclusions. if you choose to argue with him about this, it will only make you and brandon look guilty. which technically, you're not, but it certainly feels wrong.

so you walk out of the room behind mat, looking back at brandon over your shoulder just before the wall cuts off your vision. you send him a soft smile, one that he barley returns—too many mixed emotions swirling through his chest to return it properly.

and you understand that. because you fucking love him and know brandon well enough to understand how he operates. at least, you think you do. you hope you do.

─────ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX─────

mat y/l/n walks through the padlock on heavy feet, his gaze angry, pointed and ahead. his fists clench and unclench at his sides in bursts, knuckles cracking and creaking with frustration and determination. a member of mclaren tries to get his attention as he barrels past the lounge, but mat doesn't give him the time of day.

there's no time for pointless chitchat when mat is on a mission. a mission to find brandon carlo and set him fucking straight. mat doesn't know what he walked into last week, but he knows he doesn't like it. whatever brandon carlo is doing with you—his baby sister—is going to end. today. whether he likes it or not.

mat catches sight of ferrari red ahead as brandon checks out his car with an easy smile on his face—the last car obviously wrecked last race. mat's jaw tightens, frustration practically radiating off of him as he all but b-lines towards the older driver.

as soon as mat is in distance, he clamps his hand down on brandon's shoulder—hard—turning brandon toward himself. "stay away from my sister." he bites.

brandon quickly shrugs off his hand, his own anger and surprise evident. "excuse me?"

"you heard me carlo," mat snaps, taking a quick step forward. "she's too young to be fucked around by you and then dumped like the rest of your hookups."

brandon snickers like it's funny, and it only adds fuel to mats fire. the ferrari driver looks away for a moment, clenching his teeth hard before finding the dark eyes of your brother again. "she's an adult who can make decisions for herself. and I know she wouldn't like this."

"you don't know her," mat huffs incredulously, fighting the urge to shove brandon's chest. "you know her body and that's it."

the crude comment takes brandon back. he blinks twice as your brother's disgusting insinuation settles in his stomach, swallowing roughly. "I know more than you think." and sure, although something like that would've been true last season—or fuck, even the start of this one—it's not anymore. not with you.

mat doesn't miss a beat, despite the earnest tone of brandon's last admission. your brother knows how guys like brandon carlo operate, and the last thing mat wants is for you to get tangled up in his web. "stay away from her, carlo. i'm serious."

"are you fucking threatening me?" brandon scoffs lowly, taking an intimidating step toward him. and yeah, brandon is older than him and more qualified. but mat? he couldn't give a rats ass, especially when it came to his baby sister.

mat steps forward as well, unwilling to back down. "yeah. I am. y/n is too young and nice to be with a guy like you. everyone knows who are carlo," he pauses and laughs in disbelief paired with amusement. "once you inevitably move on to the next best thing, and leave my sister to heal her broken heart—ignore her and pretend she's just another pretty face in the crowd, like you do with every fucking woman you come across—she'll very quickly remember who are you; a fucking washed up driver who fucks anything that walks."

brandon's jaw grinds down impossibly tighter. a band of tension threatening to snap. "you don't know what's going on between us, y/l/n." his voice is almost quiet. laced with disbelief, frustration and a little bit of pride. the last attempt to save himself.

"I dont need to know because your reputation speaks for itself," mat spits, "don't you dare fucking try and tell me my sister is special, carlo. because we both know that's a lie." he takes a step back, eyeing brandon with disgust. "good luck this week, you'll fucking need it."

all brandon can do is stand there and watch as your brother finally leaves, not sparing him a second glance as he disappears from his sight. brandon's heart is pounding, blood rushing so fast that he can hear it in his ears.

mat’s words settle over him heavily, weighing on his chest like a ton of bricks. the way brandon used to behave, especially with woman, was something he used to be proud of. he didn't care about learning names or backstories or going on dates. he played into the media painted role perfectly. none of that bothered brandon. fucking was simply a way to blow of steam and forgot about the day.

but now those headlines swirl in front of him—taunting him. the thought of how he used to behave makes him feel sick now. brandon can't even imagine how it must make you feel.

doubt quickly creeps in, adding even more pressure to his heavy body. maybe mat is right. maybe brandon is too old for you. maybe he is a washed up driver. maybe you have already realized that brandon is nothing more than just a good fuck.

he'll never be the guy for you. you're too good for him and deserve so much more than the guy who's picture is on your bedroom wall.

"fuck." brandon curses, scrubbing a calloused palm down his pale face. the last thing he wants to do is tear you down when he's just starting to see you spread your wings—as cheesy as that fucking sounds. so no matter how brandon is feeling—no matter how deeply in love he's fallen in—he has to let you go.

so he'll follow mats advice and ignore you. brandon can't be selfish, not anymore, and certainly not with someone as special as you.

if you knew the last time you'd see brandon carlo was after his DNF in brazil, you wouldn't of had your mom come out to abu dhabi to watch him race. okay, well obviously she's also here to watch mat race. but still, you get the point.

it's like a weird blanket has been thrown over you and brandon since mat almost caught you both after the crash. the look he gave you, one that you chalked up to him feeling upset with the result of the day, now just turns your stomach.

did brandon know then that he wouldn't speak to again?

the first few days of radio silence you chalked up to traveling and media. with it being the last race of the season, press got a little more hectic and constant. you thought brandon was just busy with work—not purposely ignoring you and whatever you had with one another.

but that very quickly seemed to be the case. no calls or texts. no secret rendezvous with one another behind the privacy of hotel doors. no flirtatious looks across the paddock, no kisses or orgasms or breathy promises and reassurances.

brandon carlo has transformed into the man who you used to read scandalous headlines about, burning you and breaking your heart in the process. and you desperately want to talk to him about whatever this blip is, but once again, brandon seems to be actively avoiding you—leading you to only imagine the worse.

your mom sighs happily, taking a seat beside you once again. she crosses her pant covered leg and takes a sip from the water she just bought at the mclaren lounge coffee bar. a cute and quaint little corner near the back.

she smacks her lips together in delight. "something about the water here is just different. tastes so fresh." her eyes fall to you, side eyeing you with caution and concern.

without even realizing it, you've had a pout on your face the entire day. more accurately, the entire week since brandon seemingly ghosting you. and your mom can tell something is bothering you. even if you weren't visibly frowning, the fact that your skin was dull and the usual glimmer in your eye was gone, was enough to make your mom well aware of the fact.

and the cherry on top of it all, you declined her offer to walk around the paddock before mat comes to join you after some last minute responsibilities before the big race. that was very unlike you—the girl who was a f1 fan to her core.

"what's up honey?" she asks smoothly.

you blink, tearing your gaze away from the windows and towards your mom. "nothing." another hard blink, and then you're diverting your eyes—worried that if you stare into the comforting gaze of your mom for too long, she'll see right through you.

she hums again, long and knowing. "you don't look too happy right now."

"no?" you chime.

"no," your mom says, "in fact, you look a bit like a kicked puppy."

your shoulders tense at her words. do you really look like that? tentatively, you clear the back of your throat, wringing your hands together in your lap. "just didn't sleep well last night," the lie falls off your tongue easily, and you shoot your mom a cautious glance.

"okay." a beat of loaded silence passes between you, nothing besides the faint chatter of race day to be heard. your mom sighs again, the action measured, and like usual, knowing. "you know, you haven't mentioned brandon in awhile...something happen? you two seemed very friendly when you came home last."

her question does any even bigger number on you than she realizes. your pulse thumps wildly in the junction of your neck, and it makes you feel like you're choking. goosebumps prickle your skin at the same time a wave of heat does—contradicting one another like your range of emotions do. you take your bottom lip between you teeth, desperately trying to gather the wave of tears that threaten to fall.

"mommy," you sigh shakily, blinking up at her as the en slot of tears begin to pour over your waterline.

your mom coos at the sight, her usual cheery expression quickly morphing into a frown as he takes you into her arms. "oh baby girl, come here." her familiar hug only makes you cry harder, the feelings about the whole brandon situation you've been suppressing finally coming up to the surface—like an over boiled kettle.

you sniffle pathetically as your mom runs a soothing hand over the top of your head. "he hasn't talked to me," you mumble, "not since mat and I got back from coming out to see you. and I thought something was there between us...I thought maybe he liked me. that I was more than just some girl. but apparently not because he won't even...look at me." your voice cracks near the end of your long winded, jumbled word vomit, another wave of hot tears gracing you.

saying those thoughts of doubts and heartbreak out loud only makes you feel silly. perhaps the duration of your time with brandon was simply less than you were making it out to be. you told him you couldn't date, so now he's gotten bored of the same girl and has moved on. just like he does with every girl. it's your fault for thinking that maybe—just maybe—you were special.

"i'm sorry honey." you mom tells you.

your face pulls in a mixture of sadness and anger. "I just don't know what to do...I-"

"you love him." she interrupts cooley, like she didn't just say the words you've been denying yourself of since fucking brazil. hell, maybe even before that.

you swallow a sob, turning your head up to meet your moms honey glazed eyes. "yeah," you whimper, bottom lip quivering. "how'd you know?"

your mom shrugs a shoulder and gives you a sad smile. "i'm your mom. I just do."

"you love brandon?"

your heart jumps into your throat as mat's rough voice sounds from behind you. you and your mom separate, turning to look over the back of the orange lounge couch.

your brother is standing there, frozen. his eyes, which are practically burning with angry fire, are set upon you and your tear stricken face. his fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles have gone three shades lighter than his natural skin tone. his body might as well be shaking with fury.

you attempt to speak, "mat-"

but mat cuts you off. "you love him?" despite his calm tone, mats voice is still raised, and his question is nothing but laced with anger.

your mom sighs, eyes darting between her sing and the other customers in the lounge. "please don't yell."

"i'm not yelling, im asking." mat doesn't dare take his eyes off you. "do you love him, y/n?"

"yes," you breathe hopelessly, "we've been seeing each other since the british grand prix." mat’s eyes flicker with what feels like realization—like he's putting a bunch of loose puzzle pieces together and finally uncovering the hidden picture.

this is the last way you wanted to tell your brother about brandon—or, what happened with brandon. but in the midst of your heartbreak and sadness, you've become sick of hiding and pretending. hiding not only your feelings, but yourself.

mat lets out a short scoff, "that was months ago. why didn't you tell me?"

"because...this isn't about me and brandon. this season is about you! I didn't want to take this away from you-"

"yeah well you kinda of made it about you anyways, y/n." mats words are sharp and biting, silencing any words that might of been on your tongue. "I can't believe you'd fall for his trap—he's an asshole. a guy who only wants one thing from naive girls like you."

you shake your head slowly, "you have no idea about us," your voice is watery as you continue. "it wasn't what you're implying." you say, even if you have no idea if that's the truth. you desperately hope it's not.

brandon never treated you like another face in the crowd, and he sure as hell didn't treat you like some kind of whore. not once. despite brandon's reputation, he wasn't some villain who you need to be protected from.

"no?" mat quips, nothing but condescending.

you shake your head as anger begins to find way into your voice—trickling up your spine as protectiveness for the man who you undeniably love bubbles to the surface. "he's not just some whore who wanted to fuck me and dump me. brandon and I, we—"

even though you're no longer sure what the relationship between you and brandon was, you're not going to let mat belittle the man you love. because even though brandon seemingly doesn't want you the way you want him to, he never treated you like mat is implying. not once.

"no that's exactly what he would've done if I didn't tell him to leave you alone."

your lips part in shock, blinking and babbling like a fish out of water. like mat finally realizes what he just admitted to you, a hushed curse leaves him, running a rough hand through his hair.

"what did you just say?" you whisper.

mat looks away from you and your mom, the latter looking at him with a mixture of the upmost dissatisfaction. "i've got to go," he mumbles, "race starts soon."

you scoff, "you don't get to drop that bomb on me and then leave, mat."

"I don't have a choice, and i'm done thinking about this." he swallows, a flash of guilt on his face before he turns, and with a dismissive hand motion over his shoulder, he mutters—"i'll see you after."

ever so gently, your mom guides you to sit back down. you didn't even realize you'd stood up, too caught up in the argument with mat clearly.

you blink, "is he fucking serious?"

she shakes her hand, rubbing the back of your clenched fist settled on your thigh. "mat is just...protective of you."

"that doesn't give him the right to meddle in my relationship." you breathe, a short laugh of disbelief following. "I don't even know who told him—or how he found out. god mum."

"I know." she soothes.

"and what he said, about brandon and I...it really wasn't like that. I love him and I thought..." you stop yourself as your breath catches on a sob, another collection of tears rolling down your tight, dry cheeks. you pull away from your moms touch and cover your face—embarrassment and anger completely controlling your body.

she rubs your spine calmly. "I know, but it'll be okay." you hear the crinkling of the water bottle before she continues. "want to try some abu dhabi water to cheer you up?"

you sniffle and raise your head. "actually, yea." she passes you the bottle to which you quickly take, unscrewing the cap with shaky fingers before taking three hearty gulp—so big that it makes your chest hurt going down.

you wipe your lips with the back of your hand when you're done, putting the water on the small round table in front of the couch. again, you sniff.

you're done hiding yourself.

"mum?"

"yeah honey," she hums.

a deep breath, and then—"I don't want to go art school." you look at her cautiously, preparing for a look of disappointment. possibly even a reprimand. but instead, your mom just sends you a smile.

"i've been waiting for you to admit that for years, y/n," she tucks your hair behind your hear before affectionately pinching the lobe. "what made you realize?"

you breathe out in relief, falling back against the couch. you almost feel like laughing, because the person who made you realize your real dream is also the cause of your rollercoaster of emotions today.

"brandon."

—

mat knows he messed up. as soon as he overheard you and your mom talking about brandon, and the word love followed suit, mat just knew. regardless of how mat feels now, he also feels that his initial reaction was warranted. your brother feels cheated by you and whatever kind of relationship you had with brandon.

mat wishes you came to him about it. if you had, he wouldn't of blown up the situation and practically threaten the ferrari driver over it. if mat had known, it would've been different. of course, he would've been cautious because brandon is older and experienced. but the truth goes a long way.

secrecy always looks dirty.

the rage that had caroused through him when he found you and brandon after the DNF in brazil was otherworldly. being the protective older brother he always has been, mat immediately thought the worst—that you were being used—and felt that his duty was to make everything better. that's why he told off brandon, and that caused a butterfly affect that left you heartbroken anyways.

mat tried to protect you, but only ended up making everything worse.

so maybe that's why at finds himself stalking through the paddock—merely minutes before the guys all have to get down to the track—looking for the very man of his despise. mat definitely receives a few lingering and curious glances as he makes his way through the ferrari lounge. whether that's because of the orange jumpsuit tied around his hips, or the determined look on his face, mats not sure.

all your brother is sure of is that he's got to do something. does mat still have doubts about brandon's intentions? of course. is mat still weary about you claiming it was more than just hooking-up? absolutely. you've been lying to him for months about your life, so obviously mat is skeptical.

but it all comes back to guilt—mat knows he messed up. it's your relationship, and that means it's yours to thrive in or fall apart in. of course, your brother wants to see you happy, and that's why he's calling brandon's name—ready to deal with the mess.

"carlo."

brandon's shoulders roll back at the sound of mat's voice, slowly turning away from his driving partner and facing the mclaren prodigy. "here to threaten me again?"

"I was wrong."

brandon's eyebrows pull downwards, a clear indication that he's confused. "about what?"

mat huffs, running a palm over his warm face. his eyes dart away for a beat, collecting his thoughts. he doesn't want to beat around the bush, and he sure as hell doesn't want to come off as weak and riddled with guilt.

"my sister loves you," your brothers tone is firm and sure. straight to the point.

it feels like all the air has been pulled from brandon's lungs at those four words. you love him? he thought that maybe—just maybe—there was a possibility that you felt something for him, but never in a million years would brandon of guessed love.

brandon thought nobody would ever be capable of being in love with him. he's too much a loose cannon, and too unpredictable. unable to be tied down. brandon knew he wasn't the husband. he was the kinda guy who you spend one crazy night with and never forget before you meet your husband. and brandon was fine with that—he made peace with it.

but when you came along, it wasn't like anything he's every experienced before. you and brandon are complete opposite in every sense of the word, but you teach one another things and bring out the best in each other.

brandon knew right from the start that it would never just be one night with you. he was so greedy when it came to you and your mouth and your body and your laugh and everything in between.

but mat got in his head, so easily, and brandon just crumbled.

"what did you just say?"

mat sighs again, almost exasperated like he'd rather be any where else. which, is probably the truth. "my sister is crushed because you haven't looked in her direction in a week. I was wrong about whatever happened between you. she loves you and is certain what you two had wasn't just about sex."

the words come quicker than brandon's brain can register them—"it wasn't."

mat's eyes are still swimming with uncertainty as he glowers across at brandon. "if you've truly changed, and if she truly does mean more to you than I thought...help me fix this mess."

brandon's blinks. "how?"

"do you love her?"

"yes."

"then that's how." mat sends another pointed look brandon's way before turning. brandon watches your brother move through the sea of red confidently—the same kind of confidence mat’s displayed on the track all season. mat’s hand stops on the glass door, and much to brandon's amusement, gives brandon's a smirk over his shoulder. "i'm sure i'll see you after the race...once I beat your ass."

brandon laughs shortly as your brother leaves. he has no doubts that mat will win the race today, brandon can usually feel that sort of thing. besides, racing right now isn't the top priority in brandon's mind. you are.

if what mat just told him was the truth, then brandon has no doubt that when you hear he loves you back, the two of you will be able to figure this shit out. all he has to do know is win the girls heart back—the girl he loves.

—

by the time you and your mom arrived in the mclearn garage, the race was just beginning. the rumbling of the engines vibrating all the way from your toes and up to your shoulders.

you'd only barley just calmed back down from one of many more crying episodes since the fight with mat, so as much as you love your brother and want to support his final race in his rookie season—despite the argument—you were a bit preoccupied by the swirl of emotions going through your head.

most of which have to do with brandon. you had finally said you loved him out loud—not just in your head where it was nothing more than a whispered idea in passing—but actually said it out loud. and it was even more heartbreaking than brandon ignoring you.

you love him, and he doesn't know. at least, you don’t think he knows—but perhaps you’re not as nonchalant as you think around him.

you were right—you do know brandon carlo. if he's gotten in his head about whatever bullshit mat had said to him, brandon would be radio silent and caught in his own web of self doubt. his whole career, he's been told how he acts and who he is when it comes to women and relationships, and it's hard to break away from that stereotype.

and just when brandon finally had, mat came in with a big doubt paddle and stirred it all around.

you want nothing more than to find brandon and just tell him—shake his broad shoulders and reassure him that whatever he believes, isn't the truth. you're not mad at him—not in the way you had been. you're more so upset with him for believing stupid, mindless words instead of his own heart.

so after the race, you decide that you're going to find him and tell him everything. you're going to tell brandon that you know about his conversation with mat, and how no matter what was said, you don't believe it was right. and most importantly, you're going to tell him that you understand, and that you fucking love him.

heart stopping, mind jumbling, skin tingling, and adrenaline pumping love.

—

brandon can't focus. not on the instructions being shouted through his headgear, or the other race cars weaving and overtaking him. he can't even focus on the track. he's too occupied thinking about you.

are you here? watching him fuck up his times every single lap. or are you alone in your hotel room, thinking about what used to be? are you thinking about him? have you forgotten him?

god, the idea that he's ruined everything with you because of some deep rooted insecurity that wasn't even true, makes brandon's stomach churn. fuck, a few times during the race he thinks he may have to pull over and empty his stomach.

he's ready. ready to say screw the race and the car and anything else that comes in his way. but realistically, that's not the smartest decision. it's his job. so instead, brandon just thinks. if you are here, what's he going to say to you?

he wants to apologize of course, you deserve that much. but brandon also doesn't know how much longer he can keep to himself that he loves you, because apart of him has always known that he loves you.

when brandon walked into the ferrari lounge all those months ago and found a girl with his favourite coloured helmet over her head and jeans that made him forget his train of though, brandon knew right then that you would change his life.

he remembers the jealousy that ran through him when he saw your last name on the mclaren pass, simply because he thought you may of been mat's girl—because if you were taken, then brandon couldn't of had you. it was possessive and he'll admit, kind of crazy, but he didn't care.

for brandon, it was never about hooking up. he wanted you in whatever way you allowed him to have you.

he loves you, and he shouldn't of let anybody get in his head about your relationship. but it was easy to believe mats words. for 8 years, brandon has been painted in such a negative way—a bad boy. a player. a sex addict who only cares about himself—and he used to play into that, of course he did. he partied and drank and he definitely fucked. no press can truly be bad if it gets people talking. brandon felt like he had nothing to loose.

until you came along. because you? you were only his. there was no press dissecting every move you made, and there was nobody picking apart your relationship. you didn't belong to the headlines and articles, you belonged to brandon.

so, of course he loves you, because you don't care about his past or the bullshit mixture of lies and fabricated truths. hell, you don't even care about racing. brandon is sure that if he was unemployed and lived in his parents basement, you'd still not care. if mat was telling him the truth—that you love him—brandon is never going to let you go again.

if you love someone let them go? yeah that's total shit.

and as soon as he can, brandon is going to tell you the truth about everything.

—

you look up through squinted eyes, the sun making it almost impossible to see anything besides the three silhouettes standing on different levels of the podium.

you barley remember coming out onto the track. the end of the race had been a jumbled series of events, and before you knew it, you and your mom were pushed into the crowd to celebrate mat's p2 victory.

the medals and ceremony go by in the blink of a teary eye, and before you know it there's a champagne shower over the crowd who gathered under the podium, and of course the three drivers who celebrate their victories.

you wipe the sticky alcohol off your face, no doubt courtesy of travis and mat. the sun shifts, allowing you to better see the positions. brandon is there, his ferrari suit tied around his waist and matching cap worn backwards over his damp hair.

he placed third, which is unusual for him—but what's even more unusual is the way he doesn't even bother to uncork the bottle in his hands. you watch curiously as brandon passes the champagne over, not even looking for a recipient. thankfully, mat is there, taking it without questions.

then brandon is stepping off the podium, pushing through the crowd of screaming supports and his team, the latter of which congratulating the driver on an another terrific season—even though this race wasn't his best. but once again, his eyes aren't on them. no, that's because he's looking only at you.

in that moment, as your eyes lock and the rest of the world seems to fade, you can't help but begin to hope. hope that everything built between you was real. hope that brandon only got into his own head, and felt that distancing himself was necessary. hope that he loves you.

brandon reaches you, cupping your face with one hand while his other snakes through your hair and to the back of your head, holding you in place.

then he kisses you, slow and hot and definitely too intimate for public, but right now you really don't care about that. you push onto the toes of your tennis shoes, and wrap your arms around his neck so tightly—pulling him in so close—that you're almost scared you're cutting off his air supply.

but brandon simply groans into your mouth, hand slipping off your cheek and then finding home around your waist.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes into the kiss, words barley audible as they are nothing more than a whisper. “i’m sorry,” another kiss. “i’m sorry,” and another.

"I love you, y/n," he mutters once you both take a second to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, "and I have for awhile and i'm so sorry for everything in the past week. I got in my head and I was scared. but I'm not anymore and I shouldn't of been in first place—"

you shake your head, a half smile on your kiss slick lips as you gently interrupt him, "brandon, it's okay, mat told me—"

he kisses you again, a welcomed version of him interrupting you. brandon sends you a small smile once he pulls away, tucking some messy hair—curtsey of his hands—behind your ear before continuing. "please, let me finish. you're not just another face in the crowd and you're definitely more than just a body to pass the time. you're everything to me, y/n. i've never felt this way about anything in my entire life—not partying or drinking. not even racing."

you can't help but blink—shock and wonder crossing your face as you silently listen to his profound admission. you can tell by the tone of brandon's voice, that his words are nothing short of the complete truth. and not only is he saying this so you can hear it, but also so he can. telling himself that he doesn't need to be insecure. not anymore. not with you right here, listening, in his arms.

brandon inhales, the action shaky. "I fucking love you so much and i'll explain everything afterwards in more depth but right now can you let me just celebrate and kiss you. because i've been waiting too long to meet the love of my life, and Ive missed her so much the last 7 days—I missed you. I've forgotten how it feels to be myself without you, and I think this sad excuse of a race is enough proof of that—"

"brandon," you cut him off again, just as tender as the first time you did. your fingers begin absentmindedly playing with the hair at the base of his neck, which has brandon taking another nervous breath.

you smile a smile that makes his knees feel weak, and there's a twinkle in your eyes that brandon has seen before. the same one from months ago, when you told him your true passion and desires in life. and that tells him everything he needs to know. you're not mad—by some miracle brandon's sure you'll tell him about.

"I love you too." you run two fingers over his fading scar as you say it, eyes never leaving the deep ocean you know as brandon's. "now," you mumble, a playful edge to your tone that makes his belly swoop, "kiss me old man."

brandon pulls back from your attempt to reconnect your lips, not allowing you the pleasure of his kiss. he squints playfully, a half laugh half scoff bubbling from his chest. "you're going to pay for that later."

you smirk, "oh, I'm counting on it."

and then he kisses you because he physically cannot wait any longer. after all, brandon's a starving man. one who cannot bare the thought of going another second more without touching you in some capacity.

you sigh into it, limbs turning to jello as his tongue pushes past your lips, moving alongside yours like it hasn’t missed a day. brandon smirks against you as a few people start whistling at your display of lust, reluctantly pulling off your mouth. which is probably for the best, because brandon is 10 seconds away from tearing your clothes off so he can worship every part of your body.

you laugh breathily, dropping back down to the heels of your feet. your eyes dart through the crowd, like you're trying to appear casual and nonchalant under the eyes of hundreds of fans and reporters. but brandon? his eyes never once leave your face. it's been too long without you, and he's determined to memorize every single thing that makes you, you—even though, he already has.

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