𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞

𝓒𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You glance at Carlos from across the kitchen counter, a mischievous glint in your eyes. The two of you had decided to make pasta from scratch—something new, something fun—but so far, all you’ve managed to do is make a mess.

Carlos stands with his sleeves rolled up, his strong forearms dusted with flour. “Are you sure we’re doing this right?” he asks, tilting his head as he kneads the dough. His fingers press into it with practiced confidence, but you can’t help but focus on the way his lips curl into a playful smirk.

“Not at all,” you admit, laughing as you try to roll out your own dough. It sticks stubbornly to your hands, refusing to cooperate.

Carlos chuckles, stepping closer. “Let me help.” He moves behind you, guiding your hands with his own. His chest brushes against your back, warm and solid, and you can feel his breath against your neck. It’s almost unfair how easily he distracts you.

“Is this your plan all along?” you tease, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “To flirt your way out of actually making pasta?”

He grins, his fingers lacing over yours as he helps smooth out the dough. “Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful. “But I think it’s working.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like that—his brown eyes full of warmth, his lips just a breath away. Your heart stumbles over itself when he leans in, brushing his nose against your cheek.

“You’re still making a mess,” he murmurs against your skin.

You laugh, turning in his arms, pressing a bit of flour to the tip of his nose. He gasps in mock offense, but before he can retaliate, you catch his lips in a kiss—soft, slow, and utterly sweet.

For a moment, the pasta is forgotten, the flour-covered counter a distant concern. It’s just you and Carlos, the taste of laughter and love between you.

Love Grows

Laurie Laurence x Reader

You’re sitting cross-legged on the patchy grass outside the Marches’ house, a canvas propped up on your knees and a brush clutched in your fingers. The late afternoon sun catches the fiery strands of your untamed red hair, making them glow like embers. You’re trying to capture the scene in front of you—a mix of sun-dappled trees and the charming, worn shutters of the house but your mind keeps wandering.

And then, of course, he appears. Laurie Laurence. Teddy, as Jo calls him, but you prefer Laurie. There’s something about the way the name rolls off your tongue that feels like music.

“Painting again?” His voice is warm, teasing. You don’t look up immediately. Instead, you dip your brush into a streak of crimson and drag it across the canvas.

“Observant as ever,” you reply dryly, though you’re secretly glad he came. He always comes. There’s something magnetic about Laurie—the way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the way his laughter feels like a promise of mischief. You know he doesn’t belong to you, not really. He belongs to Jo, or maybe to the whole March family. But when he’s here, leaning lazily against the fence like he has all the time in the world for you, it’s easy to imagine otherwise.

“What are you working on today?” he asks, stepping closer. You can feel his shadow fall across your canvas.

You shrug, deliberately nonchalant.

Laurie chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your heart skip. “You’re full of mysteries, you know. People talk about you, you know that? They say your hair’s wild, your clothes don’t match, and that you’re always mumbling about colors no one else can see. They think you’re crazy.” He says it lightly, but there’s something in his tone—a challenge, maybe.

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. “And what do you think?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“I think,” Laurie says slowly, “that the world would be a much duller place without you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but before you can respond, Laurie drops to the ground beside you, long legs sprawled carelessly. He plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers. “Teach me,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Teach you what?”

“To see the world the way you do.” He gestures vaguely at your painting. “To make it look so alive, so...wild. Like you.”

There’s a tenderness in his voice you’re not used to, and it disarms you. You hand him the brush before you can second-guess yourself. “Here. You try.”

Laurie takes the brush with a grin, but as he awkwardly drags it across the canvas, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you tease.

“Hopelessly charmed, maybe,” he retorts, and the way he looks at you then, eyes soft and searching, makes your breath catch. You wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you, if he feels the same pull that you do.

For a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you, the colors on your canvas forgotten. Laurie leans closer, so close you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. “You know,” he murmurs, “you’re kind of a mystery to me, too.”

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, it’s gone. Laurie leans back, grinning like the scoundrel he is, and hands you the brush. “You’re a better teacher than I am a student,” he says.

But his words linger, and as the sun sets and the colors deepen, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a mystery to him after all.

Romantic Lover

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You sit quietly on the edge of the couch, your mind tangled in a web of thoughts that only seem to make everything heavier. The room is dim, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over your face. You try to focus, but the weight of the world presses on your chest. Everything feels too much today.

Timothée stands in the doorway for a moment, watching you, his expression soft. He knows something's wrong, and it's not like him to just let you struggle in silence. He doesn't say a word at first, just steps closer, his presence steady and warm.

"Hey," he whispers gently, kneeling down in front of you, his fingers brushing the back of your hand. His voice is calm, the kind of calm that pulls you out of your thoughts. "What’s going on, love?"

You try to speak, but words fail you. The sadness feels too big to explain, too deep to put into any sort of coherent sentence. But Timothée doesn't push. He just watches you with those warm, understanding eyes, as though he’s ready to listen for as long as it takes.

And then, without another word, he wraps his arms around you. His embrace is so familiar, so comforting, it feels like the world outside doesn't matter anymore. He pulls you close, your head resting on his shoulder as his fingers gently trace circles on your back. His warmth is all-encompassing, and for a moment, you can’t help but let go.

"Shh..." he murmurs, holding you tighter. "I’ve got you. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m here."

His touch is soft, the way his hand rubs your back, as though he’s trying to smooth away every bit of worry, every piece of sadness. And somehow, in his arms, the world feels a little less heavy. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, a reminder that no matter how much the world might weigh on you, he's here to carry it with you.

The silence between you two is full of understanding. You don't need to explain everything. You just need him to be there. And he is. Always.

The weight on your chest eases, little by little, as his soothing words and quiet presence start to make the world feel softer. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being together, even in the moments where everything feels broken.

Timothée’s fingers run through your hair now, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head softly. “We’ll get through this. Together,” he says quietly.

Good father

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Anakin Skywalker stood by the window, looking out into the starry expanse of space. The distant stars twinkled like tiny pinpoints of hope. But in his heart, a storm raged. His past was a web of regret, pain, and loss, but now the future loomed before him with hope. Two little lives. Two precious twins. Luke and Leia.

The faint sound of their soft cries drifted in from the other room. Anakin closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sound with a tenderness that surprised even him. He wasn't used to that kind of love, the pure, unwavering devotion a father felt for his children. His thoughts drifted back to the first time he'd held them in his arms, their tiny faces wrinkled in confusion and wonder. They were perfect, a reflection of his redemption, and yet he felt unworthy of them.

As the days passed, Anakin found himself struggling with the idea of fatherhood. His life as a Jedi had never prepared him for this—he had been trained to fight, to serve, to protect, but never to care. Yet there he was, standing on the threshold of a new beginning, wanting to be the best father he could be.

He heard footsteps behind him. A soft, warm presence enveloped him like a comforting blanket. Anakin turned to find her standing there—his wife, his mate, his love. The woman who had helped him find the light again.

You smiled, your eyes filled with quiet strength. “They’re hungry,” you said softly.

Anakin nodded, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I want to help… but I’m not sure how.”

You walked to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re already doing that,” you assured him. “Just by being here, by wanting to be involved, you’re already showing them how much you care about them.”

He smiled, grateful for your words, though doubts still lingered in his heart. They had always shared a deep connection, one that had been forged in both passion and struggle. But now they were parents, and there was no guide to tell him what to do. He could feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but there was something else, too, something more powerful than the fear that had once controlled him. It was love.

As they entered the nursery, Anakin took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his son’s blanket. Luke’s small hand curled around his finger, and the world seemed to slow down, leaving only the warmth of that small hand. Leia, wrapped up next to her brother, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Anakin admitted quietly, his voice filled with vulnerability. “But I want to try. I want to be a good father to them.”

You stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You already are. They will grow up knowing your love, your strength, and your heart. That is all they need.”

Anakin nodded, feeling the weight of your words settle in his chest. It wasn’t about being perfect, it was about being there, showing up every day, even when doubts clouded his mind. He had once feared his own ability to love, thinking it was a weakness that would destroy him. But now, with Luke and Leia in his arms, he realized it was his greatest strength.

The sound of the twins’ cries soon filled the room again, and Anakin smiled softly, his heart filling with tenderness. He was no longer the young Jedi who had once struggled to control his emotions. He had learned that love, in its purest form, was not something to be feared, it was something to be embraced.

Together, they cared for their children that night, and in every tender touch and every glance shared between them, Anakin knew that this was where he belonged. He was no longer alone. And for the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly be a father.

hii‼️i love you work sooo much and how the songs are just so perfect for every thing you write😻 idk if you take requests but if you do, can you write smth inspired by i see the light from tangled with cs55🙏🏼 it could be that reader is introverted and doesn't always take risks or go out of here comfort zone and how he gets her out of her shell but also becomes her comfort zone, or how ever you think seems good🙏🏼💕

𝓣𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You never meant to be there. Not in the pit lane, not in the team garage, and definitely not pressed up against the fence watching sparks fly from the rear of an F1 car. You came to the race weekend because your friend had an extra ticket and you figured it was better than your usual Saturday — a quiet apartment, a half-finished book, maybe a cup of tea you forget to drink until it's cold.

You’re not the type for noise. Not the type for fast things, or crowds, or the adrenaline that seems to fuel people like him. Carlos Sainz. You only knew his name because your friend said it with a dreamy sigh on the flight. You’d nodded politely and Googled him in the hotel room just to keep up the conversation.

And yet, somehow, he notices you.

It’s a ridiculous story, the kind you’d never believe if someone else told it. You’re just standing there, watching the team pack up, when he walks over. You try not to stare. He’s still in his race suit, hair a little wild from the helmet, sweat at his temples. He smiles like you’re not just another face in the blur of fans and engineers.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he says with an easy charm.

You look down at yourself, at your sensible shoes and your hands nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “I don’t,” you reply, more honestly than you mean to.

He laughs. “Then we have something in common. I’m not supposed to like quiet people. They say I talk too much.”

You expect him to move on, to laugh again and disappear into the crowd. But he doesn’t. He stays. He asks your name, and when you give it, he repeats it slowly, like he's making sure he gets it right. Like it matters.

It starts there — a few minutes, a joke, the strange magnetism of someone who belongs to a world you never considered stepping into. You meet again the next day. Then again. And then it’s coffee, and walking through cities you’ve never seen, and him letting you talk at your own pace, which is slow and careful, like the words might fall apart if you move too fast.

He’s patient. He’s bright in a way you aren’t used to. He makes jokes you don’t always understand, but he notices the way your eyes light up when he mentions something you do. He starts learning your rhythms. He teases, gently. Encourages, softly. You find yourself saying “yes” to things you usually decline. A boat ride. A dinner with too many people.

He pulls you out of yourself — not in a way that erases you, but in a way that stretches your boundaries without snapping them. He makes the world feel a little less sharp, a little less terrifying.

But something strange happens. He stops feeling like the push out of your comfort zone. He starts feeling like home.

His voice on the phone when he’s halfway around the world. The way he throws you a grin from the driver’s seat. The softness in his eyes when he knows you're about to withdraw, and the patience he shows when you do.

You used to think comfort meant hiding. Quiet. Predictability.

Now you know it can also mean someone who makes the noise bearable.

Someone who doesn't ask you to be loud, just to be you.

Valentine

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’ve always been the type to sidestep romance. Flowers made you sneeze, chocolate was too sweet, and the idea of grand declarations sent shivers up your spine—not the good kind. For years, you prided yourself on being untouchable, untethered. Love was for people in books or movies, not for you.

Then Timothée happened.

You’re not sure when he started slipping past your walls. Maybe it was the way he laughed, quick and bright, like he couldn’t help it. Or maybe it was the way he tilted his head when you spoke, like he was peeling back the layers of your every word. Whatever it was, it was infuriatingly effective.

And now it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re sitting across from him in a tiny Parisian café that feels plucked from a dream. He picked it, of course, because he’s Timothée and he knows how to set a scene. There’s a faint drizzle outside, blurring the lights into a soft halo around the windows, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like it’s a fact he just remembered.

Your brain stutters. Pretty? You don’t know how to respond to that. “Uh, thanks?” you manage, your voice an octave higher than usual. “You’re, um, pretty too. Can I say that? Is that weird?”

Timothée laughs, low and warm, and it feels like the room tilts just a little. “It’s not weird,” he says, leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand. “But it’s kind of adorable that you’re overthinking it.”

You want to roll your eyes, to deflect, but he’s looking at you with such unguarded affection that it’s hard to hide. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin instead, trying to focus on anything other than the intensity of his gaze.

“This is weird for me,” you blurt out, surprising even yourself. “Like, I’ve rejected affection for years, and now I have it, and—damn it—it’s kind of weird.”

Timothée’s expression softens, and his hand reaches across the table to cover yours. “Weird’s okay,” he says. “Weird’s honest. I like honest.”

Your heart stumbles, then takes off at a sprint. He’s too much—too kind, too perceptive, too everything, and you’re terrified of what that means. But then his thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding you, and you realize that maybe it doesn’t have to be terrifying. Maybe it can just be good.

The waiter arrives with dessert, breaking the moment, and you’re grateful for the distraction. It’s a shared plate of macarons in delicate pastel hues, and Timothée immediately pops a pink one into his mouth, humming in approval.

“Try the lavender one,” he says, holding it out to you with an encouraging smile.

You hesitate, then lean forward to take a bite. It’s soft and sweet, just like this moment, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself enjoy it.

Timothée grins, his lips dusted with sugar. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Not so bad.”

And as the rain taps gently against the window and Timothée starts rambling about the best macaron flavors, you think that maybe, just maybe, love isn’t as scary as you thought.

𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over your bedroom, illuminating Leon’s tired but ever-gentle face. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as you tuck your twin daughters into bed. Their little chests rise and fall in peaceful rhythm, the warmth of their innocence filling the room.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, a knowing smile tugging at your lips as you step toward him.

Leon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you blame me?” His voice is low, full of quiet admiration. “Seeing you with them… it reminds me how lucky I am.”

You shake your head with a laugh, but the way his blue eyes soften makes your heart clench. Even after all these years—after the missions, the nightmares, the scars—he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The two of you slip into the hallway, careful not to wake the girls. As soon as you close the door, Leon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. His scent fills your senses.

“Tough mission today?” you murmur against his chest, your fingers tracing small circles on his back.

He exhales heavily, his grip tightening around you. “Not as tough as coming home and seeing our girls growing up so fast.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice. “I swear, they were just babies yesterday.”

You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “They’re still our babies. And they always will be.”

His lips quirk into a half-smile before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I know.” Then, his voice turns playful. “But what about you? Still my girl?”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spreads. “Always.”

He grins before dipping his head, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s not rushed, not desperate—it’s the kind of kiss that speaks of years of love, of promises kept, of battles fought side by side.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you today,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his palm.

His expression grows serious, and you know what he’s thinking—that he fights so you and the girls never have to. That every time he walks out the door, he carries the fear of not coming back.

But tonight, he’s here. And that’s all that matters.

You take his hand and lead him toward your bedroom, ready to steal whatever moments of peace the night will allow. Because loving Leon Kennedy means loving a man who fights battles you’ll never see—but who will always, always come home to you.

𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾

Drew Starkey x Reader

You never thought you'd end up here—sitting across from Drew Starkey in a quiet corner of a dimly lit restaurant, your fingers tangled together on the table like neither of you could bear to let go. It started so simply. A chance meeting, a fleeting glance, a conversation that felt too easy, too right. And now, here you were, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded at the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the world.

The night air is cool when you step outside, his jacket draped over your shoulders because he noticed you shivering before you even realized it yourself. The streets are almost empty, the city lights casting a warm glow on his face. He hasn’t let go of your hand, and when you slow your steps, he turns to face you fully.

"Talk to me," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You swallow, looking down at your shoes, because saying what you really want to say feels terrifying. Because Drew Starkey is the kind of guy people fall for—hard, fast, without a second thought. And you’re scared you already have.

"This… us… It’s a lot," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I don’t know if I can handle—"

"Please." His voice cracks, just a little, and when you look up, his blue eyes are shining in the dim light. "I really want this. And I’m so fucking serious about us." His fingers tighten around yours, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. "I want you and only you."

Your breath catches in your throat because this is Drew—not just the actor, not just the man people see on screens and red carpets. This is the Drew who remembers how you take your coffee, who sends you songs that remind him of you, who looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The weight of his words sinks in, wrapping around you like something safe, something real. And suddenly, the fear doesn’t feel as overwhelming. Because if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that Drew Starkey has never been anything but honest with you.

So you take a deep breath, step forward, and whisper, "Okay."

And when he kisses you, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips, you know—this was never something you had to be afraid of.

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆

John Wick x Reader

You step onto the terrace, the cool night air brushing your skin, and the city sprawls before you—its lights twinkling like stars, a reminder of all the times you used to dream with him. You don’t know why you came here tonight, not really. Maybe it’s the glass of champagne you’re holding in your hand, or maybe it’s the way the gala inside feels too constricting. You feel a sudden need to breathe, to escape the glitz and glamour for just a moment.

You slowly slip off your heels, a small sigh escaping your lips as you feel the pressure lift from your feet. You close your eyes for a second, grounding yourself in the sounds of the city below. The hum of traffic, the occasional distant laughter, the clink of glasses from inside the ballroom. It all blends into one low murmur, a noise you once thought you couldn’t escape.

Then you hear it.

The quiet, measured footsteps behind you.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it, in the way the air shifts around you, in the tension that suddenly tightens your chest. John Wick. That name. That face. That past. It's been years since you last saw him, years since you last spoke, yet here he is again, the same intensity in his presence, the same storm of contradictions wrapped up in one man.

He stands just a few feet away, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the pull of him. His eyes are on you, but you don’t look at him—not yet. You haven’t figured out how to face him yet, after all this time.

"You always did like the quiet," he says, his voice low, rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His words stir something deep inside you, a forgotten ache, a soft memory of what was once so easy between you two.

You take a long breath and finally turn, meeting his gaze. There it is, that flicker in his eyes, the same dangerous fire that used to haunt you—still haunts you. But there’s something different now. Weariness. A kind of resignation.

"Why are you here?" You don’t recognize your own voice—it’s calm, steady, like you’re in control. But deep down, you can feel the storm brewing. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? A push and pull you could never quite untangle.

"I could ask you the same thing." His gaze flickers to the city beyond you both, as if looking for something. Or maybe running from it.

You can’t help but let out a bitter laugh. "Always the man of few words, John. Always running."

"Not anymore," he replies quietly, almost to himself, but you catch it.

The distance between you both feels like an ocean now, yet your heartbeat betrays you, thumping louder than the city beneath your feet. It’s stupid, isn’t it? This unresolved tension, the way you’ve always gravitated toward each other, like magnets, pulling back together no matter how far apart you’ve drifted.

"Why did you leave?" The question escapes before you can stop it. It’s raw, unexpected—yet it’s been there all along, lingering under the surface. He owes you that answer. You owe yourself that answer.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze narrowing as he takes a step closer. You can smell him now, a blend of cologne and leather, something dark, familiar. But then he pauses, his voice dropping low, almost like a confession.

"I had things to do. People to protect." His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment. "Things got... messy."

You nod, a cold chill creeping through you. You know exactly what he means. You knew him before the gunshots, before the chaos. You knew him when he was still yours—and you were his, in some broken, unspoken way.

"Did you ever think about me?" The words slip out before you can bite them back.

John’s eyes meet yours, the weight of your question hanging between you like smoke. His expression is unreadable, but something shifts in his gaze—a flicker of regret? Or maybe longing. He’s never been good at hiding what he feels.

"Every day," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity is there, in the way he looks at you. "I tried to forget. But some things you can't walk away from."

Your heart skips a beat. He’s here. He’s saying all the right things, but you don’t know if you should believe him. After everything, after the pain, the betrayals... Can you even go back to that version of you both?

You step back, away from him, needing space. Your mind screams at you to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place.

"You should go." It’s a command, but it feels weak, unsure, like a part of you is begging him to stay.

John doesn't move immediately, just watches you, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize it all over again. Then, finally, he gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

"Maybe next time," he says, his voice softer, gentler than before. Then, with a single step backward, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows.

You’re left standing there, on the terrace, with nothing but the city lights, the cool night air, and the echo of a past you thought you'd buried.

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅; 𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You’re sitting across from him at a quaint café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the soft chatter of nearby tables. The light catches in your eyes as you lean forward, animatedly sharing a story about your latest adventure. Carlos chuckles at your enthusiasm, but it’s the way you tug your sleeve up absentmindedly to adjust your watch that catches his attention. It’s such a small, inconsequential motion, but for some reason, it makes his heart skip.

It’s not the first time this has happened. He remembers the time you helped him organize his chaos of a travel bag before a race. You didn’t complain, didn’t even ask—just smiled and dove in, folding shirts and tucking socks into corners as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He’d stood there, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched you. It wasn’t about the bag. It was the way you hummed softly while you worked, the way you made even the mundane feel special.

And then there was that night at the paddock. He’d invited you to join his team for dinner after a particularly grueling day. You’d laughed with them like you’d known them forever, making jokes, listening intently, drawing everyone in with your warmth. It was the way you casually asked him if he’d gotten enough rest, your tone soft but firm, your concern genuine.

Carlos didn’t understand it at first. He chalked it up to admiration, respect, appreciation for someone who felt like a constant in his otherwise hectic, unpredictable life. But then there were the little things, the moments he couldn’t ignore. Like the time you’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat during a late-night drive, your head resting against the window, lips slightly parted. He’d turned the music down instinctively, not wanting to disturb you, and caught himself stealing glances at how peaceful you looked.

Or the way you laughed—not the polite, reserved laugh you gave strangers, but the full-bodied, uninhibited laugh that made your eyes crinkle and your head tilt back. He realized he wanted to be the reason for that laugh as often as possible.

It hits him one evening when you’re both walking through a park, your hands stuffed in your pockets to keep warm. You pause mid-sentence to crouch down and pet a stray dog that’s approached you. Carlos watches as your face lights up, your voice soft as you speak to the animal. The way you care, the way you notice the small things—it’s like you see the world differently, and he realizes he doesn’t want to see it without you.

“Do you always stop for every dog you meet?” he teases, his voice light, though his chest feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

You glance up at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Only the ones that look like they need a little extra love,” you reply.

And that’s when it clicks for him. The little things—the small, seemingly insignificant details that make you who you are—they aren’t so little after all. They’re everything. And as you stand, brushing off your jeans and meeting his gaze, Carlos knows. He’s in love with you.