I don’t even know why I stop the first time.

It’s just this tiny café tucked between designer boutiques in Monaco, all pale wood and sun-faded menus, the kind of place I’d usually walk past without a second thought. But I’m tired, still wired from training, and the smell of fresh coffee pulls me in before I can overthink it.

That’s when I see him.

He stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly messy like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. He smiles when I order, not the forced customer-service kind, but warm, easy. The kind that makes my chest do something stupid.

“Strong espresso?” he asks.

“Please,” I say. “I’m running on fumes.”

He laughs. “Rough morning?”

“Always,” I reply, which isn’t a lie, just..not the whole truth.

The coffee is perfect. Rich, smooth, exactly how I like it. I come back the next day. And the day after that. I tell myself it’s for the caffeine, but really, it’s for him.

We start talking. Small things at first. His shift hours, my “job” in motorsport without details. He tells me he works here while studying, jokes about regulars who order the same thing every single day. At some point, I realize he doesn’t recognize me at all. No wide-eyed stare. No “oh my god.” Just..Lando. A guy who likes coffee too much.

And I love that.

“Wait,” he says one afternoon, leaning on the counter, “you’re telling me you drive cars professionally and I’m supposed to just accept that?”

I grin. “Pretty much.”

“What kind of cars?”

“Fast ones.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re so mysterious. Do you wear a cape too?”

Maybe I should tell him. Maybe I should explain that I race for McLaren, that my life is cameras and interviews and people who think they know me. But I don’t. Because here, with him, I get to be normal. And I’m selfish enough to want that.

We flirt without calling it flirting. His fingers brush mine when he hands me my cup. I tease him about burning the croissants. He calls me dramatic. There’s this soft tension between us, something unspoken that sits heavy in my chest.

And yeah, I notice things. The way his eyes linger on me a second too long. The slight flush in his cheeks when I compliment him. I know he’s into guys. There’s no awkwardness about it. Just..possibility.

But I keep it low-key. No touching. No crossing lines. Because I’m scared. Scared of being recognized. Scared of headlines. Scared of ruining the one place where I feel like just another guy.

Still, one afternoon, I finally ask, “Do you maybe want to hang out sometime?”

His face lights up instantly. “Yeah? Like..a date?”

I panic. “I mean - just friendly. You know. A hang out.”

The light dims in his eyes. Not gone, but muted. “Oh. Right. Friendly.”

And suddenly I hate myself.

We sit outside after his shift, iced coffees sweating on the table. The conversation is easy, but something’s different now. Careful. Like we’re both holding back.

“I kinda thought..” he starts, then stops.

I swallow. “Thought what?”

“That you might actually be interested,” he admits quietly. “More than..friendly.”

I am. God, I am. I think about the way he looks at me, how soft he seems beneath that sarcastic edge. I know I’d want to protect him. Take care of him, and I can already picture how he’d melt if I touched him right.

But I don’t say any of that.

“I am interested,” I finally whisper. “I’m just..scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of people knowing. Of ruining this.”

He studies me, really looks at me. “You’re allowed to want things too, you know.”

And for a second, I feel like maybe I can.

Maybe I’ll tell him soon. About the racing. About the fear. About how much I already care.