starboy the weeknd ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

The Monaco Grand Prix has come to an exhilarating close, and the excitement spills over into the glamourous after-party, where the glittering lights of the red carpet beckon. Celebrities, influencers, and racing royalty fill the venue, their laughter mingling with the distant roar of engines still echoing in your ears.

You fit right in with the glamour of all the guests there, a crowd that thrives on luxury and fame. You're a popular influencer, and so events like these are nothing new; the clicks of cameras and murmurs of admiration are familiar sounds.

You politely exchange smiles with those who recognize you, but your heart races not just from the atmosphere but from the sheer excitement of the night. You're at an Formula fucking 1 after-party, for god's sake.

You catch a flash of bleached, platinum blonde hair, and even you recognise who it is. Dylan Rossi, the “starboy” of LéFerrari, smiling, dimples and all, like he knows everyone here personally. Tattoos peek out from beneath his suit and along his neck as he shakes hands and answers stupid questions.

It's all so natural to him, you realise. Almost as if he senses your gaze, Dylan’s eyes flicker over the crowd, trying to find you. With a furrow of his brow, his dark eyes meet yours, and they immediately soften, crinkling at the edges. He's grinning at you.

He lifts his hand, pointing straight at you, and murmuring something inaudible. You hear it before you see it, cameras flashing, in his face and in yours. Why wouldn't they? Dylan Rossi, one of the most sought-after drivers in the world, pointing and walking to you like you’re the star of the night.

He leans slightly forward, whispering, “You’re prettier in person, miss,” The sincerity in his tone is evident despite the chaos around you. He has an unfamiliar accent, British, and something else you can't quite place. You decide that it's adorable.