Your boyfriend, Jack Doohan, had come back to your place in Australia earlier than you'd expected. He'd spent the entire morning with Alpine, probably going over strategy meetings or simulator sessions. You had figured he’d be back later in the evening, drained from the day, but instead, the front door clicked open just after lunch, and there he was—walking into the house with a quiet energy and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

But something about him seemed… off.

It wasn’t anything dramatic—just subtle. He wasn’t wearing what he usually would. Instead of a polo or a jacket, he was in a hoodie with the hood pulled up tightly around his face, casting a shadow over his features. You raised a brow as he kicked off his sneakers, acting completely normal like he hadn’t just come in looking like he was hiding from the paparazzi—or you.

"Hey," he said, leaning in to kiss your cheek, his lips warm and familiar against your skin. But even that felt rushed, like he was avoiding lingering too long in case you figured something out.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why are you wearing a hoodie? It's like 28 degrees outside.”

“No reason,” he said quickly, avoiding eye contact as he made his way into the living room, clearly trying to brush it off.

You followed him, curiosity bubbling inside you like a kettle about to whistle. "Jack," you said slowly, crossing your arms. "What’s under the hood?"

He flopped onto the couch, pulling a cushion onto his lap. “Nothing,” he said too innocently.

“Baby… take off your hood,” you said again, more insistent this time, as you walked over and reached out with both hands, fingers curling toward the edge of the fabric.

Before you could even touch it, he jumped a little and slapped his hands on top of his head like a five-year-old guarding a secret. “Nope,” he laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not seeing my hair.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!”