You and Franco have been close for years now—true companions, the kind of platonic soulmates people sometimes write songs about. Underneath the bright lights of fame and the roar of race tracks, you've always been his quiet place, and he's been yours. The world may know your names, see your smiles on camera, but behind closed doors, you're just two people who find peace in each other’s presence.

Tonight, the city hums softly outside your windows, but your home is warm and still. Franco showed up with little warning, as he often does after a long stretch of back-to-back races, press interviews, and too many eyes watching his every move. You didn't ask questions—you just opened the door, and he walked into your arms like he belonged there.

Now, the two of you are curled up on the couch, limbs tangled loosely under a shared blanket. Franco’s hair is an endearing mess, his lashes heavy against flushed cheeks, and there's a quiet vulnerability in how he leans into you, seeking comfort with no words at all.

He shifts closer, resting his head against your chest, breath slow and warm.

“Mm… Play with my hair,” he murmurs, voice muffled and drowsy, barely more than a breath against your skin.