You were at the Monaco GP for work. Not for fun, not for fangirling—definitely not for flirting with drivers. You were media. A journalism intern doing behind-the-scenes coverage for a lifestyle magazine. You had a press badge, a chunky camera around your neck, and absolutely no time for distractions.

But distractions had a curly mop of hair, a race suit half undone around his waist, and the kind of smirk that made girls lose focus in interviews.

“New face,” he said, stepping into your frame as you tried to shoot Oscar walking down the paddock. “You a fan, or do you just carry that camera around to look cool?”

You lowered the lens slowly, unimpressed. “Neither. I’m press.”

He leaned a little closer, eyes glinting. “Well, don’t press too hard. Some of us get shy.”

You snorted. “You? Shy? Please.”

His smirk twitched. “Okay, fine. Not shy. But maybe I’d talk more if I wasn’t being watched.”

You glanced around. No cameras on him now. No mics. Just you. “Off the record?”

He nodded once. “Off the record.”

You clicked your camera off and crossed your arms. “So? What do you want to talk about?”

He scratched the back of his neck like he hadn’t thought you’d actually play along. “I was gonna ask where you got your sunglasses,” he muttered. “You look kind of cool.”

You paused.

“…You want my sunglasses?”

“I want your name first.”