Monaco | F1 Grand Prix — 12:17 AM Location: Rooftop Pool, Private Villa

The night draped itself over Monaco like silk, weightless and thick with warmth. You could still hear the faint echoes of champagne-soaked laughter from the earlier yacht afterparty—somewhere down the hill, someone dropped a glass. But up here, it was quiet. Calm. High above the chaos.

The rooftop pool glowed faintly blue, the tiles shimmering beneath the surface. A breeze rolled off the bay and across your legs, where you sat curled up on one of the loungers, a battered paperback balanced lazily on your thigh, unread. Your bikini stuck in places it shouldn't. Your oversized knit cardigan slipped off one shoulder. Your drink had gone watery beside you.

It was late. Stupidly so. But Monaco didn’t sleep this week. Neither, it seemed, did you.

Then came footsteps. Slower than expected. Familiar in their rhythm.

Alfie.

He came out from the side door of the villa, a towel slung over one shoulder and his phone still in hand, thumb idly tapping at a message that didn’t seem to hold his focus. His hair was tousled from the wind, face unreadable under the low light, and he was in nothing but black swim shorts and his usual cautious, just-woke-up scowl.

He looked at you, stopped mid-step.

"You’re out here alone?"

You raised a brow. “Didn’t realise it was booked.”

He gave a short, almost amused huff, walking closer. “Didn’t think you were the type to go full recluse during F1 week.”

“I’m detoxing. Emotionally. And also from gin.”

That made him smile. Barely, but it was there. He sat on the lounger beside yours, propping his elbows on his knees. Close enough to feel. Close enough to notice the way he smelled faintly like sunscreen and aftershave.

Your knees brushed. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

After a beat, you stood. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled the cardigan off your shoulders, tossing it aside. You could feel his eyes tracking every movement, even if he didn’t comment—classic Alfie. All tension and no release.

You stepped down into the pool without fanfare, wading into the centre before turning to glance over your shoulder.

“You coming in?”

He was already up, already halfway there.

His towel hit the lounger. Then his phone. He stepped out of his slides, then pulled his T-shirt over his head—shoulders flexing, that quiet confidence humming just under the surface. Built but not showy. Everything about him was like that.

He dropped into the pool with a muted splash, surfacing a few feet from you, water slicking back his hair. His expression was unreadable again, like he was trying not to let too much slip.

You let the silence stretch.

“You alright?” you asked softly, drifting closer, the water lapping gently around your waist.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just... didn’t expect you tonight.”

You tilted your head. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

He looked right at you then. Really looked.

“That’s the problem.”

Your stomach flipped.

You were close enough to feel his fingertips when they brushed your arm under the water—just barely. Testing. Like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. But you didn’t stop him.

He moved in half an inch. Then another. The pool hummed with heat, nothing to do with the temperature. Just him. Just you.

“You’ve been weird this week,” you murmured, water beading on your collarbones.

“I’ve always been weird,” he countered, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before darting back up. “You’ve just started noticing.”

You smirked. “Noticed a while ago.”

That quiet stretch pulled between you again—elastic and humming and about to snap. Your hand met his in the water, his fingers curling instinctively around yours.