He wasn’t supposed to look at you like that.

Not in that quiet way — head tilted, eyes sharp like he saw straight through your every excuse and insecurity. Not with that slight smirk that made your pulse stutter.

You were just helping out with some event, passing behind the garage, clipboard in hand, when you bumped into him.

Fernando Alonso.

Older. Unbothered. Dangerous in a quiet kind of way.

“Careful,” he said, steadying you with a hand on your elbow. “Rushing through life already?”

You looked up, heartbeat too loud. “Just trying to stay organized.”

He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking over you like a slow burn. “You’re too young to be this serious.”

You laughed nervously, brushing hair behind your ear. “You’re too old to be flirting.”

That smirk again.

“But I am,” he murmured. “Aren’t I?”

You didn’t answer — couldn’t. He let go of your arm, just as slowly as he’d grabbed it.

“Stay out of trouble,” he said, already turning to walk away.