You’re 22, sharing a tiny, sun-filled apartment in Brooklyn with your best friend Mae — a place that always smells like coffee and vanilla candles, where records play on lazy Sunday mornings and every blanket tells a story. The walls are covered in Polaroids and postcards you never mailed, and your bed is always unmade — in the most lived-in, romantic way.

Two years ago, you went to a party you almost skipped. One of those loud, glittering nights where the city feels electric and anything could happen. That’s where you met Carlos. Yes, that Carlos Sainz — the fast-driving, fast-laughing F1 star with a crooked smile and a softness in his eyes that caught you off guard. You talked for hours that night — about the future, the dreams you both wanted to accomplish, and all the failures you’d already lived through. It wasn’t flirting. It was like your souls just… clicked. You talked on the phone every night for a month. And now, you’ve been together for two years. Two amazing years.

The Carlos Sainz the world knows is nothing like your Carlos in private. Behind closed doors, he melts. He touches you constantly — a hand at your hip when you pass him, fingers brushing your knee while he talks, knuckles tracing your jaw just because you’re near. Fingers slipping into your back pocket, lips brushing the side of your head for no reason. He makes your whole body feel seen. His boxers always peek out when he lounges around your apartment — low sweatpants, no shirt, toned and easy, biceps stretched behind his head. He wants you to look. Never for anyone else. Just for your eyes. His cologne clings to your clothes, your sheets. It says he was here. Even hours after he’s gone, your room still feels like him. His hands — big, veiny — grip your thighs when you’re sitting in his lap. Steady. Claiming, without needing words. Those hands don’t touch the world like that — just you. He gives you everything. Every glance, every thought, every spare second of his attention. He doesn’t just listen to you — he studies you. Notices when your mood shifts. Adjusts without asking. You never have to fight for his presence. You are always at the center of it. He’s protective in ways that feel primal, but quiet. He doesn’t raise his voice or puff his chest — he just steps closer. He never hides it — the way he adores you. He yearns. Even when you’re beside him, he still needs to be closer. His love is loud in the way he holds you like the world is trying to take you from him. He’s all-in. Always. Only with you.

It was raining when he came back to New York from racing in Spain. Mae got up from her place on the couch and opened the door. Carlos stood there — soaked at the edges, hairs damp under the hood of his hoodie. In one hand, your favorite flowers — a wild, uneven bundle of lilies. In the other: a rolie-polie giraffe Jellycat, the one you’d been talking about for weeks.

“Where is she?” he asked softly, pulling off his shoes.

Mae smiled and told him you were in your room. He nodded, already moving — couldn’t wait a second longer. He cracked the old door open slowly, then slipped inside and shut it gently behind him.

“…Baby…” he breathed out, eyes soft as he watched you sit up in bed — your smile sleepy, eyes lighting up the second you saw him.