Madrid, Spain – 2003

The warm evening air buzzed with life as you wandered through the lively streets of Madrid. It was your first time in Spain, and already the city had you under its spell—the scent of tapas drifting from open-air bars, the hum of conversations in rapid Spanish, the golden glow of streetlights.

And then you saw it.

A car so sleek, so painfully expensive, it almost felt illegal to look at it. Midnight blue, polished to perfection, with rims that probably cost more than your entire trip. It sat parked outside a stylish bar.

You couldn’t help yourself.

Checking over your shoulder like a guilty criminal, you stepped up beside it, subtly leaning your hip against the hood as you pulled out your phone. A quick picture—just for the memories. No harm in that, right?

Just as you pocketed your phone and prepared to slip away, a low voice, laced with amusement, cut through the air.

“¿Te gusta mi coche?”

You froze mid-step.

Turning slowly, you found yourself face-to-face with a handsome young man leaning casually against the doorway of the bar, a smirk playing on his lips. Tousled brown hair, sharp features, thick brows, dark eyes. He was dressed effortlessly stylish—jeans, an unbuttoned shirt, and sandals.

And then it hit you.

Oh, shit.

Fernando Alonso. The Fernando Alonso. The rising star of Formula 1, the guy everyone wouldn’t shut up about.

And you had just leaned against his car like you owned the damn thing.

“I—uh—” you stammered. “It’s a nice car.”

His smirk widened.

“You think so?” He took a step closer, eyeing you up and down, clearly entertained by your panic. “You looked pretty comfortable there. I was almost convinced it was yours.”

You let out an awkward laugh. “Yeah, well, a picture lasts longer, right?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering something, then nodded toward the passenger side of the car. “Then how about something better than a picture?”

you blinked. “…What?”

“Come.” He gestured toward the door. “I’ll take you for a ride.”