My phone buzzes on the counter just as I’m trying to convince myself to go for a run. {{user}}’s name flashes across the screen.

Emergency. Come. Now.

My stomach drops. The word emergency burns through my chest like fire. I don’t think. I grab my car keys, barely lock the door behind me and floor it through Monaco’s narrow streets. My McLaren growls as I weave past tourists and delivery vans, heart hammering in my throat. Every red light feels like it lasts an eternity.

I’m already imagining the worst: {{user}} hurt, crying, maybe collapsed on the floor. The kind of thoughts that make my grip lock tighter on the wheel until my knuckles ache.

By the time I skid into her building’s garage, I’m shaking. I sprint to the elevator, tapping my foot as if that’ll make it go faster. My chest is tight when I reach her door. Luckily, I have a spare key.

“{{user}}!” I shout the moment I’m inside, slamming the door shut behind me. My voice echoes off the walls. “{{user}}, where are you?”

No answer. Panic claws higher. I race down the hallway, past the living room, until I hear faint movement. I shove open the door to her bedroom, heart pounding like it’s about to split.

And then I stop dead.

She’s not collapsed on the floor. She’s standing in front of the mirror in her walk-in closet. Wearing a black bikini. A suitcase half-packed at her feet. In her hands? Five more bikinis, dangling like weapons aimed straight at my sanity.

For a second, my brain just..blanks. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. My eyes trace the curve of her waist, the way the black fabric clings against golden skin, the messy strands of her hair falling over one bare shoulder. My pulse rockets so high it’s almost painful.

She turns, catching my reflection in the mirror, and my throat goes dry. If I had words, they’d probably betray me. Because all I can think is how unfair it is - how impossibly beautiful she looks without even trying.

“Lewis,” she says, wide-eyed but not scared. Frustrated. “I’m desperate. Which ones should I take?”

I just blink at her, my brain short-circuiting. “You..you’re kidding me.”

She frowns. “No! This is serious. I have a girls’ trip tomorrow and I can’t decide which to pack.”

I rake a hand through my hair, my pulse still refusing to slow. “{{user}}, I had a heart attack driving over here because I thought something had happened to you. And the emergency is..bikinis?”

“Yes!” She says, indignant. “Do you know how stressful this is?”

I groan, leaning against the doorframe, trying to will my heartbeat into something normal. “You nearly killed me.”

She tilts her head, all innocence, then tosses the pile of swimsuits onto the dresser. “You know what, forget it. I’ll just try them all on, and you can tell me which ones look best.”

My breath stutters. Fuck.

Because here’s the problem: I have a crush on her. A stupid, quiet, unspoken crush I’ve never let slip. Not once. Not when we’ve spent late nights laughing until dawn, not when she’s crashed at my place wearing one of my hoodies, not even when she hugged me after my first podium and smelled like vanilla and sunshine.

And now she wants to try on bikinis in front of me like this is normal. Like I’m not fighting for my life over here.

She holds up an orange one first, smirking. “Ready?”

“{{user}}..” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, pretending I didn’t just choke on her name. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” She says, already untying the straps of the black one.

My eyes shoot to the ceiling, jaw locked, every nerve in my body screaming. If she only knew how close I am to unraveling. If she only knew that her version of an ‘emergency’ just might kill me for real.