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The grass at Turn 1 in Montreal was still shredded by the time the sprint race ended.
Not just bent—torn open in two dark streaks where the Mercedes had bounced through it moments after lights out, spraying dirt and gravel behind them. The grandstands had roared when it happened. Two silver cars side by side into the first corner, neither willing to yield, until one of them had no track left to stand on.
Kimi Antonelli still had flecks of grass stuck to the sidepods when he parked in parc fermé.
He’d recovered to P3 somehow. Aggressive overtakes, late braking, pure stubbornness. The kind of drive people would praise all evening on broadcasts. But frustration sat under his skin like heat trapped beneath fireproof layers.
Because he knew what George had done.
Or at least what it had felt like.
The replay had already been looping on every screen in the paddock: George defending the inside into Turn 1, Kimi trying to sweep around the outside with more momentum, the space tightening corner by corner until Kimi’s right-side tyres touched the damp grass.
After that, physics took over.
The Mercedes snapped sideways violently. Kimi had caught most of it—barely—but not before bouncing through the runoff and dropping positions.
“Aggressive but fair,” some pundits would call it.
“A rookie misjudging grip,” others would say.
Kimi thought both explanations were bullshit.
Because George had known he was there.
And George knew that Kimi knew it too.
The post-sprint press conference felt colder than the weather outside.
Three drivers under white lights, microphones angled too close, cameras zooming in every time someone blinked too long.
Kimi sat in the middle seat, still in his race suit half-zipped at the collar. His curls were damp from sweat, slightly flattened from the balaclava, and despite the composed expression he wore for media appearances now, there was something restless underneath it tonight. Something sharp.
When the first question came about Lap 1, every journalist in the room straightened a little.
Kimi gave the practiced smile first.
“It was a good fight into Turn 1,” he said evenly. “I got a strong launch and tried to carry speed around the outside. The grip out there was tricky with the damp patches, especially off-line, and once you touch the grass there’s not much you can do.”
Measured. Polite.
Then came the pause.
“I think we could’ve given each other a bit more room. But these things happen.”
Beside him, George crossed one ankle over the other beneath the table like he was sitting in a hotel lounge instead of damage control.
Calm. Controlled. Almost irritatingly composed.
“From my side,” George said, voice smooth as ever, “it was hard racing. We were both committed. I defended the inside, stayed within my line, and obviously when you’re fighting into Turn 1 margins become very small.”
Another tiny pause.
“I don’t think anyone did anything malicious.”
Kimi looked at him then. Just for a second.
But George felt it immediately.
That stare carried too much history for two people who technically weren’t anything at all.
Late-night hotel corridors after races. Shared headphones on flights. Fingers brushing under tables during engineering dinners where nobody was supposed to notice. The strange, undefined gravity between them that had started months ago and somehow survived every excuse they gave not to name it.
Now it sat between them like another damaged piece of carbon fibre.
A journalist near the front spoke again. “Kimi, do you think George was too aggressive defending against his teammate?”
George’s jaw ticked once. Kimi noticed.
“I think,” Kimi answered carefully, “when you race someone long enough, you start trusting they know where your car is.”
The room went still.
“And sometimes experience helps with understanding exactly how much space is left.”
George smiled at that. Not a happy smile. The kind that appeared when he was irritated enough to become even calmer.
“Well,” he replied lightly, “experience also teaches you that outside lines in damp conditions usually don’t end well.”
A few awkward laughs scattered around the room.
Kimi leaned back in his chair slowly.
“Maybe,” he said. “But sometimes you expect a bit more trust from your own team.”
George turned his head fully this time.
“We’re racing for a world championship,” he said quietly. “Trust only gets you so far.”
The press officer moved to the next question before the silence could become dangerous. But the damage had already settled.
By the time they got back to the Mercedes hospitality unit, neither of them was speaking. Not in the elevator. Not walking down the corridor. Not while mechanics and engineers carefully pretended not to notice the tension radiating off both drivers.
The second the driver’s room door shut behind them, Kimi spun around.
“You pushed me off.”
George tossed his gloves onto the table. “Don’t start.”
“No, fuck that,” Kimi snapped, accent sharpening with anger. “You knew exactly where I was.”
George finally looked at him. “I gave you space.”
“You gave me grass.”
The words cracked through the room instantly.
George took a step closer. “You kept hanging it around the outside when the corner was gone.”
“Because I was alongside!”
“You were barely alongside.”
Kimi laughed once—short and disbelieving.
“Oh, now it’s barely? Funny, because your onboard looked very aware of me.”
George’s expression hardened.
And there it was. That switch Kimi hated and loved in equal measure. The version of George that became colder when cornered, sharper when emotions got too close to the surface.
“You want honesty?” George said. “Fine. I knew you’d try it. I also knew backing out isn’t exactly your specialty lately.”
Kimi shoved his shoulder. Hard enough to matter.
George immediately shoved him back. The movement sent Kimi into the lockers with a loud metallic bang. Neither of them stepped away after it.
Breathing heavy. Too close.
“You think this is funny?” Kimi demanded. “You smiled in there like I was overreacting.”
“Because you were making it personal.”
“It is personal!”
The words exploded out before he could stop them. Silence followed instantly.
George stared at him.
Kimi’s chest rose and fell too fast now, adrenaline still alive in his bloodstream from the race and everything after it.
“I’m not angry because we fought,” Kimi said quieter, though his voice still shook. “I’m angry because it felt like you didn’t care if I stayed on track or not.”
George’s face changed slightly at that. Just slightly. But Kimi saw it.
“You think I wanted you in the runoff?” George asked.
“I think you cared more about winning the corner.”
“Of course I cared about winning the corner!” George snapped suddenly. “That’s my job.”
“And what am I then?”
The question landed wrong between them. Too honest. Too vulnerable.
George looked away first this time.
“That’s not fair.”
Kimi swallowed hard.
“No? Because right now I genuinely can’t tell what we’re doing anymore.”
The room suddenly felt much smaller than before. Outside, somewhere deeper in the paddock, people were still celebrating sprint results. Music echoed faintly through the walls. But in here everything felt suspended.
George exhaled slowly through his nose.
“You think I treat you differently because of… this?” he asked quietly.
Kimi crossed his arms tightly. Defensive now. Hurt in the ugly way he hated showing.
“I think sometimes you act like caring about me is a weakness.”
George’s eyes flicked up immediately.
“That’s not true.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re always trying to prove something when it’s me beside you?”
Neither answered for a moment.
Because the truth was obvious.
George hated losing to him. Not because Kimi was slow. Because Kimi was nineteen. Because he learned too quickly. Because he was fearless in ways George had spent years training himself not to be. Because sometimes George looked at him and saw the future arriving too fast.
And because somewhere along the way, competition had tangled itself together with want so badly neither of them knew how to separate the two anymore.
George finally exhaled, slower this time, like something inside him had reached its limit.
“That’s how it is,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “If we can’t handle this—fighting like this on track—then maybe we can’t continue whatever the hell this is off it either. Not if you’re going to hold every inch against me like some grudge.”
The second it left his mouth, it looked like he regretted the shape of it. Like the sentence had run ahead of his restraint and said something he hadn’t fully chosen.
But he didn’t take it back either.
The words didn’t land like anger. They landed like a decision neither of them was ready for. Like something being cut before it could rot further.
Kimi went still. For a second, it wasn’t rage anymore—it was something worse. Something hollow that opened up under his ribs, sudden and unfamiliar, like the crash had come later than the race.
Abandoned.
And something sharper than that he couldn’t name yet.
George’s jaw tightened as if he finally heard himself properly. That wasn’t what he meant. Not entirely. Not like that. But it was already out there between them now, sitting heavier than either of them.
Kimi opened his mouth, stubborn refusal burning on his tongue—“I’m not the one at fault here, you—”
But before he could finish, a sharp knock rattled the door.
“Drivers? Toto wants a quick debrief in five. Everything alright in there?”
The voice cut through like a red flag.
George stepped back first, hand dragging briefly across his face like he was trying to reset himself, jaw still tight. The argument was left hanging in the thick silence. Nothing resolved. Everything still raw.
Kimi didn’t move, the weight of “whatever they started” pressing heavier than ever.
George didn’t look at him when he spoke again, quieter now—less certain, almost like he was correcting himself mid-thought, but the moment was already gone.
“We…” he started, then stopped. A breath.
“We’ll deal with it later.”
But neither of them knew if “later” meant fixing it—or finishing it.
The title fight would have to wait. So would they.
The hotel felt too quiet for a place that had just survived a sprint race disaster.
Same corridor. Same dim lighting that always made midnight feel like something heavier than time. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe—it pressed.
George arrived first. Not because he wanted to be alone, but because walking out of the paddock together after that would’ve felt like admitting something neither of them was ready to name.
He let himself into the room they always shared on double-headers and tight weekends. Not officially, never something written down—just something that had slowly become normal without either of them deciding it should.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Helmet bag dropped near the couch. Gloves still half tucked under his arm. He stood there like the room itself needed a second to accept him, then exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.
The argument still lingered under his skin. Not loud anymore—just present. Like a vibration that hadn’t stopped yet.
He told himself Kimi would cool off. He always did. Storm in, storm out, then show up the next day with that same stubborn face like nothing could actually stay broken between them for long.
George went into the bathroom, turned the tap on, splashed water on his face.
Normal. Reset.
By the time he came back out, he was already in that half-controlled version of himself again—the one that could pretend the day ended normally if he didn’t look too closely at it.
That’s when the door opened again.
Kimi.
No knock. Just the keycard, a quiet beep, and then the sound of wheels dragging over carpet.
A suitcase.
George looked up automatically when the door opened. Kimi stepped inside without saying anything, suitcase rolling behind him over the hotel carpet with a low, dragging sound that immediately felt wrong somehow.
The door clicked shut.
George stayed where he was watching him quietly. Kimi didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak.
That was the first thing George noticed—not the silence itself—but the weight of it.
Kimi walked further into the room, race suit still half on, undone at the top, like he hadn’t bothered finishing the day properly either. Hair slightly damp. Face unreadable in a way that didn’t match the usual post-race anger.
Too calm. Too deliberate.
He walked past George and set the suitcase down on the bed.
George’s brows pulled together slightly. Only then did he speak.
“What are you doing?”
Kimi didn’t stop moving. He opened the wardrobe, pulled out his bag, started taking things down one by one. Methodical. Quiet.
“I’m packing,” Kimi said simply.
A beat.
George let out a short breath, almost a laugh, like he didn’t fully believe what he was hearing.
“For what? We’re not leaving. We still have a race tomorrow.”
Kimi folded something. Placed it inside the bag.
“I’m not staying here.”
That made George pause properly now.
He turned fully.
“What do you mean you’re not staying here?”
Kimi still didn’t look at him.
“I’m moving rooms.”
George blinked once. Then again, slower.
“…You’re serious?”
Now Kimi finally glanced up.
And it wasn’t anger anymore.
That was the problem.
It was something flatter. More tired. Like the fight had already finished somewhere inside him and George had just missed the ending.
“I said I’m going to Ollie’s room,” Kimi replied.
George stared at him for a second, processing it like it didn’t belong in the same reality as the argument they just had.
Then he shook his head slightly.
“No,” he said automatically. “You’re not doing that.”
Kimi zipped the bag halfway, calm hands, controlled movements. No rush. No hesitation.
“I am.”
George stepped forward a little.
“Kimi.”
Still nothing.
That name didn’t land the way it usually did. Not soft. Not sharp. Just… distant.
George’s voice tightened slightly.
“You’re taking this too far.”
Kimi finally stopped packing. Slowly, he looked at him again.
And there it was—what George had missed in the hotel corridor version of him he expected.
Not anger.
Decision.
“I’m not staying in the same room after what you said,” Kimi said quietly.
George’s expression shifted immediately.
Because suddenly this wasn’t just another fight they would drag into the next morning.
Kimi was leaving. Actually leaving.
“That wasn’t—” George started, then stopped, jaw tightening as he searched for the right version of it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Kimi’s laugh was almost silent.
“You said it.”
George shook his head harder this time, frustration and something dangerously close to panic slipping through the cracks of his composure.
“In the heat of the moment.”
“That doesn’t erase it.”
“Kimi, come on.”
“No.” Kimi’s voice stayed frustratingly calm. “You said yourself maybe we shouldn’t continue this.”
George visibly flinched at hearing his own words repeated back to him.
Not dramatic. Not obvious—but enough.
Because hearing them from Kimi sounded different than hearing them inside his own head in the middle of anger and adrenaline.
Now they sounded real. Permanent.
And George suddenly hated the shape of them.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
Kimi looked at him for a long second.
“Then what did you mean?”
George opened his mouth.
Nothing came out immediately.
That scared him more than he expected.
Because the truth was messy. Because part of him had meant it for a second—meant that maybe wanting each other while trying to destroy each other every weekend was becoming impossible to survive. But another part of him, the louder part now, was watching Kimi pack his things and realizing with sharp, nauseating clarity that he did not want him to leave.
Not tonight. Not like this.
Silence dropped heavily between them again.
Kimi turned back toward the suitcase.
George watched him fold another shirt with those same calm movements and something inside his chest pulled painfully tight.
Too calm.
That was what made it worse.
If Kimi had screamed, George could’ve screamed back. If he’d shoved him again, they could’ve burned through this the same way they burned through every other ugly thing between them.
But this?
This quiet, hurt distance?
George didn’t know how to fight it.
“Kimi,” he said again, softer now, rougher around the edges. “Don’t do this.”
Kimi zipped the bag fully this time.
Click.
The sound landed like a fucking door slamming shut.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kimi said, pulling the handle upright.
Then he paused briefly, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor instead of George.
“Or at track.”
And he walked toward the door.
George moved instantly. Not controlled this time. Not careful—urgent.
His hand caught the suitcase handle before Kimi could fully open the door.
“Kimi—no.”
Kimi stopped.
George stepped closer immediately after, too close now, breath uneven in a way he would normally hate letting anyone see.
“You’re seriously leaving over one argument?” he asked, voice tighter than intended.
Kimi’s grip tightened slightly around the suitcase handle.
“It’s not one argument.”
George swallowed hard.
Because he knew that too.
It was the crash. The press conference. The things unsaid between them for months. Every time racing bled into whatever this was and neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.
Still, George couldn’t let him go.
Not now. Not when the room already felt emptier with Kimi standing right in front of him.
“You don’t actually want to stay with Ollie,” George said quickly, almost desperately. “You’re angry.”
Kimi finally looked at him fully again.
“You think this is just anger?”
George’s chest tightened at the expression on his face.
Hurt. Not loud hurt. Not dramatic hurt. The quiet kind.
The kind George suddenly realized he’d caused.
“You said maybe we shouldn’t continue this,” Kimi said again, slower this time. “So what exactly am I supposed to stay here for?”
George ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you still said it.”
“Kimi—”
“You really expect me to just sleep next to you like none of that happened?” Kimi cut in, something sharper finally slipping back into his voice.
That hit something raw again immediately.
George’s jaw tightened.
“I already told you this is how a race is.”
Kimi let out a short, disbelieving breath.
“So I’m just supposed to accept it then?”
“I gave you room.”
“You gave me grass.”
And just like that, the argument started breathing again.
The silence after “You gave me grass” didn’t break cleanly. It just… stayed. Heavy. Stretched. Wrong in a way that made even the air between them feel like it had stopped cooperating.
George didn’t answer immediately. Not because he didn’t have something to say, but because everything he had was still shaped like an argument, and suddenly none of it felt strong enough to matter anymore.
Kimi still had his hand on the suitcase handle. Still standing like he was halfway out of the room already. Like if George didn’t stop him now, he wouldn’t try again.
That thought hit something low in George’s chest. Not anger. Something closer to fear.
“Kimi…” George started again, but it came out wrong. Softer than he meant. Fractured.
Kimi didn’t look at him.
“I’m not doing this again,” he said quietly. “I can’t just—”
His voice stopped. Not dramatically. Just… stopped working for a second.
He swallowed, jaw tightening like he was forcing it back into place.
George saw it then. Not the anger. Not the crash. Not the press. Just him.
Nineteen. Still too young for the kind of exhaustion he was carrying in his eyes right now.
And suddenly George wasn’t thinking about Turn 1 anymore. He was thinking about the space between them right now. About how close Kimi was to leaving. About how easily it was happening.
“Don’t go,” George said.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even firm. It was almost stupidly simple. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
Kimi finally looked at him then.
And whatever he saw in George’s face—something unguarded, something stripped down from everything earlier—made his expression shift. Not soften. Not forgive. Just… crack slightly.
“I can’t stay and pretend you didn’t mean it,” Kimi said.
His voice broke a little on the last word.
And that was the first time George saw it properly.
The emotion didn’t come like in movies. It didn’t explode. It just slipped through.
Kimi turned his face away quickly, like he hated that it happened. But it was too late.
George saw it.
And something in him snapped out of control—not anger, not logic, just pure panic that this was actually happening.
“Kimi,” George said again.
This time he moved.
Not fast. Not aggressive. Just forward.
Closing the space between them like if he didn’t, Kimi would disappear completely into it.
Kimi didn’t step back immediately. That was worse. That hesitation. Like part of him was tired of running already.
“You said it yourself,” Kimi whispered, eyes still not fully meeting his. “Maybe we shouldn’t continue this.”
George shook his head once. Slow. Like he was rejecting his own words more than Kimi’s.
“I said that because I thought I was losing you anyway,” he admitted.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t well spoken. It just came out wrong and real at the same time.
Kimi let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
But different this time. Less sharp. More fragile.
Kimi blinked hard once. Then again.
And this time he didn’t manage to stop it fast enough.
A tear slipped anyway.
Quiet. Almost humiliating in how small it was compared to everything that led to it.
He turned his face immediately like he could hide it from existence.
But George saw it. Of course he did.
And something in George’s expression broke properly for the first time all night. Not frustration. Not pride. Just guilt mixed with something painfully protective.
“Don’t,” George said, voice rough now. “Don’t do that.”
Kimi shook his head slightly, still refusing to look at him. “I’m not— I’m not trying to—”
His voice broke again, and this time he couldn’t hold it together the way he wanted to. He exhaled sharply, almost like he was angry at himself more than anything, trying to force the words back into control.
“I just don’t want to feel like this,” Kimi said, quieter now. “Like I’m… something you can just push off when it gets too much.”
That word—push—landed heavier than anything earlier.
George’s throat tightened.
And then he moved.
Not just forward this time.
Down.
He dropped onto his knees in front of Kimi, hands immediately tightening around the edge of the suitcase like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“Kimi, please,” George said, voice breaking now. “Don’t go.”
Kimi froze completely.
George didn’t look composed anymore. There was no control left in him now—just raw panic sitting where pride used to be.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I swear I didn’t mean it like that. I said it because I was angry, I was— I was stupid, I was trying to win something that didn’t even matter.”
His breath caught, and he swallowed hard before looking up at him properly.
“You matter,” he said, quieter now. “More than any corner. More than any race. More than whatever that was in Turn 1.”
Kimi didn’t answer at first.
He just stood there, completely still, like his body had gone too rigid to react properly. Then it hit him all at once.
His breath stuttered, and his eyes blinked too fast like he was trying to hold it in, but it was already slipping past him anyway.
A tear broke first, then another followed before he could stop them.
They came quietly, not dramatic, but uncontrollable—slipping down despite how hard he tried to keep his face turned away. His jaw stayed tight, almost clenched in frustration at himself, like even this was something he hated losing control of.
He wiped quickly at his face with the back of his hand, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, trying to force it back into silence, but it didn’t stop. His breathing turned uneven, shallow, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
And still, he didn’t move toward George.
Just stood there crying quietly without wanting to, angry at himself for it, like even his body had betrayed him at the worst possible moment.
“Then say it properly,” he whispered.
And George, still on his knees, didn’t argue.
Didn’t defend.
Didn’t race.
He just stayed there.
And chose not to let him go.
George stayed on his knees, fingers still wrapped around the suitcase handle like it was the only anchor he had left. The silence stretched, thick and unsteady, broken only by the low hum of the hotel’s air conditioning and the occasional muffled sound of a door closing somewhere down the corridor.
He leaned forward slowly, pressing his forehead against Kimi’s stomach, just above the half-zipped race suit. The fabric was still slightly damp from the day, carrying the faint smell of sweat and adrenaline and everything that had gone wrong between them. George closed his eyes. His shoulders trembled once, almost imperceptibly.
Kimi didn’t pull away. His hands hovered uncertainly at his sides before one finally settled lightly on the back of George’s head, fingers threading through damp hair. Not pulling, not pushing. Just… there.
A shaky breath left George. Then another. And then, quietly, the first tear slipped free—hot against the corner of his eye, tracing down his cheek before it could be hidden. He didn’t sob. He rarely did. This was quieter. More private. The kind of crying that came from exhaustion and fear rather than release.
“I saw you with that suitcase,” George murmured against him, voice rough and low, “and it felt like the floor dropped out from under me. I’ve spent all season telling myself I could handle whatever this is. That we could keep it separate from the racing. But watching you actually leave…”
He swallowed hard, turning his face slightly so his cheek rested against Kimi’s abdomen now. One hand moved up, gripping the side of Kimi’s hip with careful pressure.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared of losing something that wasn’t even fully mine to begin with.”
Kimi’s fingers tightened in his hair. His own breathing was still uneven, tears drying on his cheeks, but he stayed quiet for a long moment, processing.
“You made it feel like I wasn’t,” Kimi said eventually. His voice was soft, a little hoarse. “Like maybe I was just… convenient. Something you could push aside when the championship got too close.”
George shook his head against him, the movement small but insistent.
“No. God, no.” He exhaled shakily. “You’re not convenient, Kimi. You’re the opposite. You’re the one person who makes everything more complicated and more worth it at the same time. On track, off it. That’s what terrifies me.”
He pulled back just enough to look up, eyes red-rimmed but steady. Another tear escaped, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. “I said those things because part of me still believes I need to prove I’m better. Faster. More experienced. Even against you. Especially against you. But when I saw you packing… I realised none of that matters if it costs me this.”
Kimi’s expression wavered. He looked down at George—nineteen, exhausted, still carrying the weight of the sprint and the press and the runoff grass—and something in him softened further. His hand slid from George’s hair to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the tear track.
“I don’t want to be something you have to fight against all the time,” Kimi said quietly. “Not like that. I want to be on your side. Even when we’re wheel to wheel.”
George nodded, leaning into the touch.
“I know. And I want that too.” He hesitated, throat working. The next words came slower, more careful. Like he was testing their weight before letting them out. “I don’t want to keep calling this ‘whatever we started.’ It’s more than that. It has been for a while.”
He rose slowly from his knees, one hand still on Kimi’s hip, the other coming up to cup the side of his neck. They were eye level now. Close enough that Kimi could see every hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty in George’s face.
“I want us to be official,” George continued, voice low and deliberate. “Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever label you’re comfortable with. No more hiding it in hotel rooms and pretending it doesn’t change how we race. I’m tired of treating this like a weakness when it’s the only thing that feels right anymore.”
Kimi searched his eyes for a long beat. His own hesitation showed—brow furrowed slightly, breath catching.
“You mean that?” he asked. Not accusatory. Just honest. “Even after today? After Turn 1 and the press and everything we still haven’t actually talked about?”
“Yes.” George didn’t look away. “We’ll talk about the crash. Tomorrow, properly. I owe you that. But this—this isn’t conditional on any of it. I don’t want to lose you over a corner. Or over my own ego. I want you. Properly.”
Another pause. Kimi’s hand came up to rest over George’s on his neck.
“Okay,” he said finally. Quiet. Certain. “Boyfriends, then. No more ‘whatever.’”
The words settled between them like something solid. George let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, forehead dropping gently against Kimi’s. Their noses brushed. For the first time since the sprint, the tension in the room shifted—not gone, but transformed into something warmer. More intimate.
George’s hand slid down Kimi’s arm, fingers intertwining with his. “Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”
Kimi nodded, the smallest smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face. He squeezed George’s hand once.
“I’m staying.”
George’s forehead stayed pressed against Kimi’s for a long moment, their breaths slowly syncing in the quiet room. The weight of everything still lingered, but it felt lighter now—shared.
“Come here,” George whispered.
He cupped Kimi’s face gently and kissed him. Slow. Tender. Almost careful. They stayed standing like that for a while, exchanging soft, unhurried kisses, hands resting on each other’s arms and backs. Nothing rushed. Just warmth and quiet reassurance.
Eventually they moved to the bed together. Kimi lay down first on his back, and George followed, shifting close until he could rest his head on Kimi’s chest. His cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of Kimi’s heartbeat. One arm wrapped around Kimi’s waist, hand sliding under the hem of his shirt to settle protectively on warm skin, fingers spread wide as if to hold him there.
Kimi didn’t hesitate. He wrapped one arm around George’s shoulders, the other hand coming up to thread gently through George’s hair, stroking slowly. It felt right—George allowing himself this vulnerability after the fear of almost losing him.
“I meant it,” George murmured against Kimi’s chest, voice low and rough in the dark. “No more ‘whatever this is.’ You’re mine now. Boyfriend. Partner. All of it.”
Kimi pressed a soft kiss to the top of George’s head, then another to his temple when George tilted his face up slightly. His fingers never stopped their gentle movement in George’s hair.
“I know,” Kimi whispered. “We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow. The crash… everything. But tonight, just this.”
George nodded, tightening his protective hold on Kimi’s waist, pulling him a little closer. He placed one more lingering kiss on Kimi’s collarbone, then settled again with his head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat there like it grounded him.
They stayed tangled like that—George’s head on Kimi’s chest, arm wrapped securely around his waist—until the tension from the day finally eased. No more words were needed. Just the quiet closeness and the steady comfort of each other.