"I said I didn't feel nothing, baby, but I lied. I almost cut a piece of myself for your life."
The city lights shimmer in the distance, like stars captured on earth. Lance Stroll stands outside his apartment, arms crossed, staring out over the calm expanse of the Saint Lawrence River. The air is thick with that unmistakable Montreal vibe, a blend of excitement and melancholy that seems to linger, especially at night. The moon, almost full, softly illuminates Lance's face, revealing features marked by sleepless nights and troubled thoughts. How long had it been since he felt at peace?
It all started with a simple conversation. That day, in the paddock, Checo Pérez had come and sat beside him, his shoulders relaxed, a smile playing at his lips, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Lance still remembers his first impressions—this man was a mystery, a puzzle that seemed impossible to solve. Their first talk was about cars, competition, the adrenaline that drove them on the track. But soon, their exchanges grew deeper, moving from trivial topics to late-night confessions, the two of them often finding themselves talking about life, fears, and dreams.
Lance quickly realized that in Checo, he had found much more than just a colleague. There was this undeniable connection, this invisible force that seemed to pull them toward each other, no matter how far apart they were. In every shared smile, every furtive glance through their visors, he felt the tension building, like a tightly drawn cord ready to snap at any moment.
One evening, after Checo's overwhelming victory on the Sakhir circuit, the tension reached its peak. Both of them were exhausted, their bodies still buzzing from the race, sitting side by side on an old leather couch in a private lounge reserved for the team. Soft music played in the background, and the dim lighting added an intimacy to the atmosphere. Checo had reached out, his hand brushing against Lance's, and in that instant, the world froze. Nothing else mattered. And before he even realized what was happening, their lips had met.
That kiss, gentle and full of restrained emotion, marked the beginning of a complicated story. For nothing is ever simple in a world where everything is exposed, where every gesture is scrutinized, analyzed, dissected. Their relationship was built in the shadows, away from prying eyes, in stolen moments between races, in nights spent together in anonymous hotel rooms, where the only reality that mattered was the one they created, tangled in each other's arms.
Yet despite the passion, despite the tenderness, Lance knew deep down that Checo was never really his. He saw how, despite their closeness, Checo continued to keep a part of himself just out of reach, like a treasure he couldn't fully share. It was that sense of mystery that made Checo even more captivating, but also infinitely more painful to love.
The doubts crept in slowly, like a growing shadow between them. Each time Checo left the room, Lance would lie there, staring at the ceiling, his mind assaulted by questions that would never have answers. Where was he going? What did he really feel? Was this just an affair to him, a way to fill a void between races?
Then there was that night—the one that would change everything. It was in Monaco, after an evening celebrating Lance's victory in grand style. Fireworks lit up the sky, but for Lance, there was only Checo. They had found refuge on a private balcony, the city celebrating beneath them, laughter and music rising up like a distant echo. Checo had taken his hand, his fingers warm as they intertwined with his own, and looked at him with an intensity that made Lance's heart falter.
"Why are you doing this?" Lance had asked, his voice rough, raw with doubt and exhaustion.
Checo had looked down, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Because you're the one who understands me the most. But also because I know I'm not what you need." Lance felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Checo was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do about it. "I lose myself with you, Lance," he had whispered, almost as a confession. "But I know one day, I'll have to go."
That night, they made love as if it were the last time. Lance tried to capture every detail, every sigh, every shiver, as if he could somehow etch Checo into his memory forever. But deep down, he knew nothing could fill the emptiness that had begun to form. When Checo fell asleep, curled against him, Lance watched him, tears rolling silently, knowing that this moment was already fading.
The days that followed were pure agony. Checo grew more distant, responding to his calls and messages with increasing rarity, his smiles becoming fewer, his silences heavier. Lance felt the distance growing, and despite all his efforts, he could do nothing to stop it. One evening, as they were together in a hotel room after a race at Silverstone, Checo sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, and whispered the words Lance had dreaded hearing. "I think it's time I go."
Lance felt his heart shatter, a crack that spread, quick and brutal, through his entire being. "Don't go," he had pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. "Not now."
Checo had given him a sad smile, brushing a hand against Lance's cheek, wiping away a tear that rolled slowly. "You deserve someone who will always choose you, Lance. Not just in the shadows, not just in stolen moments."
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of pain and regret. Every time Lance closed his eyes, he saw Checo's face, heard his voice, felt the warmth of his body against his. But Checo was no longer there. And every time Lance tried to call him, to hold onto him, there was only silence in return.
That night, under the Montreal sky, Lance feels every wound, every scar left by this impossible love. He takes out his phone, his fingers trembling, and reads for the hundredth time the last message Checo had sent him. "I'm sorry. Take care of yourself."
In the distance, the city's sirens echo, a distant reminder that the world keeps turning, even when our hearts are broken. Lance closes his eyes, letting a tear roll slowly down his cheek, before whispering into the darkness, "Call out my name, Checo... just one last time."
And somewhere, in a corner of the night, he hopes Checo will hear him, that he'll respond, even if it's just a distant echo of a love that will never be forgotten.
A/N
Here a new chapter, hope you like it
I really enjoy writing this type of story 💕💕
