Magnetic Hearts

My hero

 Chris' POV

I never used to get migraines. I used to pride myself on being the kind of person who could power through anything. But that weekend at the Monaco GP, something hit me like a freight train. It started with a dull ache behind my eyes, then the lights around the paddock began to blur, and before I knew it, I was struggling to even see straight.

By the time I made it to my hotel room, the pain had turned into an unbearable, pulsing migraine. My head felt like it was being split open, and every little sound made me want to scream. Nausea churned in my stomach, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I started throwing up.

I wanted to hide, to disappear. I couldn't even think about work. Not when the world was spinning around me like that. But of course, I couldn't. I had interviews to do, and stories to cover. There was no escaping it, even when all I wanted was to curl up in bed and pretend the world didn't exist.

I turned off my phone, wanting to be left alone. The migraine was so intense that it made me sensitive to everything—light, sound, touch. I was trapped in my own body, and all I could do was lie in bed, trying not to cry.

But then, just when I thought I could disappear into the quiet darkness of my hotel room, I heard a knock on the door.

I didn't have the energy to answer, and I hoped whoever it was would just go away. But the knock came again, more insistent this time.

"Chris?" The voice was muffled but familiar. "It's me, Franco."

I groaned softly, covering my head with a pillow. Franco? Why was he here? I hadn't even told him I wasn't feeling well. I hadn't told anyone. I couldn't deal with people right now, especially not him. Not with the way things had been between us lately.

"Chris, I know you're in there. Let me in."

There was something in his voice—a mix of concern and persistence—that made my heart ache. Slowly, I forced myself to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through my skull. I dragged myself to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open just a crack.

Franco stood there, his expression instantly softening when he saw me. "Jesus, you look awful."

"Thanks," I muttered, barely able to muster the energy to be sarcastic. "You always know how to make a girl feel special."

But instead of his usual teasing grin, Franco's face was serious. Concerned. He gently pushed the door open wider and stepped inside, his hand brushing my arm as he closed it behind him."You didn't show up for anything today," he said quietly. "I figured something was wrong."

I blinked, too tired to argue. "It's just a migraine. It'll pass."

He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at me with those intense green eyes of his, studying my face as if he could read every thought running through my mind. Then, without another word, he took my hand and led me to the bed.

"Lie down."

"Franco, I don't need—"

"Just... let me help, okay?" His voice was soft but firm, and something about the way he said it made me stop arguing.

I collapsed back onto the bed, pulling the covers over me. Franco moved around the room with a quiet efficiency I hadn't expected, dimming the lights and drawing the curtains until the room was bathed in a soft, comforting darkness. He disappeared for a moment, and I heard the sound of water running in the bathroom before he returned with a cold, damp cloth. Gently, he pressed it to my forehead, his touch surprisingly tender.

I sighed, the coolness of the cloth soothing the burning pain in my head, if only for a moment."I didn't ask you to do this," I whispered, though my voice lacked its usual edge. I was too tired to put up a fight.

"I know," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But you're stubborn, and you wouldn't have asked for help even if you needed it."

I wanted to argue, but he was right. I hated showing weakness. I hated letting anyone see me like this. But Franco... he wasn't pushing, wasn't demanding anything from me. He was just there, quietly taking care of me in a way that left me speechless.

He hummed softly as he adjusted the cloth on my forehead, his fingers brushing against my temple. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain throbbing in my skull.

"You always push yourself too hard," he said quietly. "You don't have to do that with me, you know."

I opened my eyes, looking up at him. "Why are you doing this?"

His gaze softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because you need someone to take care of you, even if you won't admit it."

I didn't know how to respond to that. No one had ever taken care of me like this before. Not like this.

For a long moment, we just sat there in the quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning. I could feel myself starting to drift off, the weight of the migraine pulling me under, but then Franco did something that completely took me by surprise.

He started singing.

It was soft at first, barely more than a whisper. Some lullaby in Spanish, his voice low and soothing, the words rolling off his tongue like a gentle breeze. I didn't know the song, but it didn't matter. The sound of it wrapped around me, pulling me into a warm, safe place.

I blinked up at him, too tired to ask why he was singing, but I didn't need to. The sound of his voice was enough. It was calming grounding. The pain in my head started to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his voice and the soft touch of his hand resting on mine.

Before I knew it, my eyes were closing, my body relaxing into the mattress. His voice lulled me to sleep, the last thing I felt was the gentle squeeze of his hand on mine.

And just like that, in the middle of my worst day, Franco made everything okay.