1. Aurélie
Callum stood barefoot in the hallway, zip-up hoodie thrown over boxer briefs, hair rumpled as though he’d clawed at it all night. The living room was nearly pitch black—curtains drawn, no sound or movement. Just utter stillness.
His eyes squinted against the entry light, and I realized he hadn’t been avoiding me the whole time. I thought I was ready to face him, to confront the silence, the distance, the ache he left behind.
And yet now, standing in his flat, I realized I wasn’t ready at all. I was tired. Bone-deep, soul-heavy, tired from the emotional roller coaster of the last twenty-four hours. It wasn’t just from missing him, but also from holding everything else together while he vanished.
Meanwhile, he was hurting and probably just as exhausted as me, if not more so. It didn't excuse him for not answering me at the door, though.
He winced, one hand flying up to shield his face. His chest rose unevenly with each breath, his skin was too pale, jaw unshaven, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him.
And all that rage—the fire, the heartbreak, the ache in my chest—shifted to the side to make room for the sudden overwhelming urge to nurture. I had the inexplicable desire to simply take care of him.
“Oh,” I whispered brokenly as I took a tentative step forward. “Concussion?”
He nodded slowly, once, and winced, as if even that movement cost him. I carefully closed the door so it didn't slam shut, but he still flinched at the sound. His eyes pooled—not with tears ready to fall, but the kind you hold back so hard your whole body shakes from the effort.
I was already moving toward him, the invisible string that seemed to tie us together drawing me closer to him, like I was Icarus and he was the sun.
Somehow, loving him had become another thing I didn’t know how to do in halves.
I was burning myself out trying to hold everyone else accountable while simultaneously giving him everything I had left in me.
“Mon dieu, Callum,” I breathed, wrapping my arms around him gently, afraid he might break. Right now, he might, given how his whole body shuddered.
He didn’t resist my touch or try to act tough. He just let himself fall forward, burying his face in my neck despite our height difference with a low, desperate groan. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me as if I was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, running my hand down his back. “Come on, mon c?ur. Back to bed. Now.”
He swayed slightly, legs buckling. I tightened my grip, and when he felt stable again, I turned so his arm was draped across my shoulders.
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Don’t,” I breathed, fighting tears as I steered him toward the bedroom. “You can apologize when you come back to me like you promised.”
He let out something between a huff and a whimper. “Still bossy.”
“Still breathing,” I whispered, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat. He didn’t argue.
We made it to his bedroom, the only light coming from a sliver of daylight slipping through the curtains.
I helped him ease onto the edge of the mattress, every movement excruciatingly slow.
He hissed as he lowered himself down, posture stiff, shoulders curling forward just slightly as he cradled his ribs with one arm.
His head tilted—not dropped, not fully turned, just barely angled downward like even the weight of his skull was too much. His hoodie hung open at the chest where the zipper had come loose, revealing the edge of a compression vest beneath.
I sat beside him, my voice soft. “What are the injuries?” I rubbed his back as gently as I could. I didn't know what would make it worse.
“Moderate concussion,” he said. “Neck strain. Whiplash. Bruised ribs. No fractures, just… a lot of pain.” He swallowed. “And you. The guilt.”
I reached up, carefully brushing the hair back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch, even as a slight grimace crossed his face—like he was choosing the comfort over the pain. And my heart broke a little. He needed someone here for him right now.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Or, I don't know, respond to me.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. Just sat there, body rigid, as if shifting even an inch might crack him open. Slowly, his hands unclenched in his lap. His fingers twitched, as though he wanted to hide them again but didn’t have the strength.
“Didn’t want you to see me like this,” he murmured. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t just from the injury. Shame laced his tone.
“Like what?” I asked gently. “Human? Hurt?”
“Like someone who can’t take care of you right now.”
My throat tightened and everything inside me crumbled a little bit more. Always for him—only for him. “I don’t need you to always take care of me, Callum. I needed you to let me be there for you. And you shut me out.”
I’d spent a lifetime pouring myself out for everyone—him, the team, the fans—while pretending I was fine. But I wasn’t. I didn’t even know what fine meant anymore.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” I said, pressing my fingertips into the muscles on his neck. He sighed. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Later?”
“Yeah,” I said, rising to my feet and moving to stand between his legs. He immediately circled his arms around my waist and pressed his forehead against my stomach. I carefully massaged his neck with both hands. "Let me see."
"What?" he mumbled, burrowing his face deeper into my wrinkled clothing. God, I was dying to shower, but he needed me first.
"You're wearing a compression vest. Let me see the damage."
With another sigh, Callum pulled back at a tedious pace. I helped him unzip his jacket. He removed the compression vest, the velcro loud in the quiet room, and when it slipped from his shoulders, I sucked in a breath. Bruises in the shape of his straps bloomed across his ribs, chest, and shoulders.
I hummed and then rushed to pull it back over him, pushing his hands away when he tried to zip it back up himself. "D'accord. Time to rest."
He let out a tiny, wrecked laugh. “There it is. The French I love so goddamn much.”
“You’re not off the hook, Fraser. I’m still pissed.” He didn’t argue, but instead let me guide him down, slow and stiff. He hissed with pain, but his hand never let go of mine, tugging me until I was sitting with one leg curled under me and his head was resting against my knee.
“I can't believe you picked my fucking lock,” he said, voice hoarse.
I folded my arms. “What did you expect? Me to wait outside until you were ready?”
“I mean… kinda?”
I loved him so fucking much, it hurt. “I missed you. Besides, you told me to stop running. To stop going through things alone. You think I was gonna let you pull this shit without me showing up?”
He blinked up at me, eyes glassy and tired. “I didn’t want to scare you. Not with how bad it got.”
“You went to the FIA to fight for me, went to the hospital, and then you disappeared. You didn’t text me back, Callum,” I cut in, my voice breaking. “I thought you were done.”
His face crumpled, and his hand flew up to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. “Never. I swear to God—never.”
I leaned forward until our foreheads touched. I was practically folded in half, and my body protested, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered as long as I could let him rest. “You don’t have to hold me up all the time, mon amour.”
"Mmm. That wasn't true in the shower."
Snorting and fighting a blush, I pulled back and brushed the hair from his temples and cheekbones. It was a little longer right now, but it suited him. “Glad to see you think you’re still funny.”
He cracked a smile—barely there, soft and lopsided, but real.
“Trying,” he murmured, then his brow furrowed, and something in him shifted.
“I missed you.” He didn’t open his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me while he said the next part.
“I kept thinking… if I just slept a little more, rested a little longer… I’d be able to show up the way I’m supposed to.
Be the man you deserve. Not the one who ghosts you and hides in the dark like some broken mess.
” My throat closed so fast I couldn’t speak.
“But that was never the point, was it?” he continued, voice so quiet I had to lean in.
“You don’t need me to be perfect. You just needed me to be there. And I fucked that up.”
The truth was, I’d been unraveling slowly and quietly in his absence, convincing myself that if I just kept going and kept fighting that it would all fall back into place.
It didn’t, though. And now that I was here, I didn’t know how to stop bracing for the next hit.
Especially when I was launching a battle against the FIA.
I could’ve told him he was wrong. That he was enough. That just seeing him in the flesh—standing, breathing, here—was enough. But I didn’t, not yet. Instead, I kissed the center of his forehead. Letting my lips linger there like a promise.
Then I pulled back, ran my fingers through his hair again, and whispered, “What was it you told me in Monaco? Oh, right. Tough shit. And by the way, you’re mine. Even bruised and broken and silent and stubborn as hell.”
He exhaled shakily. “Still yours.”
“Still mine.”
His hand slid out from under the blanket, fingers searching. I let him find mine. Let him hold it even though I was still pissed, but love doesn’t vanish when it gets hard. Love shows up —hair a mess, mascara streaked, heart wide open—and picks the goddamn lock.
“Come on,” I said, tugging the blanket up his torso. “Back under, mon champion. Head still pounding?” I asked.
He nodded faintly. “Like it’s trying to make me forget you yelled at my doorbell.”
I kissed the corner of his mouth. “You deserved worse.”
“You love me, though.”
“I do. I really, really, do,” I muttered, climbing up beside him. "You're an idiot."
"Certifié," he mumbled, eyes fluttering open. Certifiable. “You’re not leaving?” He sounded like a child afraid to believe in comfort, and I remember how he said his parents fought a lot when he was younger. Caught in the middle and the cause of endless marital issues.
“Not yet.” I glanced around the disaster of his flat—clutter, clutter, clutter—my heart softened just a little more. I had a million things to do, but… this was more important. I would do anything this man needed if it meant calling him mine for the rest of my life.
His hand shifted, slow and deliberate, sliding up my wrist, over the bend of my elbow, curling lightly around my upper arm. Not possessive. Just… craving. And I hated how much I wanted him, even now.
“I’d pull you into bed with me if I could,” he murmured, his thumb stroking small circles against my skin. “You know that, right?”
The ache in his voice shot straight to my clit. Yeah, this path to recovery was going to suck.
“I know,” I whispered.
“Even now, like this—body bruised and broken, my head pounding like a motherfucker, my career in the goddamn weeds—I’m never not reaching for you.”
I swallowed hard, leaned in, pressed my lips just below his ear. “You need to rest."
He turned on his side and rested his hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. "I missed you so fucking much."
Emotions clogged my throat, but I forced a smile. "You know, in French, we say 'tu me manques'. Directly translated to English, it means you are missing from me. And that's true, mon amour. When I'm not with you, it feels like part of me is missing. That's what it felt like when you disappeared."
"I love you." Callum kissed my knee. "I could listen to you talk all day, Aurélie." A pause. Then, quieter, "Please don't stop. I need you."
And yet, I spent my entire trip doubting if my voice even mattered. If my absence had even registered. That was the thing about being strong for too long—it started to feel like silence was safer than asking for anything at all.
"I'm not running anymore, Callum. I'm here. Even if I have to fight through pain, migraines, metal, and every wall you build just to reach you, I'm here."
"You came back for me."
"Always."