Chapter Text
The sun hadn’t even cracked over the hills yet, but the Sainz household was already humming with life. Or rather, it was humming with Carlos’s off-key singing as he shuffled around the kitchen in his slippers, stirring scrambled eggs and dancing to the cheesiest Spanish pop song blasting from the speakers.
He spun with the spatula like it was a dance partner, grinning to himself.
“¡Despierta, mis pequeños demonios!”
(Wake up, my little devils!)
A loud thump upstairs followed by muffled groaning confirmed that his call had been heard. Carlos smirked, flipping the toast.
A minute later, Andrea Kimi stumbled in, still wrapped in his racecar bedsheet like a cape, hair defying gravity, eyes narrowed in betrayal.
“You said five more minutes last time.”
“And you said you wouldn’t hide Oreos in your math book, and yet here we are.” Carlos kissed the top of his head as he walked by. “Go wash your face, I’m not feeding cave gremlins.”
As Kimi grumbled and shuffled off, Ollie barreled down the stairs two steps at a time.
“You’re going to break something one day,” Carlos warned, just as Ollie leapt the last step like it was Monaco’s swimming pool.
“Worth it,” Ollie grinned, grabbing a piece of toast off the counter.
“Sit. Both of you. Eat like civilized humans.” Carlos placed the plates in front of them with exaggerated care, then gave them both the look. They obeyed with mock salutes.
The kitchen table was chaos — Kimi bickering over who drank the last of the orange juice, Ollie sneaking pieces of chorizo off Carlos’s plate, Carlos sipping his coffee like a war veteran in the trenches of fatherhood.
But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
He ruffled their hair, ignored their yelps, and tapped the car keys against the counter.
“Snacks. Bags. Shoes. We leave in three.”
Five minutes and six arguments later, the boys were dropped off at school — Kimi shouting something about a math test, Ollie promising to keep his hands to himself “this time,” and both yelling “¡Te quiero, papá!” as they ran off.
Carlos leaned back in the driver's seat and exhaled a happy sigh.
Peace. Sort of.
By 8:30 a.m., he was unlocking the doors to Sainz & Co Auto, his small but beloved vintage car restoration garage. The bell over the door jingled, the scent of oil and old leather greeting him like an old friend.
He rolled up his sleeves, turned on the radio (yes, the same cheesy station), and got to work — because life didn’t stop just because your kids were maniacs.
Still, as he wiped his hands on a rag and gazed at the half-restored Alfa Romeo in bay three, Carlos grinned.
Life was good.
Messy, loud, exhausting—but good.
…………….
Carlos had just settled into the groove — one hand deep inside the engine of an old Fiat 500, the other swiping grease off his forehead with the back of his wrist — when the bell above the garage door jingled again.
He looked up, already smiling.
“Buenos días, señora Carmen,” he called as the town’s resident grandma marched in with a Tupperware in hand.
“Don’t you ‘señora’ me, Carlos Sainz. You’re not too old for a good ear-pulling,” she warned, but her eyes twinkled as she shoved the container into his chest. “You’ve lost weight. Eat.”
Carlos peeked inside. Croquetas.
“You’re trying to kill me with love, aren’t you?”
“Better than letting you starve in this grease pit. You need someone to cook for you full time.”
He laughed and kissed her cheek, making her swat at him and mutter something about "this one being too handsome for his own good."
As she left — but not before pinching his arm and warning him to “call that nice vet boy, the quiet one” — another regular strolled in.
Lucía, a young woman in her twenties, twirled her keys and leaned against the counter. She had that look in her eyes. The one Carlos had seen more times than he could count.
“Hi, Carlos,” she drawled, drawing out his name like a song. “My scooter’s making a weird noise again.”
“Did you remember to not drive it into potholes this time?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
She shrugged innocently. “Maybe you just like seeing me.”
Carlos chuckled and motioned her to bring it around the back. “I’ll take a look.”
“You always do,” she winked.
By mid-morning, three more regulars had stopped by: one with a mysteriously squeaky brake (that hadn’t squeaked in weeks), another bringing coffee “just because,” and an elderly gentleman who came in mostly to sit in the corner and chat while Carlos worked, insisting he reminded him of his late son.
Every customer left with a little more brightness than they came in with. That was Carlos's magic: he fixed more than just cars.
Some flirted. Some fussed. Some told him he should be on TV. And Carlos? He just smiled, genuinely, and got back to work — blissfully unaware that he was the reason for half the town’s collective crush.
By the time the clock hit noon, the garage radio had changed to an old rock playlist, the sunlight streamed in golden across the floor, and Carlos sat on an overturned milk crate with a sandwich in one hand and a wrench in the other.
Just another perfect day in San Lorenzito.
…………..
The school bell rang at exactly 3:15 p.m., and Ollie and Kimi stood outside the gates, backpacks slung over one shoulder, identical frowns on their faces.
“Papa’s late,” Ollie muttered, eyes scanning the line of waiting parents.
“He’s never late,” Kimi added, crossing his arms like a mini bodyguard.
But Carlos wasn’t the problem.
No, the problem was becoming glaringly obvious the longer they stood there.
Around them, parents greeted their kids with hugs, snacks, kisses, and car doors swung open. Couples waved to each other, some even had younger siblings in strollers. Complete units. Happy. Paired. Not single.
And the Sainz boys?
They stood alone, waiting for their unfairly attractive, infuriatingly single father to show up in his oil-streaked overalls like some romantic Spanish drama lead who hadn’t yet realized he’s the main character.
“Have you ever thought about it?” Kimi asked suddenly.
Ollie looked at him. “About what?”
“That Papa… he’s the only one here who doesn’t have someone.”
Ollie blinked. Then frowned. “Wait. Oh my god. You’re right.”
They both stared into the middle distance, the realization heavy in the air like a telenovela plot twist.
“Our papa,” Ollie began dramatically, “who looks like the literal dream of every woman and man in this town—”
“—is single,” Kimi finished, horrified.
There was a long, tense pause.
“This is injustice,” Ollie declared.
“An outrage.”
“A crime against romance.”
“Against humanity.”
They exchanged solemn nods.
Then, Kimi’s eyes lit up. “We should fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“His singleness,” Kimi said with a grin. “Operation: How to Get Papa a Boyfriend.”
Ollie’s face slowly split into a matching grin. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said.”
And so it began. That afternoon, sitting in the back of the truck as Carlos finally pulled up with an apologetic smile and a soda each, they began plotting.
They didn’t need to ask who their papa might like — because they’d seen the blush.
Carlos Sainz, small-town heartthrob and disaster gay, was very good at hiding his emotions.
But not from them.
Not when he subtly wiped his palms on his jeans after Max Verstappen walked in with his suit halfway unzipped.
Not when he stammered and turned the color of a tomato when Charles Leclerc brought pastries and said he needed help “getting his hands dirty.”
Not when he accidentally elbowed a toolbox when Oscar Piastri bent down to pet Piñón and gave him a shy smile.
And definitely not when Lando Norris leaned too far over the counter, chin on his palm, and asked if Carlos was “into guys who make very bad life choices, because hi.”
The signs were all there.
Four targets.
Now all Kimi and Ollie had to do was pick one.
Easy, right?
Right?