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The moment Roque and his team arrived at the track, it was clear that the final wasn’t just any race—it was the event of the year. Fans swarmed the pit lanes, cameras flashing, voices calling out names.
This was a world apart from their rugby stadiums—cars lined up like beasts ready to roar, mechanics scurrying like ants, and the unmistakable smell of fuel, burning rubber, and adrenaline thick in the air.
Roque’s rugby team, already a national sensation, drew its own crowd. Fans pressed against barriers, cheering, trying to snap pictures or get autographs. A few drivers walking by even paused to request selfies with them; some of the pit crew laughed, joking about how their team had invaded the speedway like rock stars.
“C’mon, guys,” Cristian called, laughing as a group of fans reached out to shake hands. “We’re not here to start a riot!”
Despite the chaos, Roque’s attention kept wandering. Only a handful of the rugby players actually watched NASCAR, and Roque counted himself among the clueless. Engines, pit stops, track strategy—they all blurred together in his mind. He’d expected excitement, but not this. The noise, the energy, the sheer speed—he had no idea what he was walking into.
Once the autograph session ended, their manager shepherded them toward a reserved seating area near their country’s racing crew. The team settled into their seats, and Roque tried to absorb the scene: crew members running with tools, screens flickering with data, drivers shouting over radios. It was organized chaos, and somehow it all worked.
Then, the moment came that made Roque forget everything else.
A figure appeared in the tunnel, moving with a confidence that made him impossible to ignore. Helmet on, racing suit perfectly fitted, every step precise. Roque’s gaze zeroed in without thinking. He didn’t know the name yet, didn’t know the stats or the standings—he just knew he couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about him. The way he moved, the way he held himself, even the way the sun glinted off his visor—it drew Roque in, a physical pull he hadn’t felt in a long time.
A teammate—practically bouncing in his seat—noticed Roque staring and leaned over with barely contained excitement. “That’s him,” he whispered, voice trembling with admiration. “Sebas Sendon. Our champion driver. He’s… look, he’s undefeated this season, ten wins, three pole positions, fastest laps in—”
Roque barely registered the numbers. His eyes were locked on the figure striding toward his car, mechanics scattering out of the way. He adjusted his gloves, ran a hand over the steering wheel, checked his mirrors—all automatic, effortless movements—but to Roque, every small action was mesmerizing, every movement measured and precise. Even with his face completely hidden, Roque felt drawn in. The way Sebas walked, the subtle authority in his posture, the calm confidence—it was impossible to look away.
The teammate continued, oblivious to Roque’s silence. “He’s incredible on the track. Fastest reaction times, perfect lines, absolutely untouchable in the turns. He’s the reason our country has a shot at the championship this year.”
Roque nodded absently, captivated. He didn’t hear most of it. All he knew was the pull he felt toward this helmeted figure. Every step Sebas took, every adjustment of gloves, every glance at the car’s controls—Roque felt it deep in his chest.
Sebas climbed into the car, sliding in with the precision of someone who owned this space. He didn’t remove his helmet, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge anyone beyond a nod to his crew. And yet, to Roque, it was electrifying. The mystery made him more alluring. There was a tension in seeing a face he couldn’t see, in trying to imagine the person beneath the visor.
Roque’s heartbeat picked up. The team around him was buzzing with excitement, but he felt a quiet, intense fascination with this single driver. Every movement Sebas made, even masked by gear and helmet, was magnetic. He didn’t need to speak or smile. He didn’t need to remove his helmet. In that moment, he was enough.
And as Sebas adjusted straps, checked mirrors, and prepared for the race, Roque realized: he didn’t need to know anything about racing to know he was captivated. That figure in the helmet had claimed his full attention—and maybe, even unknowingly, his curiosity and admiration as well.
The pit area was buzzing, engines humming as Sebas sat strapped into his car, helmet on, fingers flexing over the steering wheel. One of the crew, grinning at the rugby team’s excitement, picked up a microphone head set.
“Alright, special guests,” he called over the roar of the engines, “anyone want to say something to Sebas before he hits the track?”
The team erupted instantly. Hands shot up, voices shouting over each other. “Good luck!” “Bring it home!” “We’re rooting for you, champ!” “Don’t let ‘em pass you!” The energy was wild, competitive, and infectious—like they were back on the rugby field, hyped and roaring.
Roque leaned back in his seat, chuckling at his teammates’ excitement. He’d expected chaos, but even this was entertaining. Most of the rugby players were bouncing on the balls of their feet, waving and calling, full of the same competitive spirit they carried onto the field. Roque just shook his head, still smiling, enjoying the spectacle.
Finally, one of the crew gestured toward the microphone. “Alright, alright, calm down. Roque, you look like you’re enjoying this a little too much—want to say something?”
Roque laughed, shrugging. “Nah… just enjoying the show,” he said, eyes still tracking Sebas’s helmeted figure as he tightened straps and checked gauges. But the crew was persistent, and soon the microphone was practically shoved into his hands.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Uh… Sebas,” he said, voice steady but slightly amused, “we’re all rooting for you. Go show them what you’ve got.”
A chorus of cheers erupted from his teammates behind him. Roque chuckled again, giving the microphone back with a playful shrug.
Somehow, despite the roar of engines and the tension of the race, Roque could’ve sworn Sebas’s head tilted slightly toward him, just enough that it felt personal. Maybe it was the angle of the visor, maybe his imagination, but it felt deliberate. Without thinking, Roque shot both thumbs up and grinned.
The response was immediate. Sebas’s gloved hands lifted, giving two thumbs up right back. Even through the helmet, the gesture felt personal. That small acknowledgment, that silent connection, made Roque’s chest tighten in a way he hadn’t expected.
The pit crew laughed at the exchange. “Alright, champ! Show ‘em what you got!” one of them shouted. And with that, the crew snapped into action, Sebas already revving onto the track, the tires gripping the asphalt as if the car itself knew no hesitation.
one of them shouted, the engines rumbling in the background like a chorus of anticipation.
Sebas gave a subtle nod, and then, with precise, controlled movements, he started the car. The tires squealed softly against the pit lane as he eased forward, carefully navigating toward the lineup. Roque couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every shift of the wheel, every adjustment of the helmeted head—it was mesmerizing.
The other rugby players were bouncing in their seats, calling out encouragement, but Roque sat slightly apart, hands gripping the edge of his seat, captivated in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d never watched a race before, but it was impossible not to be drawn in. The combination of speed, skill, and pure confidence in that single figure behind the wheel made his pulse quicken.
Sebas slid into position at the starting lineup, the car now perfectly aligned. The engines around him rumbled and revved, and the tension of the track pressed forward like a tangible force.
-
The engines growled, a low thunder that vibrated through Roque’s ribs as the pace car pulled off and the green flag waved. Cars shot forward like lightning unleashed — wheels spinning, rubber burning — and the race was on. The NASCAR race wasn’t just one long blur of speed; it was a blend of strategy, timing, and pure bravery. Drivers jockeyed for position from the very first lap, careful to stay close but without risking a spin-out too early. The roar of the crowd was constant, the smell of fuel sharp, and the tension electric.
Sebas was a force of nature out there. Every turn was a calculation, every straightaway a brutal test of speed and nerve. The pack moved like living chaos — cars inches apart at 180+ mph, tires squealing through the curves, engines roaring like beasts that refused to be tamed. Roque watched with his breath caught in his throat, unable to tear his eyes away from Sebas’s car weaving through the field.
Along the way there were caution flags — that yellow glow that slowed the entire field when an incident happened or debris needed clearing — giving drivers brief moments to regroup and strategize before the green flag sent them off again.
Roque watched every nuance play out, utterly captivated. Every time Sebas’s car came into view — expertly sliding past competitors, expertly choosing the perfect gap to dive into — Roque felt something thrill through him. He could feel the tension in the air, the way every second felt like a world apart, the way the crowd held its breath as Sebas edged further forward with each lap. Even those around him, veteran race watchers and rugby players alike, were shouting at the screens, pointing, reacting — but Roque’s focus never left that sleek machine and its helmeted driver behind the wheel.
Around him, crews whispered into headsets, calculating pit windows, analyzing tire wear, and calling out when the next stop should be made.
As the laps ticked down, the lead pack tightened. Sebas was right in the middle of it, carving out every advantage he could. The crowd’s energy ratcheted higher, the engines louder, and the intensity unstoppable. Every car tried to push just a little harder — but Sebas was untouchable.
And then came the final stretch. The crowd screamed, the tension in the pit area turned to electric anticipation, and Sebas’s car edged ahead — wheel to wheel with the challengers, but always just slightly in front. Roque sat forward, eyes wide, body buzzing, absorbed by every twist and turn. The checkered flag approached like destiny itself.
When the flag finally waved, it was clear: Sebas had won. The roar was deafening, the celebration instant. Crew members threw their fists in the air, the announcer buzzed with excitement, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Sebas’s car crossed the line first, the champion of the race, victorious by a hair’s breadth and a masterclass of speed and finesse.
Roque sat still for a moment, heart pounding—not just from the intensity of the race, but from the overwhelming fascination and admiration he felt for the man behind the wheel. Even now, Sebas’s performance lingered in his mind: every daring overtake, every perfectly timed maneuver, every flawless pit exchange.
It wasn’t just that Sebas had won… it was how he did it — with skill, calm precision, and a focus that blurred everything else out. And for Roque? Every second of it had been unforgettable.
The race was over, the checkered flag waved, and Sebas’s car slowly made its way back into the pit. Mechanics swarmed immediately, celebrating their flawless execution as Sebas expertly guided the vehicle to its spot. Roque’s chest still thudded from the adrenaline of the race. He hadn’t expected to be so completely absorbed—but there was no denying it: every move, every shift, every gesture from the driver behind the wheel had captivated him.
Sebas shut off the engine and lifted his visor. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his helmet, letting his dark hair fall into place and revealing the face that had been haunting Roque’s thoughts since the moment he’d first stepped out of the tunnel. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a calm confidence that radiated even in exhaustion. Roque’s gaze lingered a moment longer than polite, drinking in the sight.
Then Sebas peeled off the top of his racing suit, revealing a fitted compression shirt underneath, the fabric clinging to the contours of his chest and arms. He tied the arms of the suit around his waist with ease, hair damply falling into place, and moved with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked—even in the chaos of post-race activity.
Roque’s eyes lingered longer than he intended. He had seen athletes before, seen men in peak physical condition—but there was something about Sebas in that moment that stole his attention completely.
He could feel his teammates nudging him, whispering, laughing under their breaths. “Dude… you’re staring,” one of them teased.
Roque elbowed the offender in the ribs, cheeks flushing. “Shut up,” he muttered.
Sebas, overhearing the exchange, tilted his head slightly and chuckled softly, the sound low and effortless. There was amusement in his eyes, and maybe… maybe a little recognition of the attention Roque couldn’t hide.
And then, almost playfully, Sebas winked at Roque.
Roque’s chest tightened, warmth flooding his cheeks. His mind went blank for a moment, and he had to remind himself to breathe. The teasing from his teammates continued, but all he could think about was that brief acknowledgment, that wink, and the way Sebas carried himself with quiet, effortless magnetism.
Moments later, the trophy ceremony began. A stage was set near the track, the crowd still buzzing from the race.
The pit was still buzzing with photographers, crew members, and fans leaning over barriers, but all eyes were on Sebas. Roque followed, still caught between awe and an adrenaline high from the race itself.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers: “And your champion, representing our country with unmatched skill and speed… Sebas Sendon!”
The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. Cheering, clapping, and whistles filled the air as Sebas climbed the stage with the trophy in hand. The weight of the moment, the shine of the trophy, and the adoration of the crowd seemed to suit him perfectly. He raised it above his head, triumphant, but still exuding the calm, composed aura that had made him so captivating all along.
Roque couldn’t stop smiling. The race, the pit, the victory—it all felt surreal. Every glance, every gesture, every flicker of emotion from Sebas had left an impression. And even amidst the celebration, the silent, playful connection they’d shared lingered in Roque’s chest like a spark waiting to ignite.
-
The rugby team headed back to the pit crew area to gather their bags and belongings, planning to leave. Early practice in the morning meant they couldn’t stay too long, and the adrenaline from the race and trophy ceremony was starting to wear off.
As they were about to exit, Sebas stepped into their path, standing tall and composed, exuding that same quiet confidence that had captivated Roque all day. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t fumble his words. He simply looked at them and said, “Hey, why don’t you stay a little longer? Celebrate with me and the crew.”
The team’s heads snapped around instantly, eyes wide. Murmurs of excitement ran through them, teammates exchanging glances and subtle nudges. Roque opened his mouth to politely decline, starting to explain about the early morning practice, but before he could get a word out, he noticed the way his team was looking at him. Hopeful. Expectant. Clearly wanting to stay.
Roque sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at Sebas, who gave him a small smile, and then back to his team. His shoulders slumped dramatically, and he groaned, a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
“Fine,” he said, voice loud enough for all of them to hear. “We’ll stay. Since we’re staying out late, morning practice is cancelled.”
The team’s cheer was immediate and loud, some of them jumping in excitement, clapping each other on the back.
“But,” he pointed a finger at the group, wagging it like a stern coach, “Don’t get used to it!”
Sebas watched the exchange with a small, approving smile, clearly entertained by the dynamic but maintaining his confident calm. “Perfect,” he said. “We’re about to head out.”
-
As the team started leaving the track and heading toward their cars, Roque was about to slide into Cristian’s car, ready to head to the club—a tradition Sebas and his crew kept after every big win.
“Roque!” Sebas called, his voice calm but commanding, grabbing his attention. “Why don’t you ride with me?”
Roque froze, glancing at him, caught off guard. Before he could answer, a few of his teammates, clearly delighted at the idea, nudged him forward, practically shoving him toward Sebas.
A mix of teasing and enthusiasm had sent him hurtling in the direction of the driver.
Sebas caught him effortlessly, hands steady and strong. Roque stumbled slightly, then tried to regain his composure, shooting a glare at his team. They just waved cheerfully, grinning and calling “Meet you there!”
Roque exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, muttering, “Traitors…”
Sebas chuckled softly at the exchange, the sound low and amused. “Relax,” he said, one hand pressing lightly to Roque’s back as he guided him toward the sleek car. “You’re safe with me.”
As they walked, Roque tried to sound casual but couldn’t resist one small request. “Okay… but—promise you won’t drive all crazy?”
Sebas paused, noticing the genuine concern in Roque’s voice. His smirk softened into something warmer. “I promise,” he said, his tone calm and sincere. “I would never intentionally put you in any danger.”
Roque’s chest tightened slightly at the reassurance. The warmth in Sebas’s voice, the casual confidence in his posture—it made his heart thump faster than the engines around them ever had. He gave a small nod, muttering, “Good… glad we cleared that up,” trying to mask the flutter in his chest with a hint of humor.
Sebas’s hand lingered just a fraction longer on his back as they reached the car. Sebas opened his car door with a small, practiced motion, gesturing for Roque to slide in first. “After you,” he said, his voice calm but carrying that same quiet confidence that made Roque’s chest tighten.
Roque hesitated just a moment, then eased into the passenger seat, careful not to fumble. He felt the sleek leather under him and the hum of the engine beneath the car—powerful, alive, and all Sebas.
Sebas shut the door behind him with a soft click and moved to the driver’s side, sliding in effortlessly. He adjusted the seat, checked mirrors, and strapped himself in, every movement precise, composed, and undeniably magnetic.
Roque stole a glance at him as he settled behind the wheel. The man looked calm, in control, and completely at ease—the perfect balance of strength and composure. His chest tightened, and Roque had to remind himself to breathe.
Sebas glanced over, a faint, amused smirk visible even from the slight angle. “Ready?” he asked, voice teasing, though the calm underlined the reassurance he had promised.
Roque nodded, muttering, “Yeah… let’s do this.”
With that, Sebas started the engine, the deep growl vibrating through the car, and eased it out of the parking lot, the night stretching before them. The lights of the track faded behind, replaced by the anticipation of the ride and the night ahead.
The car pulled up to the club, lights glowing, the bass of music vibrating faintly from inside. Sebas stopped smoothly and, with the same calm confidence, rounded the car and opened his door for Roque. “After you,” he said, offering a hand.
Roque slid out, taking it, and felt the strength of Sebas’s grip as he helped him steady himself. Cameras were already flashing, paparazzi crowded the entrance, expecting the usual post-race celebration. They were used to Sebas appearing here after wins—it was tradition—but no one had anticipated Roque Perez stepping out alongside him.
Paparazzi were packed shoulder to shoulder, cameras flashing nonstop, flashes strobing like lightning in the night. They shouted names, trying to get attention, pushing forward with the singular goal of capturing the perfect shot.
Sebas, unfazed, guided Roque toward the entrance. “Stay close,” he murmured, his hand firm on Roque’s back. As a photographer reached out, camera raised, Sebas subtly stepped forward, positioning himself as a shield. Then, almost instinctively, he took Roque’s hand in his, fingers curling around his in a protective grip.
Roque’s chest tightened at the contact, the heat rising in his face. “Sebas…” he murmured, leaning slightly toward him, voice low enough that only Sebas could hear, “they may get the wrong idea… they might think we’re a couple.”
Sebas glanced down at him, then at their conjoined hands. His smile slow, confident, teasing. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?”
Roque froze, caught off guard, the camera flashes reflecting in his widened eyes. A heartbeat later, he laughed softly, shaking his head with a grin. “No… no, it wouldn’t,” he admitted, letting himself relax a little.
The paparazzi shouted, pushed forward, and flared their cameras as they tried to catch every angle of the pair. Sebas, still calm and unbothered, adjusted slightly, subtly shielding Roque’s profile from direct flashes and guiding him like a silent protector. Even amidst the chaos, his demeanor exuded control, making it impossible for Roque not to feel safe—and strangely, exhilarated—beside him.
They moved through the press, hand-in-hand now, every step careful yet effortless. Roque caught glimpses of other photographers craning their necks, whispering and clicking, clearly intrigued by the unexpected pairing. Some even called out, trying to confirm or tease: “Sebas, who do you having joining you today?” “Roque, do you have anything to share?” But Sebas remained composed, offering only that small, teasing smile toward Roque, as if silently daring him to feel the same thrill he felt.
Finally, they reached the club doors. The bouncers and security parted instantly at Sebas’s presence, ushering them through, but the flashes continued behind them like a storm they had just walked out of. The chaos faded slightly as they entered the club, the music and the warm interior lights replacing the frenzy outside.
Sebas led Roque straight to the VIP booth, where his crew and Roque’s teammates were already gathered, drinks in hand, laughing and celebrating. The team erupted in cheers when they saw Roque and Sebas arrive together, and the club’s energy seemed to surge even higher.
Sebas guided Roque to the seat next to him in the booth, sliding in beside him with ease. Roque’s eyes swept over the scene—the music, the lights, the familiar hum of celebration—but all he could focus on was the calm, confident presence next to him, and the warmth lingering in their handhold.
Inside the VIP booth, the atmosphere was electric. Drinks clinked, laughter rang out, and the combined energy of Roque’s rugby team and Sebas’s crew made the space feel alive with celebration. Platters of food were passed around—sliders, wings, fries, and other indulgent bites—while glasses of champagne and cocktails were raised in frequent toasts.
Some of the crew and team drifted downstairs to dance, swept up by the music and flashing lights on the main floor. Roque stayed put, choosing to linger in the VIP area, still catching glimpses of Sebas as he leaned back comfortably, eyes scanning the room with calm confidence. He was relaxed, magnetic, and entirely captivating, even while simply sipping a drink and chatting with his crew.
After a while, Roque rose and moved toward the balcony of the VIP area, peering over the edge at the dance floor. The club was packed, bodies moving to the rhythm, lights pulsing in time with the bass. Laughter, music, and cheers filled the air, and Roque couldn’t help but smile at the energy below.
A warm presence appeared behind him. Sebas slid up close, his chest brushing against Roque’s back, and his arms wrapped around his waist in a casual, possessive hold. Roque stiffened slightly at the contact, then relaxed as the comfort of Sebas’s grip settled over him.
“Enjoying the night?” Sebas’s voice was low, teasing, yet somehow tender, vibrating against Roque’s ear.
Roque leaned slightly into him, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice quiet but sincere. “I am.”
Sebas tightened his arms just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment, and rested his chin lightly on Roque’s shoulder.
The music pulsed faintly from the main floor, a steady beat that seemed to fill the VIP area even without being loud. Sebas’s arms stayed wrapped around Roque’s waist, warm and confident, as the pair began to sway gently to the rhythm.
At first, Roque felt a bit self-conscious, unsure of how to move while pressed against Sebas’s chest. But with a small, confident grin, he leaned back just enough to push gently against Sebas. The slight resistance made Sebas groan softly in his ear, a low, intimate sound that sent a shiver down Roque’s spine.
“Careful,” Sebas murmured, still swaying, his voice teasing though there was a sharp edge of desire in the sound.
Roque smiled, eyes glinting with mischief, and brought an arm up behind him, fingers tangling in Sebas’s hair. He gave a soft tug, playful yet deliberate, and felt Sebas stiffen slightly, then relax, letting the sway continue as if matching his rhythm.
Sebas’s hands tightened ever so slightly around Roque’s waist, his chest pressing closer, and he leaned down just enough to murmur lowly, “Bold move.”
Roque chuckled softly, and swayed with him, matching the subtle rhythm of Sebas’s movements. The pulse of the music below, the warmth of Sebas behind him, and the soft teasing energy between them made the VIP balcony feel like its own private world.
Every small touch—the press of a chest, the brush of fingers through hair, the subtle pressure of arms around a waist—sent sparks of awareness through Roque, a delicious mix of boldness and nervous thrill.
Sebas pulled back slightly, guiding Roque toward the deeper part of the VIP booth. He eased onto the plush couch, the leather cool beneath him, and without hesitation, pulled Roque onto his lap.
Roque’s breath hitched at the sudden closeness, the soft heat of Sebas pressing against him. He instinctively leaned into him, the energy between them both playful and charged. Sebas’s hands rested lightly on Roque’s hips, steadying him, while his own expression was that perfect mix of calm confidence and subtle amusement—like he knew exactly the effect he was having.
The music from the club thumped faintly through the VIP booth, a steady rhythm that seemed to pulse through Roque’s veins. Perched on Sebas’s lap, he felt the warmth and weight of the man beneath him, and a bold, teasing impulse took over.
Roque began to grind lightly against Sebas, swaying to the beat of the music. The motion was playful but deliberate, a subtle assertion of his own confidence as he pressed closer. Sebas groaned softly, low and ragged in his ear, the sound sending a shiver down Roque’s spine.
“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” Sebas murmured, his voice deep, teasing, and laced with something more intimate. His hands tightened slightly on Roque’s hips, guiding him but letting him take the lead.
Roque tilted his head back, smiling, letting one hand snake up behind Sebas to tangle in his hair. He leaned forward just a little, brushing his cheek against the side of Sebas’s jaw, reveling in the heat between them.
Sebas’s groan grew, more deliberate this time, as he pressed his hips subtly upward, matching Roque’s movements. The playful dominance in the gesture made Roque grin wider, feeling the power and confidence in the man beneath him—and the thrill of the flirtation escalating into something more.
Roque continued to move, swaying and grinding with the rhythm, while Sebas held him steady, his touch firm but gentle enough to let Roque take control of the moment. The rest of the world—the club, the music, even their friends—faded away.
The music thumped faintly below, but in the VIP booth, it felt distant—just a backdrop to the charged, teasing closeness between them. Roque was still swaying gently against Sebas’s lap, the warmth and strength of him grounding yet electrifying all at once.
Sebas’s hands lingered on Roque’s hips, firm and steady, his body leaning slightly into Roque’s as he murmured lowly, “You’re good at this… you know that?”
Roque smirked, biting his lip slightly, and pressed closer, letting the playful rhythm continue. For a few moments, they were lost in each other—teasing, daring, the slow burn between them undeniable.
Then Sebas leaned back just slightly, his hands sliding to rest lightly on Roque’s waist as he looked into his eyes. His gaze was serious now, the teasing replaced with a quiet intensity. “Let me take you home,” he said, his voice low and steady, leaving no room for doubt.
Roque’s pulse quickened. He hesitated for only a beat before nodding. “Yeah… I’d like that,” he admitted, the warmth from the contact still lingering in his chest.
But then hesitation caught him, a flicker of doubt pulling at the edges of his excitement. He pulled back just slightly.
Sebas’s brow lifted, eyes softening as he studied him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious.
Roque’s stomach tightened at the worry he saw in Sebas’s gaze. He leaned in a little, brushing his forehead against Sebas’s shoulder. “Sebas… you’re not just… looking for a one-time thing, are you?” His voice was quiet, a hint of vulnerability threading through it.
Sebas’s expression softened immediately. He cupped Roque’s cheek with one hand, thumb brushing lightly over his skin, and spoke honestly, his eyes locking on Roque’s. “No… I want you, Roque. Not a game. Not a one-time thing. I want you.”
Roque’s chest tightened at the honesty, his heart hammering with a mix of relief and exhilaration. He let himself smile, leaning into Sebas’s hand. “You… you want me?” he asked, voice low and incredulous, though the corners of his mouth lifted in delight.
Sebas nodded, leaning closer so their foreheads almost touched. “Yes. I want you. Tonight, tomorrow, forever if you’ll let me.”
Roque felt his chest tighten, a laugh escaping him in nervous joy. “Well… in that case,” he murmured, his voice catching slightly, “I think I’m all in.”
Sebas’s lips curved into a soft, satisfied smile, his hands tightening gently around Roque’s waist. “Good,” he murmured, voice low, almost a purr, “because I don’t plan on letting you go.”
-
Sebas led Roque back to the sleek car, still holding his hand briefly as they navigated past the lingering paparazzi at the club entrance. The flashes continued, but Sebas remained calm, confident, and subtly protective, guiding Roque so the attention never felt overwhelming. Roque’s chest still fluttered from the exchange inside, from the words Sebas had just said.
“After you,” he said, opening the door to his car for Roque, just as he had done earlier. Roque slid in, the warmth of Sebas beside him instantly familiar. The drive was quiet for a moment, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and easy conversation.
They arrived at Sebas’s place not long after, the sleek building lit warmly against the night. Roque stepped inside and paused, taking a moment to absorb the space. Large windows framed a breathtaking view of the city, lights sparkling like a galaxy beneath them. Minimalist yet elegant, Sebas’s home reflected the same calm, confident style he carried himself with.
Before Roque could say anything, Sebas closed the distance, gathering him in his arms. Roque let out a surprised laugh, the sound bright and nervous, as he instinctively wrapped his arms around Sebas’s neck and his legs around his waist.
Sebas grinned, that confident, teasing smirk spreading across his face. “Got you,” he murmured, his voice low and playful, as he carried Roque effortlessly toward the bedroom.
Roque laughed again, breathless, feeling the steady strength of Sebas beneath him. The world outside—the city, the paparazzi, the club—faded entirely. In Sebas’s arms, the night felt suspended, charged with the thrill of intimacy, playful teasing, and undeniable chemistry.
Sebas stepped into the bedroom, carrying him effortlessly, the door closing behind them as the city lights glittered faintly through the windows—silent witnesses to the night that had only just begun.
-
Morning sunlight spilled through the large windows of Sebas’s bedroom, casting a soft glow over the two of them. Roque stirred first, blinking awake to the calm quiet of the apartment. Sebas was already half-conscious, lying beside him, chest rising and falling steadily.
Roque’s lips curved into a soft smile as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Sebas’s bare chest. Sebas let out a low, contented groan, and a small smile tugged at his lips. Without a word, he pulled Roque closer, pulling him onto his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around him. Roque laughed softly, nuzzling into Sebas’s shoulder, feeling the warmth and steady heartbeat beneath him.
They stayed like that for a few blissful minutes, the world outside temporarily forgotten, enjoying the easy comfort and closeness of one another. Eventually, hunger—and routine—called, and they reluctantly untangled themselves, rubbing sleepy eyes as they headed toward the kitchen.
Sebas moved with effortless grace, already beginning to cook something simple but comforting for breakfast. Roque settled at the counter with his phone, scrolling lazily while the smell of sizzling food filled the air.
Then, as if the universe wanted to make him grin, a headline caught his eye. He laughed softly to himself, holding the phone up to Sebas. “Hey… look at this.”
The screen displayed a playful article with a photo of Sebas from the previous night: “Sebas Sendon: Champion of the Track… and Roque Perez’s Heart.”
Sebas looked over, his dark eyes lighting up at the headline. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face, pride and amusement blending perfectly. “Oh?” he said, teasing, but the happiness in his tone was unmistakable.
Roque’s lips curved into a shy smile as Sebas came over and ruffled his hair slightly, pulling him into a quick hug.
“Looks like I’ve got more than just the trophy,” Sebas said softly, voice warm, “I’ve got you too.”
Roque laughed, leaning into the embrace. “Yep… you’ve definitely won.”
Sebas smirked, holding him a little tighter. “Good. Because I’m not planning on giving you back anytime soon.”
Roque grinned, feeling the ease, warmth, and safety in Sebas’s arms.
-
A month had passed since their first night, and Roque and Sebas are happier than ever. The early sparks and tension between them had blossomed into something warm, easy, and undeniable.
Most nights, Roque ended up at Sebas’s place, curling up in his bed, listening to the steady hum of the city outside while they fell asleep wrapped around each other. Some mornings were quiet and slow, with shared breakfasts and teasing debates over whether coffee should be taken black or with just a hint of cream. Other mornings were full of laughter, playful teasing, and soft touches as they got ready to face their separate worlds.
Sebas had made it a ritual to attend almost every one of Roque’s games. He didn’t just show up—he dominated the stands in a way that made Roque’s teammates and fans laugh and cheer. He always wore a jersey with “Perez” emblazoned across the back, paired with his team colors, and would stand at the edge of the stands or near the field, clapping, whistling, and shouting encouragement in his trademark calm-yet-commanding voice.
One Friday night, at an away game, Roque had been particularly tense. The opposing team was aggressive, and the game was tight. From the moment Roque stepped onto the field, he spotted Sebas at the top of the stands, leaning casually against the railing, eyes sharp and focused, hand waving encouragement. Sebas caught his eye and gave him a subtle wink, which made Roque’s pulse jump. During a crucial play, Roque sprinted down the field, dodging defenders, and scored a perfect goal. The roar of the crowd was loud, but all he could hear clearly was Sebas’s deep voice shouting, “Good Job Baby!!”
The words made Roque’s chest tighten, and he couldn’t help but flash a wide, embarrassed grin. He remembered exactly the first time Sebas had called him that.
It had been a quiet evening at Sebas’s apartment. Roque had arrived early, having remembered the code to get in, wanting to surprise Sebas with a home-cooked dinner. He had quietly set things up in the kitchen, plating the food just so, the smell of spices and sizzling ingredients filling the air.
Just as he was putting the finishing touches on a salad, he felt a presence behind him. A warm hand pressed lightly on his shoulder, and a familiar deep voice whispered in his ear, low and teasing:
“This is a nice surprise, baby.”
Roque had nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around to see Sebas leaning against the counter, that trademark confident smirk on his face. The word “baby” had hit him like a spark—intimate, playful, and just for him. He had laughed nervously, cheeks burning, and mumbled, “You… you just called me baby?”
Sebas had stepped closer, tilting his head and brushing a strand of hair from Roque’s face. “Yeah.” he said softly, his smirk softening into something warmer. “Is that… okay?”
Roque’s chest tightened, and a shy, happy smile spread across his face. “More than okay,” he murmured, stepping just a little closer, feeling the warmth radiate from Sebas. “I… I like it.”
Sebas’s eyes softened further, and he gave a small nod, leaning down just slightly, close enough that Roque could feel his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I plan on saying it a lot.”
Roque laughed, a mix of nerves and delight, and shook his head, his heart racing. “Well… in that case, I’ll get used to it,” he teased lightly, though the warmth in his chest told him he already had.
Back in the present, Roque’s lips curved into a smile as he remembered.
Later, as Roque’s team celebrated the win in the locker room, he pulled out his phone and found a photo Sebas had snapped mid-game—a candid of him sprinting across the field, hair tousled, determination on his face. Roque chuckled, tucking the phone into his locker as he thought, how did I get so lucky?
Meanwhile, Sebas’s world of racing had become a shared space too. Roque had gotten used to spending time in the pit crew area during races, leaning over the barriers, and learning the ins and outs of his boyfriend’s career. He was fascinated by the coordination, the precision, and the split-second decisions that went into every lap.
He asked questions, learned the nuances of Sebas’s career, and sometimes even offered encouragement over the mic. “That’s it, Sebas! You’ve got this!”
One weekend at the track, Roque had been sitting with Sebas’s crew as the drivers prepared for a big race. The engines roared around him, the smell of fuel and rubber sharp in the air, and he had leaned closer to Sebas, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Ready to make them eat your dust?” Roque asked into the mic that the pit crew had jokingly handed him, just for fun.
Sebas’s voice came back through the headset, calm but teasing. “Always.”
Throughout the race, Roque kept leaning forward, eyes fixed on Sebas’s car as it maneuvered through the pack. Roque kept the mic close, calling encouragements and teasing remarks over the speakers. “That’s it, Sebas! Show them what you’ve got! That’s my boy!”
The pit crew couldn’t help but laugh, enjoying the show, but Roque didn’t care—he was completely caught up in the moment, watching Sebas dominate the track while sending him playful encouragements. Every nod, every glance, every subtle movement Sebas made felt like a secret shared just between them.
By the end of the race, as Sebas crossed the finish line first, Roque’s grin stretched wide. “Told you,” he said into the mic, voice proud, “my champion.”
And when Sebas returned to the pits, helmet off, eyes shining, he met Roque’s gaze and grinned. “You and your cheering… you’re lucky I like you,” he teased, ruffling Roque’s hair lightly.
Roque laughed, shaking his head. “I’m just supporting my boyfriend. You’re the champion, Sebas Sendon—both on the track and in my heart.”
Sebas’s eyes softened at that, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face. “Damn right.”
By the end of the month, their relationship had woven seamlessly into both of their worlds. Game nights and track weekends, quiet mornings and late-night celebrations, playful teasing and intimate touches—they had become a rhythm, a routine that neither wanted to break.
Every glance, every touch, every shared laugh strengthened the bond between them. And while the public saw Sebas as the champion on the track and Roque as a rising star on the field, the two of them knew the truth: the real victory was the love they shared—and the effortless way they brought out the best in each other.