Fabio Quartararo⁰¹ 🎀

The sunlight filtering through the curtains was relentless, pulling you from your groggy sleep. You felt a pounding headache, a clear reminder of the drinks you'd had at the party last night. Groaning, you buried your face in the pillow, even though it wasn't your pillow.

You snapped your eyes open, taking in the unfamiliar room. Sleek, modern decor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Andorran mountains. This definitely wasn't your apartment. A murmur next to you took your breath away. Slowly, you turned your head and found a man lying next to you, his hair disheveled and his face half buried in the pillow.

By no means.

Your stomach sank as you took in the sharp jaw, the stubble of beard, and the unmistakable tattoos peeking out from under the sheet. You'd seen that face on posters, in interviews, and while touring MotoGP tracks. This wasn't just any guy. It was Fabio Quartararo.

Panic pounded in your chest as you tried to piece together the night. The party. Your friends convincing you to relax. The drinks. A charming guy with a French accent. And now... this.

As if sensing your internal collapse, Fabio stirred, blinking awake. His brown eyes, warm and still heavy with sleep, met yours. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “Bonjour, ma belle,” he murmured huskily. “You seem... surprised.”

"Surprised?" you croaked, your voice barely working. "That's an understatement."

His smile widened and he propped himself up on one elbow. The sheets slipped slightly, revealing more of his tattoos. "You don't remember much, do you?" he joked, his French accent too charming for your already frayed nerves.

You gaped at him, still processing the fact that you had not only gone home with a stranger, but with him as well.

.