Chapter Text
It was the day—the day Ollie had decided to surprise Kimi with a home-cooked meal after the race. And somehow, that was the most nerve-wracking part of it all. Not the high-speed chaos, not the ever-present danger of racing—no, the scariest thing was handing Kimi Antonelli a dish made entirely out of love.
Ollie had spent far too long agonizing over what to make. He wanted it to be something light but meaningful, something Kimi would actually enjoy. After some thought, he settled on panzanella—a fresh, flavorful bread salad. It felt like the right balance between thoughtful and practical. Plus, knowing how Kimi was about calories, it wouldn’t be too heavy.
Of course, there was the tiny issue of making an Italian classic for an actual Italian. Maybe that was shooting a little high, but hey—Ollie had lived in Italy long enough. If anything, that gave him some advantage… right?
Ollie moved around the kitchen with a focused rhythm, his hands quick and precise as he prepped the ingredients. A warm breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of fresh basil and sun-ripened tomatoes, mixing with the golden light of the afternoon. As he worked, he hummed to himself.
He started by slicing the bread—crusty, golden-brown ciabatta, perfectly aged for the task. He tore it into rustic chunks, letting them tumble into a hot pan shimmering with olive oil.
The sizzle was instant, the air thick with the nutty aroma of toasting bread. He tossed them with practiced ease, watching as they crisped up into golden perfection, edges just shy of caramelized.
Next came the tomatoes—plump, bursting with juice, the kind that tasted like summer itself. He sliced them carefully, their bright red flesh glistening as they released sweet, fragrant juices onto the cutting board.
He scooped them into a bowl, sprinkling in thinly sliced red onions, slivers of cucumber, and a handful of torn basil leaves that perfumed the air with their fresh, peppery scent.
The dressing was simple but rich, a slow drizzle of deep green extra virgin olive oil, a splash of red wine vinegar, and a pinch of flaky sea salt.
He whisked it together, watching as it clung to the sides of the bowl, thick and velvety. When he poured it over the salad, the ingredients glistened, absorbing every bit of flavor.
Finally, everything was together —crunchy, golden croutons tossed gently with the juicy vegetables, soaking up the tangy dressing without losing their bite.
He grated a delicate snowfall of Parmigiano-Reggiano over the top, just enough to add a salty, nutty depth to each mouthful. The final touch? A few curls of prosciutto, thin as silk, draped over the top like the finishing brushstrokes of a masterpiece.
The dish was perfect—fresh, vibrant, bursting with flavors that spoke of care and quiet affection. And as he stood back to admire it, he couldn’t help but smile.
Now all that was left was giving it to Kimi.
Ollie stood back, admiring his work like an artist stepping away from a finished painting. It looked like something straight out of a rustic Italian cookbook.
Ollie took his time packaging the meal, making sure every detail was just right—the bread still crisp, the tomatoes perfectly nestled, the dressing evenly distributed. Kimi deserved perfection, and this—this was as close as he could get.
As he secured the lid, he let himself imagine Kimi’s reaction. Maybe a flicker of surprise in those doe eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching up in that rare, soft smile. Maybe even a quiet, thoughtful thank you. The thought alone sent a ripple of warmth through Ollie’s chest.
If he could do this for everyone, he would. If he had the time, he’d cook something special for every driver on the grid, just to see the way they’d react. But this wasn’t for everyone. This was for Kimi. And that made it feel different—made it feel like it mattered more.
Ollie double-checked the packaging, smoothing out the edges of the paper as if that would somehow make the food inside taste better. Every step had been done with the kind of focus he usually reserved for racing.
The kitchen still smelled of fresh basil and the slight char of toasted bread, the tang of balsamic vinegar lingering in the air. It was the kind of scent that made his stomach growl, a reminder that he’d spent all this time cooking but hadn’t actually eaten himself.
The thought of sitting down and eating alone felt unimportant compared to the idea of handing this meal to Kimi.
Kimi was the kind of person who noticed the little things. He might not say much, but Ollie knew he would notice the effort—the way the bread wasn’t soggy, the way the tomatoes had been roasted just enough to bring out their sweetness.
Ollie could already picture him hesitating for just a second before taking the first bite. Maybe his brows would furrow in quiet concentration, like he was analyzing every flavor. Maybe he’d give one of those short, approving nods, the ones he reserved for things that truly impressed him.
Or maybe—just maybe—he’d smile.
The idea made something warm settle in Ollie’s chest.
He spotted Kimi near the mercedes motorhome, towel draped over his shoulders, curls damp with sweat. He looked exhausted, but his posture was still sharp, still composed. He always carried himself with that quiet, unshakable presence, like nothing could truly rattle him.
Ollie took a breath, steadying himself before striding over. “Hey,” he called, lifting the bag slightly. “I, uh… made you something.”
Kimi blinked, turning toward him fully. His expression didn’t change much—just a subtle tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “For me?”
“No, for Toto,” Ollie deadpanned, before immediately regretting it. Oh my god, why am I like this.
Kimi exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head as he took the bag. “You cooked for me?”
“Of course.” Ollie rocked on his heels as Kimi peeked inside, the scent of balsamic vinegar and fresh basil immediately hitting him. Kimi’s brows lifted slightly, clearly not expecting it to actually look good.
“…Panzanella?”
“Figured you’d appreciate something light.” Ollie shrugged, then smirked. “You’re kind of a pain about nutrition, so.”
Kimi hummed, running his thumb over the container like he was considering something. Then, without a word, he moved to sit down on a nearby bench, popping open the lid.
Ollie blinked. “You’re eating it now?”
Kimi speared a piece of tomato with his fork. “Why not?”
Ollie didn’t have a good answer for that, so he sat beside him, watching with far too much anticipation as Kimi took the first bite.
It was slow, deliberate. He chewed thoughtfully, gaze fixed downward like he was analyzing every detail. Ollie felt his own breath catch.
Then—Kimi exhaled softly, something almost pleased in his expression. “It’s good.”
“You sure?” Ollie squinted. “You’re not just saying that because we’re in public and you don’t want to hurt my feelings?”
Kimi lifted his gaze, utterly unimpressed. “When have I ever said something I didn’t mean?”
Ollie opened his mouth, then shut it. It wasn't the time to bring that up.
They sat in comfortable silence as Kimi continued eating. It was strange, seeing him like this—relaxed, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. Mercedes drivers carried a different kind of pressure, expectations piled high. Kimi had always shouldered them without complaint.
But here, with a homemade meal in his hands, Kimi looked softer. There was something about the way he held the container, the way his fingers curled carefully around the edges like he was holding something fragile—like it was the best gift he had ever received.
“You haven’t eaten,” Kimi murmured suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Ollie blinked. “Huh?”
“You made all this,” Kimi gestured vaguely at the food, “but you didn’t eat?”
Ollie shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Got distracted, I guess.”
Kimi stared at him for a moment, eyes sharp in that way that made Ollie feel like he was being studied. Then, without hesitation, he scooped up another forkful and held it out.
Ollie froze. “What are you—”
“Try it.”
“I made it.”
“And?” Kimi’s lips twitched, just barely. “You should still taste it.”
Ollie stared at him, and for a second, something wavered in his chest—something unspoken, something he didn’t have a name for. But then Kimi lifted the fork a little higher, patient, waiting, and the moment passed before Ollie could catch it.
With a roll of his eyes, he leaned in and took the bite.
Kimi didn’t say anything, just watched him with that same quiet focus, like this moment mattered more than either of them was acknowledging. His usual intensity had softened into something almost careful, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. There was no teasing, no smugness—just patience, waiting for Ollie to realize something Kimi already seemed to know.
When Ollie swallowed, Kimi’s lips twitched into the smallest smile, satisfied. “Good, right?” he murmured, voice softer than before. It wasn’t a question that needed an answer, not really. He already knew. But there was something else in the way he said it, something warm, something steady. Kimi seemed to like taking care of him.
He swallowed, meeting Kimi’s gaze. “…Not bad.”
Kimi exhaled a soft laugh. “Not bad?”
“Fine, it’s great.” Ollie huffed. “Happy?”
Kimi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he just looked at Ollie for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.”
And for reasons Ollie couldn’t quite explain, that single sentence made his chest feel too full.
Ollie’s food had to be a good luck charm. Kimi finished fifth, and Ollie—against all odds—secured P11, outpacing his teammate, Esteban. It was one of his best drives yet, and he knew it. He barely contained his excitement during the post-race interviews, his grin practically blinding.
Ollie’s food had to be a good luck charm. Kimi finished fifth, and Ollie—against all odds—secured P11, outpacing his teammate, Esteban. It was one of his best drives yet, and he knew it. He barely contained his excitement during the post-race interviews, his grin practically blinding.
He nodded along to whatever the reporter was asking, but really, the only thought in his head was what should I make next time?
The cameras loved it—Ollie Bearman, the star rookie of Haas, beaming like he’d just won the whole damn race. And honestly? That’s what it felt like. He knew P11 wasn’t anything historic, but after seeing what he can do in a good mood. He felt like he could do anything.
The reporter finally caught his attention with a question he actually processed. “You seemed really confident out there today. What was different?”
Ollie huffed out a small laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Maybe I finally figured out how to drive,” he joked, then shrugged. “I don’t know, I just felt good. Maybe there was a rope pulling me along.”
The reporter in front of him smiled, but there was a glint of something more in her eyes—mischief, maybe, or the kind of excitement that came with stirring the pot. “Ollie, an incredible performance today—outqualifying your teammate and holding your own in the midfield. But I have to ask…” She tilted her head. “You and Kimi Antonelli—there’s been a lot of talk about the rivalry between you two. Another strong showing from him today with a P5 finish. Any thoughts?”
Ollie huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. He knew exactly what she was doing, trying to poke at something that wasn’t there. Maybe if this was barely weeks ago, when Kimi still made him bristle, he would’ve taken the bait. But now?
He shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he had a great race. I’m really happy for him.” His smile widened, completely genuine. “Honestly, I think my food must be a good luck charm.”
The reporter blinked, caught off guard. “Your… food?”
Ollie nodded, far too pleased with himself. “Yeah, I cooked for him last night. Panzanella. Maybe I should start doing it before every race.” He grinned. “Worked out pretty well for both of us, don’t you think?”
There was a flicker of surprise on her face, like she hadn’t expected that answer at all. She recovered quickly, but not before the camera caught it. “Well, that’s certainly… unexpected,” she said, before quickly steering the interview back on track.
She cleared her throat, adjusting her stance slightly as she tried to regain control of the conversation. “That’s quite the gesture. I don’t think we hear too often about drivers cooking for their, uh—” she hesitated just a second too long, clearly searching for the right word “—rivals.”
Ollie just shrugged, still grinning. “I mean, I’d cook for anyone if they asked. But Kimi liked it, so maybe I’ll make it a habit.” He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Maybe next time, I’ll go for something more ambitious. Risotto, maybe.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow, sensing an opportunity. “That’s a lot of effort for someone you’re competing against.”
Ollie laughed. “Oh, come on, if good food could take seconds off a lap time, I’d be leading the championship by now.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Besides, why wouldn’t I want him to do well? I like seeing him happy. He’s my boy, he has been since Perma.”
The words came out so easily, so naturally, that Ollie didn’t even register how they might sound. But the reporter did. Her lips parted slightly, as if considering pushing further, but something in Ollie’s expression—completely sincere, completely oblivious—made her hold back.
“Well,” she said, recovering, “it seems like both of you had a strong weekend. Maybe there’s something to this cooking theory of yours.”
Ollie winked at the camera. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Kimi Antonelli might just be fucked.
He couldn't stop holding the box Ollie had given him, his fingers tracing the edges with a certain fondness he wished he hadn't rocessed yet.
The Mercedes paddock was buzzing with reporters, cameras flashing, voices calling for his attention, but all he could focus on was the weight of the box in his hands. It was ridiculous. He had just finished a race, had just secured solid points, and yet—his mind was stuck on something as simple as a homemade meal.
Before he could dwell on it any longer, an arm landed on his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. “Was it good?”
Kimi blinked, turning to find George Russell grinning at him like he already knew the answer. Kimi hesitated, thrown off by the question. “What?”
George nodded at the box in his hands, amusement clear in his eyes. “The food. You haven’t let go of it for the past ten minutes, mate.”
Kimi felt heat creep up his neck, but he quickly masked it with an eye roll, shrugging George’s arm off. “It was fine. I might have to work out extra hard tomorrow though.” He laughed, ignoring the eyebrow raise George gave him,
George didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked positively delighted. “Right. Fine. That’s why you’re holding it like it’s a trophy.”
Kimi scowled, finally setting the box down on the nearest surface as if that would somehow erase the evidence. “I’m just not wasting it.”
George hummed, arms crossing as he leaned against the counter, watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the room. “Right. Because that’s totally normal behavior. Not at all suspicious.”
Before Kimi could tell him to shut up, a familiar voice cut through the paddock noise. “Kimi! A moment?”
He turned to see the same reporter who had kept Ollie occupied after the race, microphone in hand, a camera operator trailing behind her. Kimi exhaled slowly, already sensing where this was going, but nodded anyway, wiping his hands on his race suit before stepping forward.
She didn’t waste any time. “Great result today, P5! How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Kimi answered simply. He had done enough interviews to know the drill—short answers, don’t give too much away.
But she wasn’t here for the usual race recap. “We just spoke to Ollie, and he said he might start cooking for you before every race. He seems to think it’s a good luck charm.” Her smile was sharp, knowing. “Would you agree?”
Kimi hearing Ollie’s name from a reporter made something in his chest ache. He had tried—really tried—to avoid commenting on him too much after the whole incident, but this time, he couldn’t help it. His smile broke through before he could stop it, teeth showing in a way that made him feel vulnerable.
He wiped at his face, not because of sweat, but because maybe—just maybe—it would help hide the warmth creeping up his neck. The last thing he needed was for someone to point out how red he was getting at the mere mention of Ollie.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little too easy, a little too casual. “I think his luck is just because I fed him some of it.”
The words had barely left his mouth before he felt a nudge at his hip. George. Of course.
George cleared his throat dramatically. “Maybe he should make me some, let me ace my podium?”
Kimi gave him a deadpan look, but George only raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I don’t think it’ll work the same,” Kimi muttered, shifting his weight. He wished he had something to do with his hands, something to hold.
The reporter’s interest visibly piqued. “Oh? So you think Ollie’s cooking is special just for you?”
Kimi parted his lips, about to answer, but George cut in before he could even form a thought. “Oh, he knows it’s just for him,” he teased, smirking. “You should’ve seen him earlier, holding that box like it was a love letter.”
Kimi’s breath hitched. Too obvious. He was being too obvious. His jaw tightened, and before he could stop himself, he elbowed George—not too hard, but with enough force to shut him up. “Shut up.”
George dodged, laughing. “I mean, you did look ridiculous. I almost thought you were about to kiss the damn container.”
Kimi’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking. His skin felt tight, heat rising from his collar, his ears burning. He forced out a scoff, hoping it masked the way his pulse had begun to race. “It’s just food.”
George, ever the menace, grinned. “Yeah, sure. Just food. That’s why you wouldn’t even let me look at it.”
Kimi swallowed. His throat was dry, too dry, and his laugh—awkward and too sharp—sounded foreign to him. He wondered if anyone else noticed the way his hands twitched, like they missed the weight of the box, like they were itching to reach for something familiar, something safe.
Because George was getting too close. His words, his teasing—it wasn’t harmless to him. It was pressing against something inside Kimi, something fragile and guarded, something that had always been kept just beneath the surface.
And now, suddenly, it felt like everyone was seeing him. The real him.
The reporter watched their interaction with keen interest, eyes flicking between Kimi and George like she was picking up on something neither of them wanted her to. She adjusted the mic in her hand, leaning in just slightly. “So, Kimi, would you say Ollie’s cooking is your new pre-race ritual?”
Kimi stiffened. His mind raced, scrambling for an answer that wouldn’t make things worse. He could feel George beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation, ready to pounce on whatever he said. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it was good. Maybe I’ll have it again.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Just good?”
George snorted. Kimi resisted the urge to stomp on his foot.
“Yeah,” Kimi replied, too quickly, too stiffly. He felt the heat crawling up his neck again. He needed to steer this somewhere else—anywhere else. “But, you know, food doesn’t make the car faster. It’s all in the preparation, the training—”
“But it must’ve helped,” she pressed, smiling in a way that told Kimi she wasn’t buying his deflection. “Ollie did say he might start making it for you before every race. Sounds like quite the lucky charm.”
Kimi’s grip on his race suit tightened. He felt like he was under a magnifying glass, every reaction scrutinized, every word picked apart. “I—I don’t think he actually meant that,” he muttered, glancing away.
“Oh, he did,” George chimed in, all too happy to stir the pot. “He was beaming when he said it. Talking about how he should cook for all the drivers. But then he said something about how your food turned out the best. Special treatment, huh?”
The reporter’s eyes lit up. “Special treatment?”
Kimi was going to kill George.
Kimi felt his pulse spike, a sharp jolt of panic shooting through him. He needed to get this conversation back on track—back to something safe, something normal. Racing. Yes. That’s what they were here to talk about. Not Ollie. Not the food. Not whatever the hell this was turning into.
“I think the team did a great job today,” he said abruptly, cutting off whatever smug comment George had brewing. “The strategy was solid, and the car felt really good out there.”
The reporter, still clearly entertained, let out a hum. “Of course, of course,” she said, but the glint in her eye told him she wasn’t done with the other topic. “But you can’t deny that you looked particularly sharp today. Would you say you felt more—what’s the word—motivated?”
George let out an exaggerated cough that suspiciously sounded like Ollie’s name.
Kimi clenched his jaw. “I always feel motivated,” he bit out, forcing a tight smile. “Every race is important. Every point matters. That’s what drives me.”
The reporter nodded, but her expression was still far too amused. “Right, but today was a standout performance for you. Something just clicked, didn’t it?” She tilted her head, all fake innocence. “Do you think maybe the extra… support played a role?”
Kimi wanted to throw himself into the nearest wall. “I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Like I said, it was a good race. I’m happy with the result. The team put in a lot of effort, and I think we executed well.”
The reporter opened her mouth again, likely ready to steer things back to the one topic he didn’t want to discuss, but before she could get a word out, a new voice cut in smoothly.
“I think what Kimi is trying to say,” Alex Albon said, stepping in like a guardian angel, “is that Mercedes really nailed the setup today. You could see it in the race pace, especially in sector two. The balance looked great, didn’t it?” He turned to the reporter with an easy smile, effortlessly shifting the conversation.
The reporter hesitated, caught between wanting to push further and realizing she’d just been outmaneuvered. “Right… of course,” she said, straightening slightly. “Mercedes did look strong today.”
George huffed, realizing his fun was over. “Alright, alright,” he mumbled, crossing his arms, but the smirk hadn’t left his face. He gave Kimi one last nudge before letting the interview continue.
Kimi barely registered the rest. He answered what he needed to, nodding along to Alex’s strategic input whenever necessary, but the moment they were finally released from the cameras, he all but bolted.
Alex caught up to him easily, placing a firm hand on his shoulder before Kimi could disappear completely. “Hey,” he said, lowering his voice. “Breathe.”
Kimi didn’t even realize how tense he was until Alex pointed it out. His whole body was wound tight, fingers trembling slightly at his sides. “I—” He exhaled sharply. “That was bad.”
Alex gave him a knowing look. “It was bad. You looked like you were about to short-circuit on live television.”
Kimi groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the overwhelming noise in his head. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost defeated.
Alex sighed beside him, giving his back a firm but reassuring pat. “I do,” he said simply, like the answer was obvious, like Kimi should have already realized it himself.
Kimi stiffened at that, his stomach twisting violently. He squinted at Alex, searching his face for some kind of bluff, but all he found was quiet understanding. It made something in him recoil. He let out a short, sharp laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. You don’t.”
But Alex just kept looking at him with that same awful, unbearable pity. Kimi hated it. Hated the way it made him feel exposed, like he was being cracked open for everyone to see. He wanted to scream, to push it all away, but his own body was betraying him—his breath too quick, his chest too tight.
Alex sighed again, softer this time, his hand still steady on Kimi’s back. He didn’t say anything right away, just stayed there, grounding him. And for some reason, that was worse than any words he could’ve said.
Alex gave him a look—one that was far too knowing, far too gentle. “Kimi,” he started, his tone careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal, “you’re freaking out.”
Kimi let out a sharp breath, dragging his hands down his face. “No, I’m not.” He absolutely was.
“You are,” Alex insisted, still steady, still unshaken. “And it’s okay.”
Kimi shook his head, his pulse loud in his ears. He could still hear the reporter’s questions, still see George’s teasing smirk. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, and Alex just stood there, watching him with that unbearable pity. It made him feel seen in a way he didn’t want to be.
He exhaled sharply, forcing out a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You seriously think you’ve got me all figured out?” His voice was light, but his hands were trembling.
Alex didn’t waver. “I think you’re a private perdon,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I think my best friend is the opposite.”
Kimi stiffened at that. His stomach twisted violently, and for a second, he thought he might actually throw up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alex only sighed again, softer this time. “Sure, Kimi.” But there was no teasing in his voice, no playfulness—just understanding. And for some reason, that was worse.
Alex exhaled sharply, crossing his arms as he looked at Kimi with something between frustration and understanding. “Privacy is not a luxury in our career,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “We don’t even get our friendships to ourselves. You and Ollie decided to have a very public, very sought-out rivalry—whether you meant to or not. And now, everyone’s watching. And to them, you made up out of nowhere.”
Kimi swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He knew that. He wasn’t stupid. But hearing Alex say it so plainly made his stomach twist.
“They’re going to want everything from you,” Alex continued, his voice softening, but the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “Not just the races. Not just the wins. They’re going to want you. They’ll take the way you look at him, the way you talk about him, the way you don’t talk about him. And they’ll pick it apart until there’s nothing left for you to keep.”
Kimi’s breath hitched, and Alex must’ve noticed because he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know it’s unfair. I know it feels like your life isn’t yours anymore. But if you keep pretending there’s nothing there, you’re just letting them control the story. And Kimi…” He gave him a look that was almost pitying. “Play the part. Be his best friend, or be his rival.”
Kimi dragged a hand down his face, trying to find the words—any words—that wouldn’t back him into a corner. He couldn’t tell Alex the truth, not all of it. He didn’t even know what the truth was.
“It’s not like that,” Kimi started, his voice tight. “It’s just—Ollie and I, we didn’t mean for any of this to happen. The rivalry, the media making it into…whatever it is now. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.”
Alex nodded slowly, arms still crossed as he listened. “That happens. It’s easy to get caught up in the game. When you’re fighting someone on track, especially as much as you two do, it bleeds into everything else. It messes with your head, makes it hard to figure out what’s real and what’s just competition.”
Kimi tensed at that. Because that was the problem—this wasn’t just competition. It never had been. He and Ollie weren’t just two drivers going head-to-head. But he couldn’t say that. Not without saying too much.
“It’s not just that,” Kimi muttered, shaking his head. “I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t know how to be around him anymore.”
Alex studied him for a moment before sighing. “Then you need to make a choice,” he said simply. “You can’t have it both ways, Kimi. You either keep him as your rival or you keep him as your friend. Because right now, you’re stuck in the middle, and that’s what’s messing with your head.”
Kimi swallowed hard, staring down at his hands. He wanted to argue, to tell Alex that it wasn’t that simple. But the worst part was—maybe it was. Maybe he did have to choose. He just didn’t know which choice would hurt more.
He wasn't going to make the wrong one this time.