Chapter Text
Rain had started on the drive over—soft at first, then more insistent, smearing across the windscreen like the city was trying to erase itself. George didn’t mind the rain. Never had. There was something clean about the London rain. It felt honest in a way little else did.
He turned the key in the door. It stuck, still, and he made a mental note to remind Adrien to call the landlord. Then stopped himself, and found a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Right. Tomorrow was the wedding. After that, it wouldn’t matter whose job it was. It would be theirs. And they would be equals. One.
Him and Adrien. Finally.
He slipped inside, toeing off his soaked shoes, brushing the rain from his coat with chilled fingers. The flat smelled faintly of last night’s takeout. The lamp in the corner cast a tired orange glow across the walls. Everything felt normal. Familiar. Quiet in a way it rarely ever was. No music playing from Adrien’s phone. No kettle boiling. No off-key humming from the bathroom. Just the sounds of the rain and the tick of the old clock Adrien claimed to hate but never took down.
A stillness that was achingly comforting. A peace that was his. No wait. theirs.
He moved down the hallway slowly, and felt the exhaustion of the day sinking in. Final suit fitting, flowers arriving late, the vegan cake mix-up. He’d spent the whole afternoon putting out fires and thinking about tomorrow—how it would feel to wake up next to Adrien as his husband. To belong.
To finally, finally stop waiting to be chosen.
A hint of warmth stirred in his chest. He held onto it. Hopelessly. Stupidly.
Then he saw the wine glass. No. Two. One on the counter. Half-full. One on the coffee table, with a lipstick stain. Beside it, a heel—strappy, black.
George’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like it had left his body entirely. He stepped forward on instinct. Like his body was still working out what his heart refused to process. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. There was a soft light spilling through the cracks.
Then, laughter. A woman’s—high pitched, breathy, delighted. Adrien too, but lower, carrying more warmth. That smile in his voice George had once thought was just for him. Sheets rustled. Skin shifted. Voices tangled.
George stopped walking. The glass. The shoe. The silence when he’d come in. The stillness.
Tomorrow was the wedding.
His hand hovered near the handle. He could walk away. Pretend. Give them time to scramble, to make excuses, to lie through their teeth. But something inside him—something small and tired and done—reached forward anyway.
The door creaked. A soft, pathetic sound, and the world broke clean down the middle. Adrien was in bed. Shirtless. Grinning. Not at George. The woman beside him was laughing, one hand sprawled across his chest, her lipstick smeared at the corners.
Neither of them looked surprised. Just caught. Inconvenienced.
Adrien’s expression shifted. But there was no guilt there. Not even panic. Just that tight, irritated frown he used when George knocked over a glass or asked him to repeat himself. Like George had interrupted something important. Like he was the one intruding.
George couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe, really. He just stood there. Soaking wet. Water dripping from his hair onto the floor. The room smelled like wine. And perfume. And sex. The smell of after. The smell of something already done.
Something sharp rose in his chest—white-hot and clawing—and then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished, leaving behind a cold so deep it made his bones ache. Adrien sat up slightly. “George—wait. This not what it looks like.”
Not what it looks like.
George blinked. The sound of his name in Adrien’s mouth made his skin crawl.
He looked at Adrien—the man he’d followed halfway across the country. Left home for. Cut ties for. Abandoned everything for. Because he’d believed. Believed that love could be enough. That being good, being loyal, being his would be enough. That if he just held on long enough, Adrien would stay.
He stared at the bed. At the skin. The hands. The laughter still lingering like smoke in the air. And something in him—something central—collapsed.
He wanted to scream. Throw something. Demand an explanations. But standing there, with all fight drain out of him, all he could think was, I have nowhere else to go.
No home. No backup plan. No version of the future that didn’t have Adrien in it. Just this. This flat. This bed. This man. The little life he had build for himself. A house of cards.
The silence lingered. Adrien’s eyes stayed on him, waiting. The woman barely glanced up. She knew, and she wasn’t sorry. George swallowed. His throat felt raw. Like something had been ripped out of it. He opened his mouth. Then closed it. There was nothing left to say. He turned around. Walked out. No shoes. No coat.
The rain was waiting outside like it had been holding its breath just for him. The door clicked softly shut—a bitter end. Behind him, the woman laughed again.
And George—
George kept walking.
Because if he stopped, even for a second, he knew he’d fall apart.
The street didn’t feel real anymore. The buildings leaned in too close. The rain poured sideways, sharper now. George walked with no sense of where he was going, only that he couldn’t stop. If he stopped, it would catch up to him—the image of the bed, the sheets, her hair, Adrien’s voice saying his name like it meant nothing.
His shoes slapped against the pavement, soles soaked through. He felt like he was watching himself from a distance. His arms hung limp at his sides. His heart didn’t even feel broken yet, just absent, as if it had walked out ahead of him, trying to escape faster than his body could move.
A drunk couple passed him, laughing loudly, huddled under a shared umbrella. George flinched. The sound made something behind his ribs hurt. He stopped under the orange wash of a streetlamp and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
The screen lit up with a single message.
Adrien:
You weren’t supposed to see that.
George stared at it. There wasn’t a word of apology. No explanation. Not even his name.
Something splintered. His stomach turned. He stumbled to the side, behind a row of overflowing bins, and dropped to his knees. The vomit came fast, hot and sour in his throat. He choked on it, gasping between heaves, and when it was over he stayed there—hands braced on wet concrete, hair sticking to his face, throat burning.
Then the shaking started.
His chest was tight, like someone had wrapped wire around his ribs and kept twisting. His breath wouldn’t come properly—too shallow, too fast. He gasped like he was drowning, like he’d been underwater too long. He clutched at his chest, dug his nails into his sternum, like he could claw it out—whatever was pressing down, whatever was caving him in.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Five minutes. Ten. A lifetime.
Somewhere, distantly, thunder rolled. A car passed, sending up a wave of water that sprayed his back. He didn’t move. Eventually, the world dulled again. Like a film over his eyes. Like cotton in his ears. He got up. He walked. But it wasn’t numbness anymore. It wasn’t aimless. It was flight.
He moved like something was chasing him. Like if he kept walking, maybe the pain wouldn’t catch up. The air smelled like wet pavement and diesel and mud. His fingers were so cold he couldn’t feel them. The lights of the city blurred—headlights smeared by rain, traffic signals blinking in rhythm with his pulse.
And then—without meaning to—he stepped into the road. One step too far.
The lights came first.
Too bright. Too fast. A sudden blaze cutting through the rain. George didn’t react. He didn’t even flinch. Just stood there in the middle of the road, dripping and blank, as if his body hadn’t gotten the message that it should be afraid.
A horn split the air—long, angry, panicked. Tyres shrieked. Rubber screamed against wet asphalt as the car swerved sharply, fishtailing. The front bumper missed him by inches. He didn’t move. The car skidded to a halt halfway across the street. Silence fell, broken only by the frantic tick of hazard lights and the roar of rain.
For a moment, George stood in the cone of the headlights like some half-dead creature caught in a snare. The glow made him look hollow. Sick. The sharp angles of his face bleached out, shadows clinging to him like bruises. He was soaked through—hair matted against his forehead, blood trickling from one palm. His eyes didn’t track the car. Didn’t blink. Just stared at something that wasn’t there.
Then the driver’s door flew open.
“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered, half to himself, already running. “Hey—hey, wait, don’t move—!”
A figure broke through the rain, lit from behind like something unreal. Tall. Broad. Also soaked. Hair clung to his face and neck, dripping water as he sprinted. His trainers splashed through puddles. His breath came sharp and fast, fogging the air.
He dropped to his knees in front of George without hesitation, hands raised like he was approaching something wild. Or broken.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “Can you hear me?”
George didn’t answer. The man’s eyes searched his face—wide, gold-flecked, frantic. His voice dipped low, careful. “Shit. Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?”
His gaze flicked down to George’s hands. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured, reaching out but stopping short, not touching. “Can I—?”
George still didn’t speak. He didn’t feel the blood. Or the cold. Or the street under his feet. He just stood up, breathing like it hurt, his body finally beginning to understand something his mind had already accepted: that he was lost. Completely. Utterly. No compass. No map. Nothing left to follow.
His throat clenched, and with it came a slow, awful wave. Not pain, exactly. Not yet. But the shape of it. The pressure building inside his chest like something was trying to break out.
“I almost hit you,” the man said, voice high with disbelief. “God, I—what the hell are you doing out here?”
George blinked. Rain drops streaked down his lashes like tears. Or maybe they were tears—he didn’t know when they’d started, only that they didn’t stop. His face was wet, and his nose was running, and his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t keep them at his sides anymore. They curled in toward his chest like he was trying to hold something in. Or protect something already shattered.
The man’s expression shifted, concern deepening into something quieter. Sadder. He took a breath, one hand hovering again, like he wanted to touch George’s arm but wasn’t sure he was allowed.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said gently. “I just—I can’t leave you here like this, okay?”
George’s lips parted. A sound tried to escape—not words, just something raw and broken—but he swallowed it down. He felt like if he spoke, even once, the whole world would come undone. The stranger glanced back at his car, then at George. “Let’s get you to the car, yeah?”
“It’s warm,” he added. “Just for a minute. We’ll sit. Get you dry. You’re freezing.”
George’s shoulders jerked in a tiny nod—involuntary. Maybe just muscle memory, the body responding where the mind couldn’t. The man stepped back and offered a hand. “Come on,” he said, softer than before. “Please.”
And it was that—the please—that did it.
Not the kindness. Not the car. Not the heater waiting. But the simple, stupid, human ache in that word. Like he meant it. Like it mattered to him whether George followed or not. George looked at the hand. Looked at the man. His hair was dripping into his eyes. His lips were chapped. His face was open.
He looked like someone who didn’t have an answer, but would still stay if you asked him to. George reached out. His fingers were trembling, still cold and bloodied. The man caught his hand anyway—firm and steady—and didn’t let go.
The door clicked shut with a dull thud. At some point, the rain had gotten even louder. Like a second heartbeat George couldn’t shut out.
He sat hunched in the passenger seat, hands limp in his lap, soaked sleeves clinging to his wrists. Water pooled beneath him, already soaking into the seat, but the man didn’t seem to care. He just reached forward, turned the key in the ignition, and let the engine rumble to life.
Warm air leaked from the vents, bringing with it the faint smell of old coffee and something citrus. George didn’t move. His teeth chattered. His fingertips were mottled blue.
“You alright?” the man asked, glancing over.
George didn’t answer.
The man’s eyes flicked back to the road, then forward again. “You want me to drop you somewhere?”
George stared ahead. The wipers smeared the outside world into streaks of light and grey. He blinked once. Twice. He had nowhere to go, and yet it came out, “Cotswolds.”
Because Alex would be there. Because Alex would know what to do. Because George needed him.
The man looked at him sideways. Not a pause, not a raised eyebrow. But still asked, “family there?”
“Yeah.”
It was a lie. But it was easier than the truth. The man nodded, like he’d already decided not to ask for more. He signalled, turned the car in a slow arc, and pulled away from the curb.
The radio came on softly—some lo-fi indie song. George didn’t recognise the tune. Didn’t try. His was still trembling, small, violent shakes that ran down his spine and into his hands. He crossed his arms, tried to steady them, but it was no use.
The warmth in the car wrapped around him slowly—gentle, like hands on his back. And somewhere in that warmth, the pressure cracked open—It started with a single tear, sliding down the curve of his cheek. Then another. Then a breath caught too sharply in his chest. Then everything.
His shoulders caved. His face crumpled.
And the sobs came, silent at first, like his body was trying to hide them. But they didn’t stay silent. They twisted out of him in jerks, in gasps. He turned his face towards the window, pressing his forehead to the glass like it might hold him up.
The man didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t flinch. He just leaned over, opened the glovebox, pulled out a travel pack of tissues. Set them gently on the console between them. That was it. No questions. No reassurances. No “it’s going to be okay.”
Just silence. George was thankful for the small mercy.
They stopped at a petrol station fifteen minutes later. The car slowed, tires crunching wet gravel, and pulled into a space near the storefront. The man—he still hadn’t said his name—left the engine running and glanced at George once before stepping out into the cold.
George didn’t move.
The door shut gently behind him. Through the window, he watched as the man jogged through the rain, ducking his head as he slipped inside.
George pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes until stars bloomed behind them. By the time the man came back, George had managed to steady his breath. Barely. The door opened, and the stranger climbed back in, shaking the rain from his hair. He handed over a bottle of water without a word.
Then, from a crinkled plastic bag, pulled out a navy hoodie. It was oversized, worn soft at the edges.
“Didn’t know your size,” he said quietly. “Figured this would do.”
George stared at it. He didn’t reach for it at first, just looked. Like if he touched it, something else might snap. But the man didn’t rush him. Just placed the hoodie in George’s lap and turned his attention back to the road.
George held it for a long second. Then slowly pulled it over his head. It was warm. Too big. The sleeves swallowed his hands. The hem hung past his hips. It smelled like fabric softener and motor oil and something he couldn’t place—like early mornings.
The bottle of water stayed unopened in the cupholder.
George turned his head, just slightly, and looked at the man beside him. The stranger. His hair was drying in unruly waves. His jaw was sharp. His eyes…
They caught the streetlight. Gold. Not fully, not really—but something in them gleamed. Something soft and strange and somehow sad, like he had left something behind too. George didn’t speak. But a line surfaced in his mind—unbidden and uninvited:
I am not the only traveller who has not repaid his debt…
He didn’t know where the thought came from. Or what it meant. But he didn’t squash it either. Just let it slowly settle—somewhere behind the ache, behind the heartbreak—a window he might someday open.
He didn’t know how long they’d been driving before he spoke. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe his whole life. “Why’d you stop?” The words came out quieter than he meant them to. Like they didn’t belong to him. Like someone else had asked.
The man didn’t respond right away. His hands were steady on the wheel, thumbs tapping a slow, absent rhythm against the leather. He glanced over, just once, “because you looked like you needed someone to.”
Simple. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic.
George turned his face away again, closed his eyes. The words sank into him like warmth in frozen skin—painful at first. Then dull. Then something close to bearable.
He didn’t want to cry again.
He wanted to remember. The exact way the words sounded. The tone. The pause before the answer. The steady calm in the man’s voice. Like he hadn’t been scared. Like he hadn’t hesitated.
Because you looked like you needed someone to.
George clenched his jaw. Pressed his forehead to the glass. His eyes burned. Salt and rain and everything else blurred together.
The road kept going, and the stranger kept driving, and that was all it took to keep George from falling apart. Just motion. And kindness. And not being alone.
At least for for a little while.
-
The town was asleep when they got there.
Stone cottages lined the narrow street, dark windows, ivy clinging to the old bricks. Mist hung low over the fields beyond, curling between hedgerows and garden fences, softening everything into a dream George couldn’t quite step into.
The rain had stopped somewhere along the motorway. Now, the sky just hovered—grey and bruised, like it hadn’t made up its mind yet.
They pulled up alongside the curb, tyres screeching on the wet road. The engine idled for a few seconds before the man cut it, letting the silence press back in. George didn’t move.
The houses here weren’t his. He didn’t even know exactly where they were—just gave a vague street name from memory. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
He sat for a moment longer, sleeves balled in his fists, eyes on the streetlamp haloing the hedge outside. He reached for the handle. Then stopped. “Thanks.”
It came out low and cracked, like he hadn’t used his voice in years.
The man looked over. There was still that sadness in his eyes, now now there was something else there too, a certain hesitance—like he wanted to ask something but didn’t know how. But then he shook his head, and nodded, once. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
There was nothing profound in those words. No secret code, no message hidden between the lines. Just simple courtesy, extended to another human being. George nodded, not trusting himself to say more.
Then he stepped out into the morning. The door closed behind him with a soft click. No one else stirred. No lights came on. No birds sang.
The car didn’t pull away immediately. It waited. Long enough that George could feel it. Like a pause at the end of a chapter. Then the headlights swung gently across the road, and the car disappeared down the hill. And George—
George stood in the quiet. The echo of that ‘take care of yourself’ hanging in the mist like a promise no one had ever made to him before.
-
Max didn’t drive off right away.
His hands rested on the steering wheel, but he wasn’t really gripping it. Just holding on.
Outside, the man stood alone beneath the streetlamp. Hoodie too big, hair still damp, hunched like he didn’t know what to do now that he’d stopped moving. Like leaving the car had been the last step in a plan that didn’t go any further.
Max watched him. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know why he’d pulled over in the first place, either—just that one second he was driving, and the next he was slamming the brakes.
The man hadn’t even looked scared. Not really. Just wrecked. Like someone had dropped him there. Unwanted. Forgotten.
Max scrubbed a hand over his face. He could still see the guy’s shoulders rising and falling, slow and uneven, like even breathing was something he had to remember to do. He hadn’t asked his name. Hadn’t given his own.
Some part of him knew that was on purpose. Because names meant remembering. Meant stories. Meant people you might not be able to forget. And Max couldn’t afford to carry someone else’s pain. Not now.
Pre-season testing was in two weeks. And Monaco was waiting. He had sim laps to run. Data to review. PR to show up for. His whole damn life was scheduled to the minute, and nowhere in it—nowhere—was there time for strangers with shaking hands and sad, teary eyes.
Max let out another breath, reached for the gear shift. Stopped.
The man outside hadn’t moved. Just stood there, staring at the ground, like maybe the world would open up and give him an answer if he stayed still long enough.
Max looked away. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t have room for it. For distractions. For boys who cried like it was the end of the world.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
Shifted into drive.
Didn’t look back.