Chapter 6 Just want to rest
2 AM. The world outside had long gone quiet—but I was still awake, still in the back seat of the same car as Mercodya's rookie F1 driver. I had a schedule to finish. Every item of this brat's agenda needed to be accounted for, and it was my job to make sure nothing slipped through—even if it meant juggling his life alongside the pile of schoolwork I still hadn't touched.
I glanced to my right. Chris was out cold, a quiet, steady sound to his breathing, still in his casual outfit that annoyingly—managed to look effortlessly put-together even now. I snorted softly. A small smile found its way onto my face before I could stop it.
Wait, what was I smiling for? That was the same face that made her life miserable every single day.
"After the medical clinic, we'll be heading to the Emerald Bross office. Please be ready to collect us around 1pm—we should be done somewhere between five and six. Then Chris has a private tutoring session at the apartment, so we'll need to be there before seven."
I relayed the itinerary to Chris's personal driver, Mr Steward—a man who'd been with the De Luca family for years, or so he'd told me himself.
Looking at Chris's schedule made my head spin. It read like something designed for a machine, not a person—not a single gap to breathe. Productive, yes—but carrying both a racing career and a full school schedule was a different kind of exhausting.
Fortunately, the school happened to be one of those fully integrated international institutions—flexible by design, built to accommodate students who were already working professionally. So alongside his in-person classes, Chris could attend remotely when he needed to.
It made sense that chaperoning Chris De Luca came with a salary that reflected it. It also cost me nearly every hour of my day.
Looking at it all, a schedule like this was enough to break any eighteen-year-old. I wasn't surprised Chris dragged his feet when it came to schoolwork—just reading through the list was enough to turn my stomach.
"Oh, great... I hate this one the most."
I muttered, stylus still in hand. It was only when I finished mapping out the schedule that I realised what day it actually fell on. Thursday.
For most people, Thursday was just another day. For an F1 driver, it was one of the most dreaded on the calendar. We'd only just landed in the next race country—and already, Thursday loomed. Media day. The one fixture that drivers universally wished they could strike from the schedule. What was the point, exactly? There were other ways to connect with fans—did it really have to eat into race preparation week like this?
Chris and I had deliberately chosen to arrive ahead of the other drivers. Not only had I already coordinated his study schedule with his private tutor, but arriving early also gave Chris more time to prepare before race week kicked in. I just hoped the constant country-hopping on such a tight timeline wouldn't catch up with me in the form of jet lag.
We made it to Chris's apartment without a word—nothing but heavy, dragging footsteps carrying him straight to his bedroom. No conversation. Just a worn-out face and eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
Several low sounds drifted from Chris's room.
"Ugh...."
"Hm?"
I'd been half-asleep myself—but my hunger had won out over my exhaustion. The kind that only a proper plate of rice could fix. And now, apparently, there were noises coming from behind that door.
I pushed the door open. And there he was—Chris, all six-foot-three of him, curled up and grimacing on the bed.
"Please, enough. I'm tired."
I froze. Was he delirious?
I moved carefully, rising onto my toes with each step. I scanned the room slowly—trying to work out whether he was talking in his sleep or on the phone with someone.
Wait. What was I even doing?
Tsk—never mind. Wasn't this part of the job anyway? I was a full-time chaperone. Whatever state Chris was in fell under my jurisdiction.
So what happened with him... was he in pain?
Then Chris moved—and I startled.
Fwump.
"Oh no. Let go of me!" I hissed. Even half-asleep, this boy managed to be a problem.
Somehow I'd gone from standing in the doorway to lying on the bed right next to him. Would someone like to tell me when keeping an athletic eighteen-year-old company in his bed became part of the job description?
"Please, don't scold me. I just want to play. Just for a while."
"Hm." I looked at him. "I thought you were talking to me for a second. You never stop surprising me, do you."
All I could do was stare—pinned there, unable to do much about it. Chris had pulled me into his arms in his sleep, holding on like I was a giant stuffed animal. He was absurdly strong, even unconscious.
Something washed over me. I couldn't put a name to itsomething like pity, but heavier. My chest pulled tight. Was this empathy?
"Tsk," I muttered. "If only you weren't so insufferable the rest of the time."
I reached over and brushed the hair away from his closed eyes. He looked, for once, completely at peace.
"No!"
I'd barely settled into the quiet when Chris cried out. I nearly bolted—would have, if his arms hadn't still been locked around me.
Even in his sleep, he was restless.
Something in me softened. Were these the words he'd been carrying around, too tired and too proud to ever say out loud?
I couldn't argue with that. Someone carrying everything Chris carried was bound to run out of steam eventually.
"You've done your best. Get some sleep."
I didn't know what made my hand move—but there it was, reaching up to his head, fingers running slowly through his curls.
Like a spell spoken into the dark, the words pulled the drowsiness in after them. The soft rhythm of his breathing, the cold air from the air conditioner—between the two, sleep didn't stand much of a chance of staying away. I didn't move, more precisely, I couldn't. So I let his arms stay where they were, and let us both forget, just for a moment, what it meant to be people with schedules and obligations and conflicts.
Just two people, exhausted in the same way. There were only closed eyes and tired bodies.