"JENSON!"
"What?"
"You are the biggest slut there is"
Or in which
two kinda famous people fix their slut image by being sluts for each other, because if they call her a slut it might be worth it for once
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Celeste woke up to the soft light filtering through the curtains in her hotel room, and for a moment, she forgot where she was. The weekend had been a whirlwind—her first time attending a Grand Prix as Jenson's "girlfriend" had been intense, exhilarating, and a little surreal. They'd spent the days dodging cameras, the nights with friends, and enough time alone together to make her wonder if the lines between "fake" and "real" were beginning to blur.
She rolled over, reaching for her phone, only to find a message already waiting from Jenson:
**Jenson:** *Morning, fake girlfriend. Hope you're up for a day of pasta and avoiding paparazzi? Let's make the most of Italy while we're here.*
A grin spread across her face as she read it. Jenson's charm had a way of making her feel like this was all a wild adventure rather than a complicated arrangement. And even if she wouldn't admit it out loud, she didn't mind having him by her side.
They met at a small café near the hotel, tucked away from the bustling streets of Monza. Jenson was already there, sunglasses on and coffee in hand. When he saw her, he gave her a smile that was equal parts mischief and warmth.
"Missed you at breakfast, Celly," he teased as she sat down.
"Maybe because you didn't text me until now," she shot back, her tone playful.
"Ah, you got me," he laughed. "But here's my peace offering." He pushed a plate of fresh pastries toward her, and she couldn't resist the temptation.
"So, what's the plan today?" she asked, breaking off a piece of croissant.
"Well, I thought we'd wander around a bit, do the classic Italian tourist thing. Maybe even throw the paps a bone or two to keep them satisfied." He waggled his eyebrows, clearly enjoying the spectacle they'd created over the weekend.
Celeste rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny it—it was fun to play along. "Alright, but only if you can keep up with my Italian," she teased, switching to the language for effect.
Jenson raised an eyebrow, responding with his very questionable accent. "Challenge accepted."
As they roamed through the narrow streets of the town, snapping photos and laughing, they were every bit the couple the press wanted them to be. He reached for her hand as they passed the occasional photographer, their fingers interlacing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And every time he did, a strange warmth crept into her chest, one that made her wonder how much of this was for show and how much was starting to feel very real.
They found a small trattoria tucked away from the main streets, ordering a spread of pasta, antipasto, and Italian wine. As they ate, Jenson shared stories from the paddock—tales of the chaos, the wins, and the losses. She found herself laughing so hard her sides hurt, but every once in a while, she'd catch him looking at her, eyes soft with a kind of admiration she hadn't expected.
"Alright, Button," she finally said, setting her glass down with a smirk. "You've got that look."
"What look?" he asked, leaning back, though his smile gave him away.
"The one that says you're about to get all sentimental on me."
He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe I am." He paused, and for a moment, it felt like they were in a bubble, a quiet space carved out just for them. "You know, I didn't expect this to feel so... easy. Fun, even."
Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept her tone light. "Are you saying I'm easy company, Button?"
"More like perfect company." His voice was softer now, and she felt her cheeks flush at the compliment.
Just then, a few more flashes went off as a photographer captured the moment. Celeste instinctively rolled her eyes, but Jenson grinned, pulling her in closer for a picture-perfect moment.
"Let them talk," he murmured. "Gives them something to print, yeah?"
She laughed, but the reality was starting to sink in: the lines between fake and real were no longer clear. They were both playing a part, sure, but it was beginning to feel like a part they wanted to play.
That evening, they found themselves back at her hotel room, lingering at the door like a couple too shy to say goodnight.
"So," he said, leaning against the doorframe, "fake boyfriend duty done for the day?"
She chuckled, but her heart pounded just a bit faster. "Yeah, I think you did pretty well, Button."
They stood there, the silence between them heavy, charged with an unspoken energy. And before she could second-guess it, she took a step forward, placing a light kiss on his cheek.
"Goodnight, Jenson," she whispered, pulling away.
But as she stepped back, his hand found hers, and she saw that familiar, playful glint in his eye.
"Are you sure that's how you want to say goodnight?" he murmured, his voice soft yet daring.
And in that moment, she realized she didn't want to say goodnight at all.
