The Ice King and The Vixen

Laura Jean POV

I finally hit send on the article around 11:47p.m. I stared at the sent confirmation for a second, waiting for that feeling, the one that used to hit like a small victory, like cracking a window open after a stuffy room. It came. Barely. More like a flicker than a flame, gone before I could even enjoy it.

I leaned back in my chair until it creaked in protest and stared at the ceiling.

Three weeks chasing that story. Sources who'd go quiet for days then text me at 2am like that was normal. Fact-checking until the words stopped looking like words. And now it was just… done. Out there. Over.

I rubbed the knot at the back of my neck and told myself I was just tired. That was easier than whatever the alternative was.

I wandered into the kitchen mostly just to move, poured myself water I didn't really want, and stood there in the dark listening to the fridge hum.

Then my phone exploded.

Josie's name lit up the screen along with that ridiculous contact photo she'd set herself. Some blurry selfie from a rooftop bar two summers ago where she looked unhinged in the best possible way.

I blew out a slow breath before swiping across the screen.

"Josie, if this is about the intern again I swear to God—"

"Forget the intern."

I huffed a laugh despite myself.

Her voice came through loud, crackling with that specific energy she got when she knew something you didn't. "Are you sitting down? Actually, don't sit down, you're going to want to be standing for this. Actually no, sit down, you might pass out."

"Josie McDaniel."

"Right. Okay." I could practically hear her grinning. "Formula One. Six months. Embedded with Jannis Laurence's team. Full access. They want you, LJ."

I set my water glass down very carefully on the counter.

"Say something," she said.

"I'm processing."

"Process faster, LJ."

"Jannis Laurence?" I said it slowly, like the name might mean something different if I took it apart. "The Jannis Laurence. The one who hasn't given a real interview since—"

"Since the scandal, yes, that one, the only one, your future subject, keep up." She was actually vibrating through the phone. "Private jets. Paddock access. Luxury hotels in every country. Behind the scenes content, interviews whenever you can actually pin him down, which good luck by the way because the man is basically a ghost who drives very fast and glares at people."

I started pacing without meaning to, bare feet on cold kitchen tile.

The question came out quieter than I'd intended. "Why me?"

"Because your last piece went viral and you don't write puff pieces and you actually make people uncomfortable enough to be interesting." She paused for a moment. "Also everyone else said no."

I stopped pacing long enough to glare at my phone. "Josie."

"I'm kidding. Mostly." She laughed.

"This sounds insane," I said, laughing despite myself.

"It really is." Josie admitted.

"In the best and worst ways."

"Also yes." I could hear her grinning.

I went silent for a second and exhaled slowly.

"But six months is crazy." I said. "Different country every weekend. Tyler's here, my other deadlines are here, my entire actual life is here. And what if he just... freezes me out the whole time? What if I spend six months chasing this man around Europe and come back with nothing? What if he literally never speaks to me?"

"Then you write about what it's like when he doesn't speak to you and it's probably still more interesting than half the profiles out there." She paused, and I could hear her shifting, getting serious in that way she did when she was about to say something she'd been waiting to say. "LJ. You write about people who risk everything. Champions, underdogs, people who blow their whole lives up chasing something. You've been doing it for years."

"And when's the last time you actually did that yourself?"

I stared out the window without really seeing the city beyond it.

She let it sit there for a second. That wasn't like Josie.

"I'm just saying," she continued, softer now. "This might shake up more than just your byline. And maybe that's not the worst thing."

We went back and forth for a while after that. She went back to being chaotic on texting me paddock fashion accounts while we were still on the phone, asking if I owned anything that wasn't a blazer, telling me I was going to become one of those people with a passport full of stamps and an unexplainable European confidence.

I threw every worry I had at her and she batted them all away, laughing when I got dramatic, reminding me of the time I'd flown to three cities in four days for the corruption piece and thrived on the chaos even while complaining about it constantly.

By the time we hung up I'd told her I was leaning yes.

I stood in my dark kitchen for a moment after, phone warm in my hand. The fridge hummed. Outside someone's car alarm went off briefly and then stopped.

Maybe that's not the worst thing.

I refilled my water glass, drank half of it, and went to get ready for bed.

I didn't let myself think too hard about the fact that for the first time in months, something felt like it had a pulse.

I told Tyler over dinner.

We went to our usual Italian place, the one on Mercer Street with the red checkered napkins and the waiter who always remembered my wine order without asking.

It smelled like garlic and brown butter and something that always made my shoulders drop the second I walked in. Comfortable. Familiar. All the things I usually loved about it.

Tyler was already at our corner table when I arrived. He spotted me before I spotted him and lifted a hand with an easy smile.

His button-down was slightly creased from work, but his hair was still neat. He stood as I reached the table—he always stood—and pulled me into a hug that smelled like his usual cologne. Solid, steady, and safe.

I laid it all out while we waited for food.

Tyler listened the way he always did, barely touched the bread basket.

When I finally finished, he leaned back in his chair, turning everything over in his head.

"Formula One," he said, his eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. "That's huge, Laura Jean."

"You can say that again."

"Six months though." He reached across the table and covered my hand with his, thumb moving slowly over my knuckles. "That's a long time. Different country every weekend."

"I know."

He was quiet for a second. Then he squeezed my hand and smiled. "But if it's what you want, I'm proud of you. We'll figure it out. Video calls, I'll fly out when I can. Things don't have to change that much."

I smiled back and said of course, you're right, we'll make it work. And I meant it. I did.

Something about the way he said it sat in my chest for the rest of dinner. The kindest possible way of saying let's keep everything exactly as it is.

The tiramisu came and we shared it with two forks the way we always did.

He told me about some client situation at work. I laughed in the right places. The candle between us burned down a little. Everything was exactly as it always was.

That was the problem, maybe. That everything was always exactly as it always was.

He walked me home the way he always did, his arm around my shoulders, matching my pace without thinking about it.

I leaned into his side a little, and he tightened his arm around me automatically. It felt nice. It always had.

At my door he kissed me goodnight soft and unhurried. The kind of kiss that knew exactly what it was. No uncertainty in it. No question.

My fingers curled lightly into the front of his jacket as I kissed him back and felt the familiar warmth of it, the safety of it, and underneath it, something I didn't want to look at too closely.

Tyler pulled back and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the way he'd done a hundred times before.

His hand stayed on my cheek for a moment. "I love you, Laura Jean."

I smiled. "I love you too, Ty."

And I did. That was the thing. I really did.

"Text me after the meeting tomorrow?"

"Of course."

One more squeeze of my hand and then he was walking back down the steps, and I was watching him go, and everything was perfectly fine. I stood there a second longer than I needed to before I went inside.

The apartment felt extra quiet after that. I kicked off my shoes by the door, dropped my bag on the floor instead of hanging it up, and collapsed onto the couch without turning on any lights. Just lay there for a second staring at the ceiling in the dark.

My phone buzzed with Josie's text.

Dossier on Jannis Laurence. Told you he's intense. Good luck tomorrow babe.

I opened it.

Jannis Laurence stared back from the screen in his racing suit, arms crossed, expression like he'd already decided he had better things to do than exist in whatever photo this was taken for.

I zoomed in without realizing I was doing it.

Dark hair, intense eyes, jaw set like he was ready for war. He didn’t look like someone you casually interviewed.

He looked like someone you survived.