My Formula 1 System

Luca stepped forward and opened the backseat door as the cab rolled to a smooth stop in front of his gate.

The dimness of the evening and the drizzle blurred his view, but he could make out Isabella's silhouette. Without hesitation, he extended a hand to help her out. As soon as her fingers slipped into his, the familiar softness quickly confirmed it was her.

"Anything in the trunk?" Luca asked, raising his voice slightly over the rhythmic patter of rain. His question was directed at both Isabella and the driver as he instinctively handed her his umbrella.

Isabella, however, unfurled her own smaller one. "Yes. My travel bag," she said.

Luca moved swiftly to the trunk just as the driver popped it open. The bag sat there—small, compact. He grabbed it effortlessly with one hand and shut the trunk before pulling out the cash he had prepared. He paid the driver, adding a generous tip, then turned toward Isabella.

Now, under the streetlights, he finally got a clearer view of her. She wore a light blue knee-length dress and what looked like cowboy boots, the glow casting subtle shadows on her features.

"Let's get inside," Luca said, nodding toward the gate.

They stepped in, and as soon as Isabella was through, Luca shut and locked the gate behind them. She remained standing beside him, quietly taking in the sight of the massive, illuminated house before her.

Luca exhaled, the realization sinking in that he had just let a girl into his property.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Isabella echoed.

"How was your trip? Good, yeah?"

"Yes, it was," she answered, her gaze still lingering on the grand architecture before her. "This house is huge."

Luca's eyes remained on her dress—thin fabric, bare arms. It hit him then. The air was cold, the drizzle unforgiving.

"You might catch a cold," he said, tilting his head toward the house. "Let's go inside."

Once they got into the house, a nice warmth enveloped Isabella because Luca had knowingly fixed the house's heater once he saw the drizzle. "Jesus. This place IS huge," Isabella voiced. "You... own this?!"

"Yes, I do," Luca replied. "Don't bother with removing your boots."

Luca watched Isabella wander off deep into the living room in awe as if in search of that slice of pizza he feared. He tightened his grip on her bag and turned toward the staircase, ascending smoothly to the upper floor.

A few steps down the hallway, he reached the second bedroom out of three in the house—the one he had specifically chosen for Isabella. It was the closest to his own, ensuring that if an emergency arose, he could reach her in an instant.

Setting the bag down neatly in the room, Luca turned back and made his way downstairs. A quick glance at his phone showed the time: 7:35 PM.

Just as he lifted his head, Isabella's distant voice echoed through the house, calling his name as though she had lost her way.

Luca called back, guiding her toward the living room, where they met. "Alright," he said, hands on his hips. "For now, just stick to one path—your room and this main sitting area."

Isabella gave a small nod. "Oh, okay."

Without another word, Luca led her toward the bedroom. As he stepped inside, he gestured lightly. "It's cozy, and everything you need is here," he assured her. The room was similar to his in appearance and features, but his was still better. Even at that, this room had a master-sized bed as well, and good rugging unlike his.

Luca lingered at the doorway, watching as Isabella took in the space, her expression unreadable until she finally turned back to him. "This is wonderful. How can I even say thank you?"

"You don't have to," Luca replied, shaking his head. "It's already past dinnertime. Once you're done freshening up and settling in, come downstairs for dinner."

"Okay," Isabella said with a small smile.

Luca nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the staircase.

By 8:30 PM, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled Luca's attention away from the kitchen he had been tidying up. He glanced up just as Isabella appeared at the entrance, dressed in a loose white pajama set. Her hair was slightly tousled, as if she had made a halfhearted attempt to smooth it down, and her eyes lit up with relief upon spotting him.

"Congratulations to me—I managed to find the kitchen," she said, stepping inside. She gave a small, amused huff before adding, "It's half past eight. Back in the UK, it's not too late to order something. Is it the same here in Germany?"

Luca shut the cabinet where he had just stored the broom and dusted his hands. "Order something? I don't do that. I cook my own dinner," he said.

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Isabella's bare feet shifted slightly on the cold marble floor, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You... can cook?"

"Yes," Luca replied simply. He thought about asking if she could cook but held back, relying instead on observation. The fact that she had immediately suggested ordering food—and now seemed surprised that he cooked—told him enough that she couldn't cook. Instead, he asked, "Do you not like homemade food?"n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Isabella rubbed her arms lightly, wandering further into the kitchen. "I rarely have any of it," she admitted, passing by the kitchen's mini dining area before sliding into a seat at the center counter. "So, what's on the menu?"

"Would you rather wait at the main dining table?" Luca suggested, but Isabella shook her head.

"No. I want to see you work. Sit across from me if you want," she said.

Luca nodded and turned to the kitchen's workstation, lifting the lid of the stainless steel pot. A rush of rich, savory aroma spilled into the air, a blend of simmered spices, garlic, and perfectly cooked meat. Alongside, a separate pot held al dente pappardelle pasta, its wide ribbons glistening from a light toss in olive oil.

He grabbed a pair of wooden tongs, twisting a portion of pasta onto a plate before spooning a generous amount of the ragù over it. The finishing touch—a sprinkle of freshly grated Parmesan cheese—melted slightly against the warmth of the dish.

Luca looked behind him. Isabella had rested her chin on her hands, watching with quiet fascination. "That smells incredible," she admitted.

After preparing a simple yet elegant side salad with arugula, cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of balsamic glaze, Luca carefully plated the main dish. He carried both plates to the center counter, placing one in front of Isabella and the other for himself. Then, he made his way to a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of wine along with two pristine glasses. Carefully, he poured a generous amount into each glass before setting them down and preparing to take his seat.

As he was about to slide into the chair, Isabella suddenly asked, "Do you know Anakin Skywalker?"

Luca paused for a second, glancing at her with mild curiosity. "Yeah, of course. What about him?"

Isabella exhaled dramatically, her gaze dropping to the plate of steaming, restaurant-worthy food before her. "You're starting to look like him… but, you know, a little dorkier. And with Italian features, obviously."

Luca almost burst out in laughter, but he made sure what left his lips was a chuckle as he settled into the seat. "I'll take that as a compliment. Who wouldn't want to look like Anakin Skywalker?"

As he adjusted his position, he noticed that the counter was smaller than he had expected. Their plates were close enough that the edges nearly touched, a detail he hadn't anticipated but didn't mind.

Luca leaned back slightly, waiting for Isabella to take the first bite. He hadn't tasted the dish yet, but he felt no need to. Cooking had been an ingrained skill since childhood, something his mother had indirectly nurtured in him. She had never explicitly called him into the kitchen to learn—that had always been Sophia's place—but whenever he was home alone, anticipating their return from work or school, he would experiment. What began as simple curiosity evolved into self-taught expertise.

Isabella twirled a forkful of pasta, lifting it carefully before taking a bite. The moment the flavors hit her tongue, her eyes widened in surprise. Her eyebrows lifted as she slowly chewed, savoring the taste.

"No way… you're lying. This is a big lie." She pointed at him accusingly, her fork still in hand. "You definitely bought this from some fancy restaurant and just threw it into a pot to make it look homemade."

"No, I didn't," Luca defended himself, chuckling.

"Yes, you did!"

"No... I didn't."

Isabella took a slow sip from her glass before leaning forward slightly. "So, you really did cook this?"

Luca gave a small nod, motioning for her to keep eating before it got too late.

For the next couple of minutes, they ate in silence. But Luca could tell Isabella had something on her mind. She hesitated, as if unsure whether to speak, probably thinking he'd find her too talkative. But he liked the way she spoke. To break the silence, he brought up a topic.

"I haven't watched any of the Star Wars movies yet, just read some of the comics. You've seen the new trilogy, right?"

"Just the first one," Isabella admitted. "I haven't had time to watch Attack of the Clones yet."

"Alright. I'll catch up then. Maybe we can set up a movie night," Luca suggested. "Could've been tonight, but I figure you're exhausted. You need some proper sleep."

"So... does this count as our first date?" Isabella asked.

Luca shook his head. "No, no, no. Definitely not."

"Well, I'm seventeen now, and we did agree you'd take me on a date sometime between July and September," she said.

Luca set down his fork, grabbed his wine glass, and took a long sip, nearly finishing it. Then, leaning back, he lifted his shirt slightly, revealing the bandage wrapped around his side. "In case you forgot, I'm not exactly in date-worthy condition right now," he reminded her. He picked up his fork again. "And by the time I return to the track, it might be weeks before we get something like this again."

"Alright," Isabella murmured, twirling the last of her pasta. "Season ends in November."