George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

Phone calls at any hour of the day had become his expectation throughout the prior few years, the name of the Agency well worn into his phone. Any time another school-age kid came into the system in need of a safe place to stay, a temporary residence while they dealt with the courts, broken families, or awaiting adoption, he was high on their list of contacts. 

Day or night, he had received calls from the Agency with a newly arrived kid in mind, one that they thought would be a good fit for George. Some stayed with him for a few days, a few weeks, and some even stayed a few months; staying in his comfortable five-bedroom home on his spacious acreage and giving him a good and ethical reason to spend his more-than-comfortable earnings from his prosperous Formula 1 career. George had always just wanted to do good. To give back in any way he could, to make a difference. Generous nameless donations to charities were one thing, but it didn’t feel personal enough. Not like fostering had.

For seven years he had been the safe space for almost thirteen kids between the ages of six and twelve, opening his home to those who needed him without judgement or an air of righteousness. It felt like it had changed him in all the hardest but most incredible ways, helping kids at the lowest of lows to feel loved, cared for, and like they mattered…to make a difference in their lives even if it was just for a day or two. Formula 1 had shown him every corner of the world and yet nothing felt as important and raw than his experience in fostering. It was incomparable. 

And so when his phone rang that Tuesday night in August, when he was freshly out of the shower and half-ready for bed, he wasn’t startled. 

Rinsing his toothbrush under the tap, George lifted his phone to his ear with an easy, “Hi, Violet.”

The lady who had called—Violet—was the wonderful placement coordinator he had been working with since his first days with the Agency and they already had quite the rapport and had grown quite accustomed to liaising together through various phone calls. This night, however, there was something in her voice that felt a bit more weighted, a bit more formal, than he was used to hearing, “Good evening, George. Sorry to call so late.”

His toothbrush was dropped back into its cup with a dull clink and he shut off the tap, “No worries. You know I never mind. Is everything okay? Is there another case?”

“Well, sort of,” Violet said gently, “We had someone surrender a baby tonight at our safe-haven drop-off and we’re looking for someone to take her as soon as possible. She’s been medically cleared and is about a week old, she just needs a home, the poor thing.”

“A newborn?” George shut off the ensuite light as he walked back into his bedroom, “For me? Are you sure? I’ve only ever fostered school-age kids.”

“That’s the thing, George. This wouldn’t be a fostering. We wanted to reach out and ask if you might be interested in adopting her.”

He went so quiet through the phone that one might have heard a pin drop. He sat down on the side of his bed at the impact of her soft-spoken words as if they had struck him. Sure, he had fostered plenty of kids, loved to help offer them refuge and safe space where he could, but never had he anticipated adopting. As a single person, the permanence of it frightened him.

Finally, he replied with an echoed and almost disbelieving, “Adopting?”

“I know you expressed that you were only interested in fostering and the school-age group but you have been a wonderful and trustworthy figure in our books, George,” Violet went on, her voice earnest and yet not pleading, only delivering him the truth in that soft spoken and kind way she always did, “You are so caring and gentle with every kid that has walked through your door and your experience has proven that you have a strong understanding of routine and attachment, and you’ve shone through the few long-term stays you’ve housed. And you are financially comfortable with a safe and loving home. You were the first person we thought of when this baby was dropped off to us tonight. All of us here at the Agency thought so.”

“Violet, I…I don’t know,” George sighed. He raked a hand through his damp hair and hardly flinched when his fingers tugged at the strands. 

Ever the professional social worker, she was right there with the reassurance, “I don’t want to pressure you; this is a big decision you need to make on your own accord.”

“Yeah…” George licked his lips, “Can I take tonight to think about it?”

“Of course. We’ll keep her here for tonight. Call whenever you need, or you can drop by in the morning to meet her first. Whatever you want, George, okay? It’s your call.”

When they hung up, George spent a long while just sitting there on the side of his bed in only his towel and staring at the wall. Violet’s proposition swirled around his mind like a hurricane of indecision, the life of a baby balancing in whatever answer he would eventually settle on. A baby. A week old baby could be his. That prospect filled him with nothing but self doubt. 

What did he know about babies? Well, enough to babysit his nieces and nephews on and off when they were little just to give his brother or sister a break. But that was uncle duty and everyone always said that parenting was incomparable. There would be no ‘giving the baby back’ when it cried too loudly or refused to eat for him or spit up on his shirt. In fact, there wouldn’t be anyone to pass the baby off to for even a breather because he’d be doing it all alone. Desperately single in love, he would be single in parenthood too…right off the bat. 

Somehow, George had gotten himself dressed into old lounge pants and a t-shirt and was standing, arms crossed, in the spacious guest bedroom at the other end of the second floor hallway. That bedroom had seen its fair share of kids over the years; modestly designed to be comforting and homey and a place where a kid wouldn’t feel like a guest but, rather, as a part of something. It did its job well, sure, but not for a baby. None of the furniture in that room made any sense for a baby…not to mention the toys that filled the chest beneath the window. 

Suddenly, he was very aware of how not baby ready his house was. He had only ever taken in school-age kids before—his cupboards weren’t locked, there was no gate on the stairs, his guest room held furniture that was not at all meant for babies. He’d need a crib, a change table, formula, proper toys, a rocking chair, so many diapers. Oh, he was wildly unprepared. That had to be an answer alone, right? He had nothing ready—that was a sign, it had to be—he would have to call Violet back and politely decline. 

But then he seemed to have only blinked and he was in his car at nearly nine at night, pulling into the half-vacant parking lot of his closest IKEA. It was so close to store closing but he talked the ear off of an underpaid employee, spilling his mental shopping list he made on the drive over, desperate for any sort of guidance. He ended up driving back home in a daze with only the absolute necessities crammed in the back of his G63; a crib kit and a change table kit. 

What was he doing?

That was the question that he muttered under his breath to himself as he sat on the floor of one of the vacant bedrooms in his spacious home, surrounded by wood and screws and metal supports and an IKEA instruction manual that was more trouble than help. Perhaps he was more so distracted by the whirlwind of thoughts and seemingly ever ending pros and cons list that he muttered to himself the entire time he was navigating the instructions. Yet, his hands seemed to be working by a power of their own will, like they knew what they had to do before his brain caught up, fastening bolts and screws and assembling just so. 

By one o’clock in the morning, he had an assembled crib and matching change table in the once empty room. Standing there with callused hands on his hips, heart racing, the realization of what he did settled over him. He just bought and assembled a crib…all of his own free will. There were layers beneath that realisation that unfolded before him, that despite his uncertainty and his self-doubt he had still subconsciously wanted to have the necessities ready. Just in case. Just in case he adopted a baby in less than twelve hours. 

Oh, God, he was going to need a carseat. 

George didn’t sleep at all that night. Even after hours spent assembling furniture and the endless mental back-and-forth—whether he wanted to adopt this baby or whether he should pass on the opportunity—he lay awake, his mind buzzing like TV static.

It didn’t take long for him to realize there was no right or wrong answer. Maybe, for once in his life, instead of listening to his brain, he would have to listen to his heart. But what, exactly, was his heart trying to tell him?

Lying there with the first hints of morning light slipping through the narrow gap in his curtains, alone in his too-nice, too-quiet house, the answer finally surfaced. He wanted to meet the baby. Just once. To see how it felt when he was face to face with the decision itself. There was no harm in that.

Exhausted from the sleepless night, George pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans and headed for the Agency. Despite the early hour, he stopped at a store along the way to pick up a top of the line carseat (and had one of the employees fit it properly into the backseat of his car). 

It was strange, sitting outside the Agency he had frequented so often in the last seven years with a newborn carseat in the back. He always felt a little nervous every time he picked up a new foster kid—they were all so different and came from unique circumstances—but this was light-years removed from anything he’d known before. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a child who would one day pack up their things and leave.

George rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at the building, suddenly aware of how still he was, of every careful breath he took. He thought about the life he’d built after his retirement from Formula 1—solid, predictable, deliberately steady—and how easily one small person could tilt it on its axis. A baby. 

He wasn’t afraid of the baby. That fact surprised him most. What unsettled him was the permanence of it all. The way a single yes could redraw the shape of his future without offering him a glimpse of what it would look like once the lines were set. There was no right answer, no nine months of preparation and familiarizing oneself with this upcoming change. This would be overnight, immediate. Everything would change in a snap of his fingers. 

The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

Tapping his thumbs restlessly against the steering wheel, George glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching on the empty car seat. Brand new. Waiting. The sight of it made something low and steady settle in his chest—not certainty, not yet—but resolve. Or maybe hope, carefully held at arm’s length. Waiting. 

After a long moment, he shut off the engine.

Violet greeted him in the reception with a brief but friendly hug before leading him into her office. He had gone through these steps many times before, taken his seat in the worn upholstered chair at her desk under the framed degrees hung on her wall between motivational quotes, but the air felt heavier now. The anticipation felt more charged. 

“It’s really nice you wanted to come down, George,” Violet smiled warmly at him from the other side of that desk in her genuine yet practiced way she always did. 

Rubbing his palms together between his knees, shoulders uncharacteristically tense, George nodded once, “Yeah, thought it might help to see her first maybe.”

“Of course.”

When Violet went to reach for the file on her desk, George found himself blurting out, “I bought a cot last night.”

Her eyes raised to his. There was something almost close to surprise in her gaze but she did her best to mask it.

“I hardly slept a wink,” he went on, “Ended up building the cot and a change table until one or two. I don’t know. Just thought…in case….I’d need them. Just in case, right?”

His voice tapered off at the end, soft and unsure, yet Violet didn’t flinch. She only nodded, steady and calm, “Right. That’s very smart thinking.”

George nodded too, as though her reassurance had settled something fragile inside him. He watched as she opened the folder.

“I know I told you the brief of it last night on the phone, but we’ll go over her file more in depth now, just so you can better understand her circumstances and gain a better understanding before you make your decision. This is just a conversation, nothing we chat about here will lock you in, alright?”

“Yeah. Alright.” George leaned back in the chair, attempting something that might pass for relaxed. In truth, he looked as stiff as stone, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

Violet walked him through the medical reports from the tests conducted after the baby was brought in through the safe-haven drop-off. She’d passed everything with flying colours. Feeding well. Healthy bowel movements. Crying no more or less than expected for a newborn. Her biological parents were completely anonymous and unreachable.

At barely a week old, it would be a clean start.

George listened carefully, absorbing every word, doing his best not to let the weight of it all wash over him at once. When she had finally finished, there was a pause, the information settling. 

George shifted, “Can I ask something?”

“Of course,” Violet folded her hands atop the open folder and organized documents.

“What does the next week look like, if I say yes?”

“Well, that’s entirely up to you. If you said yes today, we’d have you sign some documents to hand over all paternal rights to you; similar versions of the forms you sign for fostering but a little different, these ones. Do you have a carseat?”

“Yes, I bought one this morning on my way in. Just in case.”

A small smile pricked the corner of Violet’s mouth but she stayed perfectly professional as she continued, “Lovely. Then you’d take her home. We’d provide you with a few necessities to get your started—formula, bottles, nappies, wipes. And then the rest is really up to you. It’ll be a huge adjustment period but we know you’re quickly adaptable; you’ve handled a lot of different kids in the foster system…some quite difficult ones. Although a newborn is different, she’ll require the same levelheadedness and patience we know you have.”

“And if I have questions?”

“You have my number.”

“What if it’s late?”

“Even still then.”

George let out a tense sigh and gripped the armrests of the chair as if grounded himself physically would help settle his swirling mind. It was just one of those things you could try to prepare for but you’d never be prepared until you were thrown right in the deep end. 

After a brief moment, Violet spoke once more, “Would you like to meet her?”

The Agency had a small nursery on site, protected behind the keycard locked double doors manned by a twenty-four hour front desk guard. Of course. They were the United Kingdom’s top fostering and adoption agency; internationally regarded. No chances were taken, no corners cut. Their professionalism was what drove George to inquire with them initially all those years ago when he knew nothing outside of racing and just thought it would be cool to try to make a difference. To put his money to better use than designer cars and luxury vacations. Now, he was about to put his heart on the line too. 

In only a blink, Violet had led him into the small room across the hall that he had frequented a few times over the years. It was where he would first meet the foster kids, giving them some time to talk or play together with the provided toys so the kids wouldn’t feel like they were going home with a total stranger. Perhaps this was no different. Sure, the baby was barely a week old, but they still had to get acquainted. 

He waited there, alone, while Violet went to get the baby from the nursery, leg bouncing restlessly as he sat in the all too familiar visitor chair, hands wringing together. His mind seemed to be a tempest of every thought at the same time and, yet, nothing at all. 

Before he knew it, the door was opening again and in floated Violet with a tiny little fussy bundle in her arms. George sprung to his feet but then suddenly felt as though he had suddenly been rooted to the spot, left staring dumbly at her as she closed the door behind her. For years he had pushed himself and his body to the edge of what humans were capable of, showing himself as fearless as one of the top drivers in the world, a force to be reckoned with. Yet, here he was, frozen in place over the concept of laying sight on an unnamed baby whose future rested in his hands.

“Here she is,” Violet said ever so softly, carefully moving closer so George could get his first glimpse. 

The first thought that came forward through the static of George’s mind when he first laid eyes on the newborn, was who would ever dream of giving her up?

She was the sweetest thing he had ever seen with rosy round cheeks and a tiny button nose, snuggled under a thin hat and swaddled tight. He wasn’t immune to the powers of an adorable baby and yet there was something about this one, about these circumstances, about the weight of this moment, that had him nearly swooning. He didn’t even hesitate when Violet offered her out, holding out his arms to accept the snoozing baby with practiced ease. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” George whispered in near awe to the baby now tucked perfectly in the crook of his arm like she was meant to be there. 

She was a healthy eight pounds—as mentioned in Violet’s spiel of information—and felt so right and so real in his arms, even as she squirmed to get comfy. Her tiny mouth opened in a big yawn, eyes scrunching shut, and her little pouted lips smacked dreamily. George swore his heart sang. 

He spoke to Violet without taking his eyes off of the baby, “What’s her name?”

She answered him with soft patience, “She doesn’t have a name. Her crib card just says ‘Jane Doe’ for now. You would be able to name her whatever you wish.”

It would be a high-pressure honour.

In all honesty, George hardly took his eyes off the baby even when Violet brought him a bottle of formula to feed her with, getting him arranged in the chair in the corner of the room with the swaddled newborn still tucked comfily in his arms. She then left them alone to have their moment of peace together, to feel if this was a good fit, if it felt right for George. 

He just couldn’t stop staring at her, watching the way her little lips wrapped around the nipple of the bottle as she suckled, her soft lashes resting atop her chubby cheeks, and just hearing the little content grunts and sighs she made so naturally. George was careful not to jostle her too much, keeping the bottle in place so as to not disturb her feed while his other hand cautiously unfastened the snug blanket around her so he could get a proper look at her. 

Oh she was so tiny and precious, tucked perfectly in the simple white onesie, little limbs flailing and stretching once released from the swaddle. She let out another little mewl behind the bottle and when George pressed his pinky against her tiny fingers, she held onto him like she never wanted to let go. 

“Hi there,” George cooed in a whisper, giving his pinky a little wiggle so she could feel him there, with her, “You’ve had a crazy first week of life, haven't you?”

Of course, she didn’t reply, but he found talking to her to be almost cathartic. So, he let himself ramble to her in that same gentle whisper, letting her get used to his voice and so they could get a little more familiar with one another. The big decision still had to be made, after all. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” George asked softly as if she could be his voice of reason, his deciding vote, “Everyone seems to think we’d be a good pair, you and me. What do you think, hm? You’d have your own room…lots of land to run and play on…I know my family would love you just like you’re our own. You would be mine. And I’d be yours. Like a little team. Right?”

He played with her tiny fingers gently, tracing the small shape of her hand with his, all while he continued to feed her.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed in a breath, “I don’t want to let you down. I don’t want to take you home and you end up unhappy or…or you grow up to resent me or something. I want to be what you deserve. I want to give you the life you deserve. I just want to be good for you and I don’t even know what that looks like. So…you might have to be patient with me, if that’s the case.”

As he spoke to her, he didn’t seem to realize that his words started to blend into phrases that seemed to lean more towards saying yes, to wanting to give this a chance. He spoke to her in affirmatives, in future tenses, of things to come. Maybe speaking it all out loud settled his own nerves, feeling more assured by the weight of her in his arms or just completely entranced by her cherubic face. 

When she finished feeding, he moved her like he was on auto-pilot—actions practiced from years of babysitting his nieces and nephews—sitting her up on his lap with her chin and head supported in one hand while his other instinctively started to pat her back to burp her. He hardly noticed what he was doing as he spoke to her in a sigh, “God, I don’t even know what to name you. What should your name be?”

George didn’t quite realize just how attached he had grown to the newborn in such a short time, how ready he truly felt deep down, until Violet returned to check on him and she went to take her from him. His words came out hurried, asking to hold her longer, as if he were scared of someone taking her away from him. It was then that he realized that perhaps he was more scared of letting her go than taking this chance. 

And so George signed the adoption papers at noon. With a few swipes of a pen to paper, he was a father. In only sixteen hours, his life had completely changed. 

The baby didn’t have a name when he brought her home. George seemed to linger on that fact the entire drive, two hands clutching the steering wheel, driving slower than he ever had in his life, all while his unnamed daughter slept soundly in her carseat in the backseat. It all felt like a good idea that morning and into the early hours of that afternoon, having grown so attached to her sweet face and gentle demeanor as they spent some time together at the Agency. Even in the car, despite how his mind desperately tried to think up a name for her that didn’t sound too unappealing, he was generally at peace. 

She started crying the moment the car was parked in the driveway, little fusses and sniffles from the backseat turning into loud wails when he carefully wriggled the carseat free from its secured base. With the baby in one hand and his bag of supplies the agency provided him with in the other, he closed the car door with his hip and started up the front walk to the porch, rocking her gently. 

“Shh, it’s okay, we’re home,” George cooed to her, struggling to hold the baby carrier handle over his arm as he fumbled with his keys, “We’re home.”

Everything inside was exactly how he had left it…exactly how it had looked back when he was living as just George; the shoes lined up by the door, the dishes in the sink, the trophies displayed proudly in the office. Now, suddenly, he was George and a baby. George and a baby and a house that didn’t quite reflect that. And, God, she needed a name. It felt almost unnatural and improper to not give her a name. 

He set the carrier on the coffee table in the lounge and bent down to carefully unbuckle her, fingers working cautiously even as she squirmed and flailed and cried. She was so tiny in his hands when he picked her up, so light and fragile, and he brought her close to his chest with gentle hushes. With her snuggled up in one arm, his other gently patted her bum to try and soothe her while he mentally went through a checklist of what she might need that was making her fussy. 

She wasn’t hungry because he had just fed her at the Agency…she didn’t smell like she needed a change…she slept well so she wasn’t tired. George paced back and forth in his living room and gently rocked her in his arms, patting her bum, and shushing her quietly. Maybe she was scared? She had been taken by a man she hardly knew to a place unrecognizable to her in all her week of life, all without her consent. He would be frightened too!

“I know, I know,” he whispered to her as he paced, “You’ve been passed around a lot this week, haven’t you? No more of that, okay? I promise. This is your home now.”

It broke his heart to hear her cry like that, staring down at how her sweet face was scrunched up and rosy pink with displeasure, tiny hands bunched into fussy fists by her face. George reached his hand in to gently pry her hands away from her face and he wriggled his pinky into one of her fists so, instead, her fingers could wrap around his one. It was a start but she still cried, shrill and repetitive and sorrowful. 

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” George cooed, bouncing her a little in his arms as he sauntered out of the living room and down the hallway. 

In his mind, perhaps a little tour of her new home would help to settle her; the pace of him walking, allowing her to get familiar with him and his voice and with the home they now shared. He showed her every room and talked to her the whole time, even as she cried right through it. He had no idea what he was doing—frankly, he felt a little ridiculous—but he kept at it, even if it felt like he was playing one horrible guessing game. This was going to be the first day of the rest of their lives…hopefully it would just get easier from here. 

By the time they returned to the living room from their extensive house tour, the baby had quieted a little but she was still fussy, almost as if she had started to wear herself out. Or, maybe, she was growing more comfortable—George’s inexperienced and desperately hopeful mind offered. 

So, he finished their tour with the photographs in the living room, the framed ones he had always meant to hang up on the wall but never got around to it, that were, instead, resting at the base of the wall in the corner and gathering dust. He sat there, on the living room floor, with this newborn baby in his arms that was now his and showed her all the photographs.

“This is my mum and dad…” he introduced the first photograph to her, holding it up in its frame so she could see it—well, see it in the way a fussy days-old baby could. 

For a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture in his hand, the smiling faces of his parents captured some time during his childhood, the two most important people of his life who didn’t even know they just got another grandchild. Sure, they had plenty between his brother and sister, but they always were in George’s ear to ask and lightly tease when he was next. When was he going to settle down? When was he going to have kids of his own? He always thought the concept of it all wasn’t in the cards for him, that after such an illustrious career he couldn’t quite trust that women would want him for the right reasons, not enough to share a life with them and bring a child into the world. 

Now, suddenly, he seemed to have skipped ahead a few steps. He had always loved kids, loved to foster kids and make a difference in their lives, but having one of his own always felt out of the question. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t. 

The concept tasted unfamiliar on George’s tongue; even more so when he corrected his introduction, instead, with a testing, “This is your nanny and granddad.”

He let the words settle for a moment as he glanced down at the squirmy newborn in his arm, still fussing and crying. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t introduced himself to her yet. All this talking and he hadn’t even properly said hello. Well, that certainly didn’t seem right. 

George sat back against the living room wall, his socked feet flat on the floor, knees brought up just enough to have the baby resting against his thighs so they could look at each other. Her little legs barely stretched halfway past his stomach. She was so tiny. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a baby that small…it had been a while since his last niece was born. But he held her steady like it was almost instinctual; hands framing her body with her arms held in place by his gentle thumbs, her fingers gently rubbing her tummy.

And then he took a breath and spoke to her in words so soft he hardly recognized his own voice, “And I’m your daddy.”

She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, little legs flailing across his abdomen as she fussed. When he reached a finger up to stroke across her chubby cheek, she turned and took it in her mouth, suckling on it right away to soothe herself. 

“Good girl…” he whispered, his racing heart easing as she quieted, “We’re going to get on just fine, aren’t we?”

From their spot on the living room floor, he swore he could have stared at her for hours, just like that, taking in every inch of her perfect little face and tiny body. She was an angel. 

George gave her tummy a little rub with his fingertips as he confessed softly, “I’ve always wanted a daughter, d’you know that? I never thought I’d have one of my own but here you are. Just gotta think of a name for you, hm?”

She let out a little mewl as she sucked on the tip of his finger, grabby and exploratory hands wrapping around his much larger one. The smile that came to his face was all too easy, absolutely swooning over the precious little girl that was now all his. It wasn’t going to be an easy road, but he knew in his heart (and his mind) that this decision felt right. 

George looked back at the framed photograph of his parents that rested on the floor beside them. He would have to call and tell them the news later that day; a bit of anticipation that was both nerve wracking and exciting all at the same time. As he stared at the picture of his parents in the garden years ago, his attention drifted past their figures to the form of his childhood farmhouse in the background. It was still almost the exact same now; with the colourful flower beds and worn white shutters and the rich green climbing stems of ivy that clung to the stone facade. 

For a moment, George stared at the photograph of the home that he loved so much, the one that stayed constant through every phase of his life, all his formative years and well into adulthood. The ivy still clung to the stone in the image, thick and unruly and impossibly alive, winding its way up the walls as though it had chosen the place and refused to ever let go. Quietly. Persistently. Year after year, it grew—weathering storms, softening the hard edges of the house, making it feel lived in. Loved.

He looked back down at the baby in his arms.

She was small but determined, her fingers curling with surprising strength around his, her mouth still busy, still searching, mewling and cooing with quiet reverence. Something steady bloomed in his chest at the thought of her growing the same way—slowly, stubbornly, finding her way upward no matter what tried to stand in her path. 

The name settled instantly, warm and sure in his chest. It didn’t feel new. It felt familiar. Like something that had been waiting.

He tested it aloud, as soft as a breath, “Ivy.”

She made a quiet sound in response, a sleepy little sigh, and George felt something in him finally click into place. It felt like something close to recognition—as if he hadn’t chosen her name at all, only remembered it. 

“Yeah? You agree?” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently over her belly, “I think Ivy suits you. Miss Ivy Russell. All mine, hm?”

And then he leaned down and sealed it with a soft kiss to her chubby cheek, as this little person so effortlessly grew her way around his heart. 

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the silence of your duplex in Monaco isn’t empty; it’s filled by the rhythmic sound of the light rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, turning the golden lights of Monte Carlo into watercolour blurs outside.

the weather out there is grey, slightly chilly, and unforgiving, and you don’t even complain.

surprisingly, you actually quite like it. it’s not an absurd cold like there is in your hometown at certain times of the year, nor is it like London where it’s like that all the time, but it’s pleasant. a mild, lovely cold. typical of places like this.

hours earlier, you’d treated yourself to a long, warm shower, washing away the fatigue of your own day and changing into your most comfortable, oversized clothes. and to complete the cozy atmosphere, you’d turned on the television and put on that Ed Sheeran playlist you love to hum along to. the soft acoustic guitar chords and the singer’s melancholic, familiar voice float through the room, serving as a sonic hug and a lovely background noise to ward off the loneliness of waiting.

and in absolute contrast to the world outside, the heat inside emanating from the stove, the soft gloom of the living room lit only by strategically placed lamps, and the music filling the space in the most welcoming way make you smile. days like this are your absolute favourite.

you stir the sauce in the pan with slow, automatic movements.

the rich, seasoned, and deeply comforting aroma of George’s favourite pasta — the kind of food that serves as a hug in carbohydrate form — has already taken over every corner.

as you watch the lazy bubbles pop in the rich red sauce, adjusting the heat to keep it simmering slowly, you smile remembering your Nonna back in Italy. she always used to say that the secret to a good fresh tomato sauce, with plenty of basil and a generous splash of olive oil, didn't lie in the ingredients, but in the time, the patience, and the love of the person stirring the pan.

and love was exactly what you were pouring into it.

you chose this recipe specifically today because you’d noticed that, over the last few weeks, George had been feeling a bit down.

the invisible weight of the season was silently and cruelly taking its toll; the usual brightness in those blue eyes seemed clouded by a fog of exhaustion and internal pressure.

he tried to hide it with that impeccable british politeness and rehearsed smiles, but you knew him far too well to fall for his disguise.

he had been carrying the world on his shoulders, and you decided it was time to bring out the pure comfort of Nonna’s recipe to lift your man back up. or try do it, at least.

you vividly remember the first time you cooked this for him, right in the first months of your relationship. it's something you will never forget. his reaction was priceless.

George was so used to the millimetrically calculated Formula 1 diets, weighing every single gram of unseasoned grilled chicken and bland salad, that when he saw the steaming plate of proper pasta in front of him on the table, he blinked several times as if standing before a desert mirage.

he actually hesitated because of the macros required by his trainers, but at the very first forkful, his eyes widened in the most incredibly comical way. he forgot all his proper lord-like posture for a second, chewed with an expression of pure adoration, and muttered "bloody hell, i think i’ve died and gone to heaven."

he cleared the plate until not a trace of sauce was left and, immediately after, asked with the utmost cheek if you could make it every single day.

it was right then that you knew for an absolute certainty that you had won his stomach — and his heart — forever.

but you know that, for him, perhaps nothing was really alright lately.

and the clock on the wall, which seems to mock your patience, only makes you worry even more about it.

George is late.

again.

the sauce continues to bubble gently on the non-stick pan, letting out small pops that seem to dictate the rhythm of your growing worry. in any other profession, a delay of a few hours on a wednesday night dinner would be the perfect reason for a fight, an argument about a lack of consideration or priorities.

but being a part of a Formula 1 driver's life made you learn in the most painful way possible that his time never truly belongs to him.

it belongs to the engineers who review endless graphs, to the sponsors who demand perfect smiles at stiff corporate events, to the factory simulator that dictates a sickening search for milliseconds, and to the damn journalists who circle the paddock like vultures, waiting for any slip-up to turn into cruel, clickbait headlines. and especially now, with the next race of the season knocking at the door, the invisible weight on his shoulders seemed to have multiplied by ten, crushing any vestige of energy he tried to save.

彡★

later, when the characteristic sound of the lock finally echoes through the entrance hall, cutting through the soft melody of ‘i'm a mess’ playing on the tv, your shoulders relax for a brief second before tensing up again.

there is a silent and very clear code in the noise George makes when he arrives home. and today, the metallic clatter of keys being left on the entryway table isn’t the light jingle of someone arriving in high spirits; it’s a heavy thud. dry. completely devoid of life. a perfect reflection of how he feels inside.

his footsteps don’t have the usual command or haste of that determined athlete the world knows. they are slow, dragging, and heavy, as if he were physically carrying the weight of the entire paddock on his back.

when he finally appears under the kitchen archway, your heart clinches so hard in your chest that it physically hurts.

he is still wearing the black team polo shirt under his dark jacket, and the silver three-pointed star logo gleaming on his chest looks almost like a branding iron, a cruel reminder of the crushing responsibilities he bears.

George tries to crack a smile as soon as his eyes meet yours, but the gesture is empty, failing to reach the corners of his face, let alone the expression lines around his eyes. it’s just an automatic movement, a strict muscle memory of someone who spends the entire day being pointed at by camera lenses and needs to pretend everything is alright.

and the eyes... those intense blue eyes you love and know so well, usually so vivid, electric, and focused on every detail, are completely dull today.

they look like a rough sea under a thick, grey fog.

"hey", he murmurs. his voice is incredibly hoarse, worn out and textureless, the obvious result of spending hours discussing telemetry over the radio and answering the same cynical, repetitive questions from reporters about his performance compared to that of the team’s new prodigy.

you turn the heat down to the absolute minimum, letting the wooden spoon rest on the edge of the pan, and partially turn your body in his direction, forcing a soft, warm smile that seeks to serve as the first safe haven of his night.

"hey, babe. welcome back."

George takes off his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack in the living room, and approaches as if he were operating on the last bit of battery, almost in slow motion.

he doesn't stop in front of you; he walks until he positions himself right behind you, and the heat emanating from his body brings with it a wave of physical exhaustion so dense that you feel you can almost touch it in the air.

his hands, always so precise at the wheel, slide onto your waist with a desperate familiarity before he embraces you completely, and he pulls you close, pressing his chest against your back. then, he simply collapses completely, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

you feel his breath hit your neck — a long, shaky, and painful sigh that realised it had been kept deep in his chest from the moment he walked out the door early this morning. the fabric of his shirt is slightly damp from the persistent rain, and his scent now is a messy blend of his usual expensive cologne, the cold metallic aroma of the simulator, and pure, raw fatigue.

this hug, which on normal days would be the silly prelude to a night full of high spirits, today feels like the silent cry for help of a man who can finally hold onto the only anchor he has left.

"was it another bad day?" you ask in a tender whisper, tilting your head slightly to the side so your cheek could brush against his hair, which despite being messy from the humidity, is still incredibly soft.

George doesn't answer straight away.

he just squeezes his arms a little tighter around your waist, burying his nose in the soft curve of your neck, searching for oxygen amidst your perfume. the sigh he lets out next, shaky and heavy, is the only confirmation you didn't want, but which your heart already expected.

"do you want to talk about it?" you try again, your voice gentle, covering his large, cold hands with your own, caressing the skin, feeling the rigid tension in the prominent veins of his arms.

there is a long, dense, and painful pause.

you can almost hear the gears of his analytical mind turning in the dark, fighting an internal battle between the desperate desire to vent and the organic pride of wanting to remain the unshakable ‘iron man’ the team and the world expect him to be.

finally, he shakes his head gently against your shoulder, refusing the invitation.

"not really. not now, if it’s okay", his voice comes out shockingly small, completely stripped of that polished, commanding confidence he usually wears as public armour.

this wasn't the lead Mercedes driver, nor the man who is sponsored by so many big brands. it was just... George. your George.

"alright." you say immediately, accepting his limit without any kind of questioning or pressure, respecting the sacred time his mind needs to process all the toxic noise from the outside before being able to find itself in your silence. "then do this: go upstairs, take off that uniform, and take a long, relaxing, and very warm shower. and while you do that, i’ll finish putting dinner together. it’s your favourite."

he pulls away just a few inches, enough to be able to look into your eyes.

for the first time since he walked through the door, something resembling a minimal hint of real brightness tries to surface in the depths of those blue irises. a tiny, almost imperceptible but genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, breaking the rigidity of his expression.

"you pamper me too much. i really don't think i deserve all this today."

"you deserve it every day, honey", you counter sweetly, bringing one of your hands up to his face, caressing his cheek and feeling the slight roughness of his stubble against your fingers.

he lets out a faint laugh, almost a breath of relief escaping his lips, and leans in to leave a chaste, lingering kiss on your cheek. his touch is soft, but it carries a depth of gratitude that no polished words could ever express.

"i’ll be back in a bit then. and thank you. i love you."

"i love you too, and please, don't rush."

you stand there, completely still before the stove for a few moments, listening to the slow sound of his footsteps heading up the stairs towards your bedroom.

and only when the muffled click of the bathroom door closing upstairs echoes through the house do you allow yourself to release the air from your lungs, realising you had been holding your breath the entire time.

your eyes turn automatically to the windowpane, where the raindrops continue to slide relentlessly over the principality.

you feel a sudden sting of pure rage — an absolute indignation at this cruel sport, at all the damn journalists and interviewers who act like vultures hungry for controversy, at these supposed internet ‘fans’, and at all this unhuman pressure that insists on trying to break the man you love.

they see only cold numbers on a table, lost points, and ridiculous rivalries created by the media with Kimi, with Lewis, or with any other driver on track. but you? you see the real man who comes home with lifeless eyes, desperately trying to remind himself of the reason he fell in love with fast cars and a racetrack in the first place.

and for that exact reason, today, inside this sanctuary you built and call home, the world outside doesn't have the slightest permission to enter.

you simply won't let it.

彡★

the sound of running water upstairs finally ceases, and the silence of the lower level is filled only by the quiet hiss of the rain outside.

you finish pouring two glasses of a rich red wine, and even though it isn’t the weekend, this is the kind of luxury you only allow yourselves when the pressure feels as if it’s about to boil over.

before sitting down, you slide your finger across your phone screen and select his favourite playlist.

the first notes of a soft piano melody begin to echo through the built-in speakers in the living room.

it’s Taylor Swift.

it’s where he can be a super-diva fangirl without being judged by anyone.

a few minutes later, George comes downstairs.

and the man who appears at the top of the stairs bears no resemblance to the elite athlete from the press conferences. he is wearing grey joggers and a loose black t-shirt that makes his shoulders look less tense, though they still carry the weight of the week. his hair is damp and messy, falling over his forehead in a way that leaves him looking almost vulnerable.

he pauses for a second upon hearing the music, and a flicker of recognition softens the lines of fatigue around his eyes.

he smiles.

small, but he does.

he notices your care.

he notes that you chose this soundtrack just to make him happy.

and he thanks you in silence for it.

"the smell is unbelievable", he comments, his voice now a bit steadier as he sits on one of the high stools at the kitchen island.

"it’s the family recipe, remember? plenty of patience and a splash of wine in the sauce", you tease, sliding the glass towards him. "and for the cook as well, of course."

he shakes his head as you wink at him, and a smile — the first one of the day that actually reaches his eyes — surfaces.

you begin to eat, and dinner is not rushed; on the contrary, every forkful feels like a mutual attempt to slow the world down. the interviewers, the points, and the paddock criticisms are not invited to this table.

midway through the meal, the music shifts to a slightly more upbeat tempo. and you can’t resist.

you take the wooden spoon you used for the sauce, wipe it quickly, and use it as a microphone, lip-syncing a verse with exaggerated dramatic flair while striking a pose for him.

George lets out a chuckle, covering his face with his hand for a second.

"you’re unreal", he murmurs, laughing.

"i’ll take that as a compliment. but, hey, did you know i used to be jealous of that cheeky blonde?" you blurt out, sitting back down but keeping the playful tone as you point the spoon at the speaker. "seriously! i didn’t understand this obsession of yours. i didn’t like her. but nowadays? i’ve sort of learned to love it. admitting she has bloody good songs is my greatest act of humility, honestly. i am completely obsessed with 'opalite' and 'the fate of ophelia' from the life of a showgirl."

George arches an eyebrow, visibly entertained.

"the fate of ophelia is a masterpiece, i told you", he gestures with his wine glass, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of someone who has finally proved their point.

"well, it really is brilliant, i must be honest here." you yield, nodding as you rest your elbows on the counter. "but do you know what caught me the most? the fact that she used Shakespeare to build the lyrics so surgically. the whole visual metaphor of Ophelia floating in the water, surrounded by flowers, the absolute epitome of tragic romanticism... she managed to turn the character’s psychological downfall into modern poetry. it’s genius. i spent hours analysing the literary parallels on my tablet and nearly had a breakdown."

George lets out a soft laugh, his eyes fixed on you with that quiet adoration he reserves exclusively for when you go into your ‘lecture mode’.

"see? i knew your literary nerd side wouldn’t be able to resist that track," he teases, taking another sip. "i’m glad you finally saw the light."

"ooh, but the light took its time arriving!" you laugh, taking a sip of wine, letting the warmth of the liquid and the nostalgia soften your expression. "to be perfectly honest, George... at the very beginning of everything, i was certain i didn’t have the slightest chance with you."

George stops his glass halfway to his mouth, staring at you with a look that mixes confusion and genuine adoration.

your mind travels instantly to two years ago.

Monza.

you weren’t an F1 insider. you were there for an external events agency, hired just to look after the tedious logistics that nobody else wanted to do. to you, F1 was just a bunch of fast, loud cars and a lot of important people rushing from one side to the other.

but the pay was good, so… why not? you had nothing else to do anyway.

you remember it as if it were yesterday — the air in Italy was heavy, a dense mix of scorching heat, melting asphalt, and that metallic, addictive smell of burnt rubber that only exists in paddocks. the sound was a deafening chaos: the impact of wheel guns in the garages, the engines roaring in the distance, and the constant hum of thousands of people. it suffocated you at first, but well… nothing a good pair of headphones couldn’t do to save you from that sort of situation.

you were there, trying desperately to organize the hospitality spreadsheets, the tablet feeling like an extension of your arm as you fought a strand of hair that insisted on sticking to your face because of the sweat and humidity.

that’s when he appeared.

and George didn’t have that polished stance he has now. he looked like a runaway, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the group of journalists that had been chasing him since the Mercedes hospitality had got lost in the labyrinth of motorhomes. he stopped in front of you, out of breath, and for a second, the loud world of Monza went entirely silent.

"i didn’t know the difference between a soft and a hard tyre, George, i swear. i only knew that the cars went 'tzuuuuuuum'. i was just there with my company, lost amongst spreadsheets, when you stopped right in front of me fleeing from those journalists. and my first thought wasn’t 'oh look, a Mercedes driver', it was just a... wow. it was visceral. you didn’t just look like a driver to me; you just looked like the most absurdly beautiful man i’d ever seen in my life, stepped right out of one of my romance books and into the middle of that chaos."

you laugh at the memory of your own confusion.

"i looked at you and thought, 'well, this bloke clearly prefers towering blondes who look like they’ve just stepped out of a fashion editorial'. and then there was me... a short brunette whose greatest special skill is analysing the emotional layers of an eight-hundred-page romance novel, who hates tight dresses and loves giving unsolicited lectures on art history. i thought i was the exact opposite of your type."

"did you really think that?" he asks, with a teasing half-smile. "that i’d trade the rarity of having a romance and art specialist for some dull, generic fashion editorial model?"

"well, logic dictated i would!" you joke. "i was already preparing myself to be just your super-nerdy friend and stay firmly in the friendzone or, worst-case scenario, never see you again and live with that platonic crush thought yet again. i was even practicing how i was going to cry while eating belgian chocolate ice cream, swearing never to listen to Taylor Swift again in my life when you announced a relationship with some Vogue model."

George lets out a short laugh and shakes his head, setting his glass aside to lean over the counter.

"well, let it be known that the 'short brunette art specialist' wins against any editorial, any day of the week. especially because the editorial blonde probably wouldn't know how to tell me the difference between Botticelli and Picasso, and wouldn't have the patience to listen to my theories on telemetry or hear me singing completely out of tune in the shower", he reaches out and taps the tip of your nose. "and you forget that it was exactly that 'nerdiness' that caught me that day."

"i still can’t believe you stopped me just to ask where the press room was", you laugh, taking a sip of wine. "and i, being an exemplary professional, avoided staring at you too much and focused back on my work. i mean... actually, i avoided looking at you too much because i found you ridiculously perfect and was certain that if i looked you in the eyes for more than three seconds, i would simply faint right there in the middle of the paddock and believe it or not, i'm not trying to flatter you. so i just pointed down the corridor and said, 'go straight, take the first left, and don't run, the floor is slippery'. it was comical, George, because the floor wasn't slippery at all. it wasn't even damp. i just wanted you to leave quickly before my legs gave way. and mate, you can't even judge me. like i said before, you're like... i don't know, exactly like one of those book men i'm completely in love with! i feel like i'm fulfilling a dream every time i wake up in the morning and look at you sleeping next to me."

George's eyes widen, his eyebrows rising in an arch of pure amusement.

"hang on a minute, you lied about the safety of the floor to get rid of me?" he lets out an incredulous but charming laugh. "and there i was, believing in your concern for my physical integrity! but it's ironic you say that now..."

he leaves his glass on the table and leans in further, closing the distance between you. his tone of voice drops an octave, suddenly turning more intimate, more provocative.

"funny how things change, isn't it? that day, you couldn't look at me. nowadays..." he traces your face with his gaze, pausing on your eyes with an intensity that still makes your stomach flip. "nowadays you look me in the eyes in a way that makes me forget how to drive anything with a steering wheel and four wheels. especially when you want to convince me to stay in bed for another ten minutes or when you're about to..." he leaves the sentence hanging in the air with a smirk, a silent flirtation that makes your face burn.

you roll your eyes, trying to maintain your composure.

"shut up, Russell. you're impossible."

"are you going to say i'm lying?" he chuckles, leaning back against the seat again, but without taking his eyes off you. "but in fact, i walked away from there that day thinking, 'who is this girl who just gave me a safety order looking like an army general and didn't even ask for an autograph?'. i finished the race and, i swear to God, the first thing i did after the briefing was go back to that hospitality area. i was in a panic, thinking you'd already left, that you were a freelancer and that i'd never see you again."

"you were looking for me?" you ask, surprised. this detail he rarely mentioned with such clarity.

"are you kidding me? i practically hunted you down through the paddock", he admits, now with a much sweeter tone. "i asked three marshals if they’d seen the grumpy girl with the gigantic tablet. when i finally saw you packing your things in the car park, my heart beat harder than at the race start. i knew that if i didn’t get your number right then, i’d spend the rest of my life regretting it. and then..." he pauses, a mischievous and impressed little smile appearing on his lips. "when i thought it couldn't get any better... i saw you getting on that bloody ducati."

you almost choke on your wine, eyes wide.

"wait, you saw that?! i thought you only walked up after", you laugh at the memory of hating those far-too-tight jeans that ended up bothering you the entire day.

"oh, i saw it. you bet i saw it", he affirms, letting out a heavy sigh, as if the image were still burned into his mind and still messed with him to this day. spoiler: it does. "i was ready to walk up and be all charming, but then you put that matte black helmet on, climbed onto that italian beast and i swear my body wanted to freeze and betray me, but i had to hurry to stop you from leaving before we talked. and after we did exactly that, you sped off as if the paddock were too small for you, and the sound of that engine was like a punch to my chest. and bloody hell... i thought i was going to explode right there. it was the sexiest thing i’ve ever seen in my entire life. seeing you taming a ducati? right there i was certain i didn’t just want your number, i wanted your surname. i wanted to put a ring on your finger and call you mine."

you let out a laugh, feeling your face burn as your eyes involuntarily drift towards the lower level.

the truth is, that exact same thousand-cc italian beast still lives with you. it’s parked right down there in the building's underground garage, immaculate, tucked under a black cover that you only pull off on sunny weekends to tear through the winding roads of the Riviera.

and George, as much as he pretends to be a man entirely focused on data safety, is the one who insists the most that you never sell that bike. he loves the fact that you still ride it, loves the contrast of seeing his short brunette dominating that heavy machine through the streets of Monaco.

you keep that same glimmer of satisfaction in your eyes as you look back at him.

"i never imagined you’d like that! i thought you’d find it too dangerous or that it didn't suit me. i kept thinking about it the whole way home, swearing i’d scared you off."

"scare me off?" George lets out a short laugh, but the look he gives you is charged with a completely new intensity. "darling, you definitely have no idea about the things i thought about that. or the things i still think to this day, to be perfectly honest with you." his tone of voice drops an octave, turning into a husky whisper that sends a shiver straight down your spine. he takes a slow sip of his wine without breaking eye contact, letting the tease linger in the air.

you narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over the counter and staring at him with perfectly feigned suspicion.

"hang on a minute, Russell. what sort of things do you still think about, hm? out with it."

George holds your gaze for a long second, his lips slowly curving into that trademark smirk that is pure british charm. he sets his glass down with calculated slowness, creating a dramatic bit of suspense before leaning an inch closer to you.

"well... that’s a topic for another time. perhaps when the washing-up is done and the phones are nowhere near us", he winks, deflecting the question with the mastery of someone avoiding a collision on track. he clears his throat softly and gestures back to the previous conversation as if he hadn't just awakened every fiber of your being. "but back to what matters: i earn a living defying physics at two hundred miles an hour. seeing you on that thousand-cc monster was like seeing the missing piece of my puzzle. i became obsessed, truly. there was something in that image... that even today i can’t explain. i’m a man of data and logic, you know, but there? there i just felt i needed to reach you no matter what. and seeing that exact same ducati still parked downstairs in our garage just reminds me of it every single day."

you narrow your eyes slightly, pointing your index finger in his direction with a mock-threatening look that only makes you look incredibly adorable.

"don't think for a second i’ve forgotten about this, Mr. Russell. i will be asking for that answer later, capisci?" you warn, holding back a giggle before your expression softens. "but it's funny hearing your side of it, because while you were there, all focused on data and peculiar trackside obsessions, i, on the other hand, thought it was all a system error or a very specific dream." you confess, laughing softly at the memory of how your long-dreamed-of romance book began. "when you sent me that first message the next day, i spent twenty minutes staring at my phone screen without blinking. my first reaction was: 'ok, either this guy has been hacked, or someone took his phone to make a bet'. i swear i didn’t think you were going to send anything for real. i thought i was just the administrative girl who told you to be careful with the floor and who, in the end, had some miraculous bit of luck for having caught your attention."

"little did you know that the ticking-off you gave me was exactly what made me want your number", he admits, his blue eyes fixed on yours. "and then came the first dinner, the second, the third, and that night…"

George smiles, and it’s a smile he doesn't save for the photographers. it’s an expression of pure peace, as if remembering how you both began was his oxygen in the middle of this suffocating season.

"London?" you murmur, with a smile. "i really thought we were just going out for dinner."

"well, and we did indeed go out for dinner."

"but…?" you tease, with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

"well, you know…" he smiles somewhat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with one hand.

the conversation drifts to months later. the memory is colder, yet far more welcoming.

the city was submerged in that fine, persistent drizzle, the streetlights reflected in the puddles of the damp asphalt like scattered jewels. the smell of rain and an old city.

you were walking near Chelsea, hidden under the same umbrella, his shoulder bumping against your arm with every step.

George was strangely quiet.

he’d spent the entire afternoon rehearsing in the hotel mirror with something along the lines of ‘hi, i’m George and i was wondering if you’d accept being my girlfriend?’.

it sounded ridiculous, stiff, and far too formal in his head.

to make matters worse, he’d gone into such a massive meltdown that he decided to call Alex and Lando on a group facetime, begging for last-minute advice.

and it was a catastrophic strategic error.

Alex spent half the call laughing his head off, telling him to ‘act like a normal human being and not a robot’, while Lando suggested, in all seriousness, that George should ask you out over the team radio during the cool-down lap of the next race.

in the end, George hung up feeling even more desperate, threw his mental script in the bin, and nearly fumbled the knot on his own tie three times before leaving the room.

you’d already been seeing each other for nearly five months — five months of empty airports in the dead of night, facetime calls across impossible time zones, and entire weekends hidden away in his flat.

on that specific night, George had planned the perfect itinerary: a late dinner at his favourite bistro in one of the gastronomic districts east of the Thames, followed by a short walk down to the river. but his nerves completely imploded the plan.

because throughout the entire dinner, you noticed that something was like… very wrong.

he caught your eye for barely ten seconds at a time, hardly touched his food, answered your questions in clipped sentences, and his long fingers wouldn't stop drumming against the linen tablecloth. and when he dropped his fork on the floor for the second time, you nearly asked him if he was having an appendicitis attack.

his hands were freezing from nerves, his heart beating faster and harder against his ribs than at a race start at Spa-Francorchamps in the torrential rain.

so he simply couldn’t wait until they reached the river.

the moment you stepped out of the restaurant and the fine London drizzle began to fall, he froze. he stopped you right there, under a yellowed streetlight that created a golden curtain around you both, and the transparent umbrella he was holding was visibly shaking in his hand.

George forgot Alex’s advice, forgot Lando’s jokes, and completely lost the script he’d rehearsed in the mirror. in a mix of panic and urgency, he just gripped your free hand tightly and asked if you’d accept being his.

there were no cameras, no advisors, no fans, and certainly no team radio. just the rhythmic sound of the drizzle hitting the fabric of the transparent umbrella and the heavy, raw, uneven breathing of a man who had the whole world at his feet, but felt he would have absolutely nothing if you said ‘no’.

"you were trembling," you laugh softly, stretching out your arm and squeezing his hand in the present moment.

"i was terrified", he admits, chuckling lightly, his cheeks adopting a soft shade of red. "because with you, i couldn’t use my race strategy. there was no plan b. it was just me, just being George, hoping that would be enough to make you stay."

you arch an eyebrow, letting out a teasing laugh.

"you? George William Russell, the man of the perfect strategy, the master of powerpoints and flawless execution, terrified by a relationship proposal?"

he takes another sip of his wine, looking away for a second with a timid, almost boyish smile, before fixing his blue eyes on you again, filled with a very paper-sharp memory.

"completely. i was scared to death you’d say no. i’d rehearsed what to say about ten times in the hotel mirror, but the moment i saw you walk through that door... it felt like i’d forgotten how to speak english. you looked absurdly gorgeous. i remember every single detail, you know? that black dress that contrasted so perfectly with your skin, your converse platform sneakers made any high heels look plain, and that subtle makeup, but with your lipstick exactly how i like it. i remember that your hair was quite short at the time. beautiful, actually. and i noticed the time you’d taken getting ready just to meet me, the care in every choice. that restaurant in Chelsea used to be my favourite because of the food, but today it’s my favourite place in the world for a very different reason."

you feel your heart melt a little more at the precision of his memory and you squeeze a little more his fingers, smiling tenderly.

"yeah... that place truly gained a whole new meaning after that night. but you talk as if there were even a slight chance of me saying no, George", you say, your tone turning sweeter as you intertwine your fingers with his over the counter. "you knew, deep down, that i was already completely in love with you. it was obvious."

"was you?" he asks, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes as he pulls your hand close to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

"i still am", you correct softly, holding his gaze. "every single day. even when you're stubborn or when you try to hide that you're exhausted."

"good", he murmurs against your skin, and you feel the weight of his tension lift just a bit more. "because i don't know what i'd do if i didn't have this 'i still am' to come back to at the end of every race."

you smile at him and you stay there for a moment, lost in this bubble of ‘us against the world’.

the soft music continues in the background, and George reaches out to stroke your face, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheek with a lovely slowness.

however, the peace is short-lived. on the counter, right next to his glass, George’s phone screen lights up.

the device buzzes once, twice, three times in a row — the dry rattle of the screen against the kitchen island's marble feels far too loud in the room.

you notice the instantaneous shift in his posture.

George’s shoulders stiffen up again and the shadow of exhaustion clouds his eyes in the exact same second. he doesn't even need to pick up the device to know what it is: emails from engineers with data reports that could easily wait until tomorrow, or texts from PR advisors about some silly controversy of the week.

he makes a move to reach for the phone, his professional driver instinct taking over, but you are quicker. you slide your hand over his, stopping the movement, and draw his gaze back to you.

you are not letting the paddock invade your kitchen tonight.

not a chance.

"don't you dare", you warn with a mock-stern tone, eliciting a surrendered half-smile from him. to guarantee the blockade against the outside world and pull his mind far away from telemetry charts, you decide to change the subject entirely, bringing up your own memories. some of the good ones, which would definitely make him laugh. because he loves listening to them. "well, do you know what? speaking of pressure and moments of pure despair... you won't believe what i remembered today. i saw a tape measure in the junk drawer while looking for a utensil and nearly had a panic attack. remember my showjumping phase that i told you about? my childhood adventures when i was certain i was going to be a professional rider?"

George blinks, the mention of the phone completely forgotten as the corner of his mouth turns up at your sudden pivot.

"here we go... what was it this time?" he asks as he picks up his fork again, his tone already shifting into the light curiosity you wanted to provoke.

"i was there, George. totally proud on my horse, posture completely straight, thinking i was an olympic champion, the queen of riding", you begin, straightening your back on the barstool and puffing out your chest in a dramatically imposing way, eliciting his first proper chuckle. "then, a bloody unlucky child decided to play with a metal tape measure near the fence. that sound of... tzzzzzt…" you mimic the noise with your mouth and suddenly throw your arms out. "George, my horse thought it was a giant rattlesnake or a mutant monster from another dimension, because he made a leap i didn’t even know was physically possible and bolted as if he were at the race start in Vegas."

George stops eating immediately, his smile widening and his blue eyes fixed on you, completely entertained by your private show.

"no... and you didn’t fall off, did you?"

"i didn’t just fall off, George. i was ejected!" you exclaim, lifting yourself slightly off the stool and making a curved trajectory in the air with your hands to illustrate the perfect arc of your plunge. "i looked like a meteor tearing through the burning atmosphere! except my final destination wasn't outer space, it was the biggest, deepest, most disgusting mud pit in the entire stables. i sank so deep, so bloody deep, that the instructor literally had to haul me out by my arms like he was pulling a carrot out of the earth." you make a forceful pulling gesture, faking the immense effort with a funny grimace. "i came out of there aching, limping, and looking like a badly made clay doll that had gone completely wrong."

he lets out a loud laugh, one of those deep, genuine belly laughs, throwing his head back slightly. you watch the tension lines on his face soften and his shoulders properly relax; it’s the exact sound you’ve been waiting for all night. the sound of George forgetting the rest of the world.

"my God, where on earth were that child's parents?" he says, laughing so much he has to use his index finger to wipe away a tear threatening to escape the corner of his eye. "i'm sorry for laughing, love, but the image of you flying in slow motion straight into the mud is absolutely priceless."

"you can laugh! i give you full permission!" you laugh along, waving your hands to dismiss your own past trauma, feeling the heavy air in the kitchen completely shift. "but it wasn’t worse than the time at the waterfall, alright? i nearly slipped straight off the cliff and bit the dust because i was determined to take a macro photo of some moss. a fucking moss, mate!" you hold up a single finger, widening your eyes in a shocked expression at your own past stupidity. "i swear by everything holy i don't know how i'm still alive with all my limbs intact. i think God must have taken pity on me and refused to let me die over things so idiotic. my entire childhood is living proof that i have a guardian angel who is very, very patient and probably takes sedatives."

his smile shrinks a little in size, but it gains a completely new depth, turning into something much sweeter, tender, and protective. the last grey shadows of stress finally vanish from his face.

George sets his fork down and stretches his large hand across the kitchen island again, squeezing yours firmly, his fingers intertwining with yours with affection and gratitude.

"thank goodness you are resilient. i really wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t here to keep me whole with these disastrous stories of yours."

and dinner flows just like that, a succession of low laughter and memories that hold no trace of asphalt or burnt rubber.

you keep talking, the words coming easily while your eyes lose themselves in his movements, in his laughter, in his eyes that are starting to find their colour again. and you could keep talking for a deep eternity, just to keep that smile alive — the smile of your George which, in your opinion, is the only thing radiant enough to rival the lights of Monte Carlo outside and even the italian sun itself.

and when the last vestige of the pasta vanishes from the bone china plates you decided to use just because, and the wine glasses display only a remnant of crimson at the bottom, the final challenge presents itself. the massive pile of washing-up.

George stands up with a renewed determination, but you are quicker. or you try to be.

"let me do that", he says, already gathering the plates with a precision that borders on annoying.

"not a chance. you’ve worked all day, George. go to the sofa, find something on netflix, put your feet up. i’ll handle it here."

he stops mid-way, holding the plates with one hand and the crystal glasses in the other, balanced with a dexterity only a racing driver would have, and glares at you. it’s that classic look of stubborn british determination, chin raised and a challenging half-smile playing on his lips.

"you cooked. i wash. it’s our sacred rule, remember?" he points out, his voice firm but laced with affection.

"rules are organic, darling. they change when one of the residents decides they want to see the other get a well-deserved rest after an exhausting day", you retort, reaching for the plate in his hand.

that’s when he plays dirty.

George simply raises his arm, keeping the porcelain well above your head. with his six-foot-one height and that athlete’s wingspan, you don't stand a chance. you stay there, stretching your arms, standing on your tiptoes and nearly losing your balance, looking like a child trying to reach the biscuit tin on top of the cupboard.

"George! give that back right now!!" you demand, trying to maintain your authority, but the glint of amusement in his eyes is making it impossible not to laugh.

"what’s the matter? is the air a bit thin down there?" he teases, looking down at you with an expression of mock innocence. he moves his arm a bit further to the side every time you try to hop. "i don't know what you're talking about. i’m just... keeping the crockery in a safe place, where short, stubborn brunettes can't cause any accidents."

"mate, you are such a cheat!" you complain, swatting gently at his chest, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the cotton t-shirt. "this is bullying, George. pure height bullying!"

"it's not bullying; it's a strategic advantage, my love", he lets out a delightful laugh, the kind of sound that makes his black t-shirt stretch across his shoulders as he chuckles. "and i am perfectly capable of washing two plates and a pan without fainting from exhaustion, ma'am. i survive g-forces, i think i can survive washing-up liquid and a sponge."

"you are so stubborn!"

"and you are far too protective!"

you stay in this domestic stalemate for exactly two minutes and thirty seconds.

the narrow space of the kitchen causes your bodies to be very close, his warmth radiating in waves over to you. he finally lowers his arm, but instead of handing you the plates, he deposits them in the sink with a gentle clink and pulls you by your waist. the hug is quick, but firm enough to pin you against him, ensuring you don't escape to grab the sponge first.

"alright", he yields, his voice vibrating softly near your ear, his breath smelling of wine and fun. "i wash, you dry and put away. that way we finish quickly and i can have you all to myself on the sofa without that little voice in my head guilt-tripping me about the dirty dishes. deal?"

you sigh, catching the scent of mint and expensive soap coming from him, totally defeated by his charm and his accent.

"deal, Lord Russell. but i still think you cheated by using biology to your advantage."

"i love it when you call me that", he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek before letting you go.

he winks at you and begins to turn on the tap, laughing when you stick your tongue out at his back. and somehow, he knows you’ve done it, because in the exact same second, he says something about how rude it is to stick your tongue out at people.

彡★

the process of tidying the kitchen then becomes that familiar ballet of every tuesday night: the sound of hot water running, the steam rising and lightly fogging up the window that looks out into the rain, the refreshing scent of lemon washing-up liquid, and the rhythmic clinking of cutlery.

George washes everything meticulously.

he cleans each glass as if he were adjusting a high-precision component on his Mercedes, focused and calm.

but, at the same time, while you wait with the soft tea towel in your hand, he bumps his hip into yours on purpose, nudging you an inch to the side.

"hey! i’m going to drop all the crystal like this!" you complain, trying to reclaim your territory on the counter.

he just lets out that nasal sound — the mischievous little laugh that is his trademark — and does it again. this time, he leans over you to reach the drying rack, his body completely surrounding you for a second. the warmth from his recent shower still emanates from his skin, and for a moment, you even forget how to breathe.

"excuse me, miss", he teases, his voice laced with a lazy flirtatiousness.

"keep playing with fire, Russell. remember i’m the one who chooses the books you’ll have to hear about before bed", you shot back, giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs with your elbow.

"fair point", he chuckles, handing over the last clean plate. "but you know you look adorable when you try to be bossy."

"and you know i’m the only person in the principality who puts up with you singing Taylor Swift completely out of tune in the shower"  you counter, giving him a little hip-bump right back.

"touché." he laughs, catching the tea towel you toss at him to dry his hands.

it’s safe.

it’s the real world.

and between the jokes about height and the ‘accidental’ bumps, the grey tension he brought home from the paddock seems to have dissipated, giving way to the blue brightness of a man who forgets — at least for tonight — that he doesn't need to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

彡★

the way from the kitchen to the living room feels like the start of the final lap of a long race, but at a deliciously slow pace.

the navy blue velvet of the sofa is cool against your body as you settle into the corner, and George throws himself down right next to you, stretching his long legs towards the coffee table with a sigh of relief as he picks up the remote and presses the button.

for a few moments, you both just enjoy the silence, broken only by the rhythm of the rain and the soft glow of the television while the streaming menu floats on the screen.

"so, are we actually going to finish that series we started three weeks ago, or are you going to suggest something new that we will inevitably abandon halfway through?" you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours.

George lets out a nasal chuckle, resting his head against the back of the sofa.

"i think we should stick to the plan at least once. i don't even remember where we left off. something about a mystery and a suspicious gardener?"

"it was a lawyer, George. a lawyer. pay attention! then you say i cheated when i guess the killer", you laugh with him, taking the remote control. "but honestly, i don't know if i have the brain capacity for complex plots today. maybe we should look for something lighter?"

"anything is fine, as long as it doesn't require me to think too much about strategy”, he murmurs, his arm sliding over the back of the sofa to pull you closer.

even though it came in a humorous tone, his sentence catches you.

彡★

you spend a few minutes browsing through the options, jokingly arguing about documentaries versus dramas, while his fingers trace absent patterns on your arm. the domesticity of it all is a balm for the sharp edges of his day. and eventually, you decide on the next episode, but as the opening credits begin, you feel the lingering thirst left by the wine and the rich dinner.

"i'm going to get a glass of water before this really starts. do you want one?" you ask, already getting up.

but before you can stand up, George’s hand finds your hip, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your trousers with a firm, playful tug. you stumble slightly backwards, falling with your knees right between his thighs as he looks up.

his blue eyes are darker now, focused entirely on you, and for a second, the rest of the room simply ceases to exist.

"aren't you forgetting something?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register that always makes your breath catch.

you tilt your head, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

"ummm… i don't think so. the water cooler is still in the kitchen, from what i recall. or it was, the last time i checked."

"cheeky." he whispers, his hands sliding from your hips to your waist, pulling you down against his chest. "but i'm fairly certain there is a fee for leaving the sofa once we’ve already settled in."

you cock your head and pull a face as you lean in, intending to give him just a quick peck, but George has other plans.

his hand moves up to the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair as he pulls you into a proper kiss.

it is slow and deep, a lingering exploration that tastes of the rich red wine you shared and the quiet intimacy of the night.

his lips are warm and firm, and you find yourself sighing against him, your hands, previously resting on his broad shoulders to keep your balance, now finding the back of his neck, where you end up intertwining your arms. the heat between you ignites instantly, a familiar energy that makes the rainy night feel even more private.

and when you finally separate, your foreheads remain resting against each other, and both of your breaths are a little shorter.

"you know…" you murmur, your voice a little husky, "that if we keep doing this, we are going to end up naked on this sofa and completely messy, and we won't see a single minute of this series."

George lets out a low, vibrating laugh, his eyes fixed on yours with a look of pure adoration.

"honestly? i only see advantages in that. but i'm a man of my word. go get your water and i'll wait to press play."

"you're impossible", you laugh, giving him one last quick kiss before finally breaking away to go to the kitchen.

the problem is that when you come back a few minutes later with two glasses, you notice a sudden change of atmosphere.

not again, please… is what you think.

and after that, the certainty that you really won't make it through this year without losing your clean criminal record solidifies.

George is staring at his phone, his jaw clenched, the blue light of the screen casting sharp shadows on his face.

the peace you just built seems to be slipping through his fingers again.

he says nothing, but the way his thumb is paralysed on the screen says it all.

you don't ask. you don't need to.

instead of sitting beside him, getting angry, or asking why he did that, you leave the glasses on the side table and climb onto the back of the sofa. then you move carefully, sitting on top so that George is perfectly bracketed between your legs. after that, you place your hands on his shoulders.

George startles slightly, locking his phone and placing it face down on the table without saying a word. he doesn't try to hide the obvious thing that just happened there, but the tension in his body is palpable.

he clears his throat to start a sentence, but you don't let him.

"shh, don't say anything", you whisper, your fingers immediately finding the stress knots at the base of his neck. "it's fine. just relax. okay?"

he blinks a few times and nods with a gesture.

you begin a firm, deep massage, your thumbs working in slow circles against the rigid muscles of his trapezius.

it is a physical manifestation of his stress; you can feel every headline, every criticism, every single gram of pressure accumulated under his skin. and your mission now is to drive all of it out.

you move up to the base of his head, your touch steady and intentional. George lets out a long, shaky sigh, his body finally beginning to give in. he leans all the way back, resting his head against your stomach and closing his eyes as he surrenders to your touch.

his hands find your shins and move up to your thighs, his fingers squeezing your flesh with a gentle, steady pressure.

it's like a silent conversation — a mute, sincere 'thank you' because you know exactly what he needs without him having to ask. and for a moment, the only thing that exists is the soft touch of your hands and his attempt to keep himself whole.

you lean forward, your chin resting on top of his head while your hands continue their work, sending the weight of the paddock to hell. you feel his heart rate slow down, his breathing growing deeper as he sinks into the safety of your embrace.

"better?" you murmur against his hair, after pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss there.

"much better…" he breathes, his voice finally losing that sharp edge of anxiety. "you have the hands of an angel", he murmurs, and you notice his voice is finally losing that cutting edge of anxiety. "thank you so much, love."

"anything for you, my Lord." you joke, giving his shoulders one last squeeze before sliding off the back to nestle into his arm.

George smiles and immediately pulls the sofa blanket over the two of you, holding you tightly against him.

and his phone remains forgotten on the table, turned upside down and silent, while he finally reaches for the remote control again.

play is pressed, the outside world is shut out, and for the first time today, George is truly home.

彡★

four or maybe five episodes later and after another couple of yawns from George, the digital clock in the living room marks a few minutes past midnight.

the red numbers glow like soft embers in the dim light, beginning to make your eyes sting.

the sound of the rain has changed; it is no longer a distant hiss, but a steady, rhythmic, and almost aggressive drumming against the double-glazed windows, creating an insurmountable barrier between your sanctuary and the rest of a world that seems to want to eat him alive.

within a few seconds, you tidy the living room in a knowing silence and decide to head upstairs.

every step of the staircase seems to weigh on George’s feet, as if the gravity in Monaco had decided to double its intensity just for him.

the bedroom is the final refuge.

the scent of lemongrass from the diffuser floats in the air, blending with the subtle, familiar aroma of your skincare products and the freshness of the clean sheets. it’s an environment that smells of rest, of peace, and, above all, of ‘us’.

as you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, meticulously spreading a cold serum over your face with upward motions, you watch George through the reflection of the open door.

he’s standing by the black team backpack, organising materials for tomorrow night’s flight with a precision that hurts to see.

the passport, the noise-cancelling headphones, the notebooks... his movements are robotic, too calculated, as if he were trying to maintain control over the little things because the rest is slipping away.

and it hurts you.

it hurts so much.

because you know he doesn't deserve this.

he replies to one last message — the screen's glow revealing probably an engineer's name — and locks the device with a sigh that seems to come from the very centre of his soul.

so instead of just finishing up and heading to bed, you walk to the doorway and call him softly, pulling him by the hand into the bathroom with you.

you hop up and sit on the marble counter next to the sink, bringing yourself perfectly to his eye level. George steps closer, far too obsessed and exhausted to question you, and stands between your legs, resting his hands on your thighs as he looks up at you with heavy, droopy eyes.

taking your time, you reach for the shaving foam and the razor. and even though his stubble is minimal, just a light, rough shadow that has started to push through from the stress of the last few days, you spread the white cream with your fingertips across his cheeks and jawline.

your touch is a silent caress.

George closes his eyes, letting his body sag against yours while you, with all the care in the world and incredibly light strokes, slowly shave the short hairs away, rinsing the blade in warm water after every pass.

there is no rush, no noise; just the quiet glide of the razor and the meticulous care of your hands restoring a bit of softness to his face.

and when you're finished, you wipe away the remaining foam with a soft towel and press a tender kiss to his now-smooth cheek.

after that, you both put toothpaste on your brushes and brush your teeth together, side by side at the mirror, exchanging knowing glances through the reflection and sharing the same domestic rhythm.

"you can go on ahead, love", George murmurs, his voice muffled after rinsing his mouth, leaning heavily against the counter. "i'm just going to wash my face quickly and i'll be right in."

"no problem. don't rush, hm?" you ask, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze before leaving the bathroom.

you go straight to tuck yourself under the soft cotton sheets, feeling the welcoming weight of the duvet over your legs while you wait for him.

彡★

some time later, George emerges from the bathroom enveloped in a cloud of steam and the fresh scent of the face wash he just used, and despite these comforts, his expression is one of pure defeat.

the dim light from the bedside lamp accentuates the shadows under his blue eyes and the way his shoulders, usually so upright and proud, are slumped.

he looks finished.

not just from lack of sleep, but emotionally drained.

he looks small — not the driver of the fastest sport on the planet, not the lead for one of the three greatest teams in history, but just a man who has reached his limit.

you lift the duvet, creating a silent, physical invitation. you spread your legs, creating a safe, warm space between them, a nest he knows well.

"come here, babe", you whisper.

he doesn't even hesitate.

George moves as if operating in safe mode, switching off the lamp and leaving the room plunged into a blueish gloom, broken only by the reflections of the city lights in the rain.

he crawls across the bed with slow movements, his knees sinking into the soft mattress until he settles right there, between your legs, his chest against your stomach and his head finding your heart in a way that has become instinctive after two years.

his long arms wrap around your waist with an almost desperate strength, his fingers closing tightly into the fabric of your cotton t-shirt as if you were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the chaos.

your fingers dive into his hair — soft, with that scent of neutral shampoo that you love — and you begin a slow head massage, tracing circles at the back of his neck and moving down his temples while your free hand caresses his broad, tense back. you feel the rigidity in his muscles, hard as carbon fibre, giving way millimetre by millimetre under your touch.

the silence lingers for long minutes, filled only by the rain and your uneven breaths which, gradually, try to find a single rhythm.

"still don't want to talk about it?" you whisper, your voice almost disappearing into the sound of the rain.

George takes his time.

and you let him.

you feel his face press harder against the fabric of your battered Batman t-shirt. when he finally speaks, his voice comes out muffled, stripped of any politeness. it’s a raw voice, a raw sincerity.

"i’m just… tired."

your fingers don't stop. you continue caressing the golden strands, feeling the warmth of his skin.

"tired of what, exactly?"

he lets out a dry laugh, without a trace of humour, that vibrates against your ribs.

"everything, i suppose."

his fingers tighten around the fabric at your waist, his knuckles turning white in the shadows.

"i'm tired of the voices. of the expectations. of feeling that no matter how much i deliver, the chart is never upward-trending enough for them."

the room goes quiet again.

and then, as if the dam finally burst, the words begin to pour out. and you let them.

"people act as if my season is a disaster because i'm not leading the championship even though it's barely started. and somehow, everyone has already decided what kind of driver i am."

his voice cracks on the last sentence, and you feel a stab of physical pain in your chest. it is the sound of a heart that has been put to the test for too long. and that is being unfairly broken by a bunch of bitter people.

"i know i shouldn't read the comments or the headlines. i know i shouldn't care. i’ve been doing this since i was eight years old, i’ve been through everything in karting, at Williams, even at Mercedes... i mean, i should be immune to it by now, shouldn't i?" he raises his face slightly, his tired blue eyes meeting yours. they are watery, glistening with a vulnerability he would never allow a camera to capture. "but it still hurts. and i feel like a weakling for letting it get to me like this."

you stop the caress for a second, holding his face between your hands. his skin is warm, almost as if he has a fever from thinking too much.

you feel a sting of indignation on his behalf. it’s unfair. it is so, so unfair.

you use your thumbs to stroke his cheekbones with infinite tenderness.

"hey. look at me." you ask, soft but firm. "feeling the weight of the world doesn't make you weak, my love. it makes you human. you aren't a machine made of carbon fibre. you are a man who cares, who is kind even when people don't deserve your kindness. you are someone who works hard and does everything to conquer your dream. and that is exactly why you are so spectacular and unique. and if they want to talk about performance, let's talk about facts, because you know i’m just as much of a data specialist as your engineers."

he focuses his eyes on yours, his guard finally down, anchored in you. and that blue... that blue that was previously so dull, begins to reclaim a certain brightness again.

"look at your journey, George. really look at it. you didn’t fall into this seat by luck or marketing. you’ve been winning since you were a boy in karting in 2006. you conquered the British F4 in 2014, the GP3 in 2017, and the F2 in 2018 with an authority the world hadn’t seen in decades. you were the personal choice of the CEO of one of the biggest teams on the grid because he saw in you what i see now: a generational talent. they don’t hand over the keys to a Mercedes to just anyone, honey. you’re there because you were the most consistent, clinical driver on every grid you ever stepped on, from your debut on a kart track to every single podium you earned with blood and sweat in the categories that followed. you are in Formula 1, my love. in Formula 1. that in itself is a massive milestone."

you pause for a brief second, sliding your thumbs across his face, making sure he feels the absolute truth in your words.

"and people forget far too quickly what you faced to get here, George. you didn’t join the team at an easy time. you sat in that cockpit alongside a living legend, a seven-time world champion, carrying the weight of unhuman expectations on your back. and what did you do? you didn't hide. you stepped out of Lewis’s shadow with a maturity that startled the entire grid, delivering consistency race after race, year after year, proving you weren't there to be a supporting act. you battled on equal terms with the sport’s greatest record-holder and carved out your own space. you don’t need to prove you can drive ahead of legends anymore; you’ve already done it. now, you are tracing your own history, creating your own legacy on your own terms. the seat is yours by right and by pure merit. don't let idiot, insensitive words from people who barely understand one percent of telemetry get to you. these things are part of it, unfortunately, but don't let yourself be shaken by it."

he swallows hard, his eyes glistening in the dim light as he absorbs every single word, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath. he tries to look away, but you won't let him.

"you are doing incredibly well", you continue, your voice filled with a conviction that leaves no room for doubt. "you won the first race of the year in a masterful way, and that's not even counting what you did in Shanghai and Suzuka. you are scoring strong points in every single round, and even when the car decides not to cooperate, you are still keeping your team in the lead of the championship. what you did in Miami was magnificent. you’ve carried this team on your back so much already and you have technical feedback that no other driver on the grid can match. you are consistent. you deliver results. and you are bloody good at what you do."

"that’s not what they say out there…" he murmurs, his insecurity spilling over.

"'they' don't know the man who studies telemetry until three in the morning. 'they' don't see how much you dedicate yourself to every mechanic in that garage and every member of that team, even if it doesn't deserve you sometimes. 'they' don't do anything besides spreading hate to anyone who is drawing attention precisely because they are good at what they do. and you’ve always been, and still are, a world-class elite driver. someone who was born for the top."

George lets out a shaky sigh and closes his eyes, letting his head drop back against your chest.

"i’m just not so sure anymore"  he admits, in a whisper that breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. "at the beginning... in karting, in the junior categories, in F2... i knew. i felt i’d be a world champion one day. it was a fact in my head. now? now i look in the mirror and i don't know if that dream still lives inside here. i only see the little boy i let down."

you feel a solitary tear escape and slide down your face. you aren't the type to cry, not at all. but if there is anything that hurts you in this miserable world, it is seeing the one you love suffering. that hurts more than anything else in the entire universe.

you lean down and kiss the top of his head, letting your lips rest there for a second while you try to steady your voice.

"well, i’m sure enough for the both of us then." you say, with a strength that makes him open his eyes again. "i am absolutely certain, George. i see you when the lights go out. i see your effort, your ethics, the way you respect Kimi and want him to succeed, but never stop fighting for your own. that is having character. pure, brilliant character. and the talent? the talent is right there, untouched. it’s only been four races. four out of twenty-two. don't let yourself be shaken by people who wouldn't have the courage to do one percent of what you do."

you caress his hair again, feeling him relax under your touch.

"i love you now, with the 63 stamped on your car, on your helmet, and with all this weight on your shoulders. and i will still love you when that number changes to 1. because it will change. i know it will. i watched that girl on her ducati in Monza two years ago know it the exact moment you stopped her to ask for her number, even if she didn’t quite understand how F1 worked. but she already knew you'd be a champion. and she knows to this day. because you are already a champion. and i am as sure of that as i am sure there is something pumping blood and keeping me alive right here in my chest."

George lets out a long breath, and this time there is no residual tension in his shoulders.

it is a complete deflation, as if all the noise of the criticism, the telemetry data, and the paddock pressure had been drained out of the room for good. he buries his face in your chest again, his arms loosening their tight grip on your waist to just rest there, in a touch of possession, surrender, and peace.

"thank you for believing in me when i forget how to do it myself", he murmurs, his voice already turning slurred and heavy with the sleep that, after days of silent insomnia, finally catches up to him.

you hug him tighter and shift so he is comfortable, breathing in his scent — the scent you discovered is your absolute favourite in the world.

"i will never stop believing in you", you reply softly, almost like a lullaby. "and if i need to remind you every single day how fantastic you are, as a driver and as a human being, i will do it. as many times as necessary, until your voice is louder than theirs in your head or outside it."

George nestles deeper into you and kisses your shoulder, one last flicker of consciousness before surrendering to the exhaustion.

"thank you. i love you. i love you so, so much. really, truly."

"i love you too. really and truly. now rest, hm? i'll be right here with you. always."

"do you promise?" he whispers, nearly inaudible, as he settles his head a bit more against your chest, as if the beating of your heart were an anchor and your embrace a calm safe haven after a heavy storm that nearly capsized his boat.

you smile, pulling the covers further over the both of you.

"i promise." you smile while you continue to stroke him, feeling the warmth of his body fuse with yours under the heavy duvet.

your fingers trace the shape of his ear, trace his sharp jawline, move down his muscular neck and get lost in the golden strands at the back of his head, a rhythmic movement that means comfort for both.

the rain outside continues to fall relentlessly, washing the streets of Monte Carlo, but inside these four walls, the noise of the world no longer exists. there is no Mercedes, no abusive journalists, no lying headlines, no stopwatches that feel stolen, no current or past teammates, and no championships. there is only the comfortable silence of a home made of two people.

and just a few minutes later, George’s breathing becomes deep, slow, and rhythmic. the muscles in his face, previously so rigid, soften completely, and he finally allows himself to sleep — to truly sleep, a dreamless sleep of someone who has finally come home and remembered that, despite everything, he still knows who he is. and he still knows how to steer, whether it's a Formula 1 car or the course of his own life.

and you?

you stay there for a long time, watching over the sleep of the future world champion, brushing a wavy lock away from his forehead and smiling in the dark, feeling a peace that no racetrack victory could ever provide. because to the world, he might just be statistics, points, and headlines; but to you, he is the real man who won your heart on that chaotic afternoon in Monza. and you know, with the certainty of someone who reads destiny in the stars, that whatever happens, he already holds first place in the only race that truly matters.

━━━━━━━━━★

“he actually hesitated because of the macros required by his trainers, but at the very first forkful, his eyes widened in the most incredibly comical way” :’)

“but being a part of a Formula 1 driver's life made you learn in the most painful way possible that his time never truly belongs to him.” shiversss at this line

“he is still wearing the black team polo shirt under his dark jacket, and the silver three-pointed star logo gleaming on his chest looks almost like a branding iron, a cruel reminder of the crushing responsibilities he bears.” UGHHH stunning words

“the fabric of his shirt is slightly damp from the persistent rain, and his scent now is a messy blend of his usual expensive cologne, the cold metallic aroma of the simulator, and pure, raw fatigue.” the way you are SO good at planting me right in the scene…fuck

The way he’s not answering 🥲

“"you deserve it every day, honey", you counter sweetly, bringing one of your hands up to his face, caressing his cheek and feeling the slight roughness of his stubble against your fingers.” 🥹🥹🥹

Flowing so effortlessly into the flashback!!!!

“you smile at him and you stay there for a moment, lost in this bubble of ‘us against the world’.” :’)

“"you cooked. i wash. it’s our sacred rule, remember?" he points out, his voice firm but laced with affection. || "rules are organic, darling. they change when one of the residents decides they want to see the other get a well-deserved rest after an exhausting day", you retort, reaching for the plate in his hand.” LOVE

Ugh just the influx of domesticity 

“"well, i’m sure enough for the both of us then."” !!!!!

White shirt, rolled up sleeves, his hand running through his messy hair, Toto Wolff walked through the corridor that led him to the court where he was training his newest addition to his coaching career.

You

The aspiring young star, who drove your last three coaches to madness.

A feisty and fiery woman, who didn’t give a single fuck.

Your parents went through hell for you to be a great tennis player, you had a talent that was worth the time and money they had.

But you were so hard to handle, having your own stubborn mind over so many things, you thought of yourself so high that every person that crossed paths with you ended up turning their back at you.

Toto caught a glimpse of your sweaty figure, you were there from early morning, training for the important game of the season. 

With every swish of your racket, a loud bark left your mouth, he could tell you’re growing frustrated as hell.

He wasn’t scared of you, he loved a good challenge. And you were so good.

“I think you should take a little break, princess.” His accented voice lingered through the court, his long legs walking towards you with calculated strides, low smile on.

Your brows knitted in a stubborn manner, letting your racket fall down your side as you glanced at him. 

“I think you should quit, sir.” 

Your jabbing remarks were his favourite, always making him chuckle.

“Not gonna happen.” Standing in front of you, he snatched the racket out of your hand and gestured for you to sit down on the nearby bench where your things were scattered. With a huff you walked there, dragging your feet in a bratty demeanour. Sitting down and taking a huge sip out of your bottle, you let his tall figure shadow you from the blazing sun. 

“You have to be in great shape for Saturday. You should be hitting the gym instead of this.” Toto’s firm voice was ringing through your ears.

Lifting your narrow gaze at him, you scoffed. “I wanted to clear my mind.”

“From what? Being mad about the colour of your skirt?” He laughed mockingly, knowing that you always got worked up from the tiniest things that weren't aligned with your mood.

You could laugh his jokes away, but no, it flared up your annoyance even higher.

“You can’t understand a shit.” 

Cocking his head to the side, he hummed softly. “Get up. You want to clear your mind? Okay. I’m gonna give you something to deal with that.” 

With a grunt you were up on your feet, taking your racket back into your hand and you stood on the court while Toto took the opposite side. It was rare to see coach Wolff play tennis, but he used to be a famous player when younger, crushing all his opponents.

Having his pockets full of tennis balls, his racket hit one of them quickly, almost taking you by surprise.

But you had a great focus, so you moved your body forward to hit it back.

An hour or so and it was you who lost against him. His breathing ragged, forehead glistening with sweat that his hair stuck to it, he felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He loved to give you a hard time, because you deserved it, but also he knew that it’s the best way to push you forward for being the best out of the rising tennis players.

On the other hand you felt like you’re dying, your heartbeat ringing through your ears, legs thrumming with burning pain as you tried so hard to win, to prove yourself. Bent down, hands resting on your thighs, you saw how the droplets of your sweat fell down, seeping into the hot court clay. 

“Fuck! I was so close!” You straightened your back with a loud growl, out of your breath. 

Toto came back to you, a winning smile plastered over his face, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“You weren’t. You’re no match to me.” 

That was it, he hit the nail on its head, you could feel the angry tears welling in your eyes.

“I hate you.” 

“Oh, I know. That’s a part of the process.” 

Saturday came around quickly, the chatter of the crowd in the court was loud, even louder than the reel of thoughts in your head. Sitting on the bench at the side, Toto stood tall in front of you, watching the ongoing game, he took his own mental notes. 

Turning his head around to see your stubborn frown, he could see how you’re frustrated.

“Easy, princess. Inhale, exhale, with a cool mind, you can break every single opponent in this field. You can do this.” 

But it was so hard to stay calm and cool. So you just scoffed at his stupid advice. And of course, he knew that it was a disaster coming.

Looking over to the VIP box, there sat your parents, looking so proud and excited. 

It was your turn to play the game with the promising woman of the day, you thought you had her folded in a few seconds.

Only for her to have you running and moving on your side, not giving you any second to catch your breath, the way her strength hit the ball back at you was astonishing. 

The crowd was in awe, and you were in agony of your own demise.

Loud applause was heard when she won, leaving you in nothing but crumbles of a disaster. 

Showing you her true sportsmanship, she met you at the net that was dividing the court, offering you her hand with a smile.

You were taught to do the same, to swallow your bitterness, to show you’re not a bitch.

Today wasn’t the day.

You decided to show your worst colours.

Spitting into the face of the woman who just crushed you like a sand castle.

Throwing nasty insults into her face. 

All you remembered was how Toto dragged you out of the court, to the cooldown room in the back, to the complete silence of your storm.

“Are you fucking nuts?” His voice was sharp with the angry edge.

“It wasn’t fair!” Was all you could muster through the hiccups of your sobs.

“You’re acting like a child. Everybody will think now that you’re just a coward who can’t take a loss like a pro. That won’t get farther than you are.” He was towering over you, taking in your beet red face, eyes filled with furious tears. 

The way your lips wobbled was almost funny.

“But—“ 

“There are no buts. You lost. You take notes and you’re gonna get better. But if you don’t get well with your emotions, you’re gonna lose every damn time.” His fingers grasped your chin so you looked up at him.

This time you were quiet. 

“I don’t like losing. And I don’t like this temper of yours. You’re gonna get better. If you like it or not. Now, meet with your parents and the consequences of your actions. The next training is on Monday.”

The humiliation was bad, you were so upset with everything that you didn’t even want to attend the training session.

But your father was the one who kicked your ass for you to go, giving you his important speech of how you cost him so much money so you should work your hardest to make him and your mom proud.

Taking slow steps through the corridor at the court, finally you made it to the field again, being sickened to your stomach to face your coach.

Toto scrolled through his phone, catching you with the corner of his eye, narrowing his head as he slid the phone on the bench nearby. 

“What a beautiful day, princess.” 

“Cut it out, coach.” You murmured, not daring to glance at him as you shoved your bag on the ground. 

“Hm, I see you didn’t even try to work on your attitude.” Toto hummed, rolling up his sleeves, adjusting his white shorts.

“What do you even want me to say…” you bent down to rummage through your bag, while he ogled your backside.

“Maybe I want you to shut up for a moment.” 

“Huh? What was that?” You turned around with confusion but he yanked you over by your elbow, grabbing your tennis racket along the way. 

“It’s time for a proper stretching.” He stated, letting go of you, you stood on the one side of the court. 

“I can’t do that when you have my racket.” You folded your arms over your chest with that cocky expression on your face, showing him that he must be stupid.

Toto smiled smugly, turning the racket a few times in his large hand. 

“This stays with me, do some squats. To activate your glutes.” Gesturing for you to do that, you rolled up your eyes and started to do so.

Toto walked behind you, to make sure you’re doing it right but your ass dipped too much into it.

“Wrong. I think you need something to ensure you’re doing it right. Come on, do one squat but slower this time.” 

And you did, confused what he meant but you understood when your clothed pussy was met with the end of the tennis racket. 

A gasp left your mouth, eyes wide and you wanted to flinch away but Toto’s other hand grabbed your hip to keep you in place while he also held that racket.

“Sir—“ your breathless voice was interrupted by his chuckle.

“Tsk, tsk. See? Every time you dip too much, you’ll be reminded. Now, show me what you learned.” 

Your cheeks were burning, blood boiling but you didn’t want to show him you’re weak. Legs trembling, you carefully pushed your bum down, touching the edge of the racket again.

“Jesus Christ—“ you muttered, with a soft whine.

“It looks like you do that on purpose, princess.” His voice was full of mockery, his hand pulling you down even more to rub your girly parts over the racket.

“S—stop—“ you tried to protest but your voice became shaky and you felt that embarrassing dampness growing in your panties, the one you were hiding behind the closed doors of your room in your parents house at night. 

“Mmm… you want me to stop?” His other hand pushed the end of the handle up your cunt, only for it to end up between your legs. 

“Please.” You whined, shocked at what he was doing. 

You could run, but you were frozen in place.

The handle slid between your thighs, front and back, grazing its way against your underwear. 

“I don’t think you want me to stop, baby. You’re doing a great job at wetting that handle. And I think you’re gonna remember from now on, every game you’re gonna play, what you did today. How your pretty little pussy violated your most precious tennis racket.” Toto was glued to your back, whispering into your ear, making you shudder in arousal.

You grew so needy, your stubborn mind was clouded by the forbidden desire, you wanted everything he might be offering.

“Imagine my cock sliding through your folds like this. At a public place like this. Where anybody can see and catch us. What a dirty girl.” His words were like a drug to you, your legs starting to go numb.

“Want to feel it for real? Hm?” He whispered, pushing that handle more against your clit, getting a moan out of your throat.

You were pathetic and you nodded eagerly. 

With that he put the racket away, tossing it on the ground, while his hand went under your sports skirt to pull your panties aside. He felt how drenched you were, you aching cunt squelching already, dripping like the melting ice cream. 

“So wet, this bratty little pussy. Needs to be tamed.” His fingers dipped into your juices, sliding to the front to tease your impatient bud, your hips jerked back into his groin.

“Please…” you breathed out, Toto was so pleased to hear you beg. 

“You want something? From me? Unbelievable.” His laughter stung your heart, but you didn’t care, you felt you would do anything for him to touch you in the most divine way.

“Sir… please.” You pleaded again, rolling your head back against his chest. 

“You look so good like this. Maybe that’s the way to make you finally more calm.” He muttered, pushing his finger through the entrance of your slick hole, a sharp inhale went into your lungs. 

Then he added another. Slowly and carefully, he was stretching you, enjoying how you were coating his hand with your arousal, your hips rocking against him. 

Your hands went up around his neck, to keep him close behind you, your whines lingered in the air, literally anybody could hear you. 

With the way you were clenching harder and harder he could tell that you’re getting close to your high, and he pulled out, leaving you empty. 

“Coach, what…” you huffed in annoyance, wiggling back to find his fingers again desperately. 

Only for them being replaced by his dick. Sliding between your thighs with ease at how lubed you were from your desire, you almost collapsed from the friction he gave you by his thick length.

“Oh god…” a moan left your lips when you felt his tip prodding at your clit.

“This is what you do to me. Every training, every game, every witty little remark, your stubborn fits, you make me this hard and I’m dealing with it later, crushing my cock with my fist, imagining your tight and fiery cunt.” Toto whispered into your hair, his hands dipping into your hips, bringing you closer to him. 

“Give it to me, please, sir…” you whined, face flushed and sweaty, body trembling.

“But I have no condom on me, princess. You must take me bare. It’s your fault and you will have to deal with the consequences.” His teeth grazed your neck, moving your hips so he had his cock coated with your mess.

“I don’t care.” You muttered, biting into your lip violently.

His laugh vibrated through his chest when he finally went past your entrance, ruining your velvet princess walls with his huge ram.

Feeling how you squeezed him, Toto whined himself, it was almost unbearable.

“So fucking tight…” he gritted through his teeth, now he was finally kissing your cervix having you all creamy around him.

You felt so full that you could feel him in the back of your throat. What your little secret dildo couldn’t.

Moving a little with you still connected, he bent you over the bench aside, your hands braced for the full force he was about to give you.

His thrusts were agonising, you thought you’re losing your mind, because it felt so heavenly. Hitting that spot deep inside you that you couldn’t reach yourself was a cherry on top.

Hoisting your skirt up to reveal your ass, he gave you a smack, the one that surely left a mark. 

“Look at you, dirty little girl, letting her coach fuck her in the middle of the day. You want to cum, don’t you?” Toto huffed under his breath, rutting into you relentlessly.

All you did was a quick nod, unable to breathe nor talk.

“Touch yourself for me, chase your fucking filth. Show me how you do that when nobody’s looking.” He grunted, watching you how you obeyed quickly, your fingers circling your clit fast.

That together with his pace was something you never experienced, feeling that urgent knot in your belly, heat crawling up your legs towards your core and you were coming like crazy with loud moans of his name as you milked him like there was no tomorrow.

Toto was strong but your naughty pussy made it hard for him so he didn’t care about you being still on the high of your climax, he pulled out, shoving you on your knees to the ground and he was coming all over your face, painting that pretty glazed picture on your cheeks and lips.

“Fuuuuuuck, princess...” His hand fisted his dick to the oblivion, squeezing the last possible drop out of him, slapping your face with it.

You were still in the shocked haze, on the ground with knees scraped from the harsh court clay, face covered in thick cum. 

Toto would take a picture if he could, because you looked like every man’s dream.

Quickly he tucked his dick back into his shorts, reaching for some tissues to help you wipe your face. You let him, quiet, not saying a thing. Just watching him.

“So…” he started, not sure what to say. 

“Why didn’t you fuck me sooner?” You gave him one of your fiery gazes and he held back his amused smirk.

“Oh. Well…” 

“Hm. I would be in so much better shape when you’d let me go bounce on that unholy dick of yours.” You got up on your feet, adjusting your panties into its place.

Toto was truly taken aback by your little speech, feeling soft twitches in his groin again.

“You really are so out of your mind, princess.”

A month later you won the crucial tennis match that gave you the opportunity for the world title in your age group.

Standing proud with your trophy, you found the eyes of the man whose name you were moaning earlier that day in the locker room. 

Toto had his posture straight and brooding, eyes full of dark amusement and he couldn’t wait to have you back in his hotel room, feeding your petty mouth with his cock to shut you up.

© All stories and written content created by me is not allowed to be used without my permission. If you wish to share, quote, or use any portion of my stories, please contact me directly.

Phone calls at any hour of the day had become his expectation throughout the prior few years, the name of the Agency well worn into his phone. Any time another school-age kid came into the system in need of a safe place to stay, a temporary residence while they dealt with the courts, broken families, or awaiting adoption, he was high on their list of contacts. 

Day or night, he had received calls from the Agency with a newly arrived kid in mind, one that they thought would be a good fit for George. Some stayed with him for a few days, a few weeks, and some even stayed a few months; staying in his comfortable five-bedroom home on his spacious acreage and giving him a good and ethical reason to spend his more-than-comfortable earnings from his prosperous Formula 1 career. George had always just wanted to do good. To give back in any way he could, to make a difference. Generous nameless donations to charities were one thing, but it didn’t feel personal enough. Not like fostering had.

For seven years he had been the safe space for almost thirteen kids between the ages of six and twelve, opening his home to those who needed him without judgement or an air of righteousness. It felt like it had changed him in all the hardest but most incredible ways, helping kids at the lowest of lows to feel loved, cared for, and like they mattered…to make a difference in their lives even if it was just for a day or two. Formula 1 had shown him every corner of the world and yet nothing felt as important and raw than his experience in fostering. It was incomparable. 

And so when his phone rang that Tuesday night in August, when he was freshly out of the shower and half-ready for bed, he wasn’t startled. 

Rinsing his toothbrush under the tap, George lifted his phone to his ear with an easy, “Hi, Violet.”

The lady who had called—Violet—was the wonderful placement coordinator he had been working with since his first days with the Agency and they already had quite the rapport and had grown quite accustomed to liaising together through various phone calls. This night, however, there was something in her voice that felt a bit more weighted, a bit more formal, than he was used to hearing, “Good evening, George. Sorry to call so late.”

His toothbrush was dropped back into its cup with a dull clink and he shut off the tap, “No worries. You know I never mind. Is everything okay? Is there another case?”

“Well, sort of,” Violet said gently, “We had someone surrender a baby tonight at our safe-haven drop-off and we’re looking for someone to take her as soon as possible. She’s been medically cleared and is about a week old, she just needs a home, the poor thing.”

“A newborn?” George shut off the ensuite light as he walked back into his bedroom, “For me? Are you sure? I’ve only ever fostered school-age kids.”

“That’s the thing, George. This wouldn’t be a fostering. We wanted to reach out and ask if you might be interested in adopting her.”

He went so quiet through the phone that one might have heard a pin drop. He sat down on the side of his bed at the impact of her soft-spoken words as if they had struck him. Sure, he had fostered plenty of kids, loved to help offer them refuge and safe space where he could, but never had he anticipated adopting. As a single person, the permanence of it frightened him.

Finally, he replied with an echoed and almost disbelieving, “Adopting?”

“I know you expressed that you were only interested in fostering and the school-age group but you have been a wonderful and trustworthy figure in our books, George,” Violet went on, her voice earnest and yet not pleading, only delivering him the truth in that soft spoken and kind way she always did, “You are so caring and gentle with every kid that has walked through your door and your experience has proven that you have a strong understanding of routine and attachment, and you’ve shone through the few long-term stays you’ve housed. And you are financially comfortable with a safe and loving home. You were the first person we thought of when this baby was dropped off to us tonight. All of us here at the Agency thought so.”

“Violet, I…I don’t know,” George sighed. He raked a hand through his damp hair and hardly flinched when his fingers tugged at the strands. 

Ever the professional social worker, she was right there with the reassurance, “I don’t want to pressure you; this is a big decision you need to make on your own accord.”

“Yeah…” George licked his lips, “Can I take tonight to think about it?”

“Of course. We’ll keep her here for tonight. Call whenever you need, or you can drop by in the morning to meet her first. Whatever you want, George, okay? It’s your call.”

When they hung up, George spent a long while just sitting there on the side of his bed in only his towel and staring at the wall. Violet’s proposition swirled around his mind like a hurricane of indecision, the life of a baby balancing in whatever answer he would eventually settle on. A baby. A week old baby could be his. That prospect filled him with nothing but self doubt. 

What did he know about babies? Well, enough to babysit his nieces and nephews on and off when they were little just to give his brother or sister a break. But that was uncle duty and everyone always said that parenting was incomparable. There would be no ‘giving the baby back’ when it cried too loudly or refused to eat for him or spit up on his shirt. In fact, there wouldn’t be anyone to pass the baby off to for even a breather because he’d be doing it all alone. Desperately single in love, he would be single in parenthood too…right off the bat. 

Somehow, George had gotten himself dressed into old lounge pants and a t-shirt and was standing, arms crossed, in the spacious guest bedroom at the other end of the second floor hallway. That bedroom had seen its fair share of kids over the years; modestly designed to be comforting and homey and a place where a kid wouldn’t feel like a guest but, rather, as a part of something. It did its job well, sure, but not for a baby. None of the furniture in that room made any sense for a baby…not to mention the toys that filled the chest beneath the window. 

Suddenly, he was very aware of how not baby ready his house was. He had only ever taken in school-age kids before—his cupboards weren’t locked, there was no gate on the stairs, his guest room held furniture that was not at all meant for babies. He’d need a crib, a change table, formula, proper toys, a rocking chair, so many diapers. Oh, he was wildly unprepared. That had to be an answer alone, right? He had nothing ready—that was a sign, it had to be—he would have to call Violet back and politely decline. 

But then he seemed to have only blinked and he was in his car at nearly nine at night, pulling into the half-vacant parking lot of his closest IKEA. It was so close to store closing but he talked the ear off of an underpaid employee, spilling his mental shopping list he made on the drive over, desperate for any sort of guidance. He ended up driving back home in a daze with only the absolute necessities crammed in the back of his G63; a crib kit and a change table kit. 

What was he doing?

That was the question that he muttered under his breath to himself as he sat on the floor of one of the vacant bedrooms in his spacious home, surrounded by wood and screws and metal supports and an IKEA instruction manual that was more trouble than help. Perhaps he was more so distracted by the whirlwind of thoughts and seemingly ever ending pros and cons list that he muttered to himself the entire time he was navigating the instructions. Yet, his hands seemed to be working by a power of their own will, like they knew what they had to do before his brain caught up, fastening bolts and screws and assembling just so. 

By one o’clock in the morning, he had an assembled crib and matching change table in the once empty room. Standing there with callused hands on his hips, heart racing, the realization of what he did settled over him. He just bought and assembled a crib…all of his own free will. There were layers beneath that realisation that unfolded before him, that despite his uncertainty and his self-doubt he had still subconsciously wanted to have the necessities ready. Just in case. Just in case he adopted a baby in less than twelve hours. 

Oh, God, he was going to need a carseat. 

George didn’t sleep at all that night. Even after hours spent assembling furniture and the endless mental back-and-forth—whether he wanted to adopt this baby or whether he should pass on the opportunity—he lay awake, his mind buzzing like TV static.

It didn’t take long for him to realize there was no right or wrong answer. Maybe, for once in his life, instead of listening to his brain, he would have to listen to his heart. But what, exactly, was his heart trying to tell him?

Lying there with the first hints of morning light slipping through the narrow gap in his curtains, alone in his too-nice, too-quiet house, the answer finally surfaced. He wanted to meet the baby. Just once. To see how it felt when he was face to face with the decision itself. There was no harm in that.

Exhausted from the sleepless night, George pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans and headed for the Agency. Despite the early hour, he stopped at a store along the way to pick up a top of the line carseat (and had one of the employees fit it properly into the backseat of his car). 

It was strange, sitting outside the Agency he had frequented so often in the last seven years with a newborn carseat in the back. He always felt a little nervous every time he picked up a new foster kid—they were all so different and came from unique circumstances—but this was light-years removed from anything he’d known before. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a child who would one day pack up their things and leave.

George rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at the building, suddenly aware of how still he was, of every careful breath he took. He thought about the life he’d built after his retirement from Formula 1—solid, predictable, deliberately steady—and how easily one small person could tilt it on its axis. A baby. 

He wasn’t afraid of the baby. That fact surprised him most. What unsettled him was the permanence of it all. The way a single yes could redraw the shape of his future without offering him a glimpse of what it would look like once the lines were set. There was no right answer, no nine months of preparation and familiarizing oneself with this upcoming change. This would be overnight, immediate. Everything would change in a snap of his fingers. 

The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

Tapping his thumbs restlessly against the steering wheel, George glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching on the empty car seat. Brand new. Waiting. The sight of it made something low and steady settle in his chest—not certainty, not yet—but resolve. Or maybe hope, carefully held at arm’s length. Waiting. 

After a long moment, he shut off the engine.

Violet greeted him in the reception with a brief but friendly hug before leading him into her office. He had gone through these steps many times before, taken his seat in the worn upholstered chair at her desk under the framed degrees hung on her wall between motivational quotes, but the air felt heavier now. The anticipation felt more charged. 

“It’s really nice you wanted to come down, George,” Violet smiled warmly at him from the other side of that desk in her genuine yet practiced way she always did. 

Rubbing his palms together between his knees, shoulders uncharacteristically tense, George nodded once, “Yeah, thought it might help to see her first maybe.”

“Of course.”

When Violet went to reach for the file on her desk, George found himself blurting out, “I bought a cot last night.”

Her eyes raised to his. There was something almost close to surprise in her gaze but she did her best to mask it.

“I hardly slept a wink,” he went on, “Ended up building the cot and a change table until one or two. I don’t know. Just thought…in case….I’d need them. Just in case, right?”

His voice tapered off at the end, soft and unsure, yet Violet didn’t flinch. She only nodded, steady and calm, “Right. That’s very smart thinking.”

George nodded too, as though her reassurance had settled something fragile inside him. He watched as she opened the folder.

“I know I told you the brief of it last night on the phone, but we’ll go over her file more in depth now, just so you can better understand her circumstances and gain a better understanding before you make your decision. This is just a conversation, nothing we chat about here will lock you in, alright?”

“Yeah. Alright.” George leaned back in the chair, attempting something that might pass for relaxed. In truth, he looked as stiff as stone, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

Violet walked him through the medical reports from the tests conducted after the baby was brought in through the safe-haven drop-off. She’d passed everything with flying colours. Feeding well. Healthy bowel movements. Crying no more or less than expected for a newborn. Her biological parents were completely anonymous and unreachable.

At barely a week old, it would be a clean start.

George listened carefully, absorbing every word, doing his best not to let the weight of it all wash over him at once. When she had finally finished, there was a pause, the information settling. 

George shifted, “Can I ask something?”

“Of course,” Violet folded her hands atop the open folder and organized documents.

“What does the next week look like, if I say yes?”

“Well, that’s entirely up to you. If you said yes today, we’d have you sign some documents to hand over all paternal rights to you; similar versions of the forms you sign for fostering but a little different, these ones. Do you have a carseat?”

“Yes, I bought one this morning on my way in. Just in case.”

A small smile pricked the corner of Violet’s mouth but she stayed perfectly professional as she continued, “Lovely. Then you’d take her home. We’d provide you with a few necessities to get your started—formula, bottles, nappies, wipes. And then the rest is really up to you. It’ll be a huge adjustment period but we know you’re quickly adaptable; you’ve handled a lot of different kids in the foster system…some quite difficult ones. Although a newborn is different, she’ll require the same levelheadedness and patience we know you have.”

“And if I have questions?”

“You have my number.”

“What if it’s late?”

“Even still then.”

George let out a tense sigh and gripped the armrests of the chair as if grounded himself physically would help settle his swirling mind. It was just one of those things you could try to prepare for but you’d never be prepared until you were thrown right in the deep end. 

After a brief moment, Violet spoke once more, “Would you like to meet her?”

The Agency had a small nursery on site, protected behind the keycard locked double doors manned by a twenty-four hour front desk guard. Of course. They were the United Kingdom’s top fostering and adoption agency; internationally regarded. No chances were taken, no corners cut. Their professionalism was what drove George to inquire with them initially all those years ago when he knew nothing outside of racing and just thought it would be cool to try to make a difference. To put his money to better use than designer cars and luxury vacations. Now, he was about to put his heart on the line too. 

In only a blink, Violet had led him into the small room across the hall that he had frequented a few times over the years. It was where he would first meet the foster kids, giving them some time to talk or play together with the provided toys so the kids wouldn’t feel like they were going home with a total stranger. Perhaps this was no different. Sure, the baby was barely a week old, but they still had to get acquainted. 

He waited there, alone, while Violet went to get the baby from the nursery, leg bouncing restlessly as he sat in the all too familiar visitor chair, hands wringing together. His mind seemed to be a tempest of every thought at the same time and, yet, nothing at all. 

Before he knew it, the door was opening again and in floated Violet with a tiny little fussy bundle in her arms. George sprung to his feet but then suddenly felt as though he had suddenly been rooted to the spot, left staring dumbly at her as she closed the door behind her. For years he had pushed himself and his body to the edge of what humans were capable of, showing himself as fearless as one of the top drivers in the world, a force to be reckoned with. Yet, here he was, frozen in place over the concept of laying sight on an unnamed baby whose future rested in his hands.

“Here she is,” Violet said ever so softly, carefully moving closer so George could get his first glimpse. 

The first thought that came forward through the static of George’s mind when he first laid eyes on the newborn, was who would ever dream of giving her up?

She was the sweetest thing he had ever seen with rosy round cheeks and a tiny button nose, snuggled under a thin hat and swaddled tight. He wasn’t immune to the powers of an adorable baby and yet there was something about this one, about these circumstances, about the weight of this moment, that had him nearly swooning. He didn’t even hesitate when Violet offered her out, holding out his arms to accept the snoozing baby with practiced ease. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” George whispered in near awe to the baby now tucked perfectly in the crook of his arm like she was meant to be there. 

She was a healthy eight pounds—as mentioned in Violet’s spiel of information—and felt so right and so real in his arms, even as she squirmed to get comfy. Her tiny mouth opened in a big yawn, eyes scrunching shut, and her little pouted lips smacked dreamily. George swore his heart sang. 

He spoke to Violet without taking his eyes off of the baby, “What’s her name?”

She answered him with soft patience, “She doesn’t have a name. Her crib card just says ‘Jane Doe’ for now. You would be able to name her whatever you wish.”

It would be a high-pressure honour.

In all honesty, George hardly took his eyes off the baby even when Violet brought him a bottle of formula to feed her with, getting him arranged in the chair in the corner of the room with the swaddled newborn still tucked comfily in his arms. She then left them alone to have their moment of peace together, to feel if this was a good fit, if it felt right for George. 

He just couldn’t stop staring at her, watching the way her little lips wrapped around the nipple of the bottle as she suckled, her soft lashes resting atop her chubby cheeks, and just hearing the little content grunts and sighs she made so naturally. George was careful not to jostle her too much, keeping the bottle in place so as to not disturb her feed while his other hand cautiously unfastened the snug blanket around her so he could get a proper look at her. 

Oh she was so tiny and precious, tucked perfectly in the simple white onesie, little limbs flailing and stretching once released from the swaddle. She let out another little mewl behind the bottle and when George pressed his pinky against her tiny fingers, she held onto him like she never wanted to let go. 

“Hi there,” George cooed in a whisper, giving his pinky a little wiggle so she could feel him there, with her, “You’ve had a crazy first week of life, haven't you?”

Of course, she didn’t reply, but he found talking to her to be almost cathartic. So, he let himself ramble to her in that same gentle whisper, letting her get used to his voice and so they could get a little more familiar with one another. The big decision still had to be made, after all. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” George asked softly as if she could be his voice of reason, his deciding vote, “Everyone seems to think we’d be a good pair, you and me. What do you think, hm? You’d have your own room…lots of land to run and play on…I know my family would love you just like you’re our own. You would be mine. And I’d be yours. Like a little team. Right?”

He played with her tiny fingers gently, tracing the small shape of her hand with his, all while he continued to feed her.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed in a breath, “I don’t want to let you down. I don’t want to take you home and you end up unhappy or…or you grow up to resent me or something. I want to be what you deserve. I want to give you the life you deserve. I just want to be good for you and I don’t even know what that looks like. So…you might have to be patient with me, if that’s the case.”

As he spoke to her, he didn’t seem to realize that his words started to blend into phrases that seemed to lean more towards saying yes, to wanting to give this a chance. He spoke to her in affirmatives, in future tenses, of things to come. Maybe speaking it all out loud settled his own nerves, feeling more assured by the weight of her in his arms or just completely entranced by her cherubic face. 

When she finished feeding, he moved her like he was on auto-pilot—actions practiced from years of babysitting his nieces and nephews—sitting her up on his lap with her chin and head supported in one hand while his other instinctively started to pat her back to burp her. He hardly noticed what he was doing as he spoke to her in a sigh, “God, I don’t even know what to name you. What should your name be?”

George didn’t quite realize just how attached he had grown to the newborn in such a short time, how ready he truly felt deep down, until Violet returned to check on him and she went to take her from him. His words came out hurried, asking to hold her longer, as if he were scared of someone taking her away from him. It was then that he realized that perhaps he was more scared of letting her go than taking this chance. 

And so George signed the adoption papers at noon. With a few swipes of a pen to paper, he was a father. In only sixteen hours, his life had completely changed. 

The baby didn’t have a name when he brought her home. George seemed to linger on that fact the entire drive, two hands clutching the steering wheel, driving slower than he ever had in his life, all while his unnamed daughter slept soundly in her carseat in the backseat. It all felt like a good idea that morning and into the early hours of that afternoon, having grown so attached to her sweet face and gentle demeanor as they spent some time together at the Agency. Even in the car, despite how his mind desperately tried to think up a name for her that didn’t sound too unappealing, he was generally at peace. 

She started crying the moment the car was parked in the driveway, little fusses and sniffles from the backseat turning into loud wails when he carefully wriggled the carseat free from its secured base. With the baby in one hand and his bag of supplies the agency provided him with in the other, he closed the car door with his hip and started up the front walk to the porch, rocking her gently. 

“Shh, it’s okay, we’re home,” George cooed to her, struggling to hold the baby carrier handle over his arm as he fumbled with his keys, “We’re home.”

Everything inside was exactly how he had left it…exactly how it had looked back when he was living as just George; the shoes lined up by the door, the dishes in the sink, the trophies displayed proudly in the office. Now, suddenly, he was George and a baby. George and a baby and a house that didn’t quite reflect that. And, God, she needed a name. It felt almost unnatural and improper to not give her a name. 

He set the carrier on the coffee table in the lounge and bent down to carefully unbuckle her, fingers working cautiously even as she squirmed and flailed and cried. She was so tiny in his hands when he picked her up, so light and fragile, and he brought her close to his chest with gentle hushes. With her snuggled up in one arm, his other gently patted her bum to try and soothe her while he mentally went through a checklist of what she might need that was making her fussy. 

She wasn’t hungry because he had just fed her at the Agency…she didn’t smell like she needed a change…she slept well so she wasn’t tired. George paced back and forth in his living room and gently rocked her in his arms, patting her bum, and shushing her quietly. Maybe she was scared? She had been taken by a man she hardly knew to a place unrecognizable to her in all her week of life, all without her consent. He would be frightened too!

“I know, I know,” he whispered to her as he paced, “You’ve been passed around a lot this week, haven’t you? No more of that, okay? I promise. This is your home now.”

It broke his heart to hear her cry like that, staring down at how her sweet face was scrunched up and rosy pink with displeasure, tiny hands bunched into fussy fists by her face. George reached his hand in to gently pry her hands away from her face and he wriggled his pinky into one of her fists so, instead, her fingers could wrap around his one. It was a start but she still cried, shrill and repetitive and sorrowful. 

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” George cooed, bouncing her a little in his arms as he sauntered out of the living room and down the hallway. 

In his mind, perhaps a little tour of her new home would help to settle her; the pace of him walking, allowing her to get familiar with him and his voice and with the home they now shared. He showed her every room and talked to her the whole time, even as she cried right through it. He had no idea what he was doing—frankly, he felt a little ridiculous—but he kept at it, even if it felt like he was playing one horrible guessing game. This was going to be the first day of the rest of their lives…hopefully it would just get easier from here. 

By the time they returned to the living room from their extensive house tour, the baby had quieted a little but she was still fussy, almost as if she had started to wear herself out. Or, maybe, she was growing more comfortable—George’s inexperienced and desperately hopeful mind offered. 

So, he finished their tour with the photographs in the living room, the framed ones he had always meant to hang up on the wall but never got around to it, that were, instead, resting at the base of the wall in the corner and gathering dust. He sat there, on the living room floor, with this newborn baby in his arms that was now his and showed her all the photographs.

“This is my mum and dad…” he introduced the first photograph to her, holding it up in its frame so she could see it—well, see it in the way a fussy days-old baby could. 

For a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture in his hand, the smiling faces of his parents captured some time during his childhood, the two most important people of his life who didn’t even know they just got another grandchild. Sure, they had plenty between his brother and sister, but they always were in George’s ear to ask and lightly tease when he was next. When was he going to settle down? When was he going to have kids of his own? He always thought the concept of it all wasn’t in the cards for him, that after such an illustrious career he couldn’t quite trust that women would want him for the right reasons, not enough to share a life with them and bring a child into the world. 

Now, suddenly, he seemed to have skipped ahead a few steps. He had always loved kids, loved to foster kids and make a difference in their lives, but having one of his own always felt out of the question. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t. 

The concept tasted unfamiliar on George’s tongue; even more so when he corrected his introduction, instead, with a testing, “This is your nanny and granddad.”

He let the words settle for a moment as he glanced down at the squirmy newborn in his arm, still fussing and crying. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t introduced himself to her yet. All this talking and he hadn’t even properly said hello. Well, that certainly didn’t seem right. 

George sat back against the living room wall, his socked feet flat on the floor, knees brought up just enough to have the baby resting against his thighs so they could look at each other. Her little legs barely stretched halfway past his stomach. She was so tiny. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a baby that small…it had been a while since his last niece was born. But he held her steady like it was almost instinctual; hands framing her body with her arms held in place by his gentle thumbs, her fingers gently rubbing her tummy.

And then he took a breath and spoke to her in words so soft he hardly recognized his own voice, “And I’m your daddy.”

She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, little legs flailing across his abdomen as she fussed. When he reached a finger up to stroke across her chubby cheek, she turned and took it in her mouth, suckling on it right away to soothe herself. 

“Good girl…” he whispered, his racing heart easing as she quieted, “We’re going to get on just fine, aren’t we?”

From their spot on the living room floor, he swore he could have stared at her for hours, just like that, taking in every inch of her perfect little face and tiny body. She was an angel. 

George gave her tummy a little rub with his fingertips as he confessed softly, “I’ve always wanted a daughter, d’you know that? I never thought I’d have one of my own but here you are. Just gotta think of a name for you, hm?”

She let out a little mewl as she sucked on the tip of his finger, grabby and exploratory hands wrapping around his much larger one. The smile that came to his face was all too easy, absolutely swooning over the precious little girl that was now all his. It wasn’t going to be an easy road, but he knew in his heart (and his mind) that this decision felt right. 

George looked back at the framed photograph of his parents that rested on the floor beside them. He would have to call and tell them the news later that day; a bit of anticipation that was both nerve wracking and exciting all at the same time. As he stared at the picture of his parents in the garden years ago, his attention drifted past their figures to the form of his childhood farmhouse in the background. It was still almost the exact same now; with the colourful flower beds and worn white shutters and the rich green climbing stems of ivy that clung to the stone facade. 

For a moment, George stared at the photograph of the home that he loved so much, the one that stayed constant through every phase of his life, all his formative years and well into adulthood. The ivy still clung to the stone in the image, thick and unruly and impossibly alive, winding its way up the walls as though it had chosen the place and refused to ever let go. Quietly. Persistently. Year after year, it grew—weathering storms, softening the hard edges of the house, making it feel lived in. Loved.

He looked back down at the baby in his arms.

She was small but determined, her fingers curling with surprising strength around his, her mouth still busy, still searching, mewling and cooing with quiet reverence. Something steady bloomed in his chest at the thought of her growing the same way—slowly, stubbornly, finding her way upward no matter what tried to stand in her path. 

The name settled instantly, warm and sure in his chest. It didn’t feel new. It felt familiar. Like something that had been waiting.

He tested it aloud, as soft as a breath, “Ivy.”

She made a quiet sound in response, a sleepy little sigh, and George felt something in him finally click into place. It felt like something close to recognition—as if he hadn’t chosen her name at all, only remembered it. 

“Yeah? You agree?” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently over her belly, “I think Ivy suits you. Miss Ivy Russell. All mine, hm?”

And then he leaned down and sealed it with a soft kiss to her chubby cheek, as this little person so effortlessly grew her way around his heart. 

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