✶࣪The Winner Takes It All ✶

You met Lewis on a rainy Tuesday. Not the poetic kind of rain. No soft mist gliding down windows, no moody puddles reflecting neon signs. This was the chaotic kind: umbrellas turning inside out, coats clinging wetly to your shins and the wind yanking your dignity one gust at a time. The United Kingdom always had a way of feeling theatrical when the weather was miserable and you were in no mood for the spotlight.

You stood outside a hotel lobby, bracing yourself with a pathetic excuse for an umbrella the kind you buy last minute from a convenience store and immediately regret. The networking event had been your colleague’s idea, fuelled more by stale champagne and tiny quiches than any noble pursuit of professional connections. You’d already plotted your escape when the rain decided to turn vertical.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Not because you were laughing like you belonged there. Not because you gravitated toward fame like a moth to a racing flame. In fact, you hadn’t even realised who he was. This charming stranger whose hood hung crookedly, whose sneakers were definitely not waterproof and who looked mildly confused by this weather and the concept of mingling with people who said things like, “Let’s circle back on that.”

The rain angled viciously. You instinctively shifted, nudging your sorry excuse for an umbrella over him.

“You’re going to get soaked,” you said, tugging it his way. “It’s only polite to share.” He glanced at you, amused. “Is it polite, or is it that you didn’t want to stand here alone?” You gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe a bit of both.”

That was it. No lightning bolt. No orchestral swell. Just a tiny spark with a stubborn heart like a tea light that wouldn’t give up in the wind.

And soon enough a spark lingered from that day. The two of you exchanged numbers and it began quietly from there.

Dinners in cozy places with flickering candles and laminated menus. Phone calls that started with harmless chatter and dissolved into sleepy confessions. You tiptoed into each other’s lives with the grace of people afraid to knock over anything too precious.

When you told him about your kids, your voice wobbled just a little.

“I have children,” you said like you were handing him a box labeled ‘Handle With Car’.

He blinked. Paused. Then asked, “What are they like?” Not where’s their dad. Just curiosity, kind and uncomplicated.

You fiddled with the edge of your napkin. “The oldest is fourteen - reserved, keeps their guard up. The middle’s ten, all questions and side-eyes. And the youngest is five.” You laughed softly. “That one’s a barnacle. Sticks to me like glue.”

His smile was immediate, soft. “They sound like good kids.”

Meeting the kids was let’s be honest a sitcom episode.

Your eldest held the posture of someone conducting a very serious internal audit. Their arms folded, their eyes narrowed. If they'd had a clipboard, Lewis would've been under evaluation.

Your middle child regarded him like a puzzle with missing instructions. “So…you drive cars but you can’t figure out how to open a juice box?” Your youngest clung to your leg stubborn, refusing to speak, blink, or be perceived.

Lewis, who could slice through corners at 300 km/h with nerves of steel, suddenly looked like a man asked to perform karaoke in a language he didn’t speak.

But he didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t try to be ‘The Cool Guy’. He just kept showing up with food, a completely incorrect understanding of Pokémon lore and an impressive ability to lose at Uno.

He helped with school projects like he was preparing for an engineering exam, stayed calm during meltdowns and didn’t flinch when glitter got involved. When your youngest finally reached for his hand, you saw it a shift, gentle and profound. Like something inside him had quietly unlocked.

The turning point wasn’t the big stuff. It was a Saturday morning that smelled like burnt toast and mystery stains.

You were sick like can barely move sick. Lewis tiptoed into dad mode, clearly untrained but wildly enthusiastic. He packed lunches. Brushed hair like he was defusing a bomb. Forgot water bottles, but gave pep talks about friendship bracelets. The kids giggled and you half-dead in bed listened with a heart that thudded out gratitude like a drum-line.

Later that night, your eldest whispered, “He’s kind of useless but he makes mum smile.”

And that was everything.

The proposal wasn’t fireworks and helicopters. It wasn’t live streamed or captioned for Instagram. It happened in your living room, amid the couch, sippy cup and a stray sock somehow taped to the ceiling (you never figured out how).

Dinner had ended in giggles and spilled water and your youngest had fallen asleep in Lewis’s lap with spaghetti sauce on one cheek and a toy dinosaur in one hand and Mr Waffles in the other.

He looked across the room, soft eyed, his voice like the hush that follows laughter. “I think we already are a family,” he said. “I’d just like to make it official. You know. Legally. Emotionally. Dinosaur and Mr Waffles included.”

You laughed. Ugly cried a little and said yes. Of course you said yes.

Even with rings on fingers and documents signed, he had his quiet doubts. He still tapped his fingers nervously on the counter when he thought no one was watching, still asked you if he was doing enough. But he never tried to take anyone’s place. He just stayed.

And eventually, that was everything.

He didn’t hide you from the spotlight. He just held up an umbrella when it poured. Tucked you and the kids into a corner of the world where laughter could grow quietly.

He never tried to dim your light. He simply learned how to dance beside it awkwardly, lovingly, sometimes while tripping over Lego.

The first time a journalist asked Lewis about his plans for life beyond Formula 1, he gave one of those trademark Hamilton smiles soft at the edges, just a little bit secretive, like he knew something no one else did. “There’s more to life than F1,” he said, his voice casually laced with truth. “I’ve got my people.”

His fans assumed he meant his engineers. His pit crew. His growing entourage of stylists and strategists. Some speculated he was talking about Roscoe, his beloved bulldog who’d become something of a cultural icon in the paddock. But Lewis had glanced off to the side after saying it, eyes flickering somewhere far away somewhere gentler.

Because really? He meant you.

He meant the half finished drawing taped to the fridge. He meant the matching socks he’d proudly packed for the kids only to discover later they weren’t matching at all. He meant bedtime giggles and pancake disasters and the soft chaos that filled his home. His people were the ones who didn’t care how many podiums he’d stood on. They just wanted extra syrup on waffles and help tying shoelaces.

When another reporter asked about his favourite place in the world, Lewis didn’t even blink. “Wherever they are,” he said simply. The room chuckled. One journalist made a comment about jet-set lifestyles and luxury villas. Someone else said, “You mean Roscoe, right?”

Lewis just smiled again, wide and fond and untouched by fame. But if you were paying attention, his expression softened not for cameras, not for stories, but for something quiet and sacred. Something waiting at home in mismatched pyjamas, asking if he remembered to bring snacks.

Soon, press conferences became a game reporters poking around gently, curious about the man behind the helmet.

“What’d you do during the midseason break?”

“Oh, just spent time with my family. They keep me grounded.”

He never elaborated. Never corrected anyone. They thought he meant extended family. Maybe cousins, a sibling or two.

He didn’t say otherwise.

When asked who inspired him most, he smiled again.

“My family. My wife. My kids.”

A reporter leaned in teasingly. “Wait kids? You’ve got kids now?” He took a sip of water, glanced at the ceiling like he was counting blessings, and let the silence wrap around the moment like a warm scarf. He never confirmed. He never denied. And somehow, that made the mystery even sweeter.

Fans became amateur sleuths. They poured over his Instagram posts like detective novels:

• A dinner photo with five place settings but only four guests.

• A hotel room snapshot where a plastic toy car peeked out from behind a laptop.

• A blurry, late-night video interrupted by soft, high pitched giggles off camera. Lewis had smiled without turning around and murmured, “Back to bed, little one. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The internet exploded.

The hashtags trended:

• #HamiltonFamilyMystery

• #SecretDadLewis

• #RoscoeAndHisSiblings

Speculation ran wild. Reddit threads popped up analysing bookshelf contents and background reflections. One fan insisted they heard someone call him “Lew” in a race day vlog. Another pointed out he always wore the same beaded bracelet a friendship gift, they guessed from a child.

And yet, Lewis never fed the fire. He didn’t tag anyone. No faces. No names. Just crumbs sweet, soft and intentional. Because the truth wasn’t theirs to consume. It was the blanket forts in the living room. The giggles in the hallway. The macaroni art he once tried (and failed) to frame.

Sometimes, the other drivers slipped.

Valtteri Bottas once casually mentioned, “Yeah, Lewis had to rush off for bedtime. His little ones keep him busy.”

The interviewer blinked. “Wait it’s offical Lewis has kids?”

Valtteri’s eyes went wide, a sudden panic flashing across his face like he’d just revealed the ending of a very personal novel.

“Oh - I mean his dog! Right? Roscoe’s basically his kid. Ha…ha…” Too late. The seed had been planted. And Lewis? He never corrected it. Just smiled that knowing smile, like someone carrying the world’s sweetest secret.

In an age where every moment is documented, filtered, and dissected, Lewis had carved out something rare: a sanctuary. He held the world at arm’s length while holding you all closer.

Behind the speed and spectacle was a man who read bedtime stories in silly voices. Who burnt toast on sleepy Sundays. Who danced in the kitchen with mismatched socks and a spoon microphone. If anyone had truly listened they would’ve known.

He didn’t hide his family. He just never handed them to the world. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun drapes itself lazily across the floorboards, casting soft golden stripes through the sheer curtains. It’s the kind of light that should feel peaceful like the start of a slow, gentle day. But your brain is already sprinting.

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the email you’ve read five times now. Final confirmation. It’s no longer optional. This meeting it’s the meeting. The culmination of years of late nights, half finished coffees and doing your best to be everything to everyone.

You sigh, dragging your palm down your face, already aching with the familiar cocktail of guilt and anticipation. A whole weekend away. Away from home. From the kids. From Lewis, whose voice is now coming through the hallway like a game show host narrating a pancake apocalypse.

“Mum?” You look up, startled from your thoughts. Your eldest stands in the doorway, school bag slung over one shoulder, expression calculated but polite always the little diplomat. “Hey, sweetheart. You ready?”

They nod, but hesitate. The lip-biting is your first clue something’s brewing. “Lewis said he’s making pancakes,” they announce solemnly. “He’s…trying again.” You snort softly, tugging on your hoodie. “Trying, huh? That bad?” Their eyes flick upward, as if searching for divine patience. “Let’s just say the smoke alarm’s on standby.” You ruffle their hair gently as you pass. “Go easy on him. He’s already fighting for his reputation this morning.”

The kitchen is a battle zone.

There’s flour on the counter, syrup dripping from spoons and a suspicious crater in the stack of pancakes that suggests someone attempted a flip and failed dramatically. Lewis stands in the eye of the storm, sporting sweatpants, wild bed hair and the wary confidence of a man who’s watched one cooking video and thinks he knows everything.

"Before you say anything," he says, turning to you with the spatula raised like a white flag, "I meant for that one to be crispy."

Your youngest sits on the counter, their legs swinging freely, a glob of syrup painting a sticky trail down one cheek. “Crispy is a nice way of saying it’s dead, Lew,” they chirp.

Lewis gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally betrayed. “Et tu, little one?”

You lean against the doorway, just watching how easily he laughs, how naturally he fits, even if the pancakes aren’t cooperating. Your heart softens. This is what you built together. Imperfect, chaotic, beautiful.

But there’s still a distance. Especially with your eldest.

Lewis never pushes. He’s all warmth and patience, a man who’s memorised everyone’s favourite cereal and knows which child likes bedtime stories with voices and which one prefers quiet. But the invisible line the one your eldest keeps drawn between like and belonging is stubborn.

You see how Lewis notices. How his shoulders fall just a touch when your eldest offers polite thanks instead of a hug. How he watches them with quiet hope.

“Hey, babe,” you murmur, stepping closer as the kids enter a spirited debate over syrup rations. “Can I talk to you for a second?” He turns instantly, brows pulling into concern. “Is everything okay?” You lead him to the hallway, just out of sight. “That meeting I told you about? It’s confirmed. I fly out Friday morning back late Sunday night.”

Lewis nods slowly, the corners of his mouth dimpling thoughtfully. “Got it.”

“I hate being away like this,” you whisper. “Especially now. I don’t want to dump the kids on you -"

“You’re not dumping them,” he says, gently cutting you off. “They’re our family. Our messy, pancake-loving, toy-leaving-on-the-stairs family. I’ve got them.”

Your throat tightens. The word our lands heavy and perfect, like the final piece in a puzzle. “I just worry,” you admit. “It’s not always easy. The walls are still up, especially -”

“Especially with the eldest,” he finishes quietly. “Yeah. I know.” He rubs the back of his neck, then perks up like he’s just unlocked a cheat code. “What if I take them with me to the race this weekend?” You blink. “Seriously?”

“I’d love to. Let them see what I do. The team, the garage, the noise maybe it’ll help. Just me and them. No pressure. No Mum buffer.” He grins, but it’s soft around the edges, full of something vulnerable and brave.

You hesitate. Cameras, crowds, noise it’s a lot. But so is Lewis’s love. You’ve always trusted him with the big things. The loud things. But he’s proven himself with the quiet ones too. “They’d love that,” you whisper.

He smiles big and proud, the kind of smile that steals air right from your lungs. “So would I. I’ll even pack matching socks this time. I’ve learned. I’m evolved.” You wrap your arms around his waist, sinking into the warmth and cinnamon-scented chaos of it all. A pancake flops from the spatula behind you. “You’re a brave man.”

“I’ve faced Verstappen wheel to wheel. I can survive three kids armed with glitter glue and emotional turbulence.”

From the kitchen - a crash, followed by your middle child yelling, “Syrup should not be used as face paint!” Lewis winces. “Okay, maybe pray for me. Just a little.” You chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder. And in that moment in a house that smells like syrup and burnt batter you feel something shift.

Not everything is fixed. Not every wall has fallen. But something’s starting. Something new. Something healing. And maybe, just maybe, this weekend will be the beginning of the belonging you’ve all been waiting for.

Soon enough the next morning is a whirlwind of movement. Socks are being hunted like endangered species, toothbrushes misplaced and re-found and somewhere in the chaos, Lewis manages to balance packing for a Grand Prix weekend while simultaneously tying shoelaces and rescuing a juice box from imminent explosion.

“Lewis, are you sure you’ve got everything?” you ask, half inside a duffel bag, half emotionally unraveling as you do your third round of bag-checking. “Baby,” he says, reaching over and tugging you gently toward him by the waist, “it’s a Grand Prix, not a jungle expedition.”

“Grand Prix with children,” you correct, raising an eyebrow. “That’s practically a jungle.” He grins, kissed by chaos, eyes warm. “I’ve raced through actual rainstorms. I can survive snack time meltdowns.”

You glance down at your youngest, who’s standing like a proud sentinel by the door, wearing mismatched socks and clutching Mr. Waffles the beloved stuffed bunny who’s been through more adventures than most grown adults.

“Do you have Mr. Waffles?” Your youngest beams. “He’s ready to see you win, Lew.”

Lewis crouches instantly, eye level with them, pressing a soft kiss to their sticky forehead. “I’m counting on Mr. Waffles to bring me good luck. He’s got magic fluff, right?”

“Super magic,” they whisper solemnly.

Your middle child zips past, lugging a backpack half their size and mumbling about how they packed snacks, but not sharing them with Lewis unless he “behaves like a responsible adult.”

Your eldest lingers, earbuds in, staring at the floor as if it's made of complicated math. They're at the age where enthusiasm must be cool and emotions come with disclaimers. But you catch the subtle glances they sneak toward Lewis. The almost smile twitching at the corner of their mouth.

Lewis turns, offering his classic lopsided grin. “You ready, champ?” They shrug, arms crossed. “Yeah, whatever.” Lewis doesn’t flinch at the cool exterior. He just nods like they handed him a full sentence. “Right, ‘whatever.’ I’m counting on you to keep me sane this weekend.”

“Good luck with that,” they reply, but this time - this time there’s a glint of amusement in their eyes. A crack in the armour. You swallow the lump in your throat and feel your heart clench in that tender way only parents understand. This is new territory for all of you.

“You’ll call me?” you ask Lewis quietly, pressing your hand to his chest as the kids make their way out to the car with the kind of energy that implies someone forgot their charger again. “Every night,” he promises, his hand resting atop yours. “They’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes at first, but then he gives that wink - the wink and it does.

A few hours later they arrive at the paddock. If Earth had a heartbeat, the paddock would be it. Tools clinking, radios squawking, feet moving with rehearsed urgency. The air buzzes with anticipation and the scent of rubber, metal, and tension.

Lewis slips into his element effortlessly. The kids, however, look like they’ve stepped into another dimension. Your middle child stops in their tracks, eyes wide as saucers. “Whoa. This is where the cars sleep?” Lewis laughs. “They don’t exactly sleep. But yeah, this is their home base. Like their clubhouse.”

The youngest waves at a crew member, who waves back and throws in a theatrical thumbs-up. Another tech holds out a water bottle like a peace offering and Lewis mentally makes note to send them all care packages shaped like chocolate bars and gratitude.

He kneels down to the smallest one again. “Listen, there’s a rule, okay? You go anywhere with me or Angela, but no solo missions. This place is basically a maze designed by a hyperactive robot.”

“Got it,” they nod, gripping his hand tighter and then whispering, “I think Mr. Waffles can be our guide.” Angela greets them like she’s been rehearsing all week. “Finally brought your team, huh?” Lewis laughs, gazing at the three little bodies wobbling around in oversized headphones. “Yep. The most important one.”

Angela crouches down, all sunshine and charm. She instantly starts cracking jokes about Lewis being more high-maintenance than the car engines and how she deserves a gold medal for dealing with his ‘fashion emergencies.’ Your eldest, who had been hovering stiffly in the background, lets out a surprised laugh. It’s short. Quiet. But genuine.

Lewis freezes for half a second, like someone just handed him an award. Then he casually shrugs and says to Angela, “Told you they had an awesome sense of humour. Just needed proper bait.” Angela, without missing a beat, adds, “And apparently that bait is Lewis slathering on too much moisturiser before race day.”

It’s messy and loud and fast and Lewis is glowing. You’re not there, but if someone paused the scene and zoomed in on him, they’d see it: the softness in his eyes, the care in every movement, and the quiet pride blooming with every laugh and every curious question asked about tire compounds and steering wheels.

And for the first time, your eldest doesn’t just exist in the background.

They step forward. They watch. And maybe they’re starting to see something in him that’s worth believing in.

The days blurred in the best way. Each moment stitched seamlessly into the next like a family quilt messy, warm, imperfect, but stitched with so much care it practically glowed.

On Friday afternoon, the pit lane walk turned into a spontaneous Q&A session with your middle child turned Button Detective. They peppered Lewis with questions in rapid-fire succession:

“What does this button do?”

“What happens if you press this during a turn?”

“Why are there so many?”

Lewis, confident at first, started strong explaining tire modes, overtake buttons, energy deployment like a man who definitely studied. But by question eleven, he blinked and laughed out loud. “Okay,” he said sheepishly, pointing to one mysterious toggle. “I have no idea what that one does. I’ll get back to you. But don’t tell Fred I said that.”

They cackled, delighted by this chink in the cool driver armor. And your eldest? Quiet, arms crossed but Lewis saw it: the corners of their mouth curled just slightly. Amused. Intrigued.

Saturday’s karting adventure was unhinged in the best way. Lewis took everyone to a local track not fancy, not polished. Just the kind of worn-in place where kids could let loose and helmets didn’t quite fit right.

He made a dramatic show of stretching before racing your middle child, shouting, “Prepare to meet your fate, young warrior!” Then he deliberately lost. Loudly. Hamming it up with gasps of defeat, fake tears and Shakespearean monologues about being dethroned.

Your eldest, who had spent most of the morning pretending to be unimpressed, snorted. Loud. It startled both Angela and your youngest, who immediately tried to recreate the sound.

Lewis caught the moment a tiny glimmer of connection and didn’t say a word. He didn’t push. That was his quiet superpower: waiting, gently.

Saturday’s breakfast was slow and sacred. The hotel dining room was quiet, just the hum of morning clatter and half-awake conversations. Lewis stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Your eldest sat across from him, cereal spoon moving in lazy circles.

“I guess your job’s kinda cool,” they muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Lewis didn’t smile. He just nodded like this wasn’t a revelation but a truth they’d always known. “Yeah?”

They shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d, like.. hang out with the engineers. Thought drivers just show up and race.”

“Nah. It’s a team. No one wins alone.” That lingered in the air. The words meant for more than racing. Your eldest’s lips pressed together like they wanted to say something else. Lewis just let it sit. Let them breathe.

Then came race day. The garage was alive buzzing with tension and caffeine and technical jargon shouted in three languages. Angela tucked the kids safely into their corner. Each got a headset too big for their heads and a crash course in “not touching anything.”

Lewis paced his pre-race routine, glancing over now and then. His heart pounded not from the grid pressure, but because they were here. His people. Before the lights went out, his race engineer chimed in over radio: “You’ve got three very special guests watching you today, mate.” Lewis, helmet on, focused, smiled beneath the visor. “I know.”

Mid-race, something unexpected crackled over the team frequency. A voice tinny and tiny cut through the static: “Go fast, Lewis! Mr. Waffles says you can win!”

Your youngest, somehow commandeering a mic, sent a message straight into his bloodstream. Lewis laughed mid corner, nearly botched a gear shift because how do you stay cool when your lucky stuffed rabbit just gave you a pep talk?

Even your eldest head down, pretending to scroll through something “more important” inched closer to the screen. Their eyes followed the timing tower with intent. Lips moving like they were silently willing the seconds forward.

When Lewis crossed the finish line P2, sweaty, tired, electric it wasn’t the podium he was thinking about. It was them. Back in the garage, surrounded by shouting engineers and celebratory claps, Lewis found his three. Arms wide, heart fuller than any champagne spray could match.

He knelt and pulled them close, hugging all three like he’d been waiting a lifetime. “You did good,” your eldest said, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks pink. “I, um I liked watching you.” Lewis leaned back slightly, resting his hands on their shoulders, eyes soft. “I liked having you here.”

There was a moment. Small. Powerful. “You can call me Dad, you know,” he offered. No pressure. No expectation. Just a space held open. Your eldest hesitated. A flicker. “Yeah maybe.” And Lewis knew what maybe meant. It meant the wall was thinner. It meant “not yet” but “not never.” It meant someday. And someday was a gift.

You hadn’t even made it home before your phone buzzed like it was possessed.

News alerts. Texts from friends who never cared about racing. Group chats exploding with caps lock.

LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH THREE CHILDREN IN THE PADDOCK WHO ARE THE KIDS? SECRET FAMILY? SWEET MOMENT ON TEAM RADIO WHO IS MR. WAFFLES?

You stared at blurry headlines, your stomach a riot. The photos were grainy. Taken from behind. No faces. No names. But enough. Speculation poured in like stormwater through a cracked roof. You called him. Ring two.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis said, like he was answering from a safe space just meant for you. “Lewis.” You could barely breathe. “The photos. The news. It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” he said, voice calm. “I saw them.”

“And you’re okay?” A pause. And then: “I’m more than okay.”

You sat down, the hotel bed hard under you, your heart clawing at your ribs. “This could get out of control. The kids -”

“I protected them,” Lewis replied, steady. Gentle. “You know I did. Their faces aren’t out there. Their names. No one knows who they are.” You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since takeoff. “But now people know you’re not alone.”

His voice softened. “Maybe it’s time they did.” Silence hummed between you. Heavy. Intimate. “I don’t want them dragged into this,” you whispered.

“They won’t be,” he promised. “I won’t let them be.”

Then came the press conference.

Journalists leaned forward like cats ready to pounce, flashing cameras blinding, buzz thick enough to touch.

One brave soul finally asked: “Lewis, we noticed you had some special guests with you this weekend. Care to comment?”

Lewis smiled a quiet one. The kind that meant something. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re my family.”

Murmurs. The room shifted. Another asked, cautiously: “You’ve kept your personal life incredibly private for years. Why now? Why bring them into your world?”

Lewis leaned in, elbows on the desk, voice even but firm. “I’ve always protected the people I love. I’m still doing that. You won’t see their faces. You won’t hear their names. But I’m not going to pretend they don’t exist.” He paused. Let the silence bloom. “They’re my family,” he repeated. “And they’re the best part of my life.”

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@F1Fanatic Lewis Hamilton has a secret family?? And he’s been lowkey dropping hints for YEARS?? I’m emotionally unwell.

@PaddockInsider Respect to Lewis. He set boundaries, protected the kids, and still spoke his truth. Class act.

@DriveToSurviveDrama Me: Crying over Lewis saying his family is the best part of his life 😭😭

@MomsofF1 Protective dad Lewis Hamilton is my new Roman Empire

Then your phone pinged with one final message. From Lewis: Don’t worry about the noise. I’ve got them. I’ve got us.

That afternoon -

The front door creaks open and it’s as if the entire house exhales its bones stretching, its walls leaning in. For two long days it had felt hollow, like the quiet between chapters, like a stage waiting for the actors to return.

Now they’re home.

Shoes are launched mid stride one bounces off the staircase wall, the other lands heroically beneath the living room couch. Jackets fall in puddles of fabric, abandoned like forgotten stories.

Backpacks crash to the ground like weary travellers, half zipped and overflowing with racing stickers, snack wrappers, and the distinct aroma of fizzy drinks and hotel mystery muffins. Laughter rings out in sudden bursts, round and real and impossibly loud. The kind of laughter that shakes dust out of ceilings. The kind that means they were happy.

You're still adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag when you’re swept into a storm of limbs and excitement.

Your middle child bounds forward, practically vibrating. “Mum! You know how race cars go, like, really really really fast?” Their eyes are wide, hands flying through the air to mimic the curves of the track. “Lewis let me sit in the simulator! I almost crashed! Twice! And guess what he didn’t yell at me. He cheered. He said I was fearless!”

Before you can marvel at that, your youngest slams into your shins like a very determined koala. “Angela bought me ice cream,” they announce with reverence. “Before dinner. With chocolate sauce. And sprinkles. And she didn’t tell Lew until after! And guess what else” they lean close, eyes gleaming, “I’m basically famous.”

You kneel instinctively, brushing a curl from their sticky cheek. “Famous? How?”

They beam, clutching Mr. Waffles like a microphone. “I was on the radio. The real radio. Lewis said my message helped him drive faster. Even Mr. Waffles heard me. I’m probably in the paddock hall of fame now.”

And then through the flurry of children appears Lewis.

Backpacks hanging from each shoulder. A crumpled hoodie slipping off one arm. His shirt is inside out, headphones trail from a wrist, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste across his collarbone. He looks like he sprinted through an airport, wrestled with a vending machine, and wrestled children into seatbelts but he’s glowing.

You raise your eyebrow with mock severity. “Ice cream before dinner?” He sighs in surrender, hands raised. “Angela bribed them with cones. I was powerless against mint chocolate chip and moral compromise.”

But then it shifts. As quick and quiet as breath between sentences.

Your eldest leaning against the banister, still and thoughtful has been watching. Their arms hang loosely across their chest, not in defence but like they don’t know where to place all they’re feeling. Their face is unreadable but softer than usual, washed in something between curiosity and uncertainty.

You speak gently. “Did you have a good time?” They glance over at Lewis, still distracted by a half empty bag and the eternal mystery of forgotten toothpaste.

Then, unprompted and low, they say: “Dad let me help with the pit board.”

Time halts.

A toothbrush hangs suspended in Lewis’s hand, caught mid-grab. The youngest turns with wide eyes, clutching Mr. Waffles tighter. The middle child gasps genuinely, dramatically like someone just revealed the twist ending of a beloved movie.

“Hey!” the middle child shouts, scandalised. “You got to say it first? That’s not fair! I called dibs in the car!”

The youngest, arms crossed and lower lip jutting, frowns. “I was saving it. It was supposed to be cinematic. Like…when he wins a race and lifts me in the air like a trophy!”

Your eldest freezes. “Sorry,” they murmur. “I didn’t mean -”

Lewis straightens, toothbrush now forgotten. He turns slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away. His expression is unlike anything you’ve ever seen wide-eyed, heart-in-throat, like someone stumbling upon buried treasure in their own backyard. “You called me Dad,” he says, voice barely above a breath.

Your eldest hesitates. “Yeah I guess I did.” It’s not dramatic. It’s not bold. But it lands like thunder. Lewis crosses the space and gently wraps them in his arms. No speeches. No performative emotion. Just arms. Just presence.

A moment later, two smaller bodies collide into the hug like bowling pins. “Fine,” the middle child grumbles. “You’re Superdad now.”

“I’m sticking with Lew,” the youngest mumbles, patting his cheek. “For now. Trial basis. But if you give Mr. Waffles a tiny helmet, we’ll see.”

Lewis laughs a laugh that crumples at the edges, eyes shining, shoulders trembling. “Sounds fair,” he whispers. “I’ll earn it.”

Dinner that evening is beautiful chaos.

Spaghetti twirls midair, interrupted by stories about race radio bloopers and karting crashes. Nobody finishes their plate because the laughter keeps interrupting and Lewis keeps forgetting which bowl is his. The atmosphere is syrup-thick with joy, bubbling with inside jokes and sideways glances full of new trust.

Bedtime is long and meandering. Stories layer over stories. The youngest insists on two chapters of their favourite book because Mr. Waffles “needs context.” Your middle child insists they’re drafting a race car design that will “definitely be faster than Lewis’s, no offences.”

And your eldest? They linger. They double-check the charger placement beside their bed. And when Lewis passes by with a sleepy wave, they don’t pretend not to notice. They nod. Just slightly. And it means everything.

Later, as you tuck the youngest in beneath the mountain of blankets and bedtime creatures, you hear the gentle creak of the hallway floor. Lewis is there.

Leaning against the doorway, hands folded softly, gaze shadowed with something heavy and golden. You walk toward him quietly. “You okay?” you ask, threading your arms around his waist.

He melts into you instantly, his face finding the curve of your neck. His breath trembles, fingertips gripping fabric like he needs something to hold him up. “I’m good,” he murmurs. “Really good. They called me Dad.” The word is still new in his mouth. Reverent. Fragile. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear that.”

You press your forehead to his, letting the quiet wrap around you both like a favourite blanket pulled straight from the dryer. “I don’t care what the world thinks,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Let them speculate. Let them question. I’ve been guarding this love like glass, terrified the spotlight might shatter it. But hiding it didn’t protect it. It dulled it.”

He swallows hard. “I missed pieces I didn’t know I was allowed to have.” You brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “They’re mine,” he whispers again. “You’re mine. And I’m not hiding anymore.”

And somewhere down the hall, a small voice calls sleepily -“Superdad, can Mr. Waffles have a cape?”

Lewis smiles. “I’ve got them,” he says softly. “All of them.”

Morning eases into the house like a sigh. Light rolls gently across the ceiling, brushing past walls and tucked-in corners, casting a pale glow across tangled bedsheets and sleepy limbs. You blink your way into consciousness slowly, wrapped in warmth and Lewis.

He's beside you, one arm lazily thrown over your stomach, the other curled beneath his pillow. His breath is slow, steady, and faintly tickles the curve of your neck. His nose grazes your shoulder, the duvet still pulled high and soft around your hips. He’s warm like sunlight. Familiar like home. And beautifully, blissfully quiet.

You shift just a little, and Lewis responds instinctively pulls you closer, nose buried now in the crook of your shoulder. His voice is raspy and sleep-drenched.

“Mmm. We don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” you whisper. “The tiny tornadoes are coming.”

As if summoned, there’s a thud.

And then - Giggles. Frenzied hallway footfalls. And then the door bursts open like a weather event.

“LEWWW DAAAAD!” your youngest cries, already airborne, launching themselves onto the foot of the bed with no regard for blanket stability or personal space. Mr. Waffles trails behind like a parachute, landing headfirst in a tangle of covers.

Right behind them, your middle child arrives with blanket cape flowing, pointing dramatically like a general leading a breakfast rebellion. “Today is a scrambled eggs day! Rise and sizzle, Superdad!”

Lewis groans and buries his face into the pillow. “How did they find me? Roscoe, you were supposed to keep watch.”

Roscoe lying stoically at the end of the bed lifts his head, blinks once with world-weary judgment and lets out a long, audible sigh. Then he drops his head back onto the comforter and resumes snoring. Clearly, he’s retired from security detail.

The youngest wiggles between you both, burrowing with stealth. “We smelled toast in our sleep. Real toast. Not burnt dreams.”

“I taught the herbs to love,” Lewis mumbles, trapped under blankets and giggles and small limbs. “Breakfast will be edible. Possibly inspirational.”

You snort into his shoulder as your middle child attempts to grab his arm and tug him toward destiny the kitchen. “Come on, Lew Dad. The masses demand nourishment.” Lewis rolls dramatically, tugging you into his chest. “Betrayed in my own bed. Mutiny in pyjamas.”

“You promised eggs,” says your middle child.

“You promised toast,” adds your youngest.

“You promised warmth and safety,” Roscoe probably thinks, still snoring.

Lewis presses a kiss to your temple and sighs. “Fine. I shall rise and cook heroically.”

“You’ll rise and cook hastily,” you correct, sitting up as both kids tumble off the bed and scamper down the hall in a flurry of cape flapping and bunny-flailing. He lingers a second longer watching you. “I love this,” he murmurs. “All of it. Even the toast demands.”

And then he stands, stretching dramatically like someone preparing to lift the weight of a skillet and three wildly hungry children.

The kitchen is already a battleground of joy by the time you arrive early morning sunlight pouring in like golden syrup across the floor, illuminating yesterday’s trail of cereal boxes, abandoned socks and a toppled stack of race-themed stickers.

Lewis stands centre stage at the stove, armed with spatula, ambition and his signature “Pit Stop Chef” apron, which now boasts a fresh tomato stain like it earned itself a merit badge overnight.

He’s surrounded besieged by the younger two, who orbit him like sugar-fuelled satellites.

“I want eggs not scrambled,” declares the middle child, gripping a fork like a tiny food critic.

“I want toast with personality,” adds the youngest, who’s now assigning motivational affirmations to each slice: “You are brave,” they whisper to one. “You are worthy,” they whisper to another. Lewis flips a slice heroically. “This one shall be extra crispy confidence.”

You stifle a laugh, sliding over to butter the toast with the practiced rhythm of someone who’s lived through sticker attacks before breakfast.

The fridge becomes a makeshift bulletin board: three drawings taped in crooked clusters, all featuring Mr. Waffles in various racing uniforms. One shows him mid-air in a parachute, another coaching Lewis from the pit wall. In one corner, someone’s scrawled: Mr. Waffles believes in you. So should you.

Your eldest walks in sleepily, squinting at the scene. “Is breakfast going to be edible or... theatrical?”

“Yes,” Lewis says without missing a beat.

Roscoe trots in, surveys the chaos from his usual spot near the kitchen rug, and lets out the world’s slowest blink. He sinks onto his haunches, then flops sideways with the weary drama of a man who knows this circus all too well. One soft snore later, he’s out cold again.

Plates begin to fill eggs, toast, fruit slices shaped vaguely like race cars. The kids fight over juice cups, complement Lewis’s “chef posture,” and tape a sticker to his apron that reads WINNER OF BREAKFAST GRAND PRIX.

You lean against the counter with your tea, watching Lewis help the youngest scrape jelly onto toast and point out which herbs he definitely didn’t identify correctly. And somehow, in between the mess and the music, it feels like everything important is already here.

The rest of the day unfolded not in grand declarations or shining spotlight moments but in the quiet, radiant hum of belonging. Nothing scripted. Nothing filtered. Just warmth, laughter, and a rhythm that only a family in sync could share. The kind of afternoon that feels like it’s wrapped in thick wool blankets and crayon fingerprints.

Lewis survived breakfast. Barely. But “barely” was a win.

Not a single piece of toast burned a victory so monumental your middle child declared it “a golden age of breakfast.” They slapped three glitter stickers on his apron in celebration and fashioned a confetti toss from napkin scraps and stray cereal puffs. The youngest dubbed him “Egg Champion of the Universe,” and bestowed upon Mr. Waffles the honour of “Toast Deputy.”

Lewis bowed like a knight in syrup-splattered sweats.

The early afternoon evolved into blanket fort diplomacy. Using two couches, one armchair, a laundry rack, and every spare bedsheet not currently in the wash, your children engineered a fort that qualified as a minor architectural achievement. Pillows served as diplomatic borders. Roscoe’s usual nap zone was absorbed into the territory as “Bulldog Valley” which he surrendered only after Lewis bribed him with a peanut butter biscuit and a solemn vow that the youngest wouldn’t tape any flags to his tail again.

Inside the fort, rules were loose. Time was slower. There was a flashlight treaty, a sticker tax system, and an invisible force field “to keep adult stress out.” Your eldest lingered just outside. Not quite within the chaos, but definitely nearby. Lewis saw them of course he did. He always did. “Need a mission?” he asked, his head poking out of the blanket folds like a spy.

They shrugged cool, cautious then slid down beside him. Lewis handed them a flashlight, leaned in with a wink, and whispered, “Guard the Waffles Zone. No intruders allowed.” They took it seriously. Even when the middle child tried to redecorate the area with glitter tape, your eldest held the line.

Soon came stories.

You read aloud from a family-favourite book, your voice dancing between characters as everyone nestled under the sagging roof. Lewis lay sprawled on his back like he’d been defeated in battle your youngest curled on his chest, middle child lodged under his arm like a cat, your eldest next to you but inching just a little closer with each chapter.

Roscoe snored loudly through the entire session, earning the honorary title of “Emotional Support Bulldog.” Lewis whispered, “He’s dreaming of breakfast awards. I saw his acceptance speech.”

By golden hour, the fort collapsed under the weight of joy and ambition and nobody cared. It dissolved into a backyard race, where Lewis armed with a soccer ball and a backpack full of juice boxes led the charge. Shoes were optional. Rules were invented mid-play.

The youngest, self appointed team captain, waved Mr. Waffles like a rally flag and declared that “every goal counts triple if you yell toast!” Your middle child acted as referee, issuing penalties for “excessive bragging” and “dad wearing socks outside.” Your eldest took their role seriously as strategy advisor, coaching the game from the sidelines and occasionally heckling Lewis with surprising efficiency.

“Penalty for talking too much,” the middle child yelled mid-game.

Lewis gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Freedom of speech!”

Your eldest smirked. “Freedom of silence, maybe.”

Then came the slip.

Lewis attempted a heroic slide tackle (which had no purpose or audience), lost his footing, and landed flat on his back in the grass. For one terrifying second, the chaos paused.

Then he raised both thumbs skyward. “I’m fine. Just testing gravity.”

The youngest rushed to him in a panic, the middle child started giggling hysterically, and your eldest somehow already composed walked over and handed him a juice box without a word.

And for a heartbeat, they all stood there. No spotlight. No cameras.

Four hands resting against grass. Laughter shared between breaths. That soft, sacred kind of togetherness that feels like it might live forever.

Later that night, after bubble chaos and bedtime giggles and toothbrush races that ended with toothpaste on the ceiling, the house settled. Peace crept into corners like candlelight. Roscoe was curled in his bed, snoring like a freight train lost in dreamland. The kids were tucked into their blankets, Mr. Waffles clutched with sleepy reverence. The air was still. Safe.

You found Lewis outside on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, head tilted back as he studied stars he probably couldn’t name. But he was quiet not the silence of absence, but the silence of awe.

You didn’t speak. You just sat beside him, shoulder against his, letting the night settle around you. “They’re asleep,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Too quiet?”

He smiled softly. “Not too quiet. Just still. Still feels like the world’s finally exhaled.”

You watched the way his eyes reflected starlight. The way he looked more content than you’d ever seen him. Like someone who finally found the thing they didn’t realise they were looking for.

As the two of you slid beneath the duvet, Lewis turned toward you and pulled you close. “You know,” he whispered into your hair. “I never imagined this.” You nestled into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “This?”

“This life. These tiny humans calling me Dad. A fridge covered in stickers and half-finished art. Roscoe looking personally betrayed when someone sits in his spot.” You laughed quietly, tears brushing your lashes.

“It’s better than anything I’ve ever chased,” he said, voice thick. “Faster than any win. Louder than any applause.” You pressed your lips to his jaw, words catching in your throat. You didn’t need to respond. He already knew.

“And now?” you whispered eventually. He looked down, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and sure. “Now I know what it feels like to truly arrive.”

The world would keep buzzing. Cameras might flash. Tweets might trend. But in this small corner of the universe with love stitched into every blanket, laughter embedded in every creaky floorboard, and quiet joy humming in the gaps between it wasn’t about winning anymore.

Lewis had found home.

“It won’t be long before the tabloids catch wind of this,” Dick said quietly. “And once they do, you know how fast it spreads. So… is there anything we need to prepare for? A statement? Clarification?”

Jason stared at the images for a beat too long, his jaw tightening. “There’s nothing to announce,” he said, his voice low, laced with simmering anger.

This—this—was what he hated most about the life he’d inherited. The fame, the scrutiny, the constant invasion of privacy. People didn’t just watch; they obsessed, they speculated, they twisted everything into headlines and hashtags. And they never knew when to back off.

He pulled out his phone, opened the app, and found the same post. He scrolled through the comments. Some expressed harmless curiosity. Others congratulated him or gushed about how “cute” the mystery woman looked from behind. But the rest? Cruel. Jealous. Misogynistic. Disgusting.

He could already picture Y/N’s face if she saw them—how her smile would falter, how those bright eyes would dim. The internet could be vicious and if anyone recognized her, they’d tear into her without hesitation. She didn’t deserve that. Y/N was kind, full of joy, and effortlessly warm in a way that made the world feel easier to exist in when she was near. She wasn’t built for this toxic attention and she shouldn’t have to be.

Jason’s fists clenched at his sides.

They could say whatever they wanted about him. They always had. But Y/N? She was off-limits. Untouchable. And he would make damn sure it stayed that way.

Jason shoved his phone deep into his pocket, the screen still burning with the comments he'd been scrolling through—each one a fresh ember beneath his skin. The device felt heavier than it should have, weighted down by implications and what-ifs. Across the room, Dick's gaze lingered on him with that infuriating older brother intuition, the kind that could read silence like an open book. Jason hated it—being seen like that—but more than that, he hated feeling powerless.

“I’ll handle it,” Jason bit out, the words sharp enough to carve distance between them as he moved toward the door.

“Jason.”

Dick’s voice was softer than Jason deserved, laced with a caution that had been earned through years of watching headlines twist and private moments splatter across tabloids. The warning wasn’t judgment—it was experience.

“Just... be careful,” Dick said, the words measured. “You know how this stuff spirals. One photo turns into a headline, and the next thing you know, she’s being followed. Whoever she is.”

Jason froze mid-step, his spine locking. The unspoken implication hung between them: I see you. I see what this means. Dick didn’t press further. He didn’t need to.

“That’s exactly why I’m going to handle it,” Jason ground out, the promise rough in his throat.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, Dick gave a single nod—not approval, not surrender, just acknowledgment. Permission to go, if that’s what Jason needed.

And Jason did.

Because standing still meant thinking. And thinking meant admitting how much he couldn’t control—the press, the speculation, the way his pulse kicked at the thought of Y/N caught in the crossfire.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the contact for a long moment before pressing call. The phone rang twice before that familiar, graveled voice answered - the one that had talked him through contract negotiations and sponsorship deals since he was a teenager.

“Uncle Harvey. I need your help.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Harvey Dent wasn’t who Jason wanted involved in this fragile, unnamed thing with Y/N. That honor should have gone to Alfred, with his quiet wisdom and endless patience. Or Cass, who understood the weight of public scrutiny better than most. But this wasn’t about introductions over tea—this was damage control. And when it came to protecting what mattered, Harvey was the most ruthless legal mind in Gotham.

On the other end of the line, Jason could hear the squeak of leather as Harvey leaned back in his office chair, the distant hum of Gotham traffic thirty floors below. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades navigating the Wayne family’s most sensitive affairs.

“Son, listen to me carefully.” A pause. The clink of ice in a glass. “You say you’re fond of this woman, but you don’t know how she feels about you. Or this situation. And with the championship rounds coming up?” A humorless chuckle. “It’s like pouring jet fuel on a bonfire.”

Jason’s grip tightened on the phone. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, Harvey watched a news helicopter circle the Gotham skyline - a reminder of how quickly private lives became public spectacle.

“Driver-presenter relationships aren’t unheard of, no. But let’s not pretend this industry has evolved since Clark Kent and Lois Lane.” A bitter edge crept into Jason's voice. “Unless your girl happens to be a Pulitzer-winning journalist with skin thicker than Lane’s and let’s be honest, you’re no ‘America’s Sweetheart’ like Clark was—she won’t survive unscathed.” The lawyer continued, his dual-toned voice measured.

Jason’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could already see the headlines: “Distraction in the Paddock?” “Is Wayne Racing’s Comeback Kid Losing Focus?” Worse, the vile comments that would inevitably target Y/N— questioning her professionalism, her motives, her very right to be in the paddock.

“So what’s the best course of action?” Jason ground out, hating the helplessness in his own voice.

Harvey sighed, the sound distorted by the scar tissue on the left side of his mouth. “You have three options, kid. One: you walk away now, before this gets complicated. Two: you go public on your terms, with every legal safeguard we can put in place. Or three...” A pause heavy with implication. “You keep this quiet until the season ends, and pray to God no paparazzi catches you two in a compromising position.”

Outside, the first drops of rain began to streak down Harvey’s windows, turning Gotham into a blur of neon and shadow. Just like the night half his face had been melted away by a rival’s acid attack. He knew better than most how quickly the world could turn on you.

“The clock’s ticking, Jason,” Harvey murmured. “But whatever you decide— we’ll handle it.”

We. The word should have been comforting. Instead, it settled like a lead weight in Jason’s stomach. While walking our of the garage, he caught his own reflection in the hallway mirror—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something too close to fear.

Y/N hummed softly to herself as she folded another sweater into her suitcase, the fabric still warm from the dryer. Outside her window, the afternoon sun cast golden streaks across her bedroom floor, illuminating the carefully curated pile of items she was bringing to Zandvoort—a notebook filled with sightseeing ideas, her favorite camera for capturing the Dutch coastline and her prettiest outfits, just in case Jason happened to glance her way during the broadcast.

Every moment with him played on a loop in her mind—his laughter during their disastrous pottery attempt, the way his eyes softened when he thought she wasn’t looking, the rare, unguarded smiles he reserved only for their quiet conversations. She had loved him for years, long before she ever stepped foot in a paddock, back when he was just a face on her bedroom posters and a name she whispered to the TV screen during races. But now? Now, she was falling all over again, deeper and harder than before and it terrified her.

Because how could she ever tell him?

The fear sat heavy in her chest, an anchor dragging her back to reality whenever her thoughts drifted too far into fantasy. Jason had once confessed, in an old interview she’d memorized, how much he despised obsessive fans—the kind who crossed boundaries, who saw him as an object rather than a person. And Y/N? She had been that girl once. She had run fan accounts, written embarrassingly earnest posts, even sketched him in the margins of her notebooks like some lovesick teenager. If he ever found out, would he look at her with disgust? Worse—would he see her as just another face in the crowd, another person who loved the idea of him more than the man himself?

The mere thought made her stomach drop.

Stephanie had rolled her eyes when Y/N voiced her fears. “You’re not some random fan anymore,” she’d argued. “You’re his friend. You know him. Tell him.”

But it wasn’t that simple.

Jason had dated models before—women with legs that went on for miles and faces that belonged on magazine covers. Y/N knew she didn’t compare. She wasn’t polished in that effortless way; sure she could be professional but that's that. She was all sharp edges and nervous energy, too loud when she was excited, too quiet when she was overthinking. And Jason? Jason was a legend. A champion. He deserved someone who matched his brilliance, someone the world would approve of—a supermodel, a pop star, anyone but a presenter whose biggest accomplishment was not tripping over her own words during live broadcasts.

And then there was her career.

Relationships between presenters and drivers were messy. The internet would dissect every glance, every interaction, until the narrative was no longer about her work but about who she was sleeping with. She had seen it happen to other women in the paddock—their credibility erased overnight, their achievements overshadowed by speculation and rumours.

But God, if Jason ever looked at her and asked, she would burn it all down in a heartbeat.

Her career. Her reputation. Every carefully constructed boundary she’d put in place to protect herself.

She’d do it without hesitation.

Because he was worth it.

Worth the risk. Worth the fall.

Even if he never felt the same.

Her eyes fell to the matching bracelets he had bought for them from a night market and a soft smile found its way to her lips. For now, this was enough.

It had to be. 

The buzz of her phone against the bedsheets startled her, pulling Y/N abruptly from her thoughts. She reached for it with slightly trembling fingers, her breath catching when she saw the name flashing across the screen— Jay💞.

The little heart emoji beside his name, something she’d added weeks ago in a moment of foolish hope, now felt like a cruel joke.

Jay💞: Can we talk?

Her stomach twisted. That wasn’t his usual style. No teasing remark, no dry observation about whatever hobby she’d been rambling about last. Just three simple words that carried an unsettling weight.

Y/N: Sure. Wassup?

Before she could even process sending the message, her screen lit up with an incoming call. Her pulse skyrocketed, fingers fumbling as she nearly dropped the phone in her haste to answer.

“Hi,” she breathed, forcing lightness into her voice even as her chest tightened with inexplicable dread.

“Hey.”

That single word confirmed it. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Jason’s voice was strained, the usual warmth replaced by something tense and unfamiliar.

“How are you doing?” he asked, the question stiff, like he was reading from a script.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “I’m good,” she replied, forcing a laugh. “Missing me already, are we Todd?”

It had only been six days since they’d last seen each other—six days since they’d wandered the streets of Monaco after dark, sharing a single gelato while arguing over which historical monument was the most overrated. He’d tugged her under an awning when the rain started, his arm brushing hers and for a fleeting moment, she’d let herself believe there was something more in the way he looked at her.

“Somethin’ like that,” Jason muttered, but there was no humor in it. No warmth. Just a hollow imitation of their usual banter. The dread in her stomach solidified into something heavier.

“And how—” she started, desperate to fill the silence, but Jason cut her off.

“We should stop this.”

The words hit like a ton of bricks, sharp and sudden, as if he’d ripped them out of himself before he could reconsider.

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The room tilted.

Stop what? she wanted to scream. Stop texting? Stop laughing together? Stop looking at me like I’m the only person in the room?

But all she managed was a choked, “Stop what?”

Please say I’m imagining this. Please say I’ve misunderstood.

“This. Us. The whole thing.” His voice was rough now, edged with frustration—a tone he’d never once used with her.

A voice in her head, cold and mocking, slithered through the haze of her shock.

What did you think would happen? That someone like him would ever want someone like you?

The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to let him hear them.

“I understand,” she whispered, the words barely audible past the lump in her throat.

It was a lie. She didn’t understand. Not when he’d looked at her like that in Monaco. Not when he’d kept every book she’d ever given him. Not when he’d promised to take her to see the tulips next spring.

But she wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t make this harder for him.

“It was fun while it lasted,” she forced out, her voice cracking. “I wish you all the best, Jason.”

She hung up before he could respond.

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing soundlessly on the bed. Around her, the room blurred—the half-packed suitcase for Zandvoort, the notebook filled with plans she’d never get to share, the dress she’d bought because it matched his eyes.

All of it, gone in an instant.

The phone slipped from Jason's fingers, clattering onto the marble countertop with a sound that echoed through the hollow silence of his penthouse. The screen had gone dark, just like the numbness spreading through his chest—but her voice still rang in his ears, sharp and clear despite the distance between them.

“I understand.”

The way her breath had hitched—just once, just barely—before she’d hung up. The way she’d tried so hard to sound composed, even as her voice cracked on those final words.

“I wish you all the best, Jason.”

As if he deserved her kindness. As if he hadn’t just taken something fragile and beautiful and shattered it with his own two hands.

A wave of self-loathing crashed over him, so visceral it knocked the breath out of him. He braced his hands against the counter, head bowed, shoulders trembling with the force of keeping himself upright.

You made her cry.

The realization was a knife to the ribs. Y/N, who laughed in the face of his sarcasm, who teased him mercilessly but never cruelly, who looked at the world with a wonder he’d forgotten existed—he’d hurt her.

Rage ignited in his veins, white-hot and directionless. At the paparazzi who’d snapped those invasive photos. At the team managers who’d warned him about “distractions.” At the entire goddamn world that had made this feel like the only choice.

But mostly—mostly—at himself.

The voices in his head, the ones he usually drowned out with engine roars and podium cheers, rose in a venomous chorus.

She would’ve left eventually. You’re not someone people stay for. You ruin everything you touch.

A sweeter, softer voice tried to interject—You were just trying to protect her—but the others drowned it out with mocking laughter.

Protect her? Or protecting yourself from the truth? That you’re terrified she never loved you at all?

“Shut up!” The words tore from his throat raw and ragged.

His vision blurred. His hands shook. The anger needed an outlet, needed to burn, and before he could think, he grabbed the nearest object—

The ceramic pot.

Their pot.

The one they’d painstakingly shaped at Nonna Gianna’s, their fingers brushing over wet clay. The one Y/N had painted with his racing number in that terrible, crooked script of hers, grinning as she declared, “Now everyone will know the great Jason Todd made this masterpiece.” The one he’d secretly kept on the shelf, where he could see it first thing every morning.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot.

The moment it left his hand, he regretted it.

Jason was across the room before the last piece hit the ground, collapsing to his knees amidst the wreckage. His hands trembled as they gathered the broken fragments, as if he could somehow piece them back together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, voice breaking.

To the pot. To the memories. To her.

The jagged edges bit into his palms, drawing blood, but he barely felt it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of knowing—

He’d broken something far more precious than clay.

Y/N slid down the length of her bedroom wall, her legs giving out beneath her as she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as if she could physically hold herself together. The tears came in relentless waves, hot and suffocating, each sob wracking her body with a violence that left her gasping for air.

She had known this would happen. Had braced for it from the moment she first realized her feelings for him had grown beyond professional admiration. So why did it feel like her chest had been cracked open? Why did it hurt to breathe, as if every inhale was lined with shards of glass?

Her phone buzzed incessantly on the carpet beside her, the screen lighting up again and again with notifications she couldn’t bring herself to check. Calls. Texts. Maybe even an explanation—though what could he possibly say that would undo the way his voice had sounded when he said those words?

We should stop this.

Had he found her old fan accounts? The embarrassing posts from her teenage years? Or worse—had he simply realized she wasn’t worth the trouble? That whatever this was between them had been a mistake?

The questions swarmed in her head like angry hornets, relentless and poisonous. She pressed her forehead against her knees, nails digging into her arms as if the physical pain could distract from the gaping hole in her chest.

Time lost meaning. The sunlight that had streamed through her windows when the call ended had long since faded, replaced by the dim glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. Her tears had dried up, leaving her hollow and numb, her body too exhausted to produce any more.

She didn’t hear the frantic knocking at her front door. Didn’t register the sound of it swinging open, or the hurried footsteps that echoed through her apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N!”

Stephanie’s voice cut through the fog of her grief, sharp with panic.

Y/N barely lifted her head as her friend skidded into the bedroom, eyes wide with alarm. Behind her, Tim hovered in the doorway, his usual easygoing expression replaced with concern.

“Oh my god—” Stephanie dropped to her knees in front of her, hands hovering as if afraid to touch her. “Tim, go get water. Now.”

“Hey, Steph,” Y/N murmured, her voice raw and broken. She didn’t have the energy to force a smile, didn’t even try to wipe away the tear tracks staining her cheeks.

Tim returned moments later with a glass of water, which Y/N accepted numbly. The coldness of the glass against her palm was the first real sensation she’d felt in hours.

“You didn’t show up at the airport,” Stephanie said, her voice trembling. “You weren’t answering calls or texts. And then we saw the news report—”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass. “News report?”

Stephanie blinked. “You... didn’t know?”

Tim wordlessly pulled out his phone, swiping through his feed before turning the screen toward her. Y/N set the glass down with a shaky exhale. “That explains a lot.”

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “Wait, what do you mean by that?”

And so, in halting, broken sentences, Y/N told them. About the call. About the way Jason’s voice had sounded—like he was forcing the words out, like he hated every single one. About how she’d hung up before she could break completely.

By the time she finished, Stephanie’s face had darkened with a fury Y/N had never seen before.

“That motherfucker,” she hissed, pulling out her phone and her hands balling into fists. “I swear to God, I’m going to—”

“Steph,” Tim interjected gently, though his own jaw was clenched. “Let’s just... focus on Y/N right now, okay?”

Stephanie nodded slowly and put her phone down begrudged, “But mark my words, he’s not getting away with this. Not after everything. Not after you.”

Y/N didn’t have the strength to stop her. Didn’t have the strength to do anything but stare at the floor, the numbness settling deeper into her bones.

Zandvoort was everything Y/N had imagined it would be—the roaring crowd, the salty sea air mixing with the scent of rubber, the vibrant banners waving proudly in the stands. The Dutch Grand Prix had always been one of her favorites, and she had been looking forward to this weekend for months.

But now, standing in the middle of the bustling paddock, she felt strangely detached from it all.

The night before had helped, at least. Steph and Tim had refused to leave her alone, bundling her onto their private jet with a duffel bag full of all her comfort foods. They’d let her cry when she needed to, let her rant when she wanted to and then, when the worst of it had passed, they’d distracted her with terrible B-movies and enough popcorn to feed a small village. By morning, the raw edges of her heartache had dulled into something more manageable—something she could tuck away behind a practiced smile and a layer of expertly applied makeup.

She still wore the dress she’d bought for the weekend. A deep emerald green with accents of blue, the color of the ocean under storm clouds. She’d picked it weeks ago, imagining how the fabric would flutter in the coastal wind, wondering if Jason would notice. But of course, there was no use of thinking such thoughts now.

The race had been chaotic, the kind of edge-of-your-seat spectacle that normally would have had her buzzing with adrenaline. Jason had podiumed—P3, when he could have easily taken P1 if not for a series of uncharacteristic mistakes. The commentators speculated about pressure getting to him, but everyone in the paddock knew the real reason. The photos. The rumors. 

She had avoided him all weekend, sticking to the media zones where she knew he wouldn’t venture. But now, as the post-race interviews loomed, her luck had run out.

Cass was first—stoic as ever, gracious in victory, her answers concise and humble. Konner Kent followed, flashing that trademark Kent charm, all cocky grins and playful winks that had the crowd eating out of his palm.

And then, before she could brace herself, Jason was stepping into the interview pen.

“Hello, Jason.”

Her voice didn’t waver. She had spent years perfecting the art of professionalism, and it didn’t fail her now. The smile she gave him was polite, detached—the same one she’d give any driver.

“Mind walking us through your race?”

For a moment, he just stared at her.

The noise of the paddock faded into the distance. The cameras, the reporters, the fans—none of it mattered. His gaze searched hers, desperate, as if he could find some answer in the cool detachment of her expression.

Are you okay? his eyes seemed to ask. Did I ruin everything?

But she gave nothing away.

“Jason?”

Her voice was calm, measured, the perfect cadence of a professional doing her job. The microphone in her hand didn’t tremble. The smile on her lips didn’t waver. But her eyes—those dark, expressive eyes he’d spent months learning to read—were utterly unreadable.

He blinked, startled back to reality like a man waking from a dream. “Uh—yeah. Sorry.”

The apology tasted bitter on his tongue. Sorry for what? For zoning out during the interview? For breaking her heart over the phone like a coward? For the way his chest ached just standing this close to her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and soft that reminded him of the lazy afternoons in cafes of Milan?

He cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he launched into the mechanical race recap every driver had memorized by their rookie year. Tire degradation. Track conditions. The usual corporate-approved talking points.

But his gaze never left hers.

He watched for any crack in her armor—a flicker of hurt, a flash of anger, anything to prove she still felt something. But Y/N? She was impeccable. Nodding at all the right moments, smiling when the script demanded it, her posture relaxed as if this was just another interview with just another driver.

Not the man who’d danced in the rain with her in Austria. Not the man who had a polaroid of them on his nightstand. Not the man who was currently dying inside.

“So,” she continued smoothly, glancing down at the cue cards in her hand, “any plans after the race?”

The question was innocuous. Routine. He swallowed hard. “I did have plans for going to the beach, maybe the museums...” His voice trailed off, the ghost of a humorless laugh escaping him. Plans with you. “But those fell through.”

For the briefest second, something flickered in her expression. Then it was gone.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but her knuckles whitening around the microphone, “I think you should still try to go regardless.”

Their eyes locked. The paddock noise faded to static.

Even if we’re done, her words whispered between them, don’t stop living.

Jason’s throat tightened. He wanted to say so much more—to explain about the lawyers, the paparazzi, the team. To tell her that walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

But the cameras were rolling. The world was watching.

So all he said was, “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

The days after the interview bled together in a monotonous cycle of exhaustion and emptiness. Jason fell back into his old ways—wake up, train, eat, sleep, repeat. The discipline that had once been second nature now felt like a prison sentence, each repetition chipping away at what little remained of his spirit.

He still raced. Still won, even. The muscle memory was too deeply ingrained for anything less. But the fire that had once driven him—the fierce, unrelenting need to prove himself—had been reduced to smoldering embers. Without her in the stands, without her texts dissecting his performance with that sharp insight and playful teasing, the victories felt hollow. The cheers of the crowd, once electric, now grated against his nerves like static, a shrill cacophony that only emphasized the silence where her voice should have been.

And yet, like clockwork, the messages still came.

Every new city, every race weekend, his phone would light up with clinical, meticulously researched recommendations—museum tickets booked under his name, reservation details for hidden-gem restaurants, phone numbers for local guides who could show him the sights. The messages were stripped bare of her personality—no ridiculous emojis, no witty remarks, no absurd cat memes that used to make him groan even as he saved them to his camera roll. Just facts. Just logistics. As if she couldn’t bear to cut him off completely but couldn’t bring herself to be anything more than professionally courteous.

See? She still cares about you, a voice in his head whispered, equal parts hopeful and cruel. Even after everything.

And what had he done in return?

The taunts came harder now, unrelenting and deserved. There was no defense, no justification. Not anymore. He had made his choice, and this was the consequence—a half-life, a world drained of color.

He tried, at first, to follow her suggestions. Walked through art galleries, stared at masterpieces he couldn’t appreciate. Sat through a lion dance show in Singapore, the dancers’ passion only underscoring his own numbness. Each attempt ended the same way—with him standing in the middle of some crowded plaza or quiet museum hall, struck by the unbearable weight of her absence.

What would she say right now?

The thought was involuntary, intrusive. He could almost hear her voice, the way she’d poke fun at the overly serious museum descriptions or make up ridiculous backstories for the portraits. The memory of her laughter, bright and unselfconscious, twisted like a knife.

Even reading, once his solace, offered no refuge. The books she’d given him sat untouched on his nightstand. When he did try, he’d find himself staring at the same paragraph, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. His mind, usually so sharp, so focused, was a fog of regret and what-ifs. Half an hour. That was all he could manage before the emptiness became too much. Before he had to leave, shoulders hunched against the weight of missing her.

And then, slowly, he began to notice her absence in the paddock, too. Fewer sightings in the media pen, fewer flashes of her familiar silhouette in the crowd. He didn’t know if it was intentional, if she was avoiding him as deliberately as he was avoiding her, or if the universe had simply decided to spare them both the agony of crossing paths.

A blessing, he told himself. A mercy.

But the truth was worse.

Because every time he turned a corner and didn’t see her, every time he scanned the pit lane and found it empty of her presence, the hole in his chest grew wider.

He missed her.

Not just the idea of her, not just the comfort she’d brought—but her. The way her nose scrunched when she laughed. The way she’d bite her lip when concentrating. The way she’d looked at him, really looked at him, as if she saw something worth saving beneath the wreckage.

And now, without her, he was adrift. A champion with no one left to race for. A man who’d pushed away the only person who ever made him feel alive.

The Mexican Grand Prix had been brutal—not because of the track or the competition, but because every turn, every straightaway, seemed to whisper memories he couldn’t escape. As Jason stood in the quiet of his driver’s room, the adrenaline of the race still thrumming under his skin, his mind drifted unbidden to a conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

“You have to try my friend’s abuelita’s quesadillas,” Y/N had told him, her eyes alight with excitement. “They’re legendary. I’ll take you there after the race this time.”

This time.

The words echoed hollowly in his chest. There would be no this time for them. No shared meals, no laughter over burnt tongues from too-hot cheese, no moments where the world faded away and it was just the two of them, tangled in the simple joy of being together.

He slumped onto the couch, scrolling mindlessly through his phone in a futile attempt to distract himself. Then, like a punch to the gut, Tim’s Instagram story appeared.

A photo.

Tim, grinning as always, arm slung around his girlfriend—the blonde stylist Jason vaguely remembered from a few events. And there, standing beside them, radiant in a golden dress that seemed to catch fire under the evening lights, was Y/N.

But it wasn’t just her presence that sent a sharp, jagged pain through his heart.

It was Danny.

Danny, with his easy smile and his arm draped casually around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. Danny, who had known her longer, who had history with her, who was now standing where Jason should have been.

Jason’s grip on his phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Anger surged through him, hot and irrational, a wildfire he couldn’t control. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something primal. The sight of her smiling, glowing, laughing with someone else, doing all the things they used to do—it carved something raw and feral out of him.

She wasn’t his.

She had never been his.

And yet, the possessive fury that coiled in his gut refused to loosen.

Why?

Why did the thought of her happiness without him feel like a betrayal? Why did the idea of her moving on, of her finding joy in someone else’s company, make him want to slam his fist through a wall?

It was selfish. Hypocritical, even. He was the one who had ended things. He was the one who had pushed her away. And yet, here he was, seething at the mere idea of her being someone else's.

Pathetic.

He tossed his phone onto the table, the screen still illuminated with that damn photo and dragged his hands over his face. The weight of his own contradictions pressed down on him—the guilt, the longing, the anger, all tangled into an unbearable knot. He had no right to feel this way. But that didn’t stop the ache.

And it didn’t stop him from wondering, with a bitterness that tasted like regret, if she had already forgotten him.

The quiet hum of the garage was interrupted by a hesitant knock, followed by the creak of the door swinging open. Jason looked up from where he sat, his phone still clenched in his hand, the screen now dark as he placed it face-down on the table. The familiar voice that followed sent a jolt through him—one he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

“Can I come in?”

Roy Harper stood in the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights of the paddock outside. Even after all this time, the sight of him brought a flood of memories—both painful and cherished. Roy had been more than just a friend; he’d been Jason’s fiercest rival, his most trusted confidante, the only person on the grid who ever truly understood the weight of what it meant to race at this level.

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything had shattered.

Jason swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “Roy?”

The name came out rougher than he intended, laced with surprise and something deeper—something like guilt.

After the crash, Roy had been consumed by it. The guilt, the self-blame, the crushing weight of believing he’d been the one to end Jason’s career or worse, his life. Jason had heard the stories in hushed tones from the team: Roy’s downward spiral, the overdose, the way he’d disappeared from the paddock entirely. And Jason? He’d stayed away, too, convinced that seeing him—seeing the scars, the aftermath would only drag Roy back into that darkness.

It was almost laughable, in the cruelest way. Roy blamed himself for the crash. Jason blamed himself for Roy’s suffering. And yet, neither of them had ever once blamed the other.

But time, therapy and an insistent, stubborn woman named Y/N had changed things.

Roy had been the first to seek help, pulling himself out of the abyss with a determination Jason had always admired. And Jason? Well, he’d had Y/N. She’d been the one to gently but firmly suggest he talk to someone, too. And when the time came, she’d been the one to nudge him toward reconciliation with Roy, insisting that they both needed it.

“You can’t keep carrying this guilt,” she’d told him, her voice soft but unyielding. “And neither can he.”

Another thing he owed her. Another thing he couldn’t repay.

“I didn’t know you came to see the race,” Jason said, forcing himself back to the present.

Roy stepped fully into the room, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Jade and I were in the country, so we thought we might as well.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Oh, and Lian came too. Had her wear a mini 02 jersey.”

He pulled out his phone, swiping to a photo of his infant daughter swaddled in a tiny onesie designed to mimic Jason’s livery. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re turning her into a fan already?”

Roy’s grin widened. “Gotta teach 'em young, amiright? And don’t think I forgot—you still owe her a proper godfather gift. None of that ‘signed merch’ crap, either.”

Godfather. The word settled over Jason like a weight—a responsibility, a promise, a second chance he hadn’t realized he needed. Lian had been born not long after he and Roy had finally sat down and talked, after the apologies and the tears and the long-overdue acknowledgment that neither of them had been at fault. That day, Roy had clasped his shoulder and declared Jason the godfather without hesitation, as if it had always been inevitable.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the phone screen, tracing the curve of Lian’s round cheeks in the photo. The tiny onesie, a perfect miniature replica of his own racing colors, sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something softer, something like wonder.

“She’s perfect, Roy.”

The words came out quieter than he intended, almost reverent.

Roy’s expression shifted, the usual sharp edges of his smirk softening into something more tender. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice thick with a pride Jason had never heard from him before. “She is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, suffocating kind they’d endured after the crash. This was different—comfortable in a way Jason hadn’t realized he missed. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and still chose to stand side by side.

It didn’t last.

Roy, ever incapable of leaving well enough alone, broke it with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“So,” he drawled, leaning back against the equipment crate with practiced nonchalance, “you gonna tell me why you look like someone kicked your puppy or am I supposed to guess?”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair. The motion did little to dispel the restless energy coiled beneath his skin. “It’s nothing.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Roy didn’t even dignify it with a response. Just raised one eyebrow, the look on his face screaming bullshit louder than any words could.

Jason opened his mouth—to deflect, to argue, to say anything that would make Roy drop it—but the words died before they could form. What was there to say? That he’d been staring at a photo of Y/N like some lovesick teenager? That the sight of her smiling with someone else had carved a hole in his chest he couldn’t seem to fill?

Roy took one look at his face and groaned, dragging a hand down his own. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Jason scowled. “What?”

“You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

The protest was automatic, but even Jason could hear how petulant it sounded.

Roy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You absolutely are. Look, if you’re this torn up about it, just talk to her.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?” Roy challenged, leaning forward. “Because you’re scared?”

The question landed like a punch, sharp and unrelenting.

Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Roy sighed, shaking his head with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to pity. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day Jason Todd was too chickenshit to fight for something he wanted.”

The words stung, but not as much as the ones that followed.

“Look, Jay,” Roy continued, shifting forward, his tone losing its edge for something more earnest. “I talked to Y/N once. Really talked to her. And you know what she told me?” He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. “This whole ‘hobby hunting’ thing you’ve been doing? It’s not about finding some obscure pastime to kill the hours. It’s about you. About you figuring out who the hell you are when you’re not behind a wheel.”

Jason’s throat tightened.

“She wanted you to realize that your worth—your whole damn existence—isn’t defined by what you do on track. That you’re more than just a driver. That you matter, with or without racing.” Roy’s gaze hardened. “And I’ll be real with you—Y/N? She was it for you. The best match you could’ve ever hoped for. Someone who actually saw you—all of you—and chose to stay. Because she knows you're worth it, whether you believe it or not.”

He leaned back then, arms crossing over his chest, his next words deliberate, final.

“So if you let her go? If you really let her walk away without a fight?” Roy leveled him with a look that stripped Jason bare of his defenses. “Then you’re not just scared, Jason. You’re a goddamn fool.”

Jason stayed silent. What could he say? That Roy was right? That he’d known from the moment Y/N walked into his life that she was different, that she saw him in a way no one else ever had? That the thought of losing her for good was enough to make his hands shake?

Roy wasn’t done. “Look at me and Jade,” he continued, voice dropping into something more serious. “Daughter of a rival team’s sponsor. People talked shit—still talk shit—but we made it work. You’re letting your self-hatred and anxiety ruin the one good thing you have.” He jabbed a finger at Jason’s chest. “Snap out of it.”

A beat. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes:

“Also make up with her, because you race like shit when you’re emo. Can’t have Lian watch her godfather embarrass himself like that, now can I?”

The attempt at humor fell flat, but the message was clear.

Jason had a choice to make. But the question was, could he?

Roy’s words lingered in Jason’s mind like an unshakable shadow, gnawing at him long after they had been spoken. He wanted Y/N—desperately, irrevocably but the weight of his own turmoil held him back. The desire to claim her as his own warred violently with the fear of dragging her into the chaos that followed him like a curse. He couldn’t bear the thought of the world’s cruelty—the relentless hate, the hollow pity, the performative sympathy—tainting her perception of him. What if she started seeing him through the same fractured lens he saw himself? The possibility was unbearable.

When one of his managers suggested yet another PR relationship—this time with a model, just to divert attention from that godforsaken Twitter post—Jason nearly recoiled in disgust. The idea of replacing Y/N, even superficially, made his skin crawl. There was no comparison. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd; she was the only one who had ever truly mattered.

Then came Las Vegas.

During free practice, Tim had been called in as a last-minute replacement after Cass sprained her wrist. Jason had expected the usual awkward tension between them—Tim’s hesitant politeness, his quiet deference despite Jason’s habitual coldness. But this time, something was different. Tim moved through the garage like a ghost, his gaze sliding right past Jason as if he were nothing more than empty air. The one time their eyes did meet, Tim’s expression twisted into something sharp and disdainful, a look so foreign that it sent a ripple of unease through Jason.

This wasn’t about racing.

Jason knew, with a sinking certainty, that this ran deeper than motorsports. Tim and his girlfriend were close to Y/N— always had been. If Tim despised him this openly, then Y/N’s feelings toward him now must be even worse. The thought was haunting.

Three times, Jason tried to bridge the gap, to force some kind of conversation. Three times, Tim shut him out with icy indifference. But Jason wasn’t about to back down. He needed answers. He needed to know—how much damage had been done, whether there was even a sliver of hope left. And if there was, he’d claw his way through hell itself to reach her.

By the time FP3 ended, Jason had resolved himself—he needed answers, and Tim was the only one who could give them to him. He waited, patience fraying, until the garage began to empty out, the mechanics packing up equipment and the hum of post-session debriefs fading into the background. Then, as Tim zipped up his bag, shoulders drooping with exhaustion, Jason moved.

He blocked the exit, not aggressively, but firmly enough that Tim couldn’t just slip past him. The younger driver let out a long, irritated sigh, finally lifting his gaze—not in acknowledgment, but in resignation. He knew this conversation was inevitable.

“What is it?” Tim muttered, voice flat, as if he were already bracing for an argument.

Jason swallowed hard. For a man who thrived on confrontation, he suddenly felt uncharacteristically unsure. But he had come this far, he couldn’t back down now.

“How is she?” The words came out rougher than he intended, laced with a desperation he hadn’t meant to reveal.

Tim’s expression darkened. “How is who?” he shot back, feigning ignorance with a deliberate eye roll, his tone dripping with sarcasm. The act was flimsy, almost insulting in its lack of effort.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Y/N.” His voice was low, urgent. “I haven’t seen her around the paddock lately.”

A bitter smirk twisted Tim’s lips. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, mockingly casual. “She asked her higher-ups to switch her from F1 to IndyCar for presenting.” A pause, then the unspoken words hung between them like a blade: Because of you.

Jason stiffened. “But F1 is the pinnacle of motorsports. Why would she just—throw away everything she’s worked for?” The idea was unthinkable. Y/N had clawed her way into the F1 world through sheer determination. She loved this sport. She wouldn’t just walk away.

Something in Tim’s demeanor snapped. His grip on his bag tightened, knuckles whitening, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw with fury.

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Jason opened his mouth, but Tim wasn’t finished.

“Oh, save it,” he spat, cutting him off before he could even form a reply. “Look, Todd—” The deliberate use of his last name was a slap in the face. “—I never had anything but respect for you as a racer. When I first came to the paddock, yeah, you were an asshole to me. And you know what? I got it. Your life sucked. Fine. But then you had to drag someone like Y/N into your bullshit. You used her and then you broke her.”

Tim’s voice cracked, his composure slipping for the first time. “And it wasn’t just her heart, you selfish bastard. You broke her spirit. She was light, and you stole it from her. So tell me—” He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “—was it fun? Stealing the light from behind her eyes?”

The words hit Jason like a physical blow. He had no defense, no retort. Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

And it destroyed him.

“Tim, please—just listen—” Jason’s voice was rough, pleading, but Tim wasn’t having it.

“No, I won’t listen to this shit!” Tim snapped, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. His usual calm demeanor had completely shattered, replaced by something jagged and furious. “She shouldn’t have to suffer just because you decided you were done with her. Like she was some fucking toy you got bored of. And you know what the worst part is?” His voice dropped, trembling with barely contained rage. “She still doesn’t blame you for it. Even now, after everything, she defends you even after how you played with her.”

That stung worse than any insult.

“I DIDN’T PLAY WITH HER!” Jason roared, surging forward before he could stop himself. His hands fisted in Tim’s collar, shoving him back against the garage wall. His entire body was coiled tight with fury—because as much as he understood the young driver's anger, as much as he deserved it, this accusation was too much. He loved Y/N. The idea that he had treated her like some fleeting amusement was revolting.

Tim didn’t even flinch.

“Then what, huh?” he shot back, voice icy despite the fire in his eyes. “What was that cowardly bullshit of telling her over the phone? If she meant so much to you, why couldn’t you even look her in the eye when you broke her heart?”

Jason’s grip faltered. The fight drained out of him as suddenly as it had surged, his hands dropping away from Tim’s collar like he’d been burned. He took a shaky step back, dragging his hands through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as if he could physically pull the right words out of his own skull.

“I—I wasn’t playing with her,” he said, voice cracking. The admission came out raw, stripped bare. “I love her. I was just—”

His throat closed. The words wouldn’t come.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked hard, refusing to let them fall, but the weight of Tim’s glare—of Y/N’s absence—pressed down on him like a physical force.

Tim didn’t relent. “People who love people don’t ditch them over the phone like that,” he said, each word a precise, deliberate strike. “If you really loved her, you would fight for her. Not run.”

Jason exhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of him. “I was scared, okay?” The confession tore out of him, ragged and desperate. “I was scared of how the media would react, the pressure it would put on her. I did it to protect her.”

Tim let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. “You don’t get to decide what she can and can’t handle,” he said, shaking his head. “So tell me—was it really to protect her? Or was it to protect yourself?”

Jason stood there, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on him like a physical force. They were the same ones Roy said, the same ones the voice in his head asked. His chest ached with a pain he couldn’t articulate— part guilt, part longing, part sheer desperation. The garage around them felt suddenly suffocating, the distant sounds of mechanics working and engineers talking fading into a dull buzz in his ears.

“I thought...” Jason started, then swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I thought if I pushed her away first, it would hurt less when the world inevitably turned against us.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But I was wrong. God, I was so fucking wrong.”

Tim crossed his arms, his expression unyielding. “You don’t get to make those choices for her. She’s stronger than you gave her credit for.”

A bitter laugh escaped Jason’s lips. “I know that now. Christ, do I ever know that.” He looked down at his hands— the hands that had held her, that had pushed her away. “She deserved better than a phone call. She deserved... she deserves everything.”

For the first time since their confrontation began, Tim’s stance softened slightly. “Yeah, she does.” He studied Jason’s face, seeing the genuine torment there. “But it’s too late for regrets now. She’s gone, Jason. She left F1 because being here hurt too much. Because everywhere she looked, she saw you.”

Jason’s head snapped up at that. “Where is she now?” There was a new urgency in his voice, a spark of something that hadn’t been there before. “Tim, please. If there’s even a chance—”

“A chance for what?” Tim interrupted. “For you to waltz back into her life and mess with her head all over again?”

“No.” Jason shook his head vehemently. “For me to apologize properly. To tell her... to tell her I was an idiot. That I love her. That if she’ll let me, I’ll spend every damn day proving I’m worthy of her.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and lingering anger. Finally, Tim sighed. “She’ll come to watch my race in Qatar, I’ll arrange for you to talk to her.” He fixed Jason with a hard look. “But if you hurt her again, I swear to God—”

“You won’t have to do anything,” Jason finished quietly. “Because I’ll never forgive myself if I do.” He took a deep breath, his mind already racing with plans. “Thank you, Tim.”

Tim just nodded tersely before turning to leave. As he walked away, he threw one last comment over his shoulder: “Don’t thank me yet. She might not even want to see you.”

Jason just nodded. “I know but i have to try.”

The Qatar Grand Prix arrived before Jason had time to process his swirling emotions. From the moment he stepped into the paddock, there was an electric energy coursing through him— a singular focus that hadn’t been there in months. Every turn of the wheel, every press of the accelerator brought him closer to his real finish line: her. Tim’s reluctant information about Y/N’s hotel and availability window after the race had become his holy grail, the coordinates that had rewired his entire nervous system to operate on one frequency— get to her.

As he strapped into the car, the usual pre-race adrenaline felt different. Sharper. More purposeful. The commentators noted how Jason Todd drove like a man possessed. Every overtake wasn’t just for position— it was another minute shaved off the countdown to seeing her. The chequered flag wasn’t just the end of the race— it was the starting pistol for the only competition that truly mattered now.

When P1 flashed on the boards, there was no surprise in his team’s eyes. They’d seen this laser focus before races before, but never with this... hunger. Jason barely registered the champagne spray, his eyes constantly flicking to his watch. The carbon-fiber face ticked away mercilessly, each passing second tightening the knot in his chest. He gave clipped answers in the post-race interviews, the smile not reaching his eyes— the world only saw the champion, not the man counting down until he could escape the spotlight.

The moment the live feed cut away, Jason was moving. Not the usual victorious stroll, but the determined stride of a man on a mission. He bypassed the debrief, the data review, everything, heading straight for where he’d parked his personal car earlier. Not just any vehicle, but the one that still carried fragments of her presence: the scarf she’d left during that rainy weekend in Monaco— he’d never returned it, both because the faint trace of her perfume lingered in the fibers and because she’d complained the fabric texture aggravated her sensory sensitivities, the forgotten fidget toy wedged in the dashboard cubby, even the passenger seat still adjusted to her preferred position. 

The drive to the hotel was a blur of speed and suppressed panic. Jason barely registered handing his keys to the wide-eyed valet, the young man’s mouth falling open as he recognized both the car and its still-suited driver. The lobby’s polished floors echoed with the sound of his racing boots as he approached the front desk, his breathing uneven from the sprint from the parking lot.

“Room 1608 - is the guest available?” The words came out rushed, tinged with a desperation that made the concierge blink. The poor man’s professional composure faltered as he took in the sight: Jason Todd, still in his fireproof race suit, smelling of champagne and gasoline, hair damp with sweat, eyes wild with something between hope and terror. The concierge’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, caught between protocol and the surreal reality of a Formula 1 legend panting before him.

“Y-yes, Mr. Todd. The guest just checked in about...” A glance at the computer screen. “...twenty minutes ago.” His eyes darted to the room key card dispenser, then back to Jason’s face, clearly wondering if he should ask for ID from someone whose face was currently on every sports channel worldwide.

Jason didn’t wait for formalities. A curt nod and he was moving again, weaving through the lobby with the same precision he’d shown on track earlier. The elevator ride to the 16th floor lasted both an eternity and no time at all, his reflection in the mirrored walls showing a man he barely recognized— someone capable of throwing away every carefully constructed defense for one chance, one conversation, one... her.

When the doors slid open, Jason realized he hadn’t actually planned what to say. The hallway stretched before him, room numbers ticking up with each step: 1602... 1604... 1606...

And then there it was. 1608.

The moment of truth, marked by a simple brass number plate. Jason’s hand hovered near the doorbell, his breath coming too fast. This wasn’t a racetrack. There was no engineering solution here, no team radio to guide him. Just a door, a choice and whatever lay beyond it.

The chime of the doorbell echoed through the hallway, sharp and final—like a starting gun signaling no turning back. Jason’s pulse hammered in his throat, his body still thrumming with the residual adrenaline from the race. His fingers flexed at his sides, still gloved, still streaked with traces of rubber and sweat. He hadn’t even bothered to change. Every second had mattered. Every second still mattered.

Silence.

Then—movement. The faint shuffle of footsteps from inside the suite, the muted click of the lock disengaging. The door swung open, and there she was.

Y/N stood framed in the doorway and the sight of her hit Jason like a train. The subtle changes in her were devastating— the slight hollowing of her cheeks that spoke of missed meals, the way her shoulders carried a weight that hadn’t been there before. But it was her eyes that destroyed him most— those eyes he’d once seen spark with laughter now dulled, the vibrant light dimmed beneath a film of quiet melancholy. The ghost of a smile that flickered across her lips never reached them, dying before it could truly form.

Tim’s words roared back in Jason’s skull with brutal clarity: “You stole the light from behind her eyes.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The urge to turn around and drive his fist through a wall warred with the need to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. He remained frozen instead, caught in the devastating gravity of what he’d done.

The silence between them wasn’t just absence of sound— it was a living thing, thick with all the words they’d never said, all the moments they’d lost. Jason could hear his own pulse thundering in his ears, could see the subtle rise and fall of Y/N’s chest as she breathed. Waiting. Always waiting for him to catch up.

“I, uh—” His voice emerged rough, cracking like dry earth after a drought. He swallowed against the desert in his throat, tasting copper and regret. “I didn’t know if you’d answer.”

Her eyes flickered over him— his disheveled hair, the racing suit still molded to his body by sweat and effort, the faint tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with adrenaline crash. “You drove here straight from the podium,” she observed, not a question but a statement.

No greeting. No ‘hello Jason’. Just this— an acknowledgement of his reckless, desperate need to see her that he couldn’t disguise if he tried.

“Yeah.” The single syllable carried the weight of his truth. He’d abandoned post-race protocols, interviews, celebrations— all of it meaningless compared to this moment.

The quiet stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Then, so soft he almost missed it: “You won.”

Jason didn’t hesitate. “I had a reason to.” The words dropped like stones into the space between them, ripples spreading through the charged air. He’d driven today not for glory or points, but for the chance to stand here now. Every overtake, every perfect apex had been measured in seconds ticking away to his arrival time.

Y/N’s lips parted slightly— a sign he knew so well, the prelude to words carefully considered. But whatever thought had formed died unspoken as she exhaled, a slow release of breath that seemed to deflate her slightly. She stepped back, holding the door wider in silent invitation. “You should come in,” she murmured, her voice carrying a weariness that aged her. “Before someone recognizes you in the hallway.”

Jason crossed the threshold in two strides, the familiar scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a ghost’s embrace— that light floral note with a hint of citrus underneath, so intimately known it made his chest ache. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final as a judge’s gavel.

When Y/N turned to face him fully, the question came not with anger or accusation, but with a quiet resignation that cut deeper than any blade: “Why are you here, Jason?”

The detachment in her tone was worse than shouting. Worse than thrown objects or tears. This calm acceptance, this emotional distance— it meant she’d already begun the process of letting go. And that realization terrified him more than any outburst ever could. Because anger would mean she still cared. This? This sounded like goodbye.

Jason’s words tumbled out in a raw, unfiltered torrent—each syllable laced with months of pent-up regret and longing. His voice cracked under the weight of his confession, rough with emotion.

“Y/N—” His throat tightened, as if his own body was resisting the vulnerability he was forcing himself to show. But he pushed through, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought—” He dragged in a shaky breath, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides before clenching into fists. “I thought if I pushed you away first, I could shield you from the media circus, from the scrutiny, from all the bullshit that comes with being tied to me. But it was cowardly. It was selfish. And I—” His voice wavered, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I was more than just a driver. Like I was worth something beyond the track. And I get it if you can’t forgive me, but please—” His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged with desperation. “Please don’t let me lose you.”

Y/N stood frozen, her lips parted in stunned silence. Her eyes, those eyes he had memorized in every shade of emotion, widened in disbelief. All this time, she had believed his rejection was about her, about some perceived inadequacy on her part. That he had been ashamed of her. That she hadn’t been enough.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The realization struck her like lightning, stealing her breath.

“Say something,” Jason pleaded, his voice rough. “Please.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, her own emotions threatening to spill over. “Jason, I—” She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her top. “I thought you did it because you didn’t want me ruining your image. That you were—” She cut herself off, unable to voice the insecurity that had festered in her chest for months.

Jason’s expression twisted in anguish. “I was what?” he demanded, stepping forward without thinking, his hands rising to cradle her face. The contact was instinctive, electric—his calloused thumbs brushing against her cheeks as if to wipe away every doubt she’d ever had. “Embarrassed of you?” His voice dropped, low and fierce. “Fucking hell, doll. You’re the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me. Why the hell would I be embarrassed of you?”

The warmth of Jason’s hands against her skin sent a shockwave through Y/N’s system, awakening sensations she’d tried so hard to forget. His touch had always been her undoing— those strong, capable hands that could manhandle a race car at 200mph now cradling her face with heartbreaking tenderness. She could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his breath hitched when their eyes locked.

“You really thought that?” Jason whispered, his voice breaking. “That I could ever be ashamed of you?” His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “Y/N... you’re everything. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last before I sleep. Even when I was being a stubborn bastard and pushing you away, you were all I could fucking think about.”

Y/N felt her pulse stutter at the intensity in his gaze— that particular shade of stormy blue green she’d always loved. Now those same eyes bored into hers with near-frantic sincerity, the kind that couldn’t be faked. The kind that left her foundation shaking.

When she finally spoke, her voice emerged softer than intended, frayed at the edges. “You let me believe...” A shaky inhale. “For months, Jason. You let me think I wasn’t enough.”

Jason’s entire body flinched, his hands sliding back to cradle her head as if offering protection from his own failures. “I know,” he choked out. “Christ, I know. And I’ll spend every fucking day making that up to you if you’ll let me.” His forehead dropped to rest against hers, their noses brushing. “Just tell me what you need. Scream at me. Throw something. Hell, slap me senseless— I probably deserve it.”

A watery laugh escaped her, the sound startling them both. It was so quintessentially Jason— this brash, all-or-nothing approach that had first drawn her in. The same intensity that made him a champion on the track, now turned entirely toward her.

Her hands, which had hung stiffly at her sides, finally lifted to grip his wrists. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just... holding. Anchoring. “I need you to stop deciding what’s best for me,” she whispered. “I need you to trust me enough to choose for myself.”

“Done.” Simple. Absolute. The way he said everything when he meant it.

The words left Y/N’s lips before she could stop them—lighthearted, teasing, a fragile attempt to diffuse the tension still humming between them. “So... are we like friends again?”

Jason’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, his fingers stilling where they’d been tracing absent patterns along her arm. He would’ve been lying if he said the word didn’t prick at him, sharp as a needle to the chest. Friends. After everything—after the way his heart had just laid itself bare at her feet—that label felt painfully inadequate.

A forced chuckle escaped him, low and rough. “Darling,” he murmured, his thumb rising to brush deliberately across her bottom lip, “I don’t think what we have can be labeled as just friendship.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight through her, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Was this really happening? The moment she’d fantasized about since the first time she’d seen him—since that initial, earth-shattering realization that Jason Todd wasn’t just another arrogant driver but someone who could unravel her with a single glance—was it finally unfolding right in front of her?

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to kiss him with every ounce of pent-up longing she’d been carrying for months.

But fate, ever the cruel puppeteer, had other plans.

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the moment like glass, making both of them jump apart. Y/N turned away with a frustrated exhale, her fingers closing around the offending device where it lay on the table. The caller ID glared up at her: Dan-Dan.

Goddammit, Danny.

She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear just as Danny’s voice exploded through the line, frantic and tinny. “Y/N, I think I’ll be late. Jason just took off to god-knows-where after the race, and we can’t reach him. I swear, if he keeps pulling this disappearing act—” A heavy sigh. “—this is going to ruin our entire championship run.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked reflexively toward Jason, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. “Okay, Dan,” she muttered, her voice carefully neutral. “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

She ended the call before Danny could respond, her pulse hammering in her throat. Before she could even turn around, she felt him— the heat of Jason’s body pressing against her back, the solid weight of his arm sliding possessively around her waist. His other hand came up, fingers brushing the hair away from the nape of her neck with deliberate, agonizing slowness.

Then his lips were at her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “So. This Dan of yours... does he know about us?”

The question—low, teasing, laced with something darker beneath the surface—sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. She froze, her fingers tightening around her phone.

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

The world narrowed to the searing heat of Jason’s touch, his fingers leaving invisible brands through the thin fabric of her shirt. His voice curled around her like smoke— dark, intoxicating, impossible to escape. Every coherent thought evaporated from Y/N’s mind, leaving only the frantic hammering of her pulse and the dizzying awareness of how close he stood. She couldn’t have strung together a sentence if her life depended on it— not when his breath fanned on her skin, not when every nerve ending screamed for more of his touch.

Y/N gasped as electricity crackled down her spine, her fingers clutching the edge of the table for balance. Then realization struck like lightning— he thought... he actually thought...

“How can you be with another man,” Jason continued, his voice dropping to a growl that sent shivers through her, “while wearing my racing number at the back of your neck like you’re mine, hmm?” His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where her tattoo lay hidden beneath her hair, the digits inked there in his signature font.

The possessive anger simmering beneath his words finally jolted Y/N into action. She whirled around so fast she nearly lost her balance, her hands coming up to brace against his chest. “Jason,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush, “Danny’s my brother.”

The moment their karts screeched to a halt in the pit lane, Jason ripped off his helmet with enough force to make the straps snap. His face was flushed with adrenaline and indignation, sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead as he stormed toward Danny.

“Hey, dude! You totally pushed me off on Turn 5!” Jason yelled, his voice carrying over the hum of engines and the chatter of nearby spectators. His hands gestured wildly, replaying the move in the air between them. “That wasn’t racing—that was attempted murder!”

Danny, already unbuckling his own helmet, shot him an unrepentant grin as he hopped out of his kart. “You gave me no choice!” he called over his shoulder, already striding toward the pits where his family waited. “You left the door wide open!”

Jason gaped after him. “That’s not—! Ugh!” He threw his hands up in frustration before stomping after Danny, muttering under his breath the entire way. “Wide open, my ass. I was taking the racing line. Since when is ‘door open’ an invitation for vehicular assault?”

When they reached the pits, Danny peeled off toward his team, leaving Jason to fume alone. But Jason had a plan. If Danny wanted to play dirty, then fine—Jason would escalate this properly. He beelined for his own pit area, where Alfred stood waiting with his usual unflappable calm, a neatly wrapped sandwich in hand.

“Now, now, Master Jason,” Alfred said, his voice the epitome of reason as he extended the food toward the seething teenager. “Might I suggest refueling before launching your campaign for justice?”

Jason snatched the packet, tearing into it with a vengeance. “Danny totally pushed me off,” he declared through a mouthful of bread and filling. “It was clear as day! It was unfair. And worst of all—” He swallowed hard, pointing an accusing finger in Danny’s general direction. “— I know he smiled while doing it!”

Alfred’s lips twitched, though his expression remained otherwise neutral. “A truly heinous crime,” he agreed solemnly. “What do you propose we do about it?”

Jason’s eyes lit up with the fire of a thousand war strategies. He swallowed the last of his sandwich in one heroic bite, then jumped to his feet. “We fight him. And his team.” He jabbed a finger toward the offending party. “Full-scale retaliation. No mercy.”

Alfred chuckled, unable to fully suppress his amusement any longer. “Shall we call Mr. Dent as well, in case we require legal support for this… operation?”

Jason paused, considering this with all the gravity of a general preparing for battle. Then he nodded sharply. “That would seem prudent.”

Jason strode toward Danny’s team garage with the exaggerated stance of a warrior preparing for battle—chin lifted, shoulders squared, chest puffed out with righteous indignation. Behind him, Alfred followed at a measured pace, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth as he observed his young charge’s theatrics.

But the moment Jason crossed the threshold into the rival pit area, the wind was abruptly knocked from his sails.

What he had expected—stern mechanics, maybe a few glares from Danny’s teammates—was nowhere to be found. Instead, the garage had been transformed into something out of a child’s fantasy. Vibrant streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, balloons in every color bobbed along the floor, and a cacophony of laughter and chatter filled the air. It was chaos. It was celebration.

Before Jason could process the scene, Danny’s mother spotted him. Her face lit up with recognition, and before he could protest, she had him by the shoulders, steering him firmly toward the center of the festivities. “Jason! Perfect timing!” she exclaimed, as if his arrival had been eagerly anticipated rather than an intrusion.

And then he saw her.

Perched proudly beside a lavishly decorated table stood a little girl—Danny’s sister, he realized. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, dressed in a frilly pink-and-purple dress that shimmered under the garage lights. A tiny plastic tiara sat slightly askew atop her head and in one hand, she clutched a glittering fairy wand. Before her, a similarly coloured cake proclaimed “Happy Birthday!” in looping, pastel letters.

Jason froze.

Danny had mentioned his sister in passing—usually with a mix of exasperation and affection—but Jason had never actually met her. Now, faced with this tiny, beaming human, all his earlier fury evaporated like morning dew.

The birthday song started up and Jason found himself clapping along awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of his grease-streaked racing suit amidst the pastel decorations. Any thoughts of confrontation fled his mind entirely when a paper plate bearing an enormous slice of cake was thrust into his hands.

Soon, he was perched on a stack of tires, happily devouring his cake with the single-minded focus of a teenager who’d been deprived of sweets for too long. Bruce monitored his diet with the vigilance of a prison warden—every carb counted, every calorie tracked. This impromptu sugar rush felt both like rebellion and reward.

Jason was so engrossed in his illicit cake consumption that he didn’t notice the tiny figure approaching until a shadow fell across his plate.

The birthday girl stood before him, her frilly dress swaying as she rocked back and forth on her shiny Mary Janes. Up close, her tiara glittered even more and her smile was so bright it could’ve powered the entire racetrack.

“Hello,” she chirped, her voice dripping with the effortless confidence of someone who’d never known rejection.

Jason blinked, hastily swallowing his mouthful of cake. “Uh. Hey,” he managed, wiping frosting from his chin with the back of his hand. His usual bravado had abandoned him entirely—what did one even say to a tiny human in a princess costume?

Undeterred by his awkwardness, she clasped her hands together and leaned in conspiratorially. “So I made a birthday wish,” she announced, as if sharing state secrets. “Mama said I shouldn’t tell anyone my wish or it won’t come true... but it’s you, so it’s okay.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. There was something deeply alarming about being entrusted with this information. “What did you wish for?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“You!” she declared, bouncing on her toes with enough force to make her hair bounce.

The piece of cake Jason had just shoveled into his mouth became a dire choking hazard. He coughed violently, pounding his chest as frosting threatened to exit through his nose. “W-what?” he wheezed, eyes watering.

She beamed, utterly oblivious to his near-death experience. “I wished to have you as my boyfriend,” she clarified, butchering the word with adorable finality. “Mama said birthday wishes always come true. So...” She clasped her hands behind her back and batted her eyelashes. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Jason’s brain short-circuited. His gaze darted around the garage in panic, searching for Alfred—surely the man wouldn’t abandon him to this nightmare—but he had vanished without a trace.

A cold sweat broke out along Jason’s forehead. This was a minefield. Say no and he risked reducing a birthday princess to tears—an unforgivable sin. Say yes, and he’d never hear the end of it from Danny. 

“I, uh...” Jason’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, scrambling for a diplomatic out. “That’s... that’s really flattering, but—”

Her lower lip began to tremble.

Oh god.

Jason’s stomach plummeted. He was not equipped for this. Where was Alfred? Where was Danny? Where was a natural disaster when you needed one?

 He shifted uncomfortably on the stack of tires, suddenly finding the remnants of his cake far more interesting than the expectant gaze of the fairy princess looking girl before him. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for an escape route that wouldn’t end in tears.

“Umm, I’m kinda... concentrating on karting right now,” he hedged, gesturing vaguely toward the track outside. The words came out stilted, his usual cockiness nowhere to be found. “So, you know... not now.” He punctuated this with an awkward shrug, hoping it would be enough.

The birthday girl’s face fell slightly, her fairy wand drooping in her grip. “Then when?” she pressed, her earlier enthusiasm dimming just enough to make Jason’s stomach twist with guilt. The tiara atop her head seemed to lose some of its sparkle under the fluorescent garage lights.

Jason’s mind raced. He needed an out - something that would satisfy her without making any actual commitments. “When I make it to F1, maybe?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider. That should buy him at least a decade or so, he reasoned. By then, she’d have forgotten all about this ridiculous conversation— probably forgotten him entirely.

But her reaction wasn’t what he expected. Her eyes lit up like fireworks, all traces of disappointment vanishing in an instant. “You promise?” she gasped, bouncing on her feet with renewed excitement. 

He hadn’t anticipated this turning into some sort of binding agreement. “Uh...” he stammered, his gaze darting around the garage for any possible escape. Alfred was still conspicuously absent and he could feel multiple sets of eyes on him now— Danny’s family watching with barely concealed amusement, mechanics pretending not to eavesdrop. 

Before he could formulate a proper response, she extended her small hand toward him, pinky finger raised with solemn determination. “Pinky promise?” she demanded, her voice taking on an unexpectedly serious tone for someone dressed head-to-toe in princess attire.

Jason stared at the tiny outstretched finger like it was a live grenade. With a resigned sigh that seemed too world-weary for a fourteen year old, he reluctantly hooked his own pinky around hers, the gesture feeling absurdly formal.

“Promise.” 

Jason’s laughter rang out, rich and unrestrained, as the pieces finally clicked into place. “You’re her? The fairy princess with the tiara and wand?” His eyes sparkled with delighted amusement, shaking his head in disbelief. “All this time I was ready to throw hands with Danny and he’s just your brother? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned crimson as she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it was mortifying enough the first time!” she burst out, her voice climbing an octave. “I didn’t need my childhood... whatever that was... haunting me now that we’re adults.” The memory of her ten-year-old self boldly proposing to a flustered teenage Jason still made her want to crawl into a hole.

With a tenderness that contradicted his usual brash demeanor, Jason crooked a finger beneath her chin, gently tilting her face up until their eyes met. “Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along her jawline, “you made me promise you something pretty important that day, remember, doll?” 

Y/N’s breath hitched. The warmth of his touch, the proximity of his body, the way his eyes darkened with unspoken meaning— it sent her higher brain functions into overdrive. Panic flared through her system and before she could stop herself, she planted both palms against his chest and pushed him back with surprising force. “We can’t do this now,” she blurted out, her voice unsteady.

Jason stumbled half a step, confusion and hurt flashing across his features. “Y/N—”

“You have a race in a that will decide the entire season! The driver’s championship, the constructor’s championship— Bruce is counting on you, the whole team is counting on you.” Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “You can’t afford distractions, especially not... not because of me.”

Jason opened his mouth to protest, but Y/N - suddenly unable to bear the intensity of the moment— pivoted with forced lightness. “Besides,” she said, adopting a teasing lilt she didn’t quite feel, “my standards for a boyfriend have gotten significantly higher since I was ten.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, catching her shift in tone. Crossing his arms, he leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance. “Alright, princess, let’s hear these lofty standards then.”

“Okay,” Y/N began, tapping a finger against her lips in mock contemplation as she circled him. “First, he has to be kind. Like, genuinely kind, not just when people are watching.” She held up a second finger. “Sweet, but not cloying— there’s a difference.” A third finger joined the count. “About... yea high,” she stretched onto her toes, holding a hand level with Jason’s forehead.

Jason snorted. “Demanding.”

“Blue eyes,” she continued, ignoring his interruption as she stepped closer, “with just enough green in them to make you wonder what color they really are.” Her finger came up to trace the air near his face, not quite touching. “Devastatingly handsome, obviously.” She took a final step back, folding her arms with a challenging smirk. “And a four-time world champion. That last one’s non-negotiable.”

Jason pretended to consider this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. So I’ve got the height, the eyes... the devastating handsomeness is subjective I suppose.” He shrugged. “That last one though... guess we’ll have to see about that.”

Y/N’s smirk softened into something more genuine as she reached up to adjust his racing suit collar. “Oh, that last one’s the most important part,” she murmured, her fingers lingering against the fabric near his pulse point. “But something tells me you’ll manage. We’ll finish this conversation then.”

Jason’s answering smile was slow and devastating—the kind that had melted hearts on magazine covers worldwide. But this? This was just for her. Without a word, he held out his hand, his pinky finger extended in silent question.

Promise?

Y/N’s breath caught. The gesture—so simple, so them—unraveled something deep in her chest. She nodded, her vision blurring with unexpected tears as she hooked her pinky with his, their hands slotting together like they were made to fit.

“Promise,” she breathed.

When they unlinked their fingers, Jason did something that stole the air from her lungs—he brought his thumb to his lips, pressing a kiss to it before gently transferring the touch to her mouth. The warmth of it lingered long after he pulled away, a silent vow sealed between them.

The scorching Abu Dhabi sun beat down mercilessly on the Yas Marina Circuit. Long shadows stretched across the pit lane like grasping fingers as mechanics made their final adjustments, the air thick with the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Jason Todd stood motionless at the edge of Wayne Racing’s garage, his custom-painted helmet tucked under one arm, its polished surface reflecting the frantic activity around him. His eyes tracked down the start-finish straight with laser focus, watching as the last of the support vehicles cleared the track.

This was it.

The culmination of an entire season’s worth of blood, sweat and tears distilled into a single race. Twenty-two punishing turns of the most technically demanding circuit on the calendar. Fifty-eight laps that would determine whether all his sacrifices had been worth it. 

The championship standings couldn’t have been tighter— Jason and his arch-rival Kyle Rayner sat deadlocked on points coming into this final race. Winner takes all. No second chances. And if he somehow pulled this off, it wouldn’t just be his own driver’s championship on the line— Wayne Racing stood to claim their constructor’s title, continuing their stranglehold on the sport. 

Logically, he knew Y/N would stand by him regardless of today’s outcome. She’d proven that much already, weathering his storms with a patience he didn’t deserve. But that knowledge chafed against the raw, hungry part of him that needed to prove—to her, to himself, to the damn world that he was worthy. That Jason Todd could deliver on his word when it mattered most.

A familiar weight settled on his shoulder as Bruce stepped beside him, his grip firm and grounding. “No heroics out there,” the team principal and father murmured, his voice barely audible over the garage’s controlled chaos. His steely gaze held Jason’s. “We don’t need spectacular—we need smart. Bring it home clean.”

Jason gave a terse nod, his racing instincts already kicking in, but his attention was inexplicably drawn past Bruce to the timing screens. There, amidst the sea of engineers and data analysts, stood Y/N. Her arms were crossed in that deceptively casual way she had when trying to appear professional, but Jason had spent enough time studying her to recognize the subtle tells— the tension in her shoulders, the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her elbow, the way she kept biting the inside of her cheek when she thought no one was looking. 

Their eyes met across the bustling garage. Without breaking contact, Jason’s lips quirked into a half-smile and he winked at her subtly.

The effect was instantaneous. Y/N’s professional mask shattered as a furious blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson. She immediately looked away, pretending sudden intense interest in a clipboard one of the engineers was holding, but not before Jason caught the way her breath hitched.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Alfred reminded him he probably shouldn’t be distracting himself right before the most important race of his career. But seeing her flustered reaction sparked something warm in his chest, cutting through the pre-race tension like sunlight through storm clouds.

The FIA official began waving drivers to their cars. As Jason turned to leave, he caught Y/N’s gaze one last time. No words were needed— the determination in her eyes mirrored his own as she gave him a slight nod. Whatever happened today, they were in this together.

Now all he had to do was win that world championship.

The moment the lights went out, the world erupted in a deafening rumble of raw power and desperation. Twenty Formula 1 cars exploded forward like bullets from a barrel, their engines screaming in unison, tires screeching as they fought for every inch of tarmac into the treacherous Turn 1. Jason Todd, locked in his #02 Wayne Racing machine, clenched his jaw and held his line with the precision of a predator—elbows out, refusing to yield an inch.

Kyle Rayner, in his blinding #10 neon green LC25, lurked in his mirrors like a specter, his front wing nearly touching Jason’s rear diffuser as he tried to force him toward the wall. The move was aggressive, borderline reckless, but Jason had expected nothing less.

“He’s playing dirty already,” Jason growled into the radio, his fingers tightening around the wheel.

“Ignore him,” Dick’s voice came through, steady as a metronome despite the chaos unfolding on track. “Stick to the plan. Tire management first. The race comes to us.”

For the first half of the Grand Prix, Jason did exactly that—measuring his pace meticulously, nursing his tires, preserving his fuel, all while keeping Rayner at bay. The laps ticked by in a blur of adrenaline and concentration, the desert heat baking through his visor, sweat trickling down his temples beneath his helmet. The championship hung by a thread—every overtake, every defensive move, every millisecond counted.

Then—disaster struck.

A backmarker, caught in the turbulence of the leaders, lost control in the final sector, spinning violently and slamming into the barriers. The safety car was deployed instantly, the field bunching up like a coiled spring, erasing Jason’s hard-earned three-second lead in the blink of an eye.

“This is it,” Dick’s voice crackled over the radio, the usual calm replaced by quiet intensity. “Final stint. No more calculations. No more waiting. It’s all on you now.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white.

Just a little more.

A little more speed.

A little more courage.

A little more of himself poured into these last, fateful laps.

The moment the safety car lights went out, the pack surged forward like wild horses unleashed. Jason’s foot slammed the throttle just as the green flag waved, his car leaping forward with a vicious snarl. The final ten laps stretched before him. If he could just hold on, if he could just win, then he wouldn’t have to choose. Not between his love and his legacy. Not between Y/N and the championship. 

He could have it all.

The high-speed Turns 5-7 complex stretched before Jason like a ribbon of liquid asphalt, its sweeping curves demanding absolute precision. His Wayne Racing machine danced along the knife’s edge of adhesion, the Pirelli tires screeching in protest as he carried impossible speed through the esses. The g-forces pressed him deep into his seat, his neck muscles straining against the lateral load as the car flirted with the track limits.

In his mirrors, the neon green livery of Rayner’s Lantern Corps F1 car filled his vision, its menacing glow reflecting off his rear wing. The rival machine clung to his gearbox like a vengeful specter, never more than half a second behind, waiting for the slightest mistake.

“He’s saving battery,” Dick’s voice crackled through the radio, tense but controlled. “Expect an attack on the back straight.”

Jason’s eyes flicked downward for a millisecond, just long enough to register his energy display. One last push remaining—a precious 4 seconds of overtake boost. He’d have to time it perfectly, deploy it at the exact moment when—

The track opened up onto the massive 1.2 kilometer back straight and suddenly the battle erupted in earnest. Rayner’s car darted left, then snapped right, his movements unpredictable as he searched for any sliver of clean air to mount an attack. Jason countered each feint, weaving defensively while trying to maintain his racing line.

At 310 km/h, the concrete walls transformed into a dizzying blur, the sheer velocity making the world narrow to a tunnel of light and noise. Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat counting down the meters to the critical Turn 8 braking zone.

Then Rayner made his move— a desperate lunge down the inside. His front wheels locked momentarily, sending up puffs of smoke as he outbraked himself. For one terrifying second, Jason saw the neon green nosecone edging perilously close to his sidepod before Rayner somehow regained control, the cars avoiding contact by centimeters.

But the mistake cost Rayner dearly—his abrupt correction sent him wide, losing crucial momentum.

“These tires have no grip!” Jason snarled into the radio, his voice raw with adrenaline coursing through his veins. The once-reliable rubber now felt like blocks of ice beneath him, the degradation robbing him of the precise control he needed.

Through his visor, he could see the championship—his promise to Y/N—slipping away with every degrading lap. The desert air burned in his lungs, his fingers aching from their death grip on the wheel. Somewhere beyond the roar of the engine, beyond the screaming tires and the deafening rush of wind, he could almost hear the clock ticking down—

The final battle was coming. And neither man would yield.

“Push, Jason. Push.”

Dick’s voice cut through the radio, deceptively calm, but Jason could hear the razor-sharp intensity beneath the words. This was it—the moment that would define his legacy. Jason’s fingers locked around the wheel, his breath hitching as the walls of Turn 12 blurred past—too fast, too close. For a heartbeat, the track vanished.

Bahrain. The screech of tearing metal. The smell of burning rubber. The world flipping, crashing, darkness—

He blinked hard, forcing himself back into the present. The car shuddered beneath him, alive and responsive. Not then. Not now.

His eyes locked onto Rayner’s car ahead, studying every subtle movement. Then he saw it—the twitch in the high-speed corners, the slight hesitation as Rayner’s car fought for grip. His tires were fading. Fast. The rational part of Jason’s brain recognized the opportunity—the rubber was going, the gap was there but his pulse roared in his ears, a drumbeat of panic.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He could hear Y/N’s voice calling to him. She had held his hand and helped him out of a panic attack in his Monaco apartment. Soft, gentle, serene.

Jason held back, resisting the urge to pounce too soon. He conserved his battery, managed his energy, biding his time for one perfectly calculated strike.

The final lap began.

Through the sweeping Turns 11 to 14, Jason carved into Rayner’s lead, the gap shrinking to a razor-thin 0.3 seconds. The grandstands erupted as the two titans of the track roared past, engines howling, the air between them charged with rivalry. The crowd was on their feet, the roar of their voices lost beneath the scream of horsepower.

Then—Turn 19.

Jason played his hand. He feinted left, jinking toward the inside line, forcing Rayner to defend. This was chess at 200 miles per hour—every feint, every adjustment of throttle and steering wheel a calculated gambit. For a split second, Rayner’s focus flickered, his car drifting just a hair too wide on the exit. It was all Jason needed. And in that instant, Jason’s vision fractured.

The scent of scorched carbon fiber flooded his senses. The stomach-lurching sensation of his car crashing in Bahrain—the impact, the deafening silence afterward. His foot hovered over the throttle, muscles locking in phantom pain.

No.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. This isn’t Bahrain. This is now. And I’m not breaking.

Instinct took over.

Jason wrenched the wheel right, his car slingshotting to the outside with a violence that made his tires scream. The gap was barely wider than his car itself, but he hurled himself into it anyway, metal flashing past metal so close he could see the heat waves rippling off Rayner’s exhaust.

The world dissolved into sensation—the guttural roar of engines, the acrid taste of burning fuel, the vibration of the chassis trembling beneath him like a living thing. Rayner held firm, his car crowding Jason’s line, neither yielding an inch. For a heartbeat suspended in time, they were equals, locked in a duel where the smallest twitch meant triumph or disaster.

Then Jason’s mind cleared.

You don’t get to take this from me. 

His car inched forward. Millimeter by millimeter, he clawed ahead, his tires biting into the track with vicious determination. The nose of his Wayne Racing machine broke free first, then the hood, then the cockpit—until suddenly, irrevocably, he was leading.

The checkered flag unfurled in his periphery.

1. TOD 2. RAY +0.2

The radio erupted in a deafening crescendo of pure, unfiltered joy—a chaotic symphony of screaming engineers, clattering headsets, and the thunderous roar of the Wayne Racing pit crew losing all semblance of professionalism. Dick’s voice, usually so measured and calm, shattered into raw, unbridled emotion as he shouted himself hoarse, the words barely coherent through the static. Somewhere in the cacophony, Jason heard his own name chanted like a war cry, over and over, as if the team couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

But to Jason, it all sounded distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it through several feet of water. His hands, usually so steady and sure on the wheel, now trembled with the aftershocks of the race. As his car coasted down the main straight, the world seemed to move in slow motion around him. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gulps, each breath burning through lungs that had been holding tension for fifty-eight grueling laps.

The adrenaline was still there—a live current under his skin, making his fingertips tingle and his pulse roar in his ears. But beneath it, something deeper pulsed. Something quiet. Something heavy. It settled into his bones, into the marrow of him, a weight that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Four-time world champion.

The words flashed across the timing screens in bold, triumphant letters. The commentators bellowed it into their microphones, their voices cracking with excitement. The crowd chanted it back like a mantra and fireworks coloured the skies. But the number meant nothing compared to the truth behind it. They didn’t account for the brutal crashes that had left him bruised and broken, the surgeries that had stolen months of his career, the endless rehabilitation sessions where he’d fought just to move without pain. They didn’t reflect those endless nights in anonymous hotel rooms, staring at water-stained ceilings while his mind replayed every mistake, every near-miss, every whisper of doubt that maybe— just maybe— Bahrain had broken something in him that couldn’t be fixed.

The doubt had been his constant shadow, a ghost that haunted every practice session, every qualifying lap, every overtaking attempt. It whispered in his ear when he pushed the car to its limits, reminding him of what happened last time he danced this close to the edge.

But today... today he’d grabbed that doubt by the throat and roared right back in its face. Every perfect apex, every daring overtake, every calculated risk had been a middle finger to his fears. That final, breathtaking pass hadn’t just been about beating Rayner. It had been about proving something to himself, to the world, to every person who’d ever wondered if he was done—that he wasn’t just back.

He was better.

“THE CHECKERED FLAG WAVES! JASON TODD, YOU ARE A FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! THE WORLD CHAMPION! The Wayne Racing garage has LOST THEIR MINDS— Dick Grayson is vaulting over the pit wall like a man possessed, the mechanics are screaming themselves raw—and look at Todd in that car, absolutely spent, but MY GOD, WHAT A DRIVE!”

This wasn’t just another championship added to his record. This was redemption made tangible, a phoenix moment forged from fire and steel and sheer, stubborn will. History books would record it as another victory, but Jason would always know the truth.

He hadn’t just made history today. He’d seized it back with both hands.

The moment Jason Todd climbed out of his car, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He stood atop the scorching-hot chassis, his racing suit streaked with sweat and the ghosts of past battles. The grandstands, a sea of color and noise just seconds before, fell into an eerie silence—thousands of eyes locked onto him, waiting. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Jason clenched his fist and thrust it skyward.

The crowd exploded.

The roar that followed was deafening—a tidal wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the circuit. Cheers, screams, the thunder of stamping feet—it all blended into one overwhelming symphony of triumph. Jason let it wash over him, his chest heaving, his body still vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline. For a moment, he simply existed in the pure, unfiltered joy of it.

Then exhaustion hit him like a freight train.

He stumbled slightly as he stepped down from the car, his legs unsteady after two hours of punishing focus. But he still managed to wave at the crowd again, a tired but genuine grin tugging at his lips as he turned toward the pits.

His team descended upon him like a hurricane—hands clapping his shoulders, voices shouting in his ear, bodies pressing in from all sides as they celebrated their hard-earned victory. Every thump on his back, every shouted was a testament to the battle they’d all fought together.

But Jason only had one thought in his mind.

Y/N.

And then—there she was.

A glimpse of her through the chaos, standing in the Wayne Racing garage, her face alight with pride. She was wearing the team’s hastily printed “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION” shirt, just like everyone else, but on her, it looked different. On her, it felt like his.

Their eyes met.

For half a second, hesitation flickered across her expression—her gaze darting to the cameras trained on them, the ever-present vultures waiting to dissect their every move. But then something shifted. A quiet defiance. A silent “Screw it.”

And she ran.

Jason barely had time to react before she was crashing into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing flush against his sweat-soaked suit. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his cheek, the way her fingers trembled where they tangled in his hair. Without thinking, he hooked his hands around her waist and lifted, spinning her in a tight circle as she let out a breathless laugh.

His helmet hit the ground with a clatter, forgotten.

Forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in, Jason felt something settle inside him—something warm and sure and right.

“So,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, “that’s another one off the list.”

A shaky exhale against his lips. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “Yeah, it is.”

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around her. “I know there’s still a lot of work left. A lot of races. A lot of battles.” A pause. A heartbeat. “But Y/N... will you be mine? Really mine?”

She let out a choked laugh, her eyes shining. “Jason Peter Todd Wayne,” she breathed,“ I’ve been yours for a very long time.”

As Jason set Y/N back down on her feet, the team descended upon them in a wave of unrestrained joy.

Dick was the first to reach them, throwing an arm around Jason’s shoulders with enough force to nearly knock him off-balance. “You absolute madman!” he crowed, shaking him slightly, his grin wide enough to split his face. “That last overtake—I almost had a heart attack!”

Danny slapped Jason’s back hard enough to make him cough. “We were screaming so loud in the garage, the FIA probably thinks we’ve lost our minds!”

“Too late for that,” another engineer chimed in, shoving a hastily opened bottle of champagne into Jason’s hands. “We lost those years ago working with you lot!”

Jason laughed, twisting the cap off and taking a long swig before passing it to Y/N, who wrinkled her nose but took a sip anyway. The second the liquid touched her tongue, she made a face, and Jason barked out another laugh, pulling her closer.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a lightweight now,” he teased, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I’m not!” she protested, shoving at his chest half-heartedly. “That’s just objectively terrible!”

“It’s tradition!” Dick argued, snatching the bottle back and taking a dramatic swig before shaking it vigorously, sending foam spraying across the nearest group of mechanics. A chorus of shouts and laughter erupted as they retaliated, grabbing whatever bottles were within reach and shaking them like they were in a goddamn riot.

Bruce appeared at the edge of the chaos, looking as composed as ever—though the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Try not to drown the entire team in alcohol before the podium ceremony,” he said dryly.

“No promises dad,” Jason shot back, grinning.

Someone—probably Tim, because he was a little shit like that—sneakily dumped an entire bottle of cold sparkling water down Jason’s back. Jason yelped, twisting around to glare at the culprit, but Tim was already ducking behind a grinning mechanic, hands raised in mock surrender.

“You’re dead, Drake!” Jason threatened, lunging for him.

Tim bolted, cackling and Jason gave chase—only to be intercepted by Alfred, who appeared with a towel in hand. “Master Jason,” he said, voice dripping with disapproval, though his eyes were warm. “You’re tracking champagne and sweat all over the garage.”

Jason grinned, unrepentant, but took the towel anyway, ruffling his hair with it before slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry, Alfred. Got carried away.”

“Indeed,” Alfred sighed, long-suffering. “However, it is well-deserved”

Y/N appeared at Jason’s side again, her fingers tangling with his. “You’re a mess,” she informed him, though she was smiling.

Jason tugged her closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Your mess.”

She rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers tightened around his told him everything he needed to know.

The team’s celebrations continued around them—champagne spraying, voices raised in laughter, the occasional curse as someone slipped on spilled alcohol. The cameras still hovered at the edges, capturing every moment, but for once, Jason didn’t care.

Let them see.

Let them see the team, the family, the love.

Let them see what it meant to fight—and to win.

The celebration swirled around them—champagne foam catching in the golden afternoon light, laughter ringing like church bells, the scent of tires and triumph still clinging to the air. But for Jason, the world had narrowed to this: Y/N’s hand in his, her fingers laced through his own like they had always belonged there.

The team moved around them in a blur of joy—Dick draping an arm over Tim’s shoulders as they both laughed. Bruce stood slightly apart, his usual stoicism softened at the edges, pride glowing quiet but undeniable in his eyes with Alfred quietly wiping the stray tear at the corner of his eye. And Cass stood off to the side, that rare, soft smile playing at her lips as she watched her family. The garage was alive, electric, every heartbeat in sync with the pulse of victory.

Jason turned to Y/N, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The noise faded into something distant, something unimportant.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” he admitted, unrepentant. His voice was rough, scraped raw from shouting, from the sheer weight of everything he couldn’t put into words. “Just memorizing this.”

Her expression softened, something unbearably tender flickering in her eyes. “You don’t have to,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And that—

That was the real victory.

Not the gleaming trophy waiting on the podium. Not the headlines that would scream his name across the world tomorrow. Not even the deafening roar of the crowd still vibrating in his chest, echoing like thunder long after the storm had passed.

It was this.

Her.

The way her eyes held his like he was something worth keeping. The way she had stood by him through every crash, every setback, every moment he had doubted himself. The way she was here now, her palm pressed against his racing heart, as if she could feel the truth of it beating beneath her fingertips.

Jason leaned in, forehead resting against hers. Around them, the world kept moving—champagne bottles popping, cameras flashing, the announcer calling his name. But here, in this breath between seconds, it was just them.

“I love you,” he said, simple and sure.

Y/N’s smile was brighter than any checkered flag, any winner’s trophy, any sun-drenched finish line. “I know,” she whispered back, her voice thick with everything she didn’t need to say.

And when he kissed her—there, in the middle of the chaos, with the taste of victory and something infinitely sweeter on his lips—Jason knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the moment he would carry with him forever.

Not as the end of a race.

But as the first, glorious note of everything that came after.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist

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A/n: I just winged the technical part of the race so please excuse that if there are any inaccuracies. There was so much more that I wanted to include, so i'll probably make another post with snippets of moments during, before and after the story. Feel free to request if you want to read anything in particular :)) Also do y'all want a smut fic of the championship celebration night with Jason? Lmk in the comments!!

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