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Out of Line

Parring : George Russell x reader word : 49K

Summary :

George Russell is used to control. Control over interviews. Control over headlines. Control over the version of himself the world gets to see. Then she starts asking questions that don’t have easy answers. And suddenly, every conversation feels dangerously close to becoming something else.

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The first thing George noticed was the noise.

Not the engines outside or the radios constantly crackling through the Mercedes garage. That kind of chaos had stopped meaning anything to him years ago. No, this was different. Journalists talking over each other inside the hospitality, PR assistants repeating schedules, sponsors laughing too loudly over coffee cups. Thursday media days always felt artificial, like everyone was performing a version of themselves they barely tolerated. George had learned how to survive those days perfectly. Sit straight. Smile correctly.

Answer carefully. Never give journalists more than they needed. Especially after difficult weekends. The questions barely changed anymore anyway. “Do you think Mercedes can fight closer to the front?” “How do you feel about the upgrades?” “Do you still trust the process?” Same conversations. Same headlines. Same rehearsed answers delivered with the exact tone people expected from him. The PR manager standing nearby barely paid attention anymore while checking her tablet because George never caused problems during interviews.

He knew exactly how to exist publicly without creating unnecessary headlines. “We’re making progress.” “The team is working hard.” “We’ll maximize the package.” The responses came automatically now, polished enough to sound honest while revealing almost nothing at all. Another journalist finished asking about Mercedes’ performance before thanking him with an overly enthusiastic smile that disappeared the second the camera stopped recording. George adjusted the sleeve of his polo while someone moved another camera in front of him. Routine. Everything about Formula One eventually became routine if you stayed inside it long enough.

Which was why he noticed immediately when the next journalist sat down across from him and didn’t smile. Not rudely. Not coldly either. She simply didn’t seem interested in pretending friendliness for the sake of the interview. That alone caught his attention faster than it should have. She placed a recorder carefully on the table, opened a notebook filled with handwritten notes, then looked directly at him for the first time. Calm eye contact. Observant.

George suddenly had the strange impression she wasn’t looking at him like a Formula One driver. “George,” she said simply after the PR assistant reminded them they only had fifteen minutes. No fake enthusiasm. No awkward compliments before the interview started. Just his name. Then she started the recorder immediately. “At the end of last season, you said consistency was going to be Mercedes’ biggest priority this year.” George nodded automatically, still comfortably hidden behind the polished media-trained version of himself. “That’s right.”

She glanced briefly at her notes. “So why are you still describing the balance as unpredictable after three races?” George paused for barely half a second. The question wasn’t aggressive, but it was direct in a way most journalists avoided. Usually they softened difficult questions first. Usually they gave drivers room to escape politely. She didn’t seem interested in doing that. “I think unpredictable is probably too strong a word,” he answered calmly. “You used it yesterday.” Silence stretched briefly between them.

Short enough that nobody else probably noticed it, but George still caught the PR assistant glancing up nearby. Tiny disruption. Tiny irritation immediately settling under his skin. He folded his hands together loosely. “The window is still narrow,” he corrected smoothly. “These regulations are extremely sensitive. Small changes can affect the balance more than expected.” She nodded once while writing something down.

“And do you think the issue is mechanical or conceptual at this point?” That made him pause again because most journalists didn’t ask technical questions unless engineers had fed them the wording beforehand. She sounded like she actually understood what she was asking about. Worse, she sounded like she understood his answers too. The interview stopped feeling normal after that. It became something sharper, something dangerously close to a duel disguised as conversation, and George realized with growing irritation that he was actually paying attention now.

Really paying attention. “But from the outside, it looks like Mercedes keeps chasing solutions instead of understanding the original problem.” George leaned back slightly in his chair. “It’s easy to simplify things from the outside.” “And frustrating when people do?” Again, not rude. Just precise. Every question landed a little too accurately, forcing him to think before answering instead of relying on automatic PR instinct. “You’re very determined to make this difficult,” he finally said after another question cornered him more effectively than expected. For the first time, something close to amusement crossed her face briefly.

“I think people are more interesting when they stop giving rehearsed answers.” That should not have affected him. It did anyway. George suddenly became painfully aware of the fact he was answering differently now, more honestly than he normally allowed himself to during interviews. She wasn’t trying to flatter him. She wasn’t trying to provoke him either. Somehow that made her more dangerous than both categories combined. Around them, the hospitality continued moving normally, journalists talking loudly while coffee cups clinked against tables somewhere behind them, but George found himself focusing entirely on the conversation in front of him.

“You’ve always been described as someone extremely calculated in the paddock,” she said while flipping another page in her notebook. George almost sighed internally. Personality questions. Great. “Calculated?” “You control your image carefully.” Not a question. A statement. George held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. “Everyone does in Formula One.” “Some people are better at it.” The irritation sharpened again because she sounded like she already knew the answer before asking the question.

“That’s part of being a professional athlete.” “Do you ever get tired of it?” That question landed harder than expected. George felt it immediately somewhere beneath the polished composure he spent years building around himself. He answered automatically anyway. “It comes with the job.” “That’s not really an answer.” Silence followed. Then George let out a slow breath through his nose, dangerously close to a laugh despite himself. “Do you interview everyone like this?” “Only the ones who are difficult.” That actually made him laugh softly for real, brief enough that the PR assistant nearby looked surprised.

The strange part wasn’t the fact she irritated him. The strange part was that he was enjoying it anyway. “You’ve done your research,” George said eventually, studying her more carefully now. She shrugged lightly. “I do my job.” Simple answer. Again. No unnecessary charm. No attempt to make him comfortable.

Weirdly, that made him more aware of her instead. For the first time since she sat down, George properly noticed details beyond the questions themselves. The dark circles hidden under makeup. The ink stains against the side of her hand. The slight exhaustion in her expression whenever she looked back down at her notes. “There’s been a lot of discussion lately about pressure inside Mercedes,” she continued. “There’s pressure everywhere in Formula One.” “But not every team built its identity around winning.” There it was again.

Precise. Focused. George resisted the urge to rub his temple. “You’re trying very hard to get a dramatic quote out of me.” “No.” She tilted her head slightly. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re frustrated.” That caught him off guard enough for silence to stretch properly between them this time because the answer was obviously yes. Mercedes wasn’t where they wanted to be. He wasn’t where he wanted to be either.

But nobody usually asked it like that. Directly. “And if I was?” George asked eventually. “Then I’d understand it.” No judgment. No bait for headlines. Just honesty. Which somehow felt more dangerous than provocation. George looked at her properly then, really looked this time, and became uncomfortably aware of the fact she was doing the exact same thing to him.

“You don’t exactly make interviews relaxing,” he muttered finally. Another flicker of amusement crossed her face. “That’s not really my responsibility.” “No?” “No.” Then, quieter this time, “I’m not here to make you comfortable, George.” The way she said his name should not have affected him at all. It did anyway. George looked briefly toward the hospitality windows overlooking the paddock outside while mechanics crossed between motorhomes carrying equipment cases under the Bahrain sun. When he looked back at her, she was still watching him carefully, like she was waiting to see whether he would retreat behind the polished media-trained version of himself again.

He almost did. Instead, he heard himself ask, “Do you enjoy making people uncomfortable?” For the first time during the interview, she smiled properly. Small. Brief. Real enough to change something in her expression before disappearing again. “Only when they’re pretending.” George heard her name again less than an hour later. Not directly at first, just fragments of conversation drifting through the paddock while he walked back toward the Mercedes garage with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

Thursday afternoons always blurred together eventually, every team pretending they weren’t already exhausted before the weekend had even properly started. Somewhere behind him, journalists laughed loudly enough to echo between the motorhomes. “That interview earlier looked painful.” George barely paid attention at first. “She does that to everyone.” That made him glance up automatically. Two journalists stood near the media center entrance, both holding laptops against their chests while watching people cross the paddock. One of them noticed George nearby and immediately straightened slightly, clearly realizing too late he might have overheard them.

“Sorry,” the younger one muttered awkwardly. George shrugged once. “I’ve heard worse.” The older journalist laughed softly. “Trust me, she’s usually worse too.” George should have kept walking. Instead, he slowed down slightly. “Is that supposed to reassure me?” “Not really,” the man admitted. “She has a reputation.”

George slipped his sunglasses higher against the bridge of his nose. “Clearly.” The journalist smiled faintly. “Most drivers hate interviewing with her.” “And why’s that?” “Because she asks real questions.” The answer came too quickly, too honestly. George frowned slightly before he could stop himself.

The younger journalist spoke next. “She doesn’t really care about access or PR relationships.” He hesitated briefly. “Teams don’t love that.” George almost laughed quietly at the understatement. No, teams definitely wouldn’t love that. Formula One survived on carefully controlled narratives. Drivers gave safe answers. Journalists softened difficult questions to maintain relationships.

Everyone played along because that was how the paddock worked. Except apparently she didn’t. Interesting. Dangerously inconvenient. George finally continued walking before the conversation could become any stranger, but the exchange lingered in his mind longer than it should have. The paddock outside the hospitality buzzed with late afternoon movement, engineers crossing between garages while media crews dragged equipment cases over the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a photographer shouted for another driver’s attention. Normal Thursday chaos.

Yet George found himself scanning the crowd automatically anyway. He spotted her near the media center less than a minute later. She stood beside one of the outside tables with her laptop open, typing quickly while balancing a coffee cup beside stacks of handwritten notes. No cameras around her. No dramatic performance for social media clips. She looked entirely focused on work, expression slightly tense while reading something on the screen. George hated the fact he noticed that immediately. A photographer passed nearby and said something to her that he couldn’t hear properly.

She barely looked up before answering shortly, clearly distracted. The man laughed anyway before continuing toward the Ferrari hospitality. She returned to typing almost immediately afterward. No flirting. No unnecessary socializing. Just work. For some reason, that irritated him less than it probably should have. “George.”

He turned automatically at the sound of his race engineer approaching from the garage entrance. “Meeting in five.” Right. Work. George followed him toward Mercedes, but not before glancing back one last time across the paddock. She was still typing. Completely unaware he’d looked at her again. The engineering meeting lasted nearly forty minutes.

Long enough for George to stop thinking about the interview entirely while discussions shifted toward setup changes and tire degradation projections for Friday practice. Numbers made more sense than people most of the time. Numbers followed logic. They behaved predictably. George preferred that. Still, by the time the meeting finally ended, exhaustion had started settling behind his eyes properly. He grabbed another coffee while leaving the engineering room, only to stop abruptly when he heard laughter coming from nearby. Her laughter.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just real enough to catch his attention instantly. George looked over automatically before he could stop himself. She stood beside two other journalists near the Mercedes hospitality entrance, arms crossed loosely while listening to one of them complain about airline delays. The conversation looked relaxed enough that George almost didn’t recognize her at first. She seemed lighter somehow away from interviews, shoulders less tense while she laughed softly at something the older journalist said. Then she noticed him looking.

The change happened immediately. Not dramatic. Just subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t have caught it. Her expression settled back into calm professionalism almost instantly. George suddenly became aware of the fact he was still staring. He looked away first. Annoying. Very annoying. “You survived, then?”

George glanced sideways as Alex Albon appeared beside him holding a bottle of water. “Survived what?” Alex grinned immediately. “The interview.” George sighed softly. “News travels fast.” “Oh, come on,” Alex laughed. “Half the paddock saw that.” He lowered his voice slightly. “You looked offended.”

“I wasn’t offended.” “You looked offended.” George took a slow sip of coffee instead of answering. Alex’s grin widened further. “That bad?” “She asks strange questions.” “That’s because your normal interviews are boring.” George gave him a flat look. Alex ignored it completely. “Honestly, though, she’s terrifying.”

“That seems dramatic.” “Says the man who looked ready to fight for his life twenty minutes into the interview.” George almost rolled his eyes. “You’re exaggerating.” “Am I?” Unfortunately, no. At least not entirely. George hated the fact other people had apparently noticed the tension too.

The worst part was that he still didn’t fully understand why it had happened in the first place. “She’s just…” Alex paused briefly, searching for the right word. “Intense.” George looked down at his coffee cup. Yeah. That sounded accurate. The rest of the afternoon passed in fragments after that. Sponsor obligations.

More meetings. Endless conversations about performance expectations before qualifying simulations tomorrow. George moved through all of it automatically, maintaining the same controlled professionalism everyone expected from him. Smile correctly. Speak carefully. Never look irritated even when exhaustion started pressing heavily against his shoulders. By the time evening settled properly over the paddock, most media crews had finally started disappearing. The atmosphere changed completely afterward.

Quieter. Less artificial. Mechanics still moved between garages preparing for Friday, but the endless noise of interviews and cameras slowly faded into something softer. George preferred the paddock like this. Real. Stripped down to work instead of performance. He was halfway back toward the Mercedes hospitality when he heard raised voices near the media center entrance. Not angry.

Just sharp enough to catch attention. George glanced over automatically. She stood near the outside tables again, speaking to another journalist whose expression looked increasingly irritated the longer the conversation continued. “You can’t seriously write that,” the man snapped quietly. “I already did.” “That’s not what Toto said.” “That’s exactly what Toto said.” “You know what he meant.”

She closed her notebook calmly. “I write what people say. Not what they wish they’d said afterward.” The journalist let out a frustrated breath through his nose. “This is why teams hate talking to you.” Something unexpectedly defensive twisted inside George before he could stop it. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

She didn’t even seem bothered by the comment anyway. “Teams hate losing,” she replied simply. “I’m usually just nearby when it happens.” The man shook his head before walking away muttering something under his breath. She watched him leave without reacting. Then sighed quietly once she thought nobody else was paying attention. George should have kept walking. Instead, he heard himself say, “You seem popular.”

Her head lifted immediately. For half a second, genuine surprise crossed her expression before professionalism settled back into place. “Careful,” she replied calmly. “People might think you’re willingly speaking to me now.” George almost smiled despite himself. Almost. “He seemed annoyed.” “He’ll survive.” “You’re very confident about that.”

She slipped her notebook into her bag. “People usually survive being annoyed by me.” The answer came so naturally that George suddenly wondered how often she heard comments like that. That thought unsettled him more than it should have. “You don’t make things easy for yourself,” he said before thinking too carefully about it. For the first time since he approached her, she looked genuinely amused. “I could say the same thing about you.” George leaned slightly against the edge of the table beside her.

“That sounds vaguely threatening.” “No,” she replied softly. “Just observational.” There it was again. That irritating precision. Like she saw more than she was supposed to. The Bahrain heat lingered heavily in the evening air around them while people continued crossing the paddock behind them. Somewhere nearby, a forklift beeped loudly while equipment cases were moved between garages.

Normal sounds. Normal evening. Yet the conversation between them felt strangely isolated from everything else. “You really don’t care if teams dislike your articles?” George asked eventually. She shrugged lightly. “I care if they’re inaccurate.” “That’s not the same thing.” “No.” Simple answer. Again. George studied her for a second longer than necessary.

“That seems exhausting.” Something flickered briefly across her face at that. Gone almost immediately. “Sometimes.” The honesty caught him slightly off guard. No defensive joke. No polished response. Just honesty. Weirdly, that made him more aware of how tired she looked under the paddock lights.

The dark circles under her eyes were more visible now than earlier. “You should probably sleep more,” he heard himself say before realizing how strange the comment sounded. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Interesting.” George frowned. “What is?” “You notice things for someone who pretends not to.” Silence.

Brief. Dangerously loaded despite how simple the words were. George looked away first this time, jaw tightening slightly. “That sounds like another interview question.” “Maybe.” Her voice stayed calm. Always calm. That might have been the most frustrating part. George was suddenly very aware of how close they were standing now compared to earlier inside the hospitality.

Not close enough to mean anything. Just close enough to notice details too easily. The ink stains still visible against her fingers. The tiredness hidden beneath sharp professionalism. The fact she watched people the way engineers studied telemetry. Dangerously attentive. “You know,” she said eventually, “most drivers would’ve walked away by now.” “Maybe I’m curious.”

That answer slipped out too quickly. Her expression changed slightly at that. Not softer. Just more attentive somehow. “About what?” Good question. George honestly wasn’t sure anymore. About why she irritated him. About why he kept noticing her in crowded rooms. About why fifteen minutes of conversation earlier still lingered somewhere in the back of his mind hours later.

Instead of answering properly, he took another sip of now-cold coffee. “You ask strange questions.” A small smile appeared briefly again. “And yet you keep answering them.” That shut him up immediately. Because she was right. Again. By the time George finally escaped the last sponsor obligation of the evening, the paddock had almost completely emptied.

The loud energy of media day had faded into something quieter now, softer around the edges, with only mechanics and engineers still moving between garages under the fluorescent lights. Bahrain nights always felt strange to him. The heat never really disappeared, it only settled heavier against the air once the sun went down. He loosened the collar of his Mercedes shirt slightly while walking back toward the garage, exhaustion pressing behind his eyes harder now that the adrenaline of the day had started fading. Thursdays were always the worst kind of tiring.

Not physical exhaustion. Social exhaustion. Endless conversations that meant nothing. Endless performances disguised as interviews. By the end of media day, George usually wanted silence more than anything else. Which was probably why he noticed immediately when he saw her again. She sat alone near the back of the Mercedes hospitality, laptop open in front of her while most of the lights had already been dimmed for the night. The tables around her were empty now, abandoned coffee cups and forgotten schedules still scattered across them.

She looked entirely absorbed in whatever she was writing, one hand pressed lightly against her temple while the other moved quickly across the keyboard. George slowed automatically. Annoying. Very annoying. He should have kept walking toward the garage without stopping. Instead, he found himself watching her for a second longer than necessary. There was something strangely different about seeing her like this compared to earlier in the paddock. Less sharp somehow.

More tired. The carefully controlled version of herself she carried through interviews looked thinner now, worn down by exhaustion around the edges. Then she looked up. Their eyes met instantly across the nearly empty hospitality. For half a second, neither of them moved. Then she leaned back slightly in her chair. “You’re still here.” George slid one hand into his pocket.

“So are you.” “That sounds accusatory.” “It wasn’t supposed to.” A small pause settled between them while distant sounds from the garages echoed faintly through the open hospitality doors. Somewhere outside, equipment cases rolled over concrete while mechanics continued preparing for Friday. Normal paddock noise. Softer now. Less performative.

She glanced back toward her laptop briefly. “I have an article due in an hour.” George frowned slightly. “You’re writing now?” “When else would I write it?” Fair point. He looked around the almost empty hospitality again before speaking. “I thought journalists disappeared after media day.”

“We try.” That almost made him smile. Almost. “You don’t seem very successful at it.” “Neither do you.” Again with that. Every conversation somehow became a strange kind of duel with her, even when neither of them sounded particularly confrontational anymore. George stepped further inside the hospitality before he fully decided to.

“Long day?” She looked at him for a second, like she was trying to figure out whether the question was genuine. “It’s Thursday,” she answered eventually. Not really an answer. Which, annoyingly enough, made him understand exactly what she meant anyway. George leaned lightly against the edge of one of the nearby tables. “You avoided answering.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face.

“That’s not really an answer either.” Right. Fair enough. The silence afterward felt different from the earlier ones. Less sharp. Not comfortable exactly, but quieter somehow. George became aware of the fact that this was the first conversation they’d had all day without cameras around them. No microphones.

No PR managers nearby listening carefully to every sentence. Just the two of them and the soft hum of the hospitality lights overhead. Weirdly, that made him more aware of her instead of less. “You really write everything yourself?” he asked eventually, nodding toward the laptop. She blinked once, clearly not expecting the question. “Most journalists do.” “You know what I mean.” “Yes.”

Her tone softened slightly around the edges. “I write my own articles.” George nodded once. “That seems exhausting.” Something about the answer made her laugh quietly under her breath. “There’s a theme developing here.” “What theme?” “You keep noticing when people are tired.” George frowned slightly at that.

“You say that like it’s unusual.” “For drivers? Sometimes it is.” The response landed somewhere uncomfortable in his chest before he could stop it. He looked away briefly toward the paddock outside the hospitality windows. The floodlights reflected against the glass while mechanics crossed between garages carrying equipment cases under the warm night air. Everything looked calmer at night. More honest.

When he looked back at her, she was watching him again. Always watching. “You analyze people constantly, don’t you?” he asked before thinking too carefully about it. She tilted her head slightly. “Occupational hazard.” “That sounds exhausting too.” “It is.” Again, no defensive joke. No attempt to dodge honesty once it appeared naturally.

George found himself studying her more carefully now that the tension from earlier had settled slightly. Without the noise of media day surrounding them, details became easier to notice. The slight crease between her eyebrows while she worked. The exhaustion hidden behind concentration. The fact she kept flexing her fingers occasionally like her hand hurt from writing all day. “You should probably take a break,” he said before thinking. That made her look genuinely surprised. “Are you always this concerned about journalists?”

“I’m not concerned.” “No?” “No.” She smiled slightly then, smaller than before but somehow more real too. “You’re a terrible liar.” George let out a soft breath through his nose, dangerously close to another laugh. “That’s ironic coming from someone who interrogates people professionally.” “I don’t interrogate people.”

“You absolutely do.” “That’s dramatic.” “You made an entire interview feel like cross-examination.” She looked genuinely thoughtful for a second after that. “You say that like it bothered you.” It should have. That was the problem. George crossed his arms loosely. “Most people don’t enjoy being analyzed.”

“Most people don’t notice it happening.” The answer came quietly. Too quietly. For some reason, that affected him more than any sharp question from earlier. Silence settled again after that, stretching naturally while she returned her attention briefly to the article on her screen. George should have used the opportunity to leave. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, watching the reflections of paddock lights move faintly across the hospitality windows. “You know,” she said eventually without looking up from her laptop, “most drivers would avoid me after an interview like that.”

“You mentioned that already.” “And yet you’re still here.” George hated how difficult that question suddenly felt to answer honestly. Because he wasn’t entirely sure himself anymore. Curiosity, maybe. Irritation too. Something stranger underneath both of those things that he didn’t particularly want to examine yet. “You ask unusual questions,” he said finally.

“That’s still not an answer.” He almost smiled despite himself. Almost. Outside, a burst of laughter echoed somewhere near the Ferrari garage before fading quickly into the night again. The paddock felt half asleep now, suspended in that strange quietness that only existed after midnight race preparations started. George normally loved this part of race weekends. The silence. The focus.

The absence of performance. Yet somehow this felt different too. More dangerous. She finally closed her laptop with a quiet sigh before rubbing a hand against her eyes briefly. The movement looked involuntary, exhaustion slipping through the cracks of professionalism for the first time all evening. George noticed immediately. Of course he did. “You really are tired,” he said quietly.

Her hand paused briefly before dropping back to the table. “Congratulations. Your observational skills are improving.” “I’m serious.” “So am I.” George studied her for a second longer than necessary. “When did you last sleep properly?” That made her laugh softly again, though this time it sounded more tired than amused.

“That’s definitely not an interview question.” “You avoided answering again.” “You noticed?” The sarcasm should have annoyed him. Instead, he found himself relaxing slightly around it. Dangerous. Very dangerous. She leaned back in her chair again before looking at him properly. “You always sound exhausted before qualifying sessions.”

George stilled slightly. The sentence wasn’t accusatory. That somehow made it worse. “I’m not exhausted.” “No,” she replied calmly. “You’re just tired of pretending you aren’t.” Silence. Real silence this time. The kind that settled heavily between people instead of comfortably. George looked at her without answering immediately because something about the comment landed far too accurately beneath his ribs.

He suddenly became aware of every hour he’d spent controlling himself publicly over the past months. Every carefully measured interview. Every perfectly controlled reaction after disappointing race weekends. Every version of himself he maintained because Formula One demanded it constantly. And somehow she had noticed that after one day. Dangerous. “You think you understand people very quickly,” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “No.”

Her answer surprised him. “I think people are usually more obvious than they want to believe.” George held her gaze for a long second after that. Then looked away first. Again. Outside the hospitality windows, the Bahrain night stretched endlessly across the paddock while floodlights reflected against the empty pathways between garages. George suddenly became aware of how late it had gotten. Most of the team had probably already left for the hotel by now.

He should leave too. Instead, he stayed where he was. “You know what your problem is?” she asked suddenly. George blinked once. “That sounds promising.” “You answer every question like you’re trying to predict consequences before speaking.” “That’s called media training.” “No,” she corrected softly.

“That’s called expecting honesty to become dangerous.” The sentence hit hard enough that George actually looked at her properly again. No teasing this time. No amusement either. Just observation. And somehow that was infinitely worse. Neither of them spoke for several seconds afterward. The air conditioning hummed softly overhead while distant garage noise echoed faintly through the open hospitality doors.

George could feel tension settling somewhere low in his chest now, not sharp like earlier interviews. Something quieter. Stranger. “You really do overanalyze everything,” he muttered eventually. She smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.” “There’s that phrase again.” “It’s accurate.” George shook his head softly before finally pushing himself away from the table.

“You’re impossible.” For the first time all evening, her smile became genuinely visible. Brief. Real. “You’re still here.” Right. That again. George looked at her for a second longer than necessary before glancing toward the dark paddock outside. He should leave before this conversation became even stranger somehow.

Before he started looking forward to it. That thought alone irritated him immediately. “You should finish your article,” he said finally. “You should sleep more.” George huffed out something dangerously close to a laugh under his breath. “That sounded rehearsed.” “No,” she replied while reopening her laptop. “Just observational.”

Of course it was. George shook his head once before turning toward the hospitality exit. He could still feel her watching him while he walked away, though he refused to look back immediately. The warm Bahrain air hit him properly the second he stepped outside, carrying distant garage noise and the smell of overheated asphalt under the floodlights. Halfway down the paddock pathway, he stopped briefly. Then looked back anyway. Through the hospitality windows, she was already focused on her laptop again, typing quickly like the conversation had never happened at all.

George stared for exactly one second too long before forcing himself to continue walking toward the Mercedes garage. Annoying. Completely, unbelievably annoying. And somehow, despite all of that, he realized with growing irritation that he already wanted to talk to her again. Friday mornings always felt different from Thursdays. Less artificial. Less performative. The paddock still buzzed with movement before the first practice session, but the atmosphere had shifted overnight from media chaos to work.

Mechanics moved quickly between garages carrying tire blankets and equipment cases while engineers walked through strategy discussions already half focused on data they hadn’t collected yet. George preferred Fridays. Fridays made sense. Cars, numbers, lap times. Simpler than endless interviews and carefully controlled conversations. Which was probably why it annoyed him so much that he woke up thinking about her anyway. George adjusted the strap of his backpack while walking through the paddock toward the Mercedes garage, jaw tightening slightly the second he realized where his thoughts had drifted.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He had spoken to her for maybe an hour total across one day. That should not have been enough to leave any impression strong enough to follow him into the next morning. And yet. “You’re just tired of pretending you aren’t.” The sentence replayed in his head again before he could stop it. Annoying.

Very annoying. George stepped into the Mercedes garage almost aggressively after that, immediately focusing on the familiar rhythm of preparation around him. Screens glowed with overnight simulations while mechanics moved around the car under the harsh white garage lights. One of the engineers greeted him briefly before handing over updated setup notes. George nodded automatically, grateful for something concrete enough to push the rest of his thoughts aside. For almost twenty minutes, it worked. Then he saw her again. Not directly at first.

Just movement across the paddock outside the garage entrance catching his attention automatically. George looked up without thinking and spotted her walking quickly between motorhomes with a coffee cup in one hand and her phone pressed against her ear. She looked even more tired than yesterday somehow, dark circles visible beneath her eyes despite the early morning light flooding the paddock. George hated the fact he noticed that immediately. Worse, he noticed where she was going too. Toward Red Bull. His expression tightened slightly before he could stop it.

Why exactly did that bother him? “She’s terrifying before ten in the morning.” George blinked and looked sideways automatically as one of the Mercedes mechanics stepped beside him near the garage entrance. The mechanic followed George’s line of sight immediately and laughed softly under his breath. “Seriously. I saw her destroy a PR manager last season over inaccurate quotes.” George forced his attention back toward the garage. “Sounds dramatic.”

“It was hilarious.” George hummed vaguely in response, pretending the conversation didn’t interest him nearly as much as it actually did. Unfortunately, the mechanic kept talking anyway. “Journalists are scared of her.” “That seems excessive.” “No, seriously,” the mechanic insisted. “Drivers too, honestly.” George almost rolled his eyes.

“That’s dramatic too.” The mechanic grinned. “You looked stressed yesterday.” “I wasn’t stressed.” “Sure.” George gave him a flat look that only made the man laugh harder before walking back toward the rear of the garage. George exhaled quietly through his nose afterward, irritated for reasons he still couldn’t fully explain. He should not care this much about a journalist everyone apparently found intimidating.

More importantly, he definitely should not care who she interviewed before FP1. And yet he still glanced back toward the paddock entrance anyway. She had disappeared already. Annoying. Practice preparations filled most of the next hour. Engineers discussed tire temperatures while George changed into his race suit, attention finally settling fully onto work instead of inconvenient distractions. This was easier. Driving always was.

The car made sense even when it frustrated him. People were infinitely more complicated. Still, when he walked toward the media pen briefly before practice, he spotted her almost immediately again. Not because she stood out dramatically. Because he looked. That realization hit him hard enough to irritate him instantly. She stood near the edge of the media area flipping through handwritten notes while another journalist spoke beside her. The conversation looked casual enough that George probably wouldn’t have paid attention normally.

Except he did pay attention now. Enough to notice the exact second she looked up and spotted him watching. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. Not surprised. Almost amused. George looked away first. Again. “You look tired.” The voice reached him seconds later before he even fully realized she’d approached.

George glanced sideways automatically while another camera crew moved past them toward Ferrari’s section of the paddock. She stood beside him holding the same coffee cup from earlier, expression calm despite the exhaustion still visible beneath it. “You said that yesterday,” he replied immediately. “You still do.” The answer came so naturally that George almost laughed despite himself. Almost. “That’s becoming repetitive.” “So is the exhaustion.”

George shook his head softly while adjusting the sleeves of his race suit. “Do all your conversations sound vaguely judgmental?” “Only the honest ones.” There it was again. That irritating precision she somehow carried into every conversation. People crossed around them constantly through the crowded paddock entrance, journalists preparing cameras while engineers hurried toward garages before practice. Yet the conversation between them somehow narrowed his attention immediately anyway, cutting through the noise faster than it should have. “You’re here early,” he said eventually.

“So are you.” “That’s not an answer.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face briefly. “You’re learning.” George stared at her for half a second longer than necessary before looking toward the track entrance again. “That sounds threatening.” “It probably should.” That almost made him smile.

Again. Annoying. A PR assistant called his name from farther down the paddock before practice obligations pulled him away, but even while walking toward another round of pre-session interviews, George remained painfully aware of the fact she was still watching him leave. The realization followed him straight into the media pen. George answered the first three interviews automatically. Same controlled posture. Same measured tone. Questions about setup expectations, tire management and Mercedes performance.

Easy. Familiar. He barely needed to think anymore while responding because the conversations followed patterns he’d memorized years ago. Then she asked a question. The shift in his attention happened instantly. “So after yesterday,” she said calmly from somewhere near the middle of the media crowd, “do you think Mercedes understands the car more this weekend than they did in Suzuka?” George looked directly at her before answering. Immediately.

Without even realizing he’d done it. The rest of the journalists disappeared into background noise for a second while he focused entirely on her standing there with notebook in hand, waiting patiently for an answer. Dangerous. “We understand some things better,” he replied carefully. “But understanding a problem and solving it aren’t always the same thing.” She nodded slightly while writing something down. No interruption. No follow-up trap.

Weirdly, that almost disappointed him. Another journalist asked about qualifying simulations immediately afterward, but George caught himself still looking toward her instead of the person currently speaking. He realized it the exact same second she did. Because her expression changed slightly. Not mocking. Just observant. Like she’d noticed the shift in his attention too. George forced himself to refocus immediately afterward, irritation settling sharply beneath his ribs.

What exactly was wrong with him today? By the time the interviews ended, frustration had already started building beneath his composure properly. Not because of practice. Not because of Mercedes. Because he had become painfully aware of the fact that he noticed her constantly now. Where she stood. Who she spoke to. Whether she was watching him.

It was becoming a problem. “You two are weirdly intense for people who barely know each other.” George blinked and looked sideways immediately as Alex fell into step beside him while they walked back toward the garages. “What?” Alex grinned instantly. “See? That reaction right there.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” George resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. “You’re imagining things.” “No, the entire paddock is imagining things,” Alex corrected. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.” “There’s nothing happening.” “You looked at her like she asked the only question that mattered.” George frowned immediately.

“That’s not true.” Alex laughed softly under his breath. “You answered three journalists without even making eye contact first. Then she spoke and suddenly you were fully awake.” George opened his mouth to argue before stopping himself. Because unfortunately, Alex wasn’t entirely wrong. That made everything worse. “She asks different questions,” George muttered eventually.

“That sounds suspiciously defensive.” “It’s not defensive.” “It definitely is.” George shook his head again while they stepped aside to let Ferrari personnel pass through the paddock pathway. “You’re overanalyzing this.” Alex nearly choked laughing. “That’s ironic considering who we’re talking about.” Fair point. Unfortunately.

The conversation ended once they reached their respective garages, but Alex’s comments lingered unpleasantly in the back of George’s mind afterward. Mostly because they forced him to acknowledge something he’d spent all morning trying to ignore. He was noticing her too much. Far too much. FP1 itself finally gave him relief from all of that. The second the helmet went on and the car left the garage, the rest of the world narrowed into tire temperatures, braking points and telemetry data. Simpler. Cleaner.

Easier to control. For ninety minutes, he almost forgot about her completely. Almost. Then he climbed out of the car afterward and saw her speaking to another driver near the Aston Martin hospitality. George slowed slightly without meaning to. The driver laughed at something she said. She laughed back. Small.

Real. Easier than she ever sounded around him. Something unpleasant twisted immediately in George’s chest before he could stop it. Jealousy. The realization hit hard enough to genuinely irritate him. Absolutely not. That was ridiculous. He barely knew her. More importantly, he had absolutely no reason to care who she spoke to in the paddock.

And yet he still found himself watching the interaction for exactly one second too long. “You okay?” George looked away instantly as one of the Mercedes engineers approached beside him. “Fine.” The answer came too quickly. The engineer glanced briefly toward Aston Martin before looking back at George with visible confusion. “Right…” George forced himself to continue walking toward the garage immediately afterward, jaw tightening slightly beneath the lingering heat of Bahrain’s afternoon sun.

He hated this feeling already. The lack of control. The constant awareness. The fact she somehow occupied space in his thoughts without permission. Worst of all, he still didn’t fully understand why. Inside the garage, mechanics moved quickly around the car while engineers reviewed practice data across glowing screens. Normal. Familiar.

George focused aggressively on telemetry discussions while trying to ignore the lingering irritation beneath his ribs. It didn’t work particularly well. Because every few minutes, his attention still drifted back toward the paddock entrance automatically. Looking for her. That realization settled heavily in his chest before he could stop it. And somehow, knowing exactly what he was doing only made it worse. The article went live just after lunch. George didn’t mean to read it.

That was what he told himself at first, anyway, while sitting in the Mercedes garage with one ear half tuned into the engineering discussion happening near the monitors and one hand still holding his phone. Someone had sent the link into a group chat, probably because anything involving Mercedes criticism traveled through the paddock faster than useful information ever did. He should have ignored it. He didn’t. The headline wasn’t dramatic. That almost made it worse. It didn’t scream failure. It didn’t exaggerate tension.

It didn’t turn Mercedes into a collapsing empire or George into some tragic figure trapped inside a broken machine. It was clean, precise, and measured enough to be annoying before he even opened it. Then he saw her name beneath it. Of course. George stared at the byline for half a second longer than necessary before opening the article properly. The first few paragraphs were technical. Annoyingly fair. She talked about Mercedes’ narrow operating window, the repeated balance issues, the way small setup changes seemed to create disproportionate consequences on track.

Nothing there was wrong. That was the most irritating part. If she had been unfair, he could have dismissed it easily. But she wasn’t unfair. She was accurate. George scrolled slowly, jaw tightening as he read. The garage moved around him in its usual rhythm, mechanics checking equipment while engineers compared data from FP1 and prepared projections for FP2. Normally, he liked this part of the weekend, when everything narrowed back into numbers and solutions.

Today, though, every sentence on his phone seemed to pull him somewhere more personal than technical. Then he reached one line and stopped completely. “Russell remains one of the grid’s most composed public figures, but there is a difference between discipline and permanent restraint.” George read it once. Then again. Then a third time, which was the most infuriating part. Permanent restraint. The phrase sat there cleanly on the screen, impossible to twist into something malicious and impossible to pretend he didn’t understand.

She hadn’t called him fake. She hadn’t mocked him. She hadn’t even accused him of hiding. Somehow, that made the line cut deeper. Because she had written it like observation. Not criticism. George locked his phone. Then unlocked it again almost immediately and continued reading.

The next paragraph wasn’t any better. She wrote about the way Mercedes drivers had to balance optimism with realism, how George had learned to speak in measured sentences that protected both the team and himself. She mentioned his composure during difficult media sessions, his refusal to let frustration become public, his careful control under pressure. Every sentence was professional. Every sentence felt too personal. George hated that. “Everything alright?” He looked up sharply.

One of the engineers stood beside him with a tablet in hand, eyebrows slightly raised. George realized too late that his expression had probably shifted while reading. Not enough for a camera. Enough for someone who worked with him every weekend. “Yeah,” George said immediately, locking his phone again. “Fine.” The engineer hesitated for a second, then nodded toward the data screens. “We’re going through tire degradation from the first run.”

“Right.” George stood, sliding his phone into his pocket with more force than necessary. For twenty minutes, he focused. Or tried to. The data mattered. FP1 hadn’t been awful, but it hadn’t been clean either, and Mercedes still needed to understand why the balance changed so sharply between low and high fuel. George answered questions, gave feedback, reviewed braking stability. He sounded normal.

Controlled. Professional. But the phrase kept returning anyway. Permanent restraint. Annoying. Completely annoying. By the time the meeting ended, George already knew he was going to find her. That irritated him before he even moved. He stepped out of the garage under the excuse of needing air, though Bahrain afternoon heat offered absolutely nothing close to relief.

The paddock was louder again now, filled with post-practice movement and media conversations. Journalists stood in clusters near the hospitality units while drivers crossed quickly between debriefs. George spotted her near the media center. Of course he did. She stood by one of the outdoor tables, laptop open, coffee beside her, notebook balanced against the edge of the table. She was speaking to another journalist, expression calm but distracted, as if half her mind was already on whatever she needed to write next. George walked toward her before deciding whether he should.

She noticed him when he was still several steps away. Her expression didn’t change much, but he saw the recognition in her eyes. That made it worse. “You wrote about me,” he said once he reached the table. No greeting. No attempt at subtlety. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Good afternoon to you too.”

George didn’t smile. “You wrote about me.” “I wrote about Mercedes.” “You used my name.” “You are part of Mercedes.” “That’s convenient.” She closed her laptop slowly, giving him her full attention now. That irritated him too, because he immediately became aware of how much more dangerous her attention felt when there were no cameras around them.

“It was an analysis piece,” she said calmly. “It was personal.” “No.” Her voice remained steady. “It was specific.” George let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You make that distinction often?” “When people confuse accuracy with attack, yes.” That landed exactly where she probably intended it to.

His jaw tightened. Around them, paddock traffic continued as usual, but George could already feel people noticing. A photographer glanced their way. A journalist standing nearby pretended not to listen while absolutely listening. Great. Exactly what he needed. He lowered his voice slightly. “You write like you know people personally.”

She didn’t flinch. “No. I write like people are easier to read than they think.” George stared at her. There it was again. That irritating calm. That refusal to soften anything for his comfort. “You don’t know me,” he said. “I never said I did.”

“But you wrote about what I’m restraining.” “I wrote about what you show.” “That’s not the same thing.” “No,” she agreed. “But it’s closer than you want it to be.” The silence after that felt too sharp. George looked away first, mostly because he didn’t trust his own expression for a second. A group of Alpine staff passed behind them, laughing about something unrelated.

The normality of it made the moment feel even more absurd. He barely knew her. Why did this feel like an argument with someone who mattered? When he looked back, she had not moved. “Did you read the article,” she asked, “or just the sentence that annoyed you?” George almost laughed despite himself. Almost. “You know which sentence annoyed me?”

“I can guess.” “That’s arrogant.” “That’s pattern recognition.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” For the first time, something like irritation flickered across her expression too. Small, but visible. It changed the air between them immediately because until now, she had been controlled enough to make him feel like the only one reacting.

Good. At least he wasn’t alone in this. “You came to me,” she said. “Not the other way around.” George folded his arms loosely. “Because you wrote something about me.” “And if it was wrong, say it was wrong.” That stopped him. Not because he couldn’t answer.

Because he didn’t want to answer honestly. She noticed. Of course she did. Her expression shifted, not triumphant, not satisfied, just quieter somehow. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” George’s voice dropped. “Careful.” “With what?” “With assuming.” “I’m not assuming.” She picked up her notebook, tapped it once lightly against the table, then held his gaze.

“You came here angry, but you haven’t actually told me I was wrong.” He hated that. He hated that more than the article itself. Because she was right. Again. The worst part of all of this was that she kept being right. George glanced toward the Mercedes garage, where he should have been heading back already. Instead, he stayed where he was, locked in another conversation he knew he should walk away from but somehow didn’t want to.

“You’re very comfortable making people uncomfortable,” he said. “You said that yesterday.” “It remains true.” “So does your exhaustion.” He looked back at her sharply. She didn’t look away. There was no teasing in her face now. No amusement. Just that unbearable observation again, like she could strip a conversation down to the thing he was actually trying not to say.

“That’s what you do,” he said quietly. “What?” “You turn everything into something personal.” “No,” she replied. “I notice when it already is.” George let out a breath, slow and controlled, because something about the sentence hit far too close to the center of him. The paddock noise seemed louder suddenly, a little too sharp around the edges, like every conversation nearby had become static. He should leave.

He knew that. Instead, he said, “You always do this.” Her brows drew together slightly. “Do what?” “Act like your honesty gives you permission to say anything.” For once, she looked genuinely affected. Not hurt exactly. But struck. The change was brief, barely there, and yet George saw it immediately.

Something in his chest tightened before he could stop it. Then she looked down at her notebook, fingers brushing the edge of the cover. “You think I say things because I want to be cruel.” “I didn’t say that.” “You implied it.” George stayed silent. Because maybe he had. The realization settled unpleasantly between them.

She looked back up at him after a moment, her expression calmer again but not quite as unreadable as before. “I don’t write things to hurt people, George.” The way she said his name was different this time. Less sharp. More tired. “I write them because everyone else spends too much time pretending what happens here is simpler than it is.” George didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Because he understood it. That was inconvenient too. The paddock lived on performance. Drivers performed confidence. Teams performed unity. Journalists performed neutrality. Sponsors performed loyalty. Everyone acted like the sport was built only on speed and competition when half of it ran on fear, pressure, ego and carefully edited versions of the truth.

He knew that. Of course he knew that. She just said it out loud more often than people wanted. “That doesn’t mean you understand everything,” he said finally. “No,” she agreed. “It means I pay attention.” “Same thing sometimes.” “Not to me.” The answer was quiet enough that it softened the argument for a second.

George looked at her properly then. She still looked exhausted. More than before. The kind of tiredness that came from constantly seeing too much and still having to put it into clean, structured sentences before deadlines. Her coffee had gone untouched beside the laptop. Her hand rested near it, fingers stained faintly with ink again. He noticed all of it. That annoyed him too.

Because noticing her had become almost automatic. “You should be more careful,” he said. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that advice or criticism?” “Both.” “Efficient.” “Your job makes enemies.” “So does yours.” George’s mouth tightened, but he couldn’t argue with that. She glanced briefly toward the Mercedes garage.

“At least people clap when you do yours well.” He looked at her. That sentence sounded too honest. Too exposed. Before he could respond, she seemed to realize the same thing and reached for her coffee, breaking eye contact first for once. George watched her take a sip, then immediately grimace slightly because it was probably cold. Despite himself, he almost smiled. Almost.

“That bad?” he asked. “The coffee or this conversation?” “Both.” She looked up again, and the faintest trace of amusement returned to her face. “The coffee is worse.” That surprised a quiet breath of laughter out of him before he could stop it. Small. Brief.

Still real. For a second, the tension shifted. Not disappeared. Just changed shape. Something quieter moved underneath it, something George didn’t want to name yet. It lived in the way she looked slightly less guarded after making him laugh. In the way he suddenly didn’t feel quite as angry as he had five minutes ago. In the uncomfortable realization that arguing with her felt more honest than most pleasant conversations he had in the paddock.

Then her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down at the screen, and the moment broke. “I have to go,” she said, reaching for her notebook. “Another article about my permanent restraint?” Her eyes lifted back to his. This time, her smile was sharper again. “Don’t tempt me.” George shook his head softly, but there was less irritation behind it now.

She slid her laptop into her bag, then paused as if debating whether to say something else. For once, she seemed to hesitate. That caught his attention immediately because hesitation didn’t suit her nearly as well as precision did. Finally, she said, “For what it’s worth, I didn’t write it as an insult.” George studied her for a second. “I know.” The answer seemed to surprise both of them. Her expression shifted slightly.

His did too, probably. Neither of them commented on it. Instead, she nodded once, adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and stepped away from the table. George remained still, watching her leave through the movement of the paddock. He should have let the conversation end there. He really should have. But then she stopped after two steps and turned back. “You always do this too, by the way.”

George frowned. “Do what?” She held his gaze from a few feet away. “Act like honesty is dangerous.” Then she walked away. No dramatic pause. No explanation. Just another sentence left behind for him to deal with. George stood there long after she disappeared toward the media center, the paddock moving around him as if nothing had happened at all.

Mechanics crossed between garages. Journalists checked recordings. Cameras shifted toward another driver leaving hospitality. Everything continued normally. He did not. Because the sentence stayed. Act like honesty is dangerous. George looked down at his phone when it buzzed in his pocket, probably another message from the team asking where he was.

He didn’t check it immediately. Instead, he stared across the paddock pathway where she had disappeared moments earlier and felt irritation settle low under his ribs again. Not because she was wrong. Because she wasn’t. And somehow, that was becoming the most unbearable thing about her. The rain started just before sunset. Not heavy enough to stop anything properly, just a thin layer of water settling over the paddock and darkening the concrete pathways between motorhomes. Bahrain rain always felt strange to George, almost unnatural against the lingering heat still trapped in the air after the day.

Most people reacted to it with mild confusion more than inconvenience, mechanics pulling equipment slightly farther under cover while journalists hurried between garages with jackets thrown over cameras. George barely noticed it at first. He sat near the back of the Mercedes garage while engineers reviewed FP2 data across glowing monitors, exhaustion pressing steadily behind his eyes now that the adrenaline from driving had faded. The second practice session had gone better than FP1 technically, but not enough to erase frustration completely. The car still felt unpredictable through medium-speed corners.

Balance shifted too sharply between runs. Mercedes understood parts of the problem. Not enough of it. George rubbed a hand briefly against the back of his neck while one of the engineers continued discussing tire degradation projections beside him. Numbers blurred together after a while when fatigue settled in properly. He answered automatically when spoken to, gave feedback where necessary, then finally escaped the meeting almost forty minutes later feeling mentally drained enough that even the quieter evening paddock felt overwhelming. That was probably why he noticed her immediately.

She stood alone beneath the edge of one of the covered hospitality walkways, rain tapping softly against the metal roof above her while she typed quickly on her phone. Most of the paddock around her still moved with hurried energy despite the weather, people crossing quickly between garages with heads lowered against the rain. She looked completely still compared to everything else. George slowed automatically. Again. At this point, it was becoming embarrassing. She looked up before he fully decided whether to continue walking or not.

The second she spotted him, something unreadable crossed her expression briefly before settling back into calm neutrality. “You look worse today,” she said once he got close enough. George huffed softly under his breath. “Good evening to you too.” “You’re limping slightly.” That made him glance down instinctively before realizing what she meant. Not physical pain. Exhaustion.

He looked back at her flatly. “That’s concerningly observant.” “You make it easy.” There it was again. That immediate irritation settling beneath his ribs alongside something far more inconvenient. Rain continued falling softly around them while another group of mechanics hurried past nearby carrying equipment cases toward the garages. One of them glanced briefly between George and her before quickly looking away again. Fantastic.

Exactly what he needed. “You’re still here,” George said eventually. “So are you.” “That answer is getting repetitive.” “So is your exhaustion.” Despite himself, George almost smiled. Again. This was becoming a problem. She finally slipped her phone into her pocket before leaning lightly against the metal support beam beside her.

“Long debrief?” “You could say that.” “That bad?” George looked out toward the rain-covered paddock pathways for a second before answering. “Just complicated.” The response came more honestly than he intended. Her expression shifted slightly at that, becoming quieter somehow. Less teasing. More attentive. “Complicated usually means frustrating in Formula One.”

“You sound experienced.” “I sound observant.” Fair enough. The rain intensified slightly around them, water tapping louder now against the roof overhead while more people disappeared inside nearby hospitality units. The paddock looked different like this. Softer around the edges. Less polished. George preferred it, strangely enough.

Maybe because rain forced people to stop performing quite so much. “You hate not understanding something,” she said suddenly. George blinked once before looking back at her properly. “Excuse me?” “The car,” she clarified calmly. “You hate not understanding it.” “That’s not exactly groundbreaking analysis.” “No,” she agreed.

“But the way you react to it is.” George folded his arms loosely against his chest. “You really can’t stop analyzing people, can you?” A small pause followed before she answered quietly, “Not usually.” Something about the tone caught his attention immediately. Less controlled. More tired. George studied her for a second longer than necessary beneath the muted paddock lights.

The exhaustion in her expression looked heavier now than earlier in the day, hidden less carefully beneath professionalism than usual. Her hair was slightly damp from the rain near the ends, and there were faint ink stains against her fingers again. He noticed all of it automatically. Dangerous. “You should probably go back to your hotel,” he said before thinking too carefully about it. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Interesting.” “What is?”

“You keep trying to send me to sleep.” George frowned immediately. “That’s not what I’m doing.” “No?” “No.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face briefly. “You’re very bad at pretending not to care about people.” The sentence landed awkwardly somewhere low in his chest.

George looked away first, jaw tightening slightly while rainwater reflected against the paddock lights around them. “That sounds like projection.” “Maybe.” The answer came softer than expected. Silence settled between them afterward, though not uncomfortable exactly. Just quieter. The kind of silence that stretched naturally instead of sharply. George realized suddenly that this was the longest conversation they’d had without arguing.

That felt somehow more dangerous than the arguments themselves. “You know,” she said eventually while watching rain slide down the edge of the walkway roof, “most drivers hate rainy weekends.” “You don’t?” “I didn’t say that.” “That’s not really an answer.” A small smile appeared briefly against her mouth. “You’re getting predictable.” George let out a quiet breath through his nose that sounded dangerously close to laughter again.

“That’s insulting.” “No,” she replied calmly. “It means I’m learning your patterns.” There it was. That unbearable honesty again. George leaned back lightly against the wall behind him, suddenly aware of how physically exhausted he actually felt now that the garage noise and engineering meetings were behind him. The lack of sleep from the past few weeks settled heavily against his shoulders. Unfortunately, she noticed that too.

“You really don’t sleep enough.” George closed his eyes briefly for half a second. “You’ve mentioned.” “You keep proving it.” He looked back at her. “Do you always repeat observations until people admit you’re right?” “Usually.” “That sounds exhausting for everyone involved.” “It is.” The answer surprised him enough that he laughed softly under his breath before he could stop himself.

She looked momentarily startled by the sound too, like she hadn’t expected him to laugh at all tonight. Interesting. “You know,” George said eventually, “you’re significantly less terrifying when you’re tired.” That earned him a genuinely offended look for the first time. “Terrifying?” “Paddock consensus. Not mine.” “That’s a lie.”

“Probably.” The honesty made her roll her eyes slightly, though the corner of her mouth lifted afterward anyway. Rain continued falling around them, steady now, turning the paddock outside into blurred reflections beneath the floodlights. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then George asked quietly, “Why do you keep doing this?” Her brows drew together slightly. “Doing what?” “This job.”

The question seemed to genuinely catch her off guard. “You look exhausted all the time,” he continued before he could reconsider saying any of it. “People argue with you constantly. Half the paddock seems annoyed by your existence.” He hesitated briefly. “So why keep doing it?” She stared at him for a second longer than necessary. Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of the roof nearby while distant garage noise echoed faintly through the night air. Somewhere farther down the paddock, someone laughed loudly before the sound disappeared again.

Finally, she looked away first. “Because sometimes,” she said quietly, “people forget they’re performing for five minutes.” George stilled immediately. The sentence settled heavily between them because he understood exactly what she meant the second she said it. And worse, she knew he understood. “You think everyone’s pretending all the time,” he said eventually. “No.” Her voice stayed soft. “I think people get tired.”

The answer hit harder than he expected. George looked out toward the rain again instead of at her because suddenly the conversation felt too close to something real. Too honest. He became painfully aware of how exhausted he actually was beneath the polished composure he carried through every race weekend. How tired he was of answering every question carefully. Of calculating every reaction before showing it publicly. Dangerous territory. “You know what the problem is with Formula One?” he muttered quietly before fully deciding to speak.

She looked at him immediately. “Nobody’s allowed to crack,” he continued. “Not publicly. The second you do, people act like it means something’s wrong with you.” Her expression softened slightly around the edges. Not pity. Something gentler. “That sounds lonely.” George laughed softly under his breath without humor.

“That’s because it is.” Silence followed. Real silence. The kind that felt fragile instead of awkward. George suddenly realized he had admitted more in the last thirty seconds than he usually admitted in entire interviews. That realization hit him hard enough to irritate him immediately afterward. He straightened slightly away from the wall. “You’re very good at making people say things they didn’t plan to say.”

“You say them anyway.” “That’s not reassuring.” “It wasn’t supposed to be.” Of course it wasn’t. The rain had started easing slightly now, softening from steady rainfall into lighter droplets against the paddock roof. More people began reappearing outside afterward, moving quickly between garages while conversations slowly returned around them. The moment shifted with it. Not gone.

Just interrupted. George could feel it happening immediately. Annoyingly, he didn’t want it to. A radio crackled loudly somewhere deeper inside the Mercedes garage before someone called his name faintly through the open paddock entrance. There it was. Reality returning. She heard it too. “You should go,” she said quietly.

George looked at her for a second longer than necessary. “That sounded disappointing.” A small smile crossed her face briefly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Too late for that, probably. He pushed himself away from the wall reluctantly, exhaustion settling heavily back onto his shoulders now that the conversation was ending. The strange calm that had settled between them moments earlier felt thinner already beneath returning paddock noise. “You should sleep tonight,” she said while he adjusted the sleeves of his race suit again.

George huffed softly. “You keep saying that.” “You keep looking exhausted.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. She stepped away from the walkway first, heading back toward the media center while the last traces of rain still shimmered faintly across the paddock lights. George watched her leave for exactly one second too long before forcing himself to turn back toward the Mercedes garage. But even while walking away, one realization settled heavily and uncomfortably in the center of his chest.

He had started looking for these conversations now. And that was becoming far more dangerous than either of them seemed willing to admit yet. Saturday mornings in the paddock always felt strangely quieter before the chaos truly started. Not silent, never silent, but restrained somehow, like the entire circuit was holding its breath before qualifying. Mechanics moved faster through the garages, engineers spoke in shorter sentences, and every driver on the grid carried the same underlying tension beneath whatever version of calm they performed publicly.

George usually liked Saturdays. Pressure made sense to him. Pressure was predictable. Lack of sleep wasn’t. He stepped out of the Mercedes garage with a coffee in one hand and irritation sitting heavily behind his ribs after another night that barely qualified as rest. Four hours, maybe less. Enough to function. Not enough to feel human.

The Bahrain heat already pressed against the paddock despite the early hour, sunlight reflecting harshly against the glass windows of the hospitality units while team personnel hurried between garages carrying laptops and setup sheets. George rubbed briefly at his jaw while scanning the crowded pathway ahead automatically. Then paused. Because she wasn’t there. The realization arrived far too quickly. Normally by now, he would have already seen her somewhere in the paddock. Walking too quickly between interviews, balancing coffee cups and notebooks, watching people more carefully than they realized.

He had grown used to spotting her without thinking over the past two days. Near the media center. Outside the garages. Somewhere at the edge of every conversation. Now she was missing. And somehow, his brain noticed immediately. Annoying. Very annoying. George took a sip of coffee while forcing himself to continue walking toward the media pen.

There were a thousand logical reasons why she wasn’t there yet. Different schedule. Different interviews. Maybe she was inside already. Maybe she had simply arrived later than usual. None of that should matter to him. Yet ten minutes later, he realized he was still looking. Not obviously.

Just constantly enough to irritate himself every single time he caught it happening. The media pen buzzed with the usual Saturday morning routine when he arrived, journalists preparing cameras while PR assistants checked schedules against clipboards. George slipped automatically into the version of himself required for interviews, posture straightening while cameras pointed toward him. Same answers. Same controlled tone. Questions about overnight setup changes and qualifying expectations blurred together almost instantly. Still no sign of her. “You seem tired this morning.”

George blinked once before realizing someone had asked him a question. Not her. Another journalist entirely. Right. Focus. “We had a long evening with the engineers,” he answered smoothly. “We’re still trying to optimize a few things before qualifying.” The journalist nodded, satisfied enough with the generic response to move on immediately.

George answered the next two questions automatically afterward, but irritation kept building slowly beneath his composure anyway. Not because of the interviews. Because every few seconds, his attention drifted toward the edge of the media crowd again. Looking for someone who wasn’t there. Ridiculous. “You’re distracted.” George looked sideways immediately as Lando stepped beside him between interviews, still wearing half his McLaren race suit unzipped around his waist. “I’m not distracted.”

Lando grinned instantly. “You literally stared over my shoulder three times during that answer.” “That sounds made up.” “It’s not.” Lando leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “You look like someone stole your emotional support journalist.” George stared at him flatly. Lando burst out laughing immediately. “Oh my God, that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Nothing is happening.” “Sure.” George exhaled sharply through his nose while another camera crew moved past them toward Ferrari’s section of the paddock. “You’re insufferable.” “And you’re defensive.” Lando tilted his head slightly while looking around the media area. “Wait, where is she actually?” George hated the fact the question made something twist unpleasantly in his chest. “I don’t know.”

The answer came too quickly. Lando’s expression changed instantly. “Oh, that’s bad.” “There is no bad.” “You know she’s missing.” George opened his mouth to argue before stopping himself. Because unfortunately, Lando was right. Again. That made everything significantly worse. Before he could answer, another PR assistant called Lando away toward McLaren’s garage.

Lando walked backward briefly while pointing toward George with visible amusement. “You’re obsessed,” he announced quietly before disappearing into the crowd. George looked away immediately, jaw tightening. Absolutely not. The word echoed through his head with enough force that it almost convinced him for half a second. Almost. FP3 started less than twenty minutes later, and for once George was grateful for the escape driving offered him. Inside the car, everything narrowed into something simpler.

Tire temperatures. Braking points. Steering corrections. The constant noise in his head usually disappeared the second the visor came down. Today it mostly worked. Mostly. Still, during the cooldown lap at the end of the session, George caught himself thinking briefly about whether she had shown up yet. That realization irritated him all over again.

By the time he climbed out of the car back inside the garage, the paddock atmosphere had shifted fully into pre-qualifying tension. Engineers crowded around screens reviewing telemetry while mechanics prepared setup adjustments before the next session. George pulled off his gloves while one of the engineers immediately launched into discussion about front-end instability through sector two. George listened carefully. Answered correctly. Focused. Yet even while reviewing telemetry, part of his attention still drifted toward the garage entrance every few minutes automatically. Looking.

Always looking. Then finally— There. She crossed the paddock outside the garage carrying a laptop against her chest while speaking hurriedly into her phone. George noticed her instantly despite the movement around her. Relief hit him before he could stop it. Actual relief. The realization landed hard enough to genuinely unsettle him.

Because what the hell was that? “She’s alive, then.” George nearly jumped at the voice beside him. Alex stood near the telemetry screens watching him with obvious amusement already visible across his face. George frowned immediately. “Excuse me?” “You’ve looked irritated all morning.” “I am irritated.”

“No,” Alex corrected. “You were looking for someone.” George looked away immediately toward the screens again. “You’re imagining things.” Alex hummed skeptically. “Sure.” Unfortunately, George barely heard the rest of the conversation afterward because she had stopped outside the garage now, still talking on the phone while scrolling quickly through something on her laptop. She looked exhausted.

Worse than yesterday somehow. Her hair was slightly messy from rushing through the paddock, and there were visible shadows beneath her eyes even from several feet away. George noticed all of it automatically. Dangerous. Very dangerous. The phone call finally ended a few seconds later. She lowered the phone with a quiet sigh before glancing up toward the garage entrance. Their eyes met immediately.

And there it was again. That strange shift in his chest every time she looked directly at him like that. Not dramatic. Just enough awareness to feel unsettling. She walked toward the garage entrance afterward without hesitation. “You disappeared,” George heard himself say the second she got close enough. The words left his mouth before he properly processed them. Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Good morning to you too.” George exhaled softly through his nose. Right. Great start. “You weren’t here earlier,” he corrected instead. “I noticed.” Something flickered briefly across her expression then, somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “Were you looking for me?” Absolutely not. George folded his arms loosely instead of answering immediately.

“You’re late.” “That wasn’t my question.” Annoying. Incredibly annoying. Around them, the garage continued moving in its usual rhythm before qualifying, mechanics crossing behind them while engineers discussed setup changes loudly enough to echo against the walls. Yet George’s attention narrowed entirely toward her anyway, cutting through everything else instantly. “You look irritated,” she observed calmly. “I am irritated.”

“I noticed.” That almost made him laugh despite himself. Almost. She studied him for another second afterward, expression becoming slightly quieter around the edges. “You’re worse when you’re tired.” The sentence landed immediately because she said it so naturally, like it wasn’t even an accusation anymore. Just observation. George hated three things at once very suddenly.

That she noticed. That she was right. And that some part of him liked being noticed by her specifically. “That sounds judgmental,” he muttered. “No.” Her voice softened slightly. “Just honest.” There it was again. Honesty. Always honesty. George looked at her properly then, taking in the exhaustion still visible beneath her calm expression.

“You don’t exactly look well-rested either.” A small smile appeared briefly against her mouth. “Deflecting already?” “Observing.” “Dangerous habit.” “You started it.” That actually made her laugh softly under her breath, quiet enough that he almost missed it beneath the surrounding garage noise. The sound settled somewhere unexpectedly warm beneath his ribs before irritation immediately followed afterward.

This was becoming a problem. “You had interviews this morning?” he asked before thinking too carefully about why he wanted the answer. She nodded once. “Red Bull first. Then Aston Martin.” For some reason, hearing specifics bothered him less than imagining them had earlier. Interesting. Weirdly irritating.

“You missed the media pen.” “I know.” She adjusted the laptop slightly against her chest. “Flight delay from London last night.” George blinked once. “You left?” “For six hours.” “That sounds exhausting.” “It was.” Silence settled briefly between them after that, softer than usual somehow.

Less sharp. George became aware suddenly of how naturally these conversations had started happening between them now. No real beginning. No reason to continue speaking. Yet neither of them walked away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. A Mercedes engineer called George’s name from deeper inside the garage before another round of qualifying discussions could begin.

George glanced briefly toward the telemetry screens before looking back at her again. She noticed that too. Of course she did. “You should probably go,” she said quietly. The sentence sounded strangely disappointing. George frowned slightly at the realization. “Probably,” he admitted. She stepped backward slightly afterward, already shifting back toward professionalism again while opening her laptop.

The moment changed immediately with it. Not gone. Just hidden again beneath paddock routine and race weekend exhaustion. Before she turned away fully, though, she looked back at him one last time. “You know what your problem is?” she asked. George almost smiled despite himself. “That sounds familiar.” “You’re easier to read when you’re tired.”

The answer hit hard enough that he actually laughed softly under his breath this time. Real. Brief. Dangerous. Then she walked away toward the media center again, disappearing back into the moving chaos of the paddock while George remained near the garage entrance for exactly one second too long afterward. Because despite everything, one realization settled heavily and uncomfortably somewhere in the center of his chest. He had been relieved to see her. And that was probably the most dangerous thing about all of this so far.

Qualifying ended with disappointment wrapped inside professionalism. Not disaster. Not catastrophe. Mercedes had seen worse weekends before. But frustration settled heavily through the garage anyway once the session ended, mechanics moving quieter now while engineers avoided eye contact for slightly too long during debriefs. George climbed out of the car already exhausted before the helmet was fully off, heat sticking to his skin beneath the layers of his race suit while someone immediately handed him a bottle of water and telemetry notes. P6. Not terrible.

Not enough. That was the problem with driving for Mercedes. “Not terrible” still felt like failure half the time. George answered the first round of post-qualifying interviews automatically while cameras crowded around the garage entrance. Questions about balance. Tire preparation. Expectations for Sunday. He gave calm answers because that was what people expected from him publicly.

“We maximized the package we had today.” “There are still things to improve.” “The field is incredibly tight.” Same tone. Same posture. Same control. Inside, though, frustration sat sharp beneath every carefully measured sentence. By the time the final interview ended, the paddock had already started quieting for the evening. Most media crews disappeared quickly after qualifying while engineers returned toward hospitality meetings and setup reviews for race day. The floodlights around Bahrain glowed brighter now against the darkening sky, reflecting off glass windows and polished motorhomes while the remaining team personnel moved through the pathways more slowly than before.

George stayed in the garage longer than necessary. Partly because of the debrief. Partly because he needed a few extra minutes before forcing himself through another evening of pretending frustration didn’t bother him. Mostly because he knew if he walked back through the paddock right now, he’d probably look for her again. That realization irritated him immediately. “You’re doing it again.” George looked up sharply from the telemetry screen in front of him as Alex leaned casually against the edge of the engineering table nearby.

“Doing what?” “Thinking too loudly.” “That’s not a thing.” “It absolutely is.” Alex grinned slightly. “You get this expression like you’re trying to solve a murder.” George rolled his eyes softly before looking back toward the screen. “Maybe I’m focused on the car.” “Sure.” The sarcasm earned Alex a flat look immediately.

Alex laughed under his breath. “Relax. You qualified ahead of both Ferraris.” “Barely.” “You know most people would kill for your definition of a bad day?” George leaned back slightly in his chair. “Most people aren’t driving for Mercedes.” That quieted the amusement slightly. Not completely.

Alex studied him for a second longer than usual before speaking again, voice calmer this time. “You really are tired.” The sentence hit strangely harder coming from someone who actually knew him. George looked away first. “Thanks.” “That wasn’t criticism.” “I know.” Silence settled briefly between them while engineers continued talking in the background.

Alex eventually pushed himself away from the table with a quiet sigh. “You should sleep tonight,” he said while walking backward toward the garage exit. George huffed softly. “That phrase is becoming contagious.” Alex paused immediately. “Oh my God.” George realized the mistake exactly one second too late. Alex’s grin became unbearable instantly.

“You talked to her again.” “There’s literally no reason for you to sound this excited.” “You’re quoting her now.” “I’m not quoting her.” “You absolutely are.” George rubbed a hand against his face briefly, already exhausted by the conversation. “Please leave.” Alex laughed loudly enough to attract attention from two mechanics nearby before finally disappearing toward the paddock exit.

Annoying. Completely annoying. George stayed another twenty minutes after that, mostly because he needed the garage to empty before his own thoughts became remotely manageable again. Eventually, though, even the engineers started leaving one by one until only distant conversations echoed through the Mercedes hospitality. That was when George finally stepped outside. The paddock at night looked almost unreal under Bahrain floodlights. Quiet enough to hear footsteps echo against concrete pathways. Warm air lingering heavy against his skin despite the late hour.

Most journalists had already disappeared back toward hotels or media rooms, leaving the entire circuit feeling stripped down somehow. More honest. George preferred it like this. Unfortunately, that thought immediately reminded him of her. Again. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket while walking slowly toward the hospitality units, exhaustion settling deeper into his shoulders with every step now that adrenaline from qualifying had faded completely. His brain still replayed certain corners from Q3 automatically, every small mistake magnified by frustration and lack of sleep.

“You look disappointed.” George stopped immediately at the sound of her voice. She stood near the outside seating area beside the media center, laptop closed beside her while an untouched coffee cup sat abandoned on the table. No cameras. No crowd. Just her beneath soft yellow paddock lights while distant garage noise echoed faintly through the night. George became painfully aware of how relieved he felt seeing her again. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “You’re still here,” he said instead of answering. “So are you.” “That answer is definitely repetitive now.” A small flicker of amusement crossed her face. “And yet you keep setting it up for me.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George stepped closer before fully deciding to.

“I thought journalists disappeared after qualifying.” “I thought drivers slept eventually.” “That sounds judgmental.” “That’s because it is.” Despite himself, George almost smiled again. This was becoming a serious issue. He leaned lightly against the edge of the nearby table while looking out across the mostly empty paddock pathways. “It wasn’t a terrible session.”

“But it wasn’t good enough.” The response came immediately. Too immediately. George looked sideways at her properly then. “You always answer like that?” “You always sound like you’re trying to convince yourself first.” Silence. Not hostile. Still sharp enough to land. George exhaled slowly through his nose before looking away again toward the floodlights reflecting across the paddock concrete.

Somewhere farther down the pathway, a mechanic wheeled equipment cases toward one of the garages while music played faintly from somewhere near Red Bull hospitality. “You know what’s exhausting about talking to you?” he asked eventually. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “I assume you’re going to tell me.” “You notice everything.” Something shifted subtly in her expression at that. Smaller. Quieter somehow.

“No,” she corrected softly. “Just the things people try hardest to hide.” That sentence settled heavily between them. George suddenly became very aware of how physically tired he actually felt standing there beneath the paddock lights. The lack of sleep. The frustration. The constant effort of staying composed publicly no matter what happened on track. And somehow she kept seeing directly through it.

Dangerous. “You shouldn’t write things like that,” he muttered. “Like what?” “Like you understand people.” Her gaze stayed fixed on him steadily. “I don’t think I understand people.” A small pause followed. “I think people are usually trying very hard not to be understood.” That hit harder than he expected.

Again. George laughed softly under his breath without humor. “You always talk like every conversation secretly means something else.” “Sometimes they do.” The answer came quietly enough that it almost disappeared beneath distant paddock noise. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke afterward. The silence felt different tonight. Less argumentative.

More dangerous because of it. George realized suddenly that he no longer felt the same sharp irritation around her that he had during Thursday interviews. It had changed shape somewhere over the past two days into something quieter and infinitely more complicated. “You know,” she said eventually while tracing absent circles against the side of her coffee cup, “you don’t actually have to do it with me.” George frowned slightly. “Do what?” “Perform.” The word landed like physical impact.

George stared at her immediately, caught off guard enough that he forgot to answer for a second entirely. She continued before he could recover properly. “Every conversation you have sounds calculated first.” Her voice remained calm, careful even. “Like you’re measuring consequences before every sentence.” George looked away sharply toward the paddock because suddenly the conversation felt far too close to something real. “No offense,” he muttered, “but that sounds exactly like something a journalist would criticize.” “I’m not criticizing you.” “That’s worse.”

A faint breath of laughter escaped her at that, quieter than usual. “Probably.” The silence afterward stretched longer this time. Fragile somehow. George became aware of how close they were standing now compared to earlier conversations. Not enough to mean anything obvious. Just close enough that he noticed details too easily. The faint shadows beneath her eyes.

The way exhaustion softened the sharpness she usually carried during interviews. The fact she looked calmer alone at night than she ever did around crowds. Dangerous observations. “You really think I perform constantly?” he asked eventually. Her answer came without hesitation. “I think you’ve been doing it so long you probably don’t notice anymore.” That hurt. Not because it sounded cruel.

Because it sounded possible. George leaned harder against the table edge behind him while folding his arms loosely. “That’s dramatic.” “No.” Her gaze stayed steady on him. “That’s Formula One.” The words settled heavily in the warm night air around them. And annoyingly enough, she was right again. Of course she was.

“You know what the problem is with this sport?” George said quietly before thinking too carefully about it. “The second people realize you’re struggling, they treat you differently.” She watched him carefully now. Not analyzing. Listening. That somehow made continuing easier and harder at the same time. “So eventually,” George continued, “you just learn not to show it anymore.” The vulnerability in the sentence startled him slightly after it left his mouth.

Too honest. Far too honest. He immediately looked away afterward, jaw tightening. “You don’t have to perform with me.” The words came softly. Simple. And somehow they hit harder than anything else she’d said all weekend. George looked back at her instantly. No sarcasm. No teasing.

Just honesty. Real honesty. The kind he had spent years learning how to avoid publicly. Something shifted visibly in his expression before he could stop it. She noticed. Of course she noticed. But for once, she didn’t comment on it. The quiet between them stretched heavily while distant garage noise echoed through the nearly empty paddock.

George suddenly became painfully aware of how long it had been since someone had spoken to him like that without wanting something attached to it. No headline. No PR angle. No expectation beyond honesty itself. Terrifying. Completely terrifying. “I wouldn’t even know how to stop sometimes,” he admitted quietly before he could stop himself. The sentence settled between them immediately.

Too real. Too exposed. George realized what he’d said exactly one second too late. But instead of looking triumphant or curious, her expression softened almost imperceptibly around the edges. “That sounds exhausting,” she said softly. There it was again. Not judgment. Not pity. Understanding. And somehow that felt infinitely more dangerous than either.

Before George could respond, a radio crackled loudly somewhere behind him from the Mercedes garage entrance. Someone called his name faintly across the paddock afterward, breaking the moment instantly. Reality returning. He straightened automatically, composure snapping partially back into place before he even consciously decided to do it. She noticed that too. Of course she did. A small almost-smile crossed her face briefly. “See?”

George huffed softly under his breath. “That’s annoying.” “You say that a lot around me.” “That’s because you are annoying.” The answer made her laugh quietly again, and the sound settled somewhere warm beneath his ribs before irritation followed immediately after. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You should go,” she said eventually, glancing toward the Mercedes garage behind him.

Probably. The problem was that George suddenly didn’t particularly want to. That realization unsettled him more than anything else tonight. Instead of saying it, though, he pushed himself away from the table slowly. “You should sleep.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Interesting.” “What?” “You only say that when you’re worried.”

George stared at her flatly. “You’re impossible.” “And yet,” she replied softly, “you keep coming back.” Silence. Real silence. Because neither of them could really deny that anymore. George looked at her for one second too long before finally shaking his head quietly and stepping backward toward the paddock pathway again. “You should stop noticing things,” he muttered.

A small smile appeared against her mouth. “You should stop proving me right.” Then she turned back toward her abandoned coffee and closed laptop while George stood there another few seconds longer than necessary beneath the floodlights. Because the worst part wasn’t that she understood him too easily anymore. The worst part was how badly some part of him wanted her to keep trying. Sunday mornings always felt unreal before a race. The paddock was quieter than usual, softened by exhaustion after three straight days of noise and movement.

Team personnel crossed between garages carrying coffees instead of equipment now, speaking in lower voices while the sun rose slowly over Bahrain. Even the air felt different on race mornings. Heavier somehow. Anticipation pressed against everything before lights out, stretching tension thinner with every passing hour. George normally liked that feeling. Today, it only made him more aware of how little he had slept. Again. He stepped out of the Mercedes hospitality with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup while his phone buzzed endlessly with overnight strategy messages from engineers.

Tire degradation projections. Weather probabilities. Opening lap simulations. Usually, that kind of information settled his mind before races. Instead, his attention drifted somewhere else entirely. Toward the paddock crowd. Looking for her. The realization hit him hard enough that he actually stopped walking for half a second.

Because this time, he noticed himself doing it. Consciously. Not accidental anymore. Not instinctive enough to ignore. He was actively searching for her among the movement of mechanics, journalists and engineers crossing the paddock pathways. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George exhaled slowly through his nose before forcing himself toward the garage anyway.

This was getting ridiculous. He had known her for three days. Three days should not have been enough to turn another person into habit. And yet. “You’re distracted again.” George looked sideways immediately as his race engineer fell into step beside him. “I’m not distracted.” The engineer gave him a look that clearly said he didn’t believe that for a second.

“Sure.” George resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Apparently everyone in the paddock had decided he’d become easy to read recently. Fantastic. The next hour disappeared into routine race preparation. Setup confirmations. Final strategy meetings. Tire discussions. George focused carefully because race mornings demanded precision whether he felt emotionally stable or not.

The garage buzzed with controlled tension while mechanics prepared the car beneath bright white lights, everyone moving with the quiet efficiency Formula One perfected over decades. Still, every few minutes, George’s attention drifted back toward the garage entrance automatically. Looking. Always looking. He hated that. More specifically, he hated how natural it had become. “You know staring at the paddock won’t make the strategy better, right?” George looked up immediately as Alex dropped into the empty chair beside him near the back of the garage.

“You’re becoming deeply irritating.” “Thank you.” George rubbed briefly at his temple while Alex grinned openly beside him. “Seriously though,” Alex continued, lowering his voice slightly, “this is getting kind of fascinating.” “There is nothing happening.” “You’ve said that like twelve times now.” “Because there is nothing happening.” Alex tilted his head thoughtfully.

“You know, people who are actually unaffected usually don’t need to keep announcing it.” George gave him a flat look. Alex looked delighted by that reaction. “Oh, this is bad.” Before George could answer, movement outside the garage entrance caught his attention instantly. Her. Of course. She crossed the paddock quickly with a media pass hanging loosely around her neck, notebook balanced against one arm while talking distractedly with another journalist beside her.

George noticed her immediately despite the crowded pathway around her. Worse, relief settled low in his chest again before he could stop it. Actual relief. This was becoming a serious problem. Alex followed his line of sight instantly. “Oh my God.” “Don’t.” “You are absolutely gone.”

“I’m literally standing here.” Alex laughed loudly enough that two mechanics glanced over briefly before returning to work. “You looked miserable for twenty minutes.” “That’s dramatic.” “And now you suddenly look awake.” George opened his mouth to argue before stopping himself. Because unfortunately, Alex was right again. That made everything worse.

Before the conversation could continue, another engineer called Alex away toward the strategy monitors. George watched him leave with visible relief before looking back toward the paddock entrance automatically. She was gone again. Annoying. Very annoying. Nearly forty minutes passed before he saw her properly. George had just escaped another media obligation near the front of the garage when he spotted her standing alone near one of the quieter paddock walkways beside the media center. Most people had already moved toward pre-race responsibilities now, leaving parts of the paddock strangely empty beneath the growing heat of late morning.

Without thinking too carefully about it, George walked toward her. That realization only arrived halfway there. Dangerous. She looked up before he reached her fully, expression unreadable for exactly half a second before something quieter settled across it. “You’re staring again,” she said calmly. George almost smiled despite himself. Almost. “You notice too much.”

“That’s kind of my job.” “That’s unfortunate for everyone involved.” A faint flicker of amusement crossed her face briefly. “You came over here voluntarily.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George stopped beside the low metal barrier separating the walkway from the outer paddock road while distant race-day noise echoed around them. Helicopters somewhere above the circuit.

Mechanics shouting instructions farther down the garages. The entire atmosphere buzzed with anticipation before lights out. Yet standing beside her somehow felt oddly separate from all of it. Quieter. Dangerous. “You look exhausted,” she observed after a second. “You say that every conversation.” “You keep proving me right.”

George leaned lightly against the barrier beside her. “You’re very committed to this observation.” “You’re very committed to avoiding sleep.” The response came automatically, easy now in a way that unsettled him slightly. Their conversations had stopped feeling forced somewhere between Friday night and now. That should probably concern him more than it did. “You nervous?” she asked eventually. George blinked once.

“About the race?” “You’re answering like it’s a trick question already.” Right. That. He looked away briefly toward the track buildings in the distance before answering properly. “Not nervous.” A pause followed. “Just tired.” The honesty slipped out before he fully decided to allow it.

Her expression shifted slightly afterward, becoming softer around the edges in a way he was starting to recognize now. Not pity. Never pity. Just understanding. Still dangerous. “You know,” she said quietly, “most people would lie automatically there.” “About being tired?” “About struggling.” George let out a soft breath through his nose.

“Formula One doesn’t exactly reward vulnerability.” “No.” She looked toward the garages thoughtfully. “It rewards performance.” The word landed heavily between them because they both knew she meant more than racing. George became aware suddenly of how easy it felt talking to her now compared to almost anyone else in the paddock. No rehearsed answers. No careful calculations every second. Conversations with her still unsettled him constantly, but somehow they also felt simpler than everything else around him.

That realization terrified him slightly. “Can I ask you something?” she said after a moment. “You usually do anyway.” A brief smile appeared against her mouth before fading again. “Why do you keep coming back to me?” The question hit harder than he expected. George looked at her immediately, caught off guard enough that silence settled between them before he could answer anything at all. Because he didn’t know.

Or maybe he did know, which was significantly worse. The paddock noise around them suddenly felt distant compared to the quiet tension stretching between them now. She watched him steadily, not pushing, not filling the silence for him. Just waiting. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. The honesty in the answer surprised both of them slightly.

Her expression changed first. Smaller somehow. Less guarded. George looked away briefly toward the garages because suddenly standing this close to honesty felt more difficult than expected. “You do,” she said softly after a second. “I really don’t.” “That’s worse.” George laughed quietly under his breath without humor.

“Probably.” Silence settled again afterward, though this time it felt heavier somehow. More fragile. George became painfully aware of how real the conversation had suddenly become. No sarcasm to hide behind. No arguments distracting from the actual question sitting between them. Why did he keep coming back? Because she understood him too easily.

Because talking to her felt dangerously honest. Because somewhere over the last three days, her presence had started feeling familiar in a way he couldn’t explain properly. Terrifying. Completely terrifying. “You make things complicated,” he muttered eventually. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “That sounds unfair.” “It’s observational.”

“That’s my line.” George almost smiled despite himself again. “Unfortunately.” The warmth that crossed her expression afterward lasted only a second before fading back into something quieter. “You know what I think?” she asked softly. “That sounds dangerous.” “I think you’re tired of everyone around you needing the polished version first.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs.

Too accurate. Again. George looked down briefly at the coffee cup still in his hand before answering. “You say things like that very casually.” “That’s because they’re obvious.” “There you go again.” “What?” “Acting like reading people is simple.” Her gaze stayed fixed on him steadily.

“No. Acting like people are easier to understand when they stop performing.” The silence afterward stretched dangerously long. Because she was right. Again. George suddenly realized he was gripping the coffee cup slightly too tightly. He loosened his fingers immediately afterward, exhaling slowly while sunlight reflected harshly across the paddock concrete around them. “You know what the problem is?” he asked quietly.

“With Formula One?” “With me.” That surprised her enough that he almost regretted saying it immediately. Almost. He continued anyway before he could stop himself. “I don’t actually know how to talk to people who…” George hesitated briefly, jaw tightening. “Who actually see me.” There it was.

Too honest. Far too honest. The sentence settled heavily between them while distant paddock noise echoed around the walkway. George looked away instantly afterward because suddenly vulnerability felt unbearable beneath full daylight and race morning tension. For once, she didn’t answer immediately. When he finally looked back at her, something in her expression had softened completely. Not triumph. Not satisfaction.

Something gentler. More dangerous. “That sounds lonely,” she said quietly. George laughed softly under his breath again, though this time exhaustion sat heavier behind it. “You keep saying that.” “That’s because it keeps sounding true.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. A loudspeaker announcement echoed faintly across the paddock then, calling teams toward final pre-grid procedures.

The moment shifted instantly afterward, reality returning around them whether either of them wanted it to or not. George felt it immediately. The conversation ending. Strangely, disappointment settled beneath that realization. Dangerous. “You should probably go,” she said softly. Probably. The problem was that neither of them moved immediately afterward.

George looked at her for one second too long, suddenly aware of how much easier breathing felt standing here compared to everywhere else this weekend. That alone should probably terrify him more than it did. “You’re staring again,” she murmured. “You keep noticing.” “That’s kind of the problem.” The answer lingered heavily between them. Then she stepped backward first, adjusting the strap of her bag against her shoulder before turning toward the media center pathways. George watched her leave automatically, sunlight catching briefly against the notebook tucked beneath her arm while the paddock swallowed her back into movement and noise.

For several seconds, he stayed exactly where he was. Motionless. Because somewhere between Thursday interviews and this conversation beneath the Bahrain sun, something had shifted into dangerous territory neither of them fully understood yet. And for the first time in a very long time, George realized someone’s presence was starting to feel necessary. Monday mornings after race weekends always felt strangely empty. The paddock still moved around them, still buzzed with mechanics dismantling garages and media crews packing equipment into trucks, but the intensity was gone now.

No qualifying pressure. No race tension. Just exhaustion settling over everyone equally while teams prepared to leave Bahrain behind for the next destination on the calendar. George usually liked Mondays. Today, he couldn’t stop replaying Sunday morning in his head. “I don’t actually know how to talk to people who actually see me.” The sentence had followed him into sleep last night. Worse, it followed him back into the paddock now while he walked through the quieter garage with coffee in one hand and lingering exhaustion still pressing behind his eyes.

He hated that he remembered the exact expression on her face after he said it too. Softened. Quiet. Dangerous. Most of all, he hated how much he wanted to see her again. That realization had become impossible to ignore now. George stepped out toward the paddock pathway while one of the Mercedes mechanics called goodbye from behind him. The morning sun reflected harshly against the transport trucks lining the circuit, people moving slower than usual beneath the heat after a long weekend.

Then he spotted her laughing. And immediately stopped paying attention to everything else. She stood beside one of the photographers near the media center entrance, head tilted slightly back while laughing softly at something he had said. The sound didn’t reach George from this distance, but he still noticed the way her entire expression changed when she laughed properly. Lighter. Easier. Real. George stared too long.

Long enough that the conversation happening beside him disappeared entirely. “George?” Nothing. “She looks happy.” That pulled him back immediately. George blinked once before turning sharply toward the Mercedes PR coordinator standing beside him. She looked dangerously amused already. “I’m sorry?” The woman nodded casually toward the media center.

“Your journalist.” “My—” George stopped himself immediately. Too late. The PR coordinator’s grin widened. “Right.” “There’s nothing happening.” “That sounded defensive.” George looked away toward the trucks again, jaw tightening slightly. “You’re all deeply irritating.” “Sure.” Unfortunately, she didn’t sound remotely convinced. George exhaled slowly through his nose before risking another glance toward the media center automatically.

Still laughing. And for some reason, something twisted unpleasantly beneath his ribs at the sight. Jealousy. Again. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He barely knew her. More importantly, he had absolutely no reason to care who made her laugh in the paddock. Yet the sight still bothered him immediately, sharp and irrational beneath his composure.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You stopped listening five minutes ago, by the way.” George looked back at the PR coordinator flatly. “I was listening.” “You absolutely were not.” Before he could answer, movement near the media center shifted again. The photographer said something else to her before walking away toward Ferrari hospitality, leaving her alone near the pathway.

And immediately, she looked up. Their eyes met across the paddock. George became painfully aware of the fact he was still staring. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. Then, slowly, amusement crossed her expression. She started walking toward him. Annoying. Incredibly annoying. “You’re staring again,” she said calmly the second she reached him.

George almost smiled despite himself. “You keep saying that.” “Because you keep doing it.” There it was. Something different. Not quite teasing. Not quite flirting. Dangerously close to both. The realization settled heavily between them while people continued moving through the paddock around them. George suddenly became aware of how naturally she had stepped into his space now compared to Thursday.

Close enough that he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes again. Close enough that he caught the smell of coffee lingering against her jacket. Dangerous observations. “You seem very entertained by this,” he muttered. “You seem very obvious today.” That hit immediately because she said it so casually, like it wasn’t even supposed to sound loaded. George folded his arms loosely against his chest. “I’m not obvious.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You stopped listening to your conversation.” Right. Fantastic. “You noticed that?” “I notice most things.” “That’s becoming threatening.” A small smile appeared briefly against her mouth. “You liked it before.” George stared at her for half a second longer than necessary.

Because that was the problem. He had liked it before. He still did. Dangerous. “You’re exhausting,” he said quietly. “You keep coming back anyway.” The answer landed directly beneath his ribs again. Around them, paddock noise continued normally while transport crews loaded equipment farther down the pathway.

Yet standing beside her still felt strangely separate from all of it somehow, like conversations with her existed outside the normal rhythm of Formula One. That should probably concern him more than it did. “You look less tired today,” she observed after a second. “I slept.” “I’m proud of you.” George huffed softly under his breath, dangerously close to another laugh. “That sounded sarcastic.” “It was affectionate, actually.”

The word hit him embarrassingly hard. Affectionate. George looked away immediately toward the nearby trucks before she could notice the reaction settling across his expression. Too late, probably. Of course too late. “You really enjoy making this difficult,” he muttered. She studied him quietly for a second. “I don’t think I’m the one making it difficult.”

That sentence lingered heavily between them. Because they both knew exactly what she meant. George suddenly became aware of how many people were walking around them now. Mechanics. PR staff. Journalists. And worse, how many of them were probably noticing the way he looked at her lately. Because apparently he had stopped hiding it properly.

“You know people can see whatever this is, right?” George closed his eyes briefly for half a second. Of course. Of course someone had to say it out loud eventually. He turned immediately toward the source of the voice to find Lando standing several feet away holding a coffee cup and looking far too entertained with himself. “There is no ‘this,’” George answered instantly. Too instantly. Lando grinned immediately.

“That was unbelievably defensive.” Beside him, she looked down briefly, clearly trying not to laugh. Traitor. “We’re literally just talking,” George continued. “Sure,” Lando replied easily. “And you definitely weren’t staring at her from halfway across the paddock five minutes ago.” George hated how quickly heat climbed into his face at that. Worse, she noticed.

Of course she noticed. Lando pointed casually between them. “You two realize the entire paddock thinks whatever this is has become weirdly intense, right?” Silence. Heavy silence. Because suddenly the conversation felt too exposed beneath daylight and public attention. George folded his arms tighter across his chest automatically. “You’re dramatic.”

“No,” Lando corrected. “You’re obvious.” That landed harder than George wanted it to. Mostly because part of him already knew it was true. Before the conversation could become even more unbearable, someone called Lando’s name from farther down the paddock. He gave them both one last amused look before walking backward toward McLaren hospitality. “This is the most entertaining thing happening after the race,” he announced cheerfully before disappearing into the crowd. George stared after him flatly.

“I hate him,” he muttered. Beside him, she laughed softly again. The sound settled warm beneath his ribs before irritation followed immediately after. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know he’s right,” she said eventually. George looked at her sharply. “About what?” “You hate losing control.” The sentence hit instantly because of how calmly she said it.

Not accusatory. Just honest. George looked away first, jaw tightening slightly while sunlight reflected harshly against the paddock pavement around them. “That’s not what this is.” Lie. Immediate lie. And the worst part was that they both knew it. She stayed quiet for a second longer than necessary afterward, watching him carefully while transport crews continued moving equipment behind them.

“You don’t sound convinced,” she said softly. George exhaled sharply through his nose. “You analyze everything too much.” “You avoid everything too much.” That landed directly beneath his ribs. Again. George looked back at her properly then, suddenly aware of how close they were standing now compared to when the conversation started. Not enough to touch.

Just enough to feel dangerous. “I liked it better when we argued,” he muttered quietly. A small smile crossed her face briefly. “That’s not true.” No. It wasn’t. And somehow that realization terrified him more than anything else so far. Silence settled again between them afterward, softer than before now.

Not awkward. Just charged somehow. George became painfully aware of every tiny detail around her automatically. The sunlight catching against loose strands of hair near her face. The notebook still tucked beneath one arm. The fact she looked less guarded around him lately. Dangerous observations. “You’re staring again,” she murmured quietly.

George held her gaze this time instead of looking away immediately. “Maybe you should stop noticing.” For the first time since Thursday, she looked genuinely caught off guard by something he said. Only for a second. Still enough for him to notice. And suddenly, neither of them seemed entirely sure where the conversation was supposed to go next. Which was probably the clearest sign yet that this had already become far more dangerous than either of them wanted to admit. The next race weekend started three days later.

Too fast. Formula One rarely gave people enough time to process anything properly before throwing them onto another plane, another paddock, another carefully controlled performance. George usually appreciated that rhythm. Constant movement left less room for overthinking. Unfortunately, this time overthinking had boarded the plane with him. “You’re staring again.” The sentence replayed in his head far too often during the flight to Jeddah. So did: “You hate losing control.”

And worse: “Maybe you should stop noticing.” George hated how much he remembered every conversation with her now. Specific wording. Specific expressions. The exact way her voice changed whenever conversations became too honest. Dangerous. Very dangerous. The Saudi paddock looked entirely different from Bahrain by Thursday evening.

Brighter. Sharper. The entire circuit glowed beneath artificial lights while garages reflected neon against polished floors and glass hospitality walls. Night races always made everything feel slightly unreal, like the sport existed outside normal time completely. George stepped out of Mercedes hospitality late Thursday after another endless round of engineering meetings, exhaustion already pressing against his shoulders despite the weekend barely starting. Then the elevator doors opened. And there she was. Alone.

Of course. For exactly one second, neither of them moved. Then her eyebrows lifted slightly. “That expression makes it seem like you think I materialized here.” George stepped into the elevator automatically before the doors could close again. “I think I’m deeply unlucky.” “That’s rude.” “It was observational.”

A faint smile crossed her face immediately. “You’re getting better at that.” The elevator doors slid shut behind them softly. And suddenly the space felt far too small. Dangerous. George became instantly aware of everything at once. The faint scent of coffee lingering against her jacket again. The quiet hum of the elevator.

The fact they were standing close enough that if either of them moved slightly, their shoulders would touch. His pulse shifted unpleasantly. Very dangerous. “You look tired,” she observed calmly. George laughed softly under his breath. “You say that every conversation.” “You keep proving me right.” “That’s becoming repetitive.”

“So is the exhaustion.” Despite himself, George almost smiled again. This was becoming embarrassing. The elevator continued descending slowly while silence settled between them afterward. Not awkward. Worse. Quiet enough that George became aware of every tiny movement she made beside him. The way her fingers adjusted slightly around the notebook tucked against her chest.

The way she shifted her weight subtly whenever she got tired. And unfortunately: the way she looked at him now. Different. Not journalist versus driver anymore. Just her looking at him. Dangerous. “You’re staring again,” she said softly. George blinked once before realizing she was right.

Again. “I’m not.” “You absolutely are.” The amusement in her voice should have made this easier somehow. Instead, it made it infinitely worse. Because she sounded comfortable around him now. And George had no idea what to do with that realization. The elevator stopped briefly on another floor.

Nobody entered. The doors closed again. Still alone. Fantastic. “You know,” she said eventually while leaning lightly against the elevator wall behind her, “you’ve become significantly worse at pretending not to look at me.” George folded his arms loosely across his chest immediately. “That sounds dramatic.” “No.” Her gaze stayed fixed on him steadily.

“That sounds accurate.” The air between them shifted slightly after that. Subtle. Still enough for George to notice immediately. He looked away first, jaw tightening while city lights reflected faintly through the glass panels near the elevator doors. The closer they got physically lately, the harder conversations became somehow. Not because they argued more. Because they didn’t.

And that was infinitely more dangerous. “You’re quiet,” she observed. “That’s your fault.” That made her laugh softly under her breath. “Interesting.” “What is?” “You say things like that now.” George frowned slightly. “Like what?” “Honest things.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs. Again.

George looked back at her before he fully meant to. And there it was again. That unbearable awareness every time she looked at him directly now. Not tension exactly. Something slower. Heavier. Like the space between them had become charged without either of them fully acknowledging it aloud yet. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “You make this difficult,” he muttered quietly. For the first time since entering the elevator, her expression shifted slightly. Softer. More careful. “How?” Good question. George honestly wasn’t sure he could answer it properly anymore. Because the problem wasn’t only the conversations now.

It was: noticing her immediately in crowded paddocks looking for her automatically remembering everything she said afterward wanting her attention constantly And worst of all: wanting her to keep looking at him like she understood him. Terrifying. Completely terrifying. The elevator slowed again before stopping between floors briefly.

A technical pause. The lights flickered softly overhead. And suddenly the silence became unbearable. George looked at her again automatically. Big mistake. Because she was already looking at him too. And this close, under the muted elevator lighting, he noticed things too clearly. The slight exhaustion beneath her eyes.

The way her breathing slowed slightly whenever conversations became too quiet. The tiny tension in her fingers against the notebook she was still holding. Then she spoke quietly. “Stop looking at me like that.” George’s chest tightened immediately. “Like what?” he asked, voice lower now without meaning it to be. Her gaze stayed locked on his for one dangerous second too long. “Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

The sentence settled heavily in the small elevator space around them. Because she was right. Again. George was trying to figure something out. Specifically: why every conversation with her now felt dangerously close to losing balance entirely. “You think too much,” he said quietly. “You look too much.” That hit instantly.

The silence afterward became unbearable. Not awkward. Worse. Charged. George suddenly became painfully aware of how little space existed between them now. One small movement. One shift forward. That was all it would take. Dangerous territory. Neither of them moved. Which somehow made everything worse.

“You know what the problem is?” George asked softly before fully deciding to speak. “With us?” The word us nearly destroyed his remaining composure immediately. George looked away sharply toward the elevator doors. “That’s not what I was going to say.” “But it’s what you meant.” No hesitation. No fear.

Just honesty again. Always honesty. George laughed quietly under his breath without humor. “You really don’t let anything go.” “No,” she replied softly. “Neither do you.” That landed far too hard. Because she was right. Again. He had stopped letting any of this go days ago.

The elevator jolted slightly before continuing downward again. Neither of them acknowledged it. George looked back at her automatically afterward. Another mistake. Because this time she hadn’t looked away either. And suddenly the tension stopped feeling emotional alone. It became physical. Real. The kind that changes breathing.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. Her fingers shifted slightly against the notebook she was holding, and before George fully processed what he was doing, his hand moved instinctively toward hers. Not fully touching. Just close enough that the movement itself changed the air between them instantly. Both of them stopped breathing normally. George realized what he’d done exactly one second too late. Her eyes dropped briefly toward the space between their hands.

Then lifted back to his. Silence. Heavy silence. The elevator suddenly felt impossibly small. George could hear his own pulse now beneath the quiet mechanical hum surrounding them. This was bad. This was very bad. “You should stop doing that,” she said quietly. His voice came out lower than intended.

“Doing what?” “Looking at me like that.” George swallowed once. Because the terrifying part was: he genuinely didn’t know how to stop anymore. The elevator doors suddenly opened. Voices immediately flooded the hallway outside. The moment shattered instantly. Both of them stepped back at almost the exact same time, composure snapping painfully back into place beneath reality and bright hotel lighting.

A Mercedes engineer walked past the elevator entrance without noticing anything unusual. “George,” he called casually before continuing down the hallway. George barely heard him. Because she was still looking at him. And somehow that felt infinitely more dangerous now than it had thirty seconds ago. Neither of them spoke immediately. Then finally, quietly: “This is becoming a problem,” she murmured.

George let out a slow breath through his nose. “That’s probably an understatement.” For one second longer, neither of them moved. Then she stepped out of the elevator first. George watched her walk down the hotel hallway beneath soft golden lighting, notebook still tucked against her chest while the distance between them slowly widened again. And for the first time since all of this started, one realization settled heavily and undeniably in the center of his chest. This wasn’t just emotional anymore. George avoided her for almost an entire day afterward.

Not intentionally at first. At least, that was what he told himself while walking through the Jeddah paddock Friday morning with coffee in one hand and exhaustion still lingering heavily behind his eyes after barely sleeping. The elevator replayed in his head constantly anyway. The silence. The look in her eyes. The split second where he almost touched her hand without thinking. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

George stepped into the Mercedes garage more aggressively than necessary while engineers already prepared the cars for FP1 beneath the bright fluorescent lights. Work. He needed work. Telemetry. Setup discussions. Anything concrete enough to stop thinking about the fact that standing too close to her yesterday had completely destroyed his ability to think normally for several seconds. That was a problem. A serious problem.

And for the first time since this started, fear settled properly beneath his ribs alongside everything else. Because emotional attachment was one thing. Physical attraction was infinitely more dangerous. “You look terrible.” George looked up immediately as one of the mechanics walked past carrying tire blankets. “Good morning to you too.” The mechanic grinned slightly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No.” “That obvious?” “Painfully.” Fantastic. George rubbed a hand against his jaw briefly while trying to focus on the telemetry screen in front of him. He could still hear her voice from yesterday too clearly. “Stop looking at me like that.” The worst part was: he still didn’t know what expression she meant.

Or maybe he did know. Which was significantly worse. For the next two hours, George stayed almost entirely inside the garage. Interviews were minimal on Fridays in Jeddah, which helped. Engineers kept him occupied enough that he could almost pretend his thoughts had settled back into something manageable. Almost. Then he saw her. Across the paddock.

And immediately forgot half the conversation happening around him. She walked beside another journalist near Ferrari hospitality, notebook tucked beneath one arm while listening distractedly to something he was saying. Her expression stayed calm. Professional. More distant than usual somehow. George noticed that immediately too. And for some reason, disappointment twisted sharply beneath his ribs before he could stop it. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “You stopped listening again.” George blinked once before realizing his race engineer was staring at him expectantly from beside the telemetry screen. Right. Focus. “Sorry.” The engineer followed George’s line of sight automatically toward the paddock entrance before looking back at him with immediate understanding. Oh no.

“You know,” the engineer said carefully, “for someone who likes control this much, you’re becoming remarkably obvious.” George stared at him flatly. The engineer lifted both hands immediately. “Not my business.” Correct. Absolutely not his business. Still, the sentence lingered unpleasantly afterward because apparently everyone around him had started noticing the exact same thing now. And worse: they were right.

George forced himself back into work after that with almost aggressive focus. Tire simulations. Setup corrections. Engineering discussions. Anything to stop noticing every time she crossed the paddock outside the garage entrance. It didn’t work particularly well. Because even while trying to avoid her completely, he still tracked her movements automatically anyway. Looking.

Always looking. He hated it. More specifically, he hated how impossible stopping had become. By late afternoon, avoidance had turned intentional. George knew it. And apparently, so did she. Because every time he spotted her across the paddock now, she looked away first. No teasing comments.

No lingering conversations. Just brief eye contact before distance settled immediately afterward. Cold. Not cruel. Somehow worse because of that. George hated how quickly her distance affected him. “You’re in a terrible mood.” George glanced sideways sharply as Alex dropped into the empty chair beside him near Mercedes hospitality.

“I’m fine.” “No,” Alex corrected immediately. “You’re irritable.” “That’s basically the same thing.” Alex studied him for a second longer than necessary. “You haven’t talked to her today.” George’s jaw tightened instantly. “Interesting reaction,” Alex muttered. “There was no reaction.” “You practically flinched.” George looked away toward the paddock pathway outside hospitality.

“You’re dramatic.” “And you’re avoiding someone.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs because of how casually accurate it sounded. George exhaled slowly through his nose. “Maybe I’m busy.” Alex looked unconvinced immediately. “George.” Dangerous tone. George hated that tone. “What?” “You know everyone can tell when you’re pretending not to care now, right?”

That irritated him instantly because once again: people were right. Unfortunately. “I care about qualifying,” George muttered. Alex nodded thoughtfully. “And definitely not the journalist you keep staring at every ten minutes.” George closed his eyes briefly. Fantastic. “This conversation is over.” Alex laughed softly under his breath before standing again.

“You should probably fix whatever this is before you completely lose your mind.” George looked up sharply. “There is no this.” Alex’s grin widened immediately. “Sure.” Then he walked away before George could answer. Annoying. Completely annoying. But worse than that: accurate. Because by evening, George realized he had spent nearly an entire day thinking about someone he was actively trying to avoid.

That was bad. Very bad. The paddock quieted significantly after FP2 ended beneath Jeddah’s bright floodlights. Most teams retreated into debrief meetings while journalists disappeared toward media rooms and hospitality lounges. George stayed inside the Mercedes garage longer than necessary again, mostly because he knew the second he stepped outside, he’d probably look for her automatically. And he was trying very hard not to. The problem was: he still wanted to. Eventually, exhaustion forced him out anyway.

Warm night air hit him immediately outside the garage while distant music echoed faintly from somewhere farther down the paddock. Jeddah at night felt sharper than Bahrain somehow. Brighter lights. Darker shadows. Everything looked cinematic beneath the neon reflections stretching across the concrete pathways. George shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket while walking toward the quieter side of the paddock near the media center. Then stopped. Because she was there.

Alone. Of course. She sat near one of the outside tables beneath muted overhead lights, laptop closed while her attention stayed fixed somewhere out toward the track barriers in the distance. No phone. No notebook open. Just silence. George’s chest tightened immediately. Because she looked tired.

And distant. And somehow both things felt like his fault. Dangerous realization. He should have turned around immediately. Instead, he walked toward her. Again. “You’re avoiding me.” The words left her mouth quietly before he even fully reached the table. No accusation. Somehow that made it infinitely worse.

George stopped beside the empty chair across from her. “I’m not avoiding you.” Lie. Immediate lie. And judging by her expression, they both knew it. “You’re a terrible liar lately,” she murmured. George looked away toward the track lights reflecting against the night sky. “You notice too much.”

Silence. Then softly: “You stopped talking to me after the elevator.” There it was. Direct honesty again. Always honesty. George sat down slowly across from her because standing suddenly felt impossible beneath the weight of the conversation waiting between them. “I didn’t stop talking to you.”

“You disappeared for almost twelve hours.” “That’s not dramatic at all.” “You noticed the exact number.” Right. Fantastic. George exhaled sharply through his nose before rubbing a hand briefly against his jaw. “This is exactly the problem.” Her brows drew together slightly. “What is?” “You make everything obvious.”

The sentence landed heavily between them. And for the first time all weekend, something genuinely emotional flickered visibly across her face. Not amusement. Not calm observation. Hurt. Small. Still enough to immediately twist something painfully inside George’s chest. “No,” she said quietly. “I make it visible.”

That hit hard enough that George actually looked at her properly again. Because suddenly he understood exactly why she’d become distant today. She thought he regretted yesterday. The realization settled heavily beneath his ribs. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’re making this difficult,” he muttered quietly. For a second, she just stared at him beneath the soft paddock lights.

Then: “No,” she replied softly. “I’m making it obvious.” The sentence shattered something fragile between them immediately. Because she was right. Again. George leaned back slightly in his chair while frustration tightened sharply through his chest. Not frustration at her. At himself. At the fact he no longer understood how to act normally around her.

At the fact every conversation now felt one step away from losing control entirely. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “No.” Her gaze stayed fixed steadily on him. “I think that’s exactly why you’re running.” George looked away immediately toward the empty paddock pathways nearby because once again: she was right. And he hated how transparent he’d become around her. “You know what the problem is?” he muttered after a second. “What?”

“I don’t know how to do this.” The honesty startled him slightly after it left his mouth. Too real. Too exposed. Her expression softened immediately afterward. Dangerous. “What part?” she asked softly. George laughed quietly under his breath without humor. “Any of it.” Silence settled heavily between them while distant garage noise echoed faintly through the nearly empty paddock.

“I don’t know how to talk to you anymore without…” George hesitated briefly before forcing himself to continue. “Without wanting things I probably shouldn’t.” There it was. Too honest. Far too honest. The air between them changed instantly afterward. Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.

And suddenly George became painfully aware of the fact that this was no longer something either of them could pretend was harmless. “You could stop coming back,” she said quietly after a long silence. The sentence settled softly between them. No anger. No manipulation. Just truth. George opened his mouth immediately. Then stopped.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? He could stop. Technically. But every instinct in him already knew he wouldn’t. The realization hit hard enough that silence stretched painfully between them afterward. She noticed. Of course she noticed. Something softer crossed her expression briefly before she stood slowly from the table, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder beneath the muted paddock lights.

“You should sleep tonight,” she said quietly. George almost laughed at the familiarity of the sentence. Instead, he just watched her. Again. Always watching. She paused briefly before turning away fully. “You’re staring again,” she murmured softly. George swallowed once. “You keep leaving.” For the first time all evening, she looked genuinely affected by something he said.

Only for a second. Still enough. Then she walked away into the glowing Jeddah paddock while George remained alone beneath the lights, exhaustion and frustration settling heavily through his chest. And even after she disappeared completely from sight, he still found himself looking toward the exact place she’d been standing moments earlier. Because wanting her attention had stopped being accidental a long time ago. Now it was instinct. The paddock felt wrong without her talking to him. George realized that barely two hours into Friday morning, which was already humiliating enough on its own.

Jeddah buzzed around him beneath harsh sunlight and reflective glass hospitality walls while mechanics crossed between garages carrying tire blankets and engineers argued quietly over setup changes. Normal race weekend atmosphere. Loud enough that nobody should notice one missing conversation inside all the chaos. And yet George noticed immediately. Because she was there. That was the problem. She just wasn’t coming to him anymore. The realization settled heavily beneath his ribs while he answered another pointless media question outside the Mercedes hospitality.

She moved somewhere near the back of the media crowd with a notebook tucked beneath one arm, calm and professional while interviewing another driver. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not properly. And somehow that bothered him significantly more than it should have. “George, do you think tire degradation could become a problem during qualifying simulations?” Right. Interviews. Focus.

“It depends on track evolution,” he answered automatically, forcing his attention back toward the journalist standing in front of him. “The temperatures are slightly different compared to yesterday, so we’ll probably have a clearer picture after FP3.” The journalist nodded immediately, satisfied enough with the generic answer. George barely heard the next question. Because she walked past behind the cameras a few seconds later without even glancing in his direction. Cold. Not cruel. Worse because of it.

“You’re grumpy today.” George looked sideways immediately as Lando stepped beside him near the edge of the media pen holding an iced coffee. “I’m not grumpy.” “You absolutely are.” “I’m tired.” “That too.” Lando followed George’s line of sight automatically toward the paddock pathway before his expression shifted into immediate understanding. Oh no.

“Oh,” Lando said slowly. “She’s still ignoring you.” George’s jaw tightened instantly. “She’s not ignoring me.” “She literally walked past you like you’re a traffic cone.” “That’s dramatic.” “She didn’t even look at you.” Right. Because apparently the universe hated him now. George folded his arms loosely across his chest.

“Maybe she’s working.” “Maybe you’re miserable.” George gave him a flat look. Lando grinned immediately. “Wow. Definitely miserable.” Before George could answer, another PR assistant called Lando toward McLaren hospitality. He walked backward briefly while pointing toward George with visible amusement. “You should probably fix that before qualifying,” he announced cheerfully before disappearing into the crowd.

Annoying. Completely annoying. The worst part was: he wasn’t wrong. Because every hour afterward only made things worse. The paddock remained crowded through the afternoon while journalists moved constantly between garages and interviews. George saw her several times without speaking to her once. Near Ferrari hospitality. Walking beside another journalist toward the media center.

Sitting outside with her laptop open while typing quickly between sessions. Every single time: she looked calm. Professional. Distant. And George hated how much he noticed it. “You’re distracted again.” George blinked once before looking up sharply from the telemetry screen inside the Mercedes garage. His race engineer stood beside him holding a tablet, expression dangerously observant already.

“I’m not distracted.” The engineer hummed skeptically. “You answered the wrong question thirty seconds ago.” Fantastic. George rubbed briefly at his jaw before leaning back in the chair harder than necessary. “Long weekend.” “Sure.” The engineer clearly didn’t believe him either. Nobody did anymore. That realization irritated him immediately because apparently somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah, he had become unbelievably transparent.

Especially around her. Dangerous. Very dangerous. FP3 helped temporarily. Driving usually did. Inside the car, thoughts simplified into something manageable again. Braking points. Tire temperatures. Sector times. George pushed aggressively through the narrow Jeddah streets while the walls blurred beside him beneath afternoon sunlight. For nearly an hour, he almost forgot about her completely.

Almost. Then he climbed out of the car afterward and spotted her near the media pen speaking quietly with another driver again. And immediately: there it was. That sharp unpleasant twist beneath his ribs. Jealousy. Again. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. George pulled off his gloves with slightly more force than necessary while one of the mechanics immediately noticed.

“You okay?” “Fine.” Too quick. The mechanic looked unconvinced but wisely didn’t push further. Good choice. By evening, irritation had settled so heavily beneath George’s composure that even he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He became shorter during interviews. More impatient during debriefs. Not enough for headlines.

Enough for people who knew him to notice immediately. Alex definitely noticed. “You know this is painful to watch, right?” George looked sideways flatly as Alex leaned casually against the edge of the Mercedes hospitality table beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “She hasn’t spoken to you all day.” George looked away immediately toward the paddock outside the hospitality windows. “That’s not true.”

“You said hello this morning.” Right. Fantastic. Alex laughed softly under his breath. “You’re actually suffering.” “I’m literally sitting here.” “And somehow making it look tragic.” George exhaled sharply through his nose while rubbing a hand briefly against his temple. “You’re all deeply irritating.” “No,” Alex corrected immediately.

“You’re emotionally attached to someone and handling it horribly.” That sentence landed directly beneath George’s ribs because of how casually accurate it sounded. He hated that. Very much. “There is no emotional attachment.” Alex stared at him for exactly two seconds. Then burst out laughing. “Oh, wow.

You’re completely gone.” Before George could answer, movement outside the hospitality windows caught his attention automatically. Her. Of course. She crossed the paddock alone beneath the floodlights now, notebook tucked against her side while her attention stayed fixed on her phone. George noticed her immediately. Worse: his entire body relaxed slightly at the sight before he could stop it. Alex noticed that too.

“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. George closed his eyes briefly. “Please leave.” “You looked relieved.” “I was not relieved.” “You literally breathed differently.” Traitorous lungs. Alex shook his head slowly with visible fascination. “This is unbelievable.” Then, unfortunately: he was called away by another engineer before continuing the conversation.

George had never felt so grateful in his life. The problem was: Alex left him alone with his thoughts afterward. And those thoughts were becoming impossible to manage properly now. Because she still hadn’t spoken to him. Not really. And suddenly the absence of her attention felt unbearably loud. George lasted exactly another fifteen minutes before giving up entirely. Which was how he found himself walking across the paddock toward the media center at nearly ten o’clock at night while mentally insulting himself the entire way there.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. She sat alone outside beneath muted overhead lights, laptop open while the rest of the paddock gradually emptied around her. The glow from the screen reflected softly against her face while she typed quickly, completely focused on whatever article she was finishing. George stopped a few feet away. She noticed immediately. Of course she did. But instead of smiling or teasing him like usual, her expression stayed calm and unreadable while she closed the laptop slowly.

“You survived without me,” she said quietly. The sentence hit harder than expected. George looked at her for a second longer than necessary before answering. “Barely.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because they both understood immediately that he meant it more honestly than intended. Something shifted visibly across her expression after that.

Smaller. Softer. Dangerous. George suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that this was the first truly honest thing he’d admitted aloud since all of this started. And somehow, saying it felt terrifyingly good. “You missed me,” she murmured softly. The words settled heavily between them beneath the quiet paddock lights. George opened his mouth immediately.

Then stopped. Because there was no believable lie left anymore. And judging by the way she watched him now, she knew it too. Night conversations with her had become dangerous. George realized that approximately three minutes after sitting down across from her outside the media center while the Jeddah paddock slowly emptied around them. Floodlights reflected against the polished pathways between hospitality units while distant garage noise echoed faintly through the warm night air. Most journalists had already disappeared for the evening. Most teams too.

Just them now. Again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You missed me.” The sentence still lingered heavily between them because George hadn’t answered it. Not properly. He had opened his mouth like he intended to deny it automatically, then stopped because both of them already knew lying would sound ridiculous now.

So instead, silence stretched. And somehow that felt more honest than words. She watched him steadily across the small table between them, laptop closed now while her fingers rested loosely against the edge of it. George became painfully aware of how familiar this had started feeling. Late paddock conversations. Quiet honesty. Looking for her automatically after long days. Like routine.

That realization unsettled him immediately. “You’re staring again,” she said softly. George looked away toward the track lights in the distance almost automatically. “You keep noticing.” “That’s because you keep doing it.” There it was again. That strange almost-flirting hidden beneath honesty. The difference now was that neither of them seemed capable of pretending not to hear it anymore.

George leaned back slightly in the chair, exhaustion settling heavier against his shoulders now that adrenaline from the day had faded completely. “You’ve been avoiding me.” The words came out quieter than intended. Too honest already. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Interesting.” “What is?” “You sound offended.”

“I’m observant.” A faint smile crossed her face immediately. “That’s definitely my line.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. The silence afterward felt softer than usual somehow. Less defensive. George realized suddenly that this was the calmest conversation they’d had in days. No arguments. No sharp comments hiding everything underneath.

That probably meant danger was approaching rapidly. “You were actually upset,” she said eventually. George frowned slightly. “About what?” “That I stopped talking to you.” The directness of the sentence landed hard enough that he looked at her immediately. No hesitation. No room to escape.

Just honesty again. Always honesty. George exhaled slowly through his nose before looking away toward the empty paddock pathways nearby. “I wasn’t upset.” Lie. Weak lie too. Judging by her expression, she knew it immediately. “You came looking for me at ten o’clock at night.”

Right. Fantastic. George rubbed briefly at his jaw. “You make everything sound dramatic.” “You make everything sound temporary.” That sentence settled sharply beneath his ribs because suddenly he understood exactly what she meant. George had spent the entire day pretending this distance didn’t bother him. Pretending he could pull away whenever he wanted.

Pretending whatever existed between them hadn’t already become important. Temporary. Safe. Manageable. Except none of that felt true anymore. Dangerous realization. “You know what’s annoying?” he muttered quietly. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “I assume this is about me.” “You’ve become part of my routine somehow.”

The honesty startled both of them slightly after it left his mouth. George realized what he’d admitted exactly one second too late. Because now she was staring at him too. Quietly. Carefully. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You say things like that very casually lately,” she said softly.

“That didn’t feel casual.” “No,” she agreed quietly. “It didn’t.” The air between them shifted again after that. Subtle. Still enough that George immediately became aware of every tiny detail around her automatically. The exhaustion softened around the edges of her expression tonight. The way her fingers tightened slightly against the laptop when conversations became too honest.

The fact she looked at him now like she was trying very hard not to say something dangerous. George’s pulse shifted unpleasantly beneath his ribs. “You know what changed?” she asked quietly after a second. George held her gaze carefully. “What?” For one moment, she seemed to hesitate. Then: “You stopped pretending you don’t care.”

Silence. Real silence. The sentence landed heavily enough that George forgot how to answer immediately. Because she was right. Again. At some point between Bahrain and Jeddah, he had completely lost the ability to act unaffected around her. Everyone noticed now. Alex. Lando. The engineers.

Probably half the paddock at this point. Worst of all: she noticed. And unlike everyone else, she understood what it actually meant. George looked down briefly at his hands before laughing quietly under his breath without humor. “That sounds terrifying when you say it out loud.” “It probably should.” The honesty nearly made him smile despite himself. Nearly.

He leaned back harder against the chair afterward while warm night air drifted softly through the nearly empty paddock around them. “You know what the problem is?” “With us?” The word us still did dangerous things to his nervous system. George looked away sharply toward the floodlights. “You really enjoy making that sound real.” Her voice softened immediately afterward. “George.”

That was worse somehow. Because she only said his name like that when conversations became too honest to joke through anymore. “You think too much,” he muttered quietly. “You avoid too much.” There it was again. That unbearable accuracy. George closed his eyes briefly for half a second because suddenly exhaustion sat unbearably heavy against his chest tonight. Not physical exhaustion.

Emotional exhaustion. The kind that came from spending weeks controlling every version of himself publicly until he barely recognized where performance stopped anymore. Except around her. Around her, things kept slipping accidentally into honesty. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “I keep looking for you,” he admitted quietly before he could stop himself. The sentence changed everything immediately.

Neither of them moved afterward. Neither of them looked away. George could practically hear his own pulse now beneath the distant noise of the paddock around them because suddenly the conversation had crossed into territory neither of them could pretend was harmless anymore. “You realize that’s insane, right?” he muttered softly afterward. Something softened visibly across her expression then. Not amusement. Not surprise. Something warmer.

More dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed?” That hit directly beneath his ribs. Because of course she noticed. She noticed everything. George laughed quietly under his breath again before rubbing one hand across his face briefly. “I used to be significantly more emotionally stable.” A soft laugh escaped her immediately at that.

Real. Warm. The sound settled somewhere dangerously comfortable inside his chest. “That’s probably not true,” she said. “No?” “I think you were just better at pretending.” The sentence lingered heavily between them while the last few paddock workers crossed the pathways farther down near Ferrari hospitality. George watched her quietly for another second afterward, suddenly aware of how close they’d grown emotionally in an unbelievably short amount of time.

Too close. Too fast. And somehow: not fast enough. Dangerous thought. “You know what scares me?” he asked quietly before thinking better of it. Her expression changed immediately. More attentive. Softer. “What?” George swallowed once before answering. “That I don’t actually want this to stop.”

There it was. Too honest. Far too honest. The words settled heavily into the night air between them while distant floodlights reflected softly against the empty pathways nearby. George realized exactly how vulnerable the sentence sounded the second it left his mouth. And somehow, instead of panicking afterward, relief settled quietly beneath his ribs. Because finally: he stopped pretending. She stared at him for a long second afterward, completely silent.

Then softly: “You’re not pretending anymore.” The sentence nearly destroyed what remained of George’s composure tonight. Because she didn’t sound afraid. She sounded relieved too. And suddenly that realization became the most dangerous thing about all of this so far. Neither of them moved afterward. The silence stretched quietly between them while warm Jeddah air drifted through the nearly empty paddock.

George became painfully aware of how physically close they’d grown across the table now. Leaning slightly forward without noticing. Looking at each other too long. Breathing differently whenever conversations became this honest. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You should probably stop looking at me like that,” she murmured softly. George’s voice came out lower than intended.

“Like what?” For one second, her composure cracked visibly. Only slightly. Still enough. “Like you’re thinking too much.” The terrifying part was: he wasn’t thinking anymore. Not really. He was just looking at her. And apparently she felt it too. Before either of them could say something even more dangerous, voices echoed suddenly from farther down the paddock pathway.

A group of engineers crossed toward Red Bull hospitality laughing loudly enough to shatter the fragile quiet around them instantly. Reality returning. Again. George leaned back immediately afterward, composure snapping partially back into place on instinct alone. She noticed that too. Of course she did. A faint smile crossed her face. “There you are.”

George frowned slightly. “What does that mean?” “The version of you that remembers how to hide.” That hit harder than expected. Because she sounded disappointed by it. And somehow, so was he. George lasted less than twenty-four hours after that conversation before completely losing whatever remained of his emotional stability. Which, honestly, felt humiliating.

“You’re not pretending anymore.” The sentence replayed in his head constantly through Saturday morning in Jeddah. During engineering meetings. During breakfast. During interviews. Every time he closed his eyes for more than five seconds, her voice returned immediately afterward, quiet and unbearably honest beneath the paddock lights from last night. And the worst part? She was right.

George had stopped pretending somewhere along the way. Now everyone could see it. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You look distracted again.” George blinked once before realizing Toto was still talking beside him near the Mercedes engineering screens. Right. Focus. “Sorry.” Toto studied him briefly before continuing the conversation about qualifying pace.

George forced himself to concentrate afterward, but it felt significantly harder than usual this morning. His thoughts kept drifting automatically toward the paddock outside the garage. Looking for her. Again. At this point, it had become instinctive enough to scare him slightly. The Jeddah paddock buzzed with pre-qualifying tension outside the garage entrance while engineers crossed quickly between hospitality units carrying laptops and setup notes. Drivers moved through media obligations with increasingly thin patience. George usually thrived in this atmosphere.

Pressure sharpened him. Today, though, everything felt slightly off balance. Because part of his attention remained somewhere else entirely. And unfortunately, she noticed that too. Of course she did. George spotted her near the media center less than an hour later while leaving another interview. She stood beside two journalists discussing something on a laptop screen, expression calm beneath the bright Saudi sunlight reflecting off the paddock pavement. Then she looked up.

Their eyes met instantly across the crowded pathway. And immediately: George forgot what the journalist beside him had just asked. Again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’re doing it right now.” George looked sideways sharply toward the reporter standing beside him. “What?” The journalist followed his line of sight toward the media center before looking back with visible amusement already forming across his face.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “That’s bad.” George immediately looked away toward the garages again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Sure.” Fantastic. Apparently even random journalists noticed now. This was becoming unbearable. The rest of the afternoon only made things worse. Because after last night, distance between them had become impossible again.

She found him naturally between interviews. He walked toward her automatically between meetings. Conversations started without effort now, like both of them had stopped pretending they weren’t constantly looking for each other in crowded paddocks. Dangerous development. Very dangerous. “You slept?” she asked quietly while walking beside him toward the media pen late Saturday afternoon. “Barely.” “You’re impossible.”

George glanced sideways briefly. “That sounds affectionate.” A soft laugh escaped her immediately. “That was criticism.” “Mm.” “You don’t believe me.” “No.” The answer came too quickly. Too honestly. She looked at him for one second too long afterward before glancing away toward the garages again.

And suddenly the air between them felt charged all over again. George hated how easily this happened now. No effort. No warning. Just: her looking at him slightly differently and suddenly his entire nervous system stopped functioning correctly. Dangerous. Very dangerous. By evening, qualifying frustration only amplified everything further.

P5. Better than Bahrain. Still not enough. George climbed out of the car already irritated while cameras crowded immediately around the Mercedes garage entrance. Questions blurred together afterward beneath bright paddock lights and lingering adrenaline. “How difficult was the balance through sector one?” “Do you think Mercedes maximized the car?” “Can you challenge tomorrow?”

George answered automatically. Professionally. But exhaustion and frustration sharpened the edges of every sentence tonight. He could feel it happening. The effort required to stay composed publicly felt heavier than usual. Mostly because all he wanted was quiet. And somehow, lately, quiet meant her. Dangerous realization.

“You’re slipping.” George looked sharply sideways while removing his gloves near the back of the garage. She stood beside the telemetry screens now, notebook tucked beneath one arm while mechanics moved around them preparing for race day. “What?” “You answered emotionally in the last interview.” George frowned slightly. “No, I didn’t.” “You sounded frustrated.”

“That’s because I am frustrated.” The sentence came out sharper than intended. Silence followed immediately afterward. George realized the tone exactly one second too late. Her expression shifted slightly. Not hurt. Just quieter. And somehow that made guilt settle painfully beneath his ribs immediately. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “I didn’t mean—” “I know.” The interruption came softly. Too softly. George looked away toward the garage entrance while noise and movement continued around them normally. Why did every conversation with her suddenly feel like standing too close to something unstable? “You should probably go before you say something you regret,” she said quietly.

That hit harder than expected. Because suddenly the distance was back again. And George hated it immediately. “No.” The word left his mouth before he fully processed it. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. George became painfully aware of how desperate the answer sounded afterward. Fantastic. “You don’t have to stay,” she murmured carefully.

“I know.” Silence. Heavy silence. Mechanics crossed behind them carrying equipment cases toward the rear of the garage while engineers discussed tire strategy loudly enough to echo against the walls. Yet somehow the conversation between them still felt isolated from everything else. Dangerously intimate. George stepped slightly closer without fully meaning to. Another mistake.

Because now he could see exhaustion clearly beneath her composure again. The tension around her eyes. The way she held herself differently whenever conversations became too emotionally loaded. And suddenly he realized: she looked tired too. Not just physically. Emotionally. Because of him. The realization settled sharply through his chest.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” she said softly. George swallowed once. “Like what?” For one second, she hesitated. Then: “Like losing me would actually matter.” The sentence nearly knocked the air out of him. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? It would matter.

Far too much. George stared at her beneath the harsh garage lights while the entire world around them seemed to blur into background noise suddenly. Mechanics. Engineers. Cameras. None of it felt real compared to the unbearable honesty sitting between them now. “You really think I’d stop coming back?” he asked quietly. Her expression shifted immediately.

Smaller. Softer. Dangerous. “I think you’re trying very hard not to need me,” she answered honestly. That hit directly beneath his ribs because finally: someone had said it out loud. Need. Not attraction. Not curiosity. Need. George looked away sharply toward the telemetry screens because suddenly breathing felt difficult beneath the weight of the realization pressing against his chest.

Terrifying. Completely terrifying. “I don’t know how this happened,” he admitted quietly. The vulnerability in the sentence startled even him. Too honest. Far too honest. When he finally looked back at her, she was watching him with the same unbearably soft expression that kept destroying his composure lately. And suddenly George realized something terrifying: he trusted her with this version of himself now.

The unguarded one. The exhausted one. The honest one. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. “You asked me something last week,” he said quietly after a long silence. Her brows drew together slightly. “What?” “Why I keep coming back.” Understanding crossed her expression immediately afterward. George exhaled slowly through his nose while every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop talking before he crossed another line he couldn’t uncross afterward.

Instead, he said: “Tell me to stop.” Silence. Real silence. The garage noise around them suddenly felt impossibly distant. Because they both understood exactly what he meant. Tell me to stop looking for you. Tell me to stop needing this. Tell me to stop coming back.

George held her gaze steadily despite the panic rising beneath his ribs now because suddenly the conversation had become terrifyingly irreversible. And the worst part? He already knew he wouldn’t stop. Not really. Her lips parted slightly like she intended to answer immediately. Then closed again. For one unbearable second, neither of them moved. And finally, softly:

“I don’t want you to stop.” The sentence shattered whatever composure George still had left. Because she sounded terrified too. And relieved. And honest. All at once. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George became painfully aware of how close they were standing now beneath the bright Mercedes garage lights.

One step. Barely that. His pulse hammered violently beneath his ribs while neither of them looked away. This was it. This was the moment everything changed. Not because they kissed. Because they could have. And both of them knew it. Someone shouted George’s name from deeper inside the garage.

Reality crashed back instantly afterward. Both of them stepped back almost automatically, breathing uneven now beneath returning noise and movement. The moment shattered. But not completely. Never completely anymore. She looked away first this time, adjusting the strap of her bag against her shoulder while trying very hard to regain composure. George watched her. Again.

Always watching. “You should go,” she said quietly. Probably. The problem was: he suddenly didn’t want to leave her alone tonight. That realization terrified him more than anything else so far. Still, he forced himself backward one step at a time while mechanics continued moving around them completely unaware of the emotional disaster unfolding near the telemetry screens. Before turning away fully, though, George looked at her one last time beneath the harsh white garage lights. And finally understood something that should probably have scared him much more than it did.

He wasn’t just attracted to her anymore. He was emotionally ruined. Haut du formulaire George slept for maybe two hours. Not consecutively. Not properly. Every time exhaustion finally dragged him under, he heard her voice again almost immediately afterward. “I don’t want you to stop.”

The sentence replayed in endless loops through the dark hotel room while Jeddah lights glowed faintly beyond the curtains. George had spent years training himself to compartmentalize emotions during race weekends. Pressure. Frustration. Anger. He knew how to lock all of it away when necessary. This was different. Because no matter how hard he tried, everything kept leading back to her.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. By six in the morning, he gave up entirely. The hotel gym sat nearly empty this early, soft music echoing quietly through the room while city lights still lingered outside the glass walls overlooking Jeddah. George pushed himself harder than necessary through the workout because physical exhaustion felt easier to manage than whatever this had become emotionally. It didn’t help. Nothing helped anymore. Because every few minutes, his thoughts drifted right back toward the Mercedes garage from last night.

The way she looked at him after he said: “Tell me to stop.” And worse: the way relief hit him when she answered, “I don’t want you to stop.” That was the real problem now. Not attraction. Not tension. Relief. George finished the workout already exhausted before the race day had even properly started. Sweat clung uncomfortably against his skin while he leaned briefly against the gym mirror trying to slow his breathing.

“You’re completely fucked.” George looked sideways immediately toward the voice. Lando stood near the entrance holding a protein shake and looking far too awake for this hour. “Good morning,” George muttered flatly. Lando grinned instantly. “That bad?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Sure.”

George grabbed his towel with slightly more force than necessary. “You’re becoming deeply irritating.” “And you,” Lando replied cheerfully, “look like you haven’t slept because of someone.” The silence afterward answered for him. Lando’s expression shifted immediately into exaggerated horror. “Oh my God.” “Please stop talking.” “You’re actually in love with her.”

George nearly choked on air. “No.” Too quick. Way too quick. Lando stared at him for exactly two seconds before laughing loudly enough to echo through the nearly empty gym. “That is the most panicked response I’ve ever heard in my life.” George rubbed a hand across his face immediately. “I hate you.”

“No, seriously.” Lando looked genuinely fascinated now. “You look terrified.” Because he was. That was the problem. Terrified. Not of her. Of how much she mattered already. Dangerous realization. Before Lando could continue ruining his morning further, George walked past him toward the exit. Fast.

“George!” He kept walking. “You’re literally proving my point!” Unfortunately: Lando was right. Again. By the time George arrived at the paddock later that morning, exhaustion had settled so deeply beneath his skin that even the bright Saudi sunlight felt aggressive. Mechanics crossed quickly between garages preparing for race day while journalists moved through interviews with coffees balanced in one hand and phones in the other. Normal.

Everything looked normal. George did not feel normal at all. And then he saw her. Of course. She stood beside Ferrari hospitality speaking quietly with Charles, notebook tucked beneath one arm while laughing softly at something he had said. George stopped walking immediately. And jealousy hit so violently it genuinely startled him. Sharp.

Instant. Possessive. Dangerous. Very dangerous. He stared too long. Again. Long enough that Charles noticed first. Which somehow made everything significantly worse. Charles glanced briefly between George and her before visible understanding crossed his expression almost immediately. Then, unbelievably, the bastard looked amused. Fantastic. George immediately looked away toward the Mercedes garage, jaw tightening sharply while irritation settled beneath his ribs hard enough to make breathing uncomfortable.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive over someone he wasn’t even with. And yet: the thought of her laughing like that with someone else still felt unbearable. “You look murderous.” George looked sideways immediately as Alex fell into step beside him near the garage entrance. “I’m fine.” Alex followed his line of sight automatically toward Ferrari hospitality.

Then immediately: “Oh.” George closed his eyes briefly. “Please don’t.” “You’re jealous.” “No.” Too fast again. Alex burst out laughing instantly. “Wow. That’s catastrophic.” George shoved both hands into the pockets of his jacket aggressively while mechanics continued moving around them. “I’m not jealous.” “You look like Charles personally offended your bloodline.”

Unfortunately: that was slightly accurate. George hated this. Very much. Alex studied him for another second before his amusement softened slightly around the edges. “You know this is serious now, right?” That sentence landed heavily beneath George’s ribs. Because yes. He did know. That was exactly the problem.

George looked away toward the garage again while exhaustion pressed painfully behind his eyes. “I can’t think properly lately.” Alex’s expression shifted slightly afterward. Less teasing now. More understanding. “That sounds terrifying for you.” George laughed quietly under his breath without humor. “You have no idea.”

The thing was: George had spent his entire adult life controlling himself carefully. Every interview. Every reaction. Every public appearance. He measured everything constantly because Formula One rewarded control and destroyed vulnerability. Except around her. Around her, things just… happened. Honesty slipped out accidentally. Attention became instinctive.

Need became impossible to hide. Dangerous. Very dangerous. By early afternoon, the situation had somehow become worse. Because now George couldn’t stop watching her. Not subtly anymore. His attention tracked her automatically through the paddock whether he meant to or not. Near the media center.

Outside Red Bull hospitality. Walking beside another journalist toward the grid preparations. Every single time: his chest tightened instinctively. This was bad. “You’re staring again.” George turned immediately at the sound of her voice beside him. She stood dangerously close near the side entrance of the Mercedes garage now, sunglasses pushed slightly into her hair while late afternoon sunlight reflected sharply across the paddock around them. George became painfully aware of how relieved he felt seeing her directly after hours of trying not to lose his mind.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You appeared out of nowhere,” he muttered. “That’s not an answer.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George looked at her properly then and immediately noticed something different in her expression too. Carefulness. Like she was trying very hard not to show too much around him anymore.

That hurt unexpectedly. “You’ve been avoiding me all day,” she observed softly. George almost laughed at the hypocrisy of that statement. “You were talking to Charles.” The second the words left his mouth, silence dropped heavily between them. Because— Oh no. Oh, that was bad.

Her eyebrows lifted slowly above her sunglasses. George realized what he’d just admitted exactly one second too late. Jealousy. Openly. Fantastic. “You were jealous,” she said quietly. George immediately looked away toward the paddock. “No.” Weak lie. Very weak lie. Judging by the expression hidden somewhere behind her sunglasses, she knew it too.

“That’s interesting.” “That’s humiliating.” A soft laugh escaped her immediately. Warm. Dangerously warm. George hated how much relief the sound gave him. “You know what the problem is?” he muttered quietly. “What?” George swallowed once before answering. “You’re all I think about lately.” Silence. Complete silence.

The sentence hung heavily between them beneath the bright paddock lights while noise and movement continued normally around them. George felt his own pulse hammer violently beneath his ribs because he genuinely had not intended to say that out loud. At all. But now it was there. Real. Irreversible. And judging by the way she stared at him afterward, she understood exactly how honest it was. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. George looked away first because suddenly vulnerability felt unbearable beneath full daylight and crowded paddock noise. “I probably shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “No,” she agreed softly. “Probably not.” The terrifying part? Neither of them sounded like they regretted it. Night settled differently over Jeddah after race day preparations ended.

The paddock lights reflected against polished concrete and glass hospitality walls while the circuit slowly emptied around them. Most journalists disappeared toward hotels already. Mechanics stayed longer inside garages preparing final race simulations. The entire atmosphere softened into something quieter after midnight, stripped of daytime performance and crowded interviews. George usually loved this part of race weekends. Now it terrified him slightly. Because lately, quiet always seemed to lead him back to her. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “You’re doing it again.” George looked up immediately from where he leaned against the outside railing near the upper hospitality terrace. She stood several feet away beneath soft overhead lights, jacket pulled loosely around her shoulders against the slight night breeze drifting through the circuit. “What?” “That thing where you disappear into your own head.” George exhaled softly through his nose before looking back out toward the illuminated track below them. “You make that sound dramatic.”

“It probably is.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. She stepped closer slowly afterward, stopping beside the railing near him while the city lights beyond the circuit shimmered faintly against the dark Saudi skyline. George became painfully aware of her presence immediately. Always immediate now. Dangerous. Neither of them spoke for several seconds afterward.

The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. That was the problem. It had become comfortable. And comfort with her felt significantly more dangerous than tension ever had. “You should probably sleep eventually,” she murmured quietly. George almost laughed. “You always say that when you’re worried.” The sentence left her visibly startled for half a second.

Only half a second. Still enough for George to notice. “You’re learning my patterns,” she said softly. “You say things repeatedly.” “So do you.” The answer settled warmly between them somehow, softer than most of their conversations used to be. George leaned slightly harder against the railing while warm night air drifted around them. The exhaustion from the last few days sat heavily inside his chest now, emotional more than physical.

Because everything lately seemed to revolve around one terrifying realization: he wanted her around constantly. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” she observed. George glanced sideways briefly. “That sounds accusatory.” “It sounds observant.” There it was again. Their thing. Observation disguised as conversation. George shook his head softly.

“You know what’s unfair?” “What?” “You’ve somehow become the only person I actually want to talk to after bad days.” The honesty startled both of them slightly. Again. George looked away immediately toward the circuit below because vulnerability had started slipping out around her so naturally now that he barely noticed it until afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Beside him, silence stretched for one long second. Then another. Finally, quietly: “That’s not unfair.” George looked back at her immediately. The softness in her expression nearly destroyed what remained of his composure tonight. Because she looked affected too. And somehow that was infinitely more dangerous than one-sided feelings would have been.

“You know this is a bad idea,” she murmured softly. There it was. The thing both of them had been avoiding saying clearly for days now. George swallowed once before answering. “I know.” Neither of them moved afterward. That was the problem. They knew this was dangerous.

Complicated. Probably catastrophic. And still: neither of them walked away. The realization settled heavily between them beneath the muted terrace lights while distant garage sounds echoed faintly below. George looked at her properly then. Another mistake. Because she was already looking at him too. And suddenly every tiny detail became impossible to ignore.

The exhaustion softening her features tonight. The way her fingers tightened slightly around the sleeve of her jacket when conversations became too emotionally honest. The fact she stood close enough now that he could feel warmth radiating from her whenever the breeze shifted. Dangerous observations. Very dangerous. “You keep doing that,” she said quietly. George’s voice came out lower than intended. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying to decide something.” The sentence hit directly beneath his ribs because unfortunately: she was right again. George was trying to decide something. Specifically: how much damage this would cause if he stopped resisting it entirely. The terrifying part? He wasn’t sure he cared anymore. “You know what changed?” he asked softly after a second. Her eyes stayed fixed steadily on his.

“What?” George hesitated briefly before answering honestly. “I stopped wanting to leave first.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because they both understood exactly what he meant. At the beginning: they escaped conversations constantly. Pulled away. Avoided honesty. Now? George looked for reasons to stay longer. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

The night air shifted softly around them while the city lights below the terrace blurred faintly beyond the circuit barriers. George became painfully aware of how close they stood now compared to when she first arrived. Too close. Nowhere near close enough. Dangerous thought. “You’re thinking too much again,” she murmured. “No.” George held her gaze carefully. “That’s the problem.”

For one second, neither of them breathed normally afterward. The tension between them had changed completely now. Not only emotional anymore. Not only attraction either. Something heavier. More terrifying. Like inevitability. “You know if we do this,” George said quietly, “it changes everything.” The sentence settled into the warm night air between them immediately.

Because neither of them needed clarification anymore. This. Not conversations. Not flirting. Not emotional attachment. Them. Her expression softened slightly afterward, though something nervous flickered beneath it too. “I know.” Still: she didn’t move away. Neither did he. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George’s pulse hammered violently beneath his ribs now because suddenly the distance between them felt unbearable.

One step. Barely that. He became hyperaware of every tiny movement she made. The way her breathing slowed slightly whenever silence stretched too long. The way her eyes kept dropping briefly toward his mouth before lifting back again. And suddenly: breathing felt complicated. “You should probably stop looking at me like that,” she whispered softly. George swallowed once.

“Like what?” For one second, her composure cracked visibly. “You know exactly like what.” That nearly destroyed him. Because yes. He did know. The realization settled heavily through his chest while neither of them moved beneath the muted terrace lights. George’s hand shifted slightly against the railing beside hers before stopping halfway.

Not touching. Almost. The air between them tightened instantly afterward. Both of them noticed. Of course they did. And suddenly the entire world narrowed into: her breathing, her eyes, the impossible closeness between them. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “If we do this,” George repeated softly, “there’s no pretending afterward.”

The vulnerability in the sentence startled him slightly. Because beneath all the tension and attraction, that was the real fear, wasn’t it? Not media. Not paddock gossip. Not public image. It was this becoming real enough to lose. Her gaze softened immediately afterward. “You already stopped pretending.”

The sentence hit directly beneath his ribs. Again. George stepped closer before he fully processed the decision. Another mistake. Now she stood close enough that if either of them moved slightly— that would be it. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked away. And slowly, unbearably slowly, George leaned forward slightly.

Her breath caught immediately. So did his. This was it. This was finally it. The space between them disappeared inch by inch while the terrace lights blurred somewhere behind her and George’s entire nervous system stopped functioning correctly. Three inches. Two. One. Then— A radio crackled loudly somewhere behind them from the lower paddock level.

Both of them froze instantly. Reality crashed back violently afterward. George stopped moving immediately, breathing uneven now while panic and frustration collided sharply beneath his ribs. He looked away first, one hand gripping the railing harder than necessary while his pulse hammered painfully through his chest. Because he had almost kissed her. And worse: he had wanted to. Badly. Silence stretched heavily between them afterward.

Neither of them stepped back fully. Still dangerous. Still impossible. Finally, quietly: “We should probably stop doing this.” George laughed softly under his breath without humor. The terrifying part was: he already knew they wouldn’t. George tried to regain control after the terrace. He failed immediately.

That was the problem. The almost-kiss replayed constantly through the rest of the night like his brain had decided to torture him personally. The way she looked at him beneath the muted lights. The way her breathing changed when he leaned closer. The terrifying realization that if the radio hadn’t interrupted them— He would have kissed her. Without hesitation. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. And worse? Part of him still regretted stopping. George slept even less than the previous night after that. By Sunday morning, exhaustion sat so deeply beneath his skin that even coffee barely touched it. The Jeddah paddock already buzzed with race-day tension while engineers crossed quickly between garages carrying strategy sheets and tire projections beneath the harsh Saudi sunlight. Everything looked normal. George felt completely unstable.

“You look horrible.” George glanced sideways immediately as Alex fell into step beside him near the Mercedes hospitality entrance. “Good morning to you too.” “That wasn’t criticism.” Alex studied him carefully. “You genuinely look emotionally unwell.” Fantastic. George rubbed a hand briefly against the back of his neck while continuing toward the garage. “I’m tired.”

“Sure.” The sarcasm landed immediately. Alex followed his line of sight automatically across the paddock. Toward her. Of course. She stood near the media center entrance speaking with another journalist while scrolling distractedly through her phone. George noticed her instantly despite the crowd moving around her. And immediately: his chest tightened.

Again. Constantly now. Alex looked back at him slowly. “Oh, this is catastrophic.” George exhaled sharply through his nose. “Please stop talking.” “You’re gone.” “No.” Too quick. Too defensive. Alex laughed softly under his breath. “You literally tracked her through a crowd in under two seconds.”

Unfortunately: that was accurate. George hated how impossible hiding this had become lately. Everyone noticed now. Drivers. Engineers. Journalists. Probably the entire paddock at this point. Because every time she appeared somewhere nearby, his attention shifted automatically toward her before he even realized it. Instinct.

Dangerous instinct. By midday, the situation somehow became worse. Because now she was avoiding looking at him too. Subtle enough that nobody else would notice. George noticed immediately. Of course he did. Every time they crossed paths through the paddock: shorter eye contact more distance

careful professionalism conversations avoided And suddenly the aftermath of last night settled painfully beneath his ribs. Because she was scared too now. Dangerous realization. “You’re distracted again.” George blinked once before realizing Toto was still speaking beside him near the engineering monitors. Right. Focus. The race.

Not her. Impossible. “Sorry.” Toto studied him briefly before continuing the strategy discussion, though his expression clearly said he noticed something was off. Everyone noticed. Because George was unraveling in real time. The worst part? He couldn’t even blame her for it anymore. Not really.

Because this wasn’t only attraction now. It was dependence. The realization terrified him. George lasted until late afternoon before finally breaking completely. The race itself had been frustrating enough already. Tire degradation issues. Traffic. Missed opportunities. By the time post-race interviews ended, emotional exhaustion sat unbearably heavy beneath his ribs while adrenaline faded from his system.

And all he wanted— again— was her. Dangerous. Very dangerous. He found her near the far side of the paddock after sunset where transport trucks lined the outer pathways beneath harsh floodlights. Quieter here. Away from cameras. Away from the media center chaos still lingering after the race. She stood alone beside one of the barriers scrolling through something on her phone when George approached.

She noticed immediately. Of course she did. For one second, neither of them spoke. Then softly: “You look exhausted.” George almost laughed at the familiarity of the sentence. “You say that every time you’re worried.” Her expression shifted slightly afterward. Smaller. Softer. Dangerous. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured quietly.

“That sounds hypocritical.” “It’s observational.” “That’s my line.” A faint smile crossed her face despite herself. The sight nearly ruined him emotionally. Because suddenly George realized how badly he’d missed even that tiny reaction from her today. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. Silence stretched softly between them afterward while floodlights reflected against the polished paddock pavement around them.

George became painfully aware of how much tension still lingered between them from the terrace last night. Unfinished tension. Worse somehow. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly. Her eyes lifted immediately toward his. “You almost kissed me.” There it was. Direct honesty again. Always honesty.

George looked away briefly toward the transport trucks because suddenly breathing felt complicated. “I know.” “And now you’re panicking.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs because— again— she was right. George laughed quietly under his breath without humor. “You make everything sound simple.” “No.” Her voice softened slightly. “I make everything sound real.”

That hit hard enough that he actually closed his eyes briefly. Because reality was exactly the problem. This was real now. Not flirtation. Not tension. Not emotional confusion. Real. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what scares me?” she asked quietly after a second. George opened his eyes again slowly.

“What?” For one moment, she hesitated. Then: “That eventually you’re going to realize this is too much and disappear.” The vulnerability in the sentence nearly knocked the air out of him. Because suddenly he understood: she wasn’t only afraid of wanting him. She was afraid of losing him too. Dangerous realization.

George stepped closer before fully thinking it through. Another mistake. Now she stood close enough that he could see every tiny shift in her expression beneath the floodlights overhead. The exhaustion around her eyes. The tension hidden beneath her calm voice. And suddenly all he wanted was to stop that look from existing entirely. Terrifying. “This is going to hurt,” she whispered softly.

The sentence settled heavily between them. Not dramatic. Honest. Because they both knew she was right. This— whatever this had become— could not end cleanly anymore. George held her gaze steadily for one unbearable second before answering quietly: “It already does.” Silence. Heavy silence. The confession lingered painfully in the air between them while distant paddock noise echoed somewhere beyond the transport trucks.

Because there it was. The truth. Wanting her already hurt. Missing her hurt. Distance hurt. Almost kissing her hurt. Everything hurt now. And somehow George still couldn’t walk away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. She looked at him differently after that. Softer. Sadder. Like she understood exactly how deep this had already gone for both of them.

George swallowed once before speaking again, voice lower now. “You know what the worst part is?” Her eyes stayed fixed on his. “What?” George hesitated briefly. Then finally: “You already ruined me.” The sentence shattered something fragile between them instantly. Because neither of them could pretend this was temporary anymore after that.

Her breath caught softly. George noticed immediately. Of course he did. And suddenly the space between them became unbearable again. Too close. Nowhere near close enough. Dangerous. Very dangerous. He stepped closer instinctively. This time: she didn’t move away. Their breathing shifted unevenly in the quiet space between the transport trucks while floodlights cast long shadows across the empty paddock pavement around them.

One step. Barely that. George could feel warmth radiating from her now. Could see the way her eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth before lifting back again. And suddenly the almost-kiss from last night felt impossible to survive twice. “You should stop looking at me like that,” she whispered softly. George’s voice came out rougher than intended. “I don’t know how anymore.”

The honesty nearly destroyed both of them. Because finally: nothing remained hidden. George leaned forward slightly. So did she. And for one terrifying second, the entire world narrowed into: her breathing, her eyes, the impossible tension between them. Then— Fear hit. Real fear. Not of attraction.

Not of consequences. Of how much this already mattered. George stopped moving immediately afterward, chest tightening painfully while panic and want collided violently beneath his ribs. Because if he kissed her now— There would be no surviving this emotionally afterward. She noticed the hesitation instantly. Of course she did. And somehow that hurt worse.

Neither of them stepped back fully. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them became almost unbearable beneath the harsh white floodlights overhead. Finally, quietly: “We’re already screwed, aren’t we?” George laughed softly under his breath without humor. The terrifying part? He thought they probably were.

George couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he almost kissed her. That was the problem now. Not the tension. Not the attraction. Not even the emotional attachment slowly ruining his ability to function normally through race weekends. The problem was: he knew exactly how it would have felt. Because for one terrifying second beneath those floodlights near the transport trucks, the distance between them had practically disappeared. He still remembered the way her breathing changed when he leaned closer.

The way her eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth before lifting back again. And worse: the way she didn’t move away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. By Monday morning, George felt emotionally destroyed. The paddock looked quieter after the race, mechanics already dismantling parts of the garages while transport crates lined the outer pathways beneath pale morning sunlight. Usually after difficult weekends, George focused entirely on recovery. Data review.

Fitness. Resetting mentally before the next race. Today, his brain refused to focus on anything except her. Again. Always her. “You look terrifyingly exhausted.” George looked sideways immediately as Alex stepped beside him outside Mercedes hospitality holding two coffees. “That sounds dramatic.” “You stared at a wall for like thirty seconds.”

George accepted one of the coffees automatically. “Maybe the wall was interesting.” Alex snorted softly. “Sure.” Unfortunately, George barely heard the rest of the conversation because movement across the paddock instantly pulled his attention elsewhere. Her. Of course. She crossed between the hospitality units with sunglasses resting on top of her head and a laptop tucked against one arm while speaking distractedly into her phone.

George noticed her immediately. Worse: his body reacted before his brain did. Relief. Again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Alex followed his line of sight automatically before sighing dramatically. “Oh, you’re completely done for.” George looked away immediately. “I’m literally standing here.” “You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately: he did. That was the problem. Because at some point over the last two race weekends, wanting her attention had stopped feeling optional. Now it sat somewhere instinctive beneath his ribs, automatic enough that he noticed her absence before anything else around him. Terrifying realization. “She’s coming over here,” Alex announced casually. George’s pulse shifted instantly. Fantastic.

“You’re reacting physically now,” Alex added with visible fascination. “I hate you.” “No, seriously.” Alex looked genuinely entertained. “That was insane.” Before George could answer, she reached them. And immediately everything else around him blurred slightly into background noise. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “Morning,” she said softly.

George became painfully aware of how different her voice sounded now after the almost-kiss. More intimate somehow. Or maybe that was just him losing his mind completely. “Morning,” he answered quietly. Alex looked between them once. Then immediately: “Oh my God.” George closed his eyes briefly. “Please leave.”

“I absolutely should.” But before walking away, Alex pointed subtly between them. “You two are getting really bad at hiding this.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because nobody even tried denying it anymore. Alex looked delighted by that realization before disappearing toward the Mercedes garage with both coffees still in hand. Traitor.

George looked back at her afterward and instantly noticed the faint tension hidden beneath her calm expression too. Like she’d become hyperaware of him lately in exactly the same dangerous way he had become hyperaware of her. The realization settled warm beneath his ribs. Terrifyingly warm. “You look tired,” she murmured quietly. George almost laughed. “You always say that when you’re worried.” A soft flicker crossed her expression immediately.

“You’ve started noticing that.” “There are a lot of things I notice about you lately.” The honesty slipped out accidentally. Again. George realized what he’d admitted exactly one second too late. Because now she was staring at him too. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Around them, the paddock buzzed quietly with post-race movement while engineers crossed between transport trucks carrying equipment cases.

Yet somehow the conversation between them still felt isolated from everything else, like the world narrowed automatically whenever they looked at each other too long now. “You’re doing it again,” she said softly. George frowned slightly. “Doing what?” “Looking at me like you forgot there are other people around.” That nearly made him laugh despite himself because— unfortunately— she was right. Again. George rubbed briefly at the back of his neck while trying very hard not to stare even more obviously now that she’d pointed it out.

It didn’t work particularly well. Because suddenly she smiled slightly. Small. Soft. Real. And George’s entire nervous system stopped functioning correctly again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s unfair?” he muttered quietly. “What?” “You make it impossible to think normally.” Her expression softened immediately afterward.

Not teasing anymore. Something gentler. “That sounds dangerous.” “It is.” The answer came instantly. Too honestly. Silence settled softly between them afterward while sunlight reflected harshly across the paddock pavement nearby. George became painfully aware of how naturally close they stood now. Not touching. Almost touching.

That somehow felt worse. Because after the almost-kiss, every inch of distance between them suddenly carried tension. “You know,” she said quietly after a second, “you used to pull away first.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs. Because she was right. At the beginning: George escaped conversations constantly. Changed subjects. Left first.

Rebuilt distance. Now? Now he looked for excuses to stay. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. George glanced briefly toward the busy paddock around them before lowering his voice slightly. “I don’t think I know how to anymore.” The vulnerability in the sentence startled both of them slightly.

Again. Her gaze softened immediately afterward, and suddenly George realized how exhausted she looked too beneath the sunglasses pushed into her hair. Emotional exhaustion. The same kind currently destroying him. Because this wasn’t simple for either of them anymore. Not even close. “You should probably stop looking at me like that,” she whispered softly. George’s chest tightened immediately.

“Like what?” For one second, she hesitated. Then quietly: “Like I’m already yours.” The sentence nearly stopped his heart. Because suddenly every terrifying thing he’d been trying not to admit crashed violently into focus all at once. The jealousy. The attachment. The instinctive need for her attention.

The unbearable relief whenever she appeared beside him. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George stared at her beneath the bright paddock sunlight while noise and movement continued around them completely unnoticed. And before he could stop himself— his hand moved. Instinctively. Lightly. Just enough for his fingers to brush against the inside of her wrist.

Tiny contact. Barely anything. Yet the second it happened, both of them stopped breathing normally. George realized what he’d done exactly one second too late. But he didn’t pull away. That was the terrifying part. He didn’t want to. Her eyes dropped briefly toward where his fingers still rested against her wrist.

Then lifted back slowly toward his. Silence. Heavy silence. Because suddenly the physical line between them had started disappearing too. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’re not letting go anymore,” she whispered softly. George opened his mouth immediately. Then stopped. Because there was no believable denial left now.

Not after this. Not after the almost-kiss. Not after the way his body kept reaching for her before he could think. And judging by the way she watched him now, she knew it too. The realization terrified him. Because for the first time in his life, wanting someone had stopped feeling controlled. Now it felt instinctive. The problem with almost kissing someone was that afterward, every interaction became unbearable.

George realized that approximately six minutes after touching her wrist in the middle of the paddock and watching her stop breathing normally because of it. Dangerous. Very dangerous. He had touched people before. Obviously. Casual paddock contact happened constantly in Formula One. Hands on shoulders. Brief hugs after races.

Passing touches in crowded garages. None of those moments had ever felt like this. Because this— this tiny brush of his fingers against her skin— had nearly destroyed his ability to think. And judging by the way she looked at him afterward, it had affected her too. Which somehow made everything infinitely worse. “You should probably stop doing that,” she whispered softly. George’s voice came out lower than intended. “Doing what?”

For one second, she just stared at him. Then quietly: “Acting like touching me is instinct now.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs because— again— she was right. George pulled his hand back slowly afterward, though not because he wanted to. That was the terrifying part. He wanted to touch her again immediately. Dangerous realization.

Very dangerous. Around them, the paddock noise slowly returned into focus. Mechanics rolling transport cases. Journalists crossing between hospitality units. Somebody laughing loudly near Red Bull’s side of the paddock. Reality. Unfortunately. George swallowed once before stepping slightly backward, forcing distance back between them before he completely lost what remained of his self-control in broad daylight.

Probably smart. Emotionally painful. “You’re thinking too much again,” she murmured softly. “No.” George held her gaze carefully. “That’s the problem.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because they both understood exactly what he meant now. Thinking was no longer helping. Nothing was helping anymore. They should probably stop this.

Pull away. Rebuild distance. Except neither of them actually wanted to. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You have interviews?” she asked quietly after a second. George almost laughed at the abrupt attempt to sound normal again. “Probably.” “That sounds enthusiastic.” “I’m trying very hard to focus on literally anything else right now.”

The honesty slipped out accidentally. Again. Her expression softened immediately afterward, and suddenly George became painfully aware of how impossible professionalism felt around her lately. At the beginning, they could still pretend this was manageable. Now? Now standing too close to her made breathing complicated. “This is getting bad,” she whispered softly. George looked at her properly then.

Late morning sunlight reflected against the glass hospitality walls behind her while the paddock buzzed quietly around them. Yet somehow she still looked like the only thing his attention could properly focus on anymore. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “I think we passed bad a while ago,” he admitted quietly. The vulnerability in the sentence settled heavily between them. Because it was true. They crossed emotional lines weeks ago.

Now the physical ones were disappearing too. And neither of them knew how to stop it anymore. A voice suddenly echoed from farther down the paddock. “Russell!” George looked away automatically toward the source. One of the Mercedes PR assistants waved from near the garage entrance. Right. Reality again.

He exhaled softly through his nose before glancing back toward her. “I should go.” The problem was: he didn’t move. Neither did she. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s terrifying?” she asked quietly. George’s chest tightened immediately. “What?” For one second, she hesitated. Then: “I don’t think we’re even trying to stop this anymore.”

That nearly ruined him emotionally. Because she was right. Again. At some point: the resistance became weaker the distance disappeared the wanting stopped being avoidable And now George genuinely didn’t know whether he still wanted control back. Terrifying realization. The PR assistant called his name again from the garage.

Louder this time. George ignored it. Her eyes widened slightly at that. “You’re skipping Mercedes for me now?” “That sounds manipulative when you say it like that.” “That’s because it’s true.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George laughed softly under his breath before finally stepping away from her slowly.

“You’re impossible.” “And you’re staring again.” The terrifying part? He didn’t even try denying it anymore. Because she looked beautiful beneath the paddock sunlight. Because touching her had rewired something in his brain permanently. Because every instinct in him already wanted to find her again later tonight. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “I’ll see you later,” he heard himself say. Not maybe. Not if. Not accidental. Certain. The realization visibly affected her too. Small. Still enough. George turned away before he could say something even more dangerous and forced himself back toward the Mercedes garage beneath the bright paddock sunlight.

The problem was: now he could still feel the warmth of her skin against his fingers. And it was driving him completely insane. The paddock changed after sunset. Jeddah always looked unreal at night, the entire circuit glowing beneath white floodlights while reflections stretched across polished garage floors and empty pathways between the hospitality units. Race weekends softened after midnight. Less performance. Less noise. More honesty.

Which was probably why George found himself looking for her again almost immediately after finishing the final Mercedes debrief. Dangerous instinct. Very dangerous. “You’re smiling at your phone.” George looked up sharply from where he sat near the back of the garage. Alex stood beside the telemetry screens looking deeply disturbed already. “I’m not smiling.” “You absolutely are.”

George locked his phone immediately. “You imagined that.” Alex narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “That’s horrifying.” “What is?” “You look happy.” George stared at him flatly. Alex looked genuinely emotional. “I didn’t think you could do that naturally.” “Please leave.” Alex laughed loudly before walking backward toward the garage exit.

“Go find your journalist,” he announced cheerfully. The worst part? George immediately stood up afterward. Catastrophic. He found her on the upper hospitality terrace again. Of course. Soft night air drifted through the open space while the city lights beyond the circuit blurred against the dark sky. She leaned lightly against the railing overlooking the track below, phone abandoned beside her on the table nearby.

And the second she looked up and saw him— There it was again. That unbearable shift in his chest. Relief. Warmth. Need. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You came back,” she said softly. George stepped closer slowly. “You sound surprised.” “I’m trying not to assume things lately.”

“That’s probably smart.” Neither of them mentioned the fact he’d literally said: “I’ll see you later.” Because they both remembered. And somehow that made the silence between them feel even more intimate. George stopped beside her near the railing while warm wind moved softly through the terrace around them. The city lights reflected faintly across her face beneath the muted overhead lighting. Dangerous view. Very dangerous.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then quietly: “We keep almost doing this.” The sentence settled heavily between them. George looked at her immediately. “I know.” The honesty felt almost painful now. No hiding left. No pretending. Just truth. The terrifying part? Neither of them sounded regretful anymore.

They should have. Probably. Instead, the tension between them only deepened. George became painfully aware of how close they stood again. Not touching. Almost touching. Always almost. “You know what the problem is?” he murmured softly. “With us?” The word us still did dangerous things to his nervous system.

George exhaled slowly through his nose. “Every time I leave now, I immediately want to come back.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because there it was again. Need. Not attraction alone. Not curiosity. Need. Her gaze softened immediately afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You should probably stop looking at me like that,” she whispered softly.

George’s pulse shifted instantly. “Like what?” For one second, she hesitated. Then quietly: “Like you already know what kissing me would feel like.” That nearly destroyed him. Because unfortunately: he had imagined it already. Far too many times. George stepped closer before fully deciding to.

Another mistake. Now there was barely space left between them at all. Her breathing shifted unevenly immediately afterward, and George felt his own heartbeat hammer violently beneath his ribs while the terrace lights blurred somewhere behind her. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You should stop me,” she whispered softly. George stared at her for one unbearable second. Then quietly:

“Then stop me.” And suddenly— neither of them moved away anymore. Neither of them moved. That was the problem. George could hear his own pulse now beneath the muted terrace silence while warm Jeddah wind drifted softly around them. The distance between them had practically disappeared, close enough that he could feel her breathing every time it changed. And it kept changing. Uneven now.

Just like his. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You should stop me.” “Then stop me.” The words still hung heavily between them because neither of them had actually listened to their own advice. George stared at her beneath the soft terrace lights for one unbearable second longer, trying very hard to remember how rational thought worked. It wasn’t going well.

Because she looked at him exactly the same way he’d been trying not to look at her for weeks now. Wanting. Openly. Terrifyingly openly. And suddenly the last fragile thread of restraint between them snapped quietly in half. She kissed him first. Barely. Just enough that George stopped breathing entirely.

Soft contact. Tentative. Careful. And somehow that nearly destroyed him more than anything else so far. Because the second her lips touched his, relief crashed through him so violently it almost hurt. Like his entire body had been waiting for this without his permission. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

George kissed her back immediately. Not hesitant anymore. Not careful either. One hand moved instinctively toward her waist while the other tightened slightly against the terrace railing beside her, grounding himself before he completely lost balance emotionally. Too late, probably. Because the kiss already felt devastating. Not rushed. Not messy.

Not even particularly physical at first. Just honest. Painfully honest. Every sleepless night. Every almost-confession. Every moment spent looking for her in crowded paddocks. All of it sat inside the kiss somehow. And George realized immediately: he was completely fucked. Her fingers tightened lightly against the front of his jacket while she kissed him back softly, slowly, like neither of them quite knew what to do with the fact this was finally real now.

The terrifying part? It felt natural. Like they crossed this line emotionally a long time ago and their bodies were only catching up now. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. George leaned closer instinctively, and she made the quietest sound against his mouth immediately afterward. That nearly killed him. Because suddenly the kiss stopped feeling careful.

Now it felt needed. Weeks of tension and restraint cracked open all at once beneath the soft terrace lights while warm night air moved around them unnoticed. George’s hand tightened slightly at her waist, pulling her closer before he could think better of it. Not enough. Never enough. The thought terrified him instantly. He kissed her again before the panic could fully settle in. And this time, she kissed him back harder.

Not aggressive. Not desperate. Just— certain. Like she’d stopped fighting this too. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George felt his composure completely disappear somewhere around the moment her hand slid briefly into his hair. That was it. Finished. Emotionally catastrophic. Because suddenly every instinct in him wanted more.

Closer. Longer. Forever. Terrifying realization. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Couldn’t, maybe. George rested his forehead lightly against hers while both of them tried unsuccessfully to breathe normally again beneath the terrace lights. Silence settled softly between them afterward. Not awkward.

Shocked. Because everything had changed now. Actually changed. “This was a terrible idea,” George whispered hoarsely. He felt her smile slightly before she answered. “Probably.” The problem was: neither of them sounded regretful. Not even a little. George closed his eyes briefly while keeping his forehead against hers because suddenly exhaustion, relief and panic tangled together painfully beneath his ribs.

He kissed her. Finally. And somehow that felt both inevitable and completely life-ruining at the exact same time. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s bad?” he murmured quietly after a second. Her voice stayed soft. “What?” George let out a quiet breath against her skin.

“I’ve wanted to do that for an embarrassing amount of time.” A soft laugh escaped her immediately, warm enough to settle directly into his chest. “You were terrible at hiding it.” “That’s humiliating.” “You stared at me like you were emotionally suffering.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George finally pulled back just enough to look at her properly again.

Another mistake. Because now that he’d kissed her, looking at her somehow felt worse. More intimate. More dangerous. Like his brain had finally stopped pretending this wasn’t real. Her lips were slightly swollen from kissing him. George’s pulse immediately lost stability again. Catastrophic. “You’re staring again,” she whispered softly.

George almost laughed. “I think that’s just permanent now.” The honesty in the sentence settled warmly between them. And terrifyingly enough: it was true. He couldn’t imagine looking away from her anymore. The realization hit hard enough that silence stretched quietly afterward while the city lights shimmered beyond the circuit below them. Then reality returned suddenly. Paddock.

Media. Mercedes. The entire world waiting downstairs. George felt it immediately in the slight shift of her expression too. The fear underneath the relief. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “We should probably talk about how catastrophic this is,” she murmured softly. George let out a tired laugh under his breath.

“I’d rather kiss you again.” That visibly affected her. Small. Still enough. And suddenly George realized something terrifying: making her react like that felt addictive already. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. “You know what the problem is?” she asked quietly. George’s hand still rested against her waist.

He hadn’t noticed until now. He also had absolutely no intention of moving it. “What?” “For weeks, I kept thinking eventually you’d panic and run.” The vulnerability in the sentence tightened painfully through his chest immediately. Because she genuinely believed that. And honestly? So had he.

George looked at her quietly for one long second before answering honestly. “I tried.” The confession settled heavily between them. Because it was true. He tried to pull away. Tried to avoid her. Tried to regain control. And every single time, he came back anyway.

Her expression softened completely afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George brushed his thumb lightly against her waist without thinking. Instinct again. Everything around her had become instinct lately. “You know what’s terrifying?” he murmured softly. “What?” George swallowed once before answering. “When something happens now…” He hesitated briefly.

“You’re the first person I want to find.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because there it was again. Another confession. And somehow they just kept happening now, like kissing each other finally destroyed whatever barriers still existed between them emotionally. Her hand slid slowly from his jacket toward his wrist, fingers resting there lightly. Warm.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “I think you already became the first person I look for too,” she admitted quietly. That nearly ruined him emotionally all over again. Because suddenly this wasn’t only about attraction or tension anymore. It was attachment. Real attachment. Terrifying. Neither of them spoke for several seconds afterward.

They just stood there beneath the terrace lights, close enough that distance itself felt wrong now. George understood something horrifyingly clearly in that moment: He didn’t want to go back to before this. Not even slightly. “We should probably leave eventually,” she whispered softly. George looked at her quietly. “I know.” Neither of them moved.

Of course not. Finally, after another long silence, she smiled faintly and asked the question both of them had been avoiding since the kiss. “So what happens now?” George exhaled slowly through his nose while looking at her beneath the warm terrace lights. Then quietly: “I think we crossed the line a long time ago.” And for the first time since meeting her, George stopped trying to convince himself to walk away. George woke up smiling.

That was deeply alarming. For several long seconds, he stayed motionless in the dark hotel room staring at the ceiling while early morning light slipped faintly through the curtains overlooking Jeddah. His brain still felt heavy with exhaustion after another terrible night of sleep, except this time the exhaustion sat softer somehow. Because all he could think about was kissing her. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George closed his eyes briefly and immediately remembered the exact feeling of her lips against his again. The warmth of her hands gripping his jacket.

The way she sounded breathless afterward beneath the terrace lights while both of them tried unsuccessfully to act like their entire emotional stability hadn’t just collapsed completely. And suddenly— there it was again. That stupid smile. “Oh, this is catastrophic,” he muttered quietly to himself. Because the terrifying part wasn’t the kiss anymore. The terrifying part was how right it felt. George rolled onto his back again with one arm thrown across his eyes while memories from last night replayed endlessly behind them. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

“I did.” The honesty still shocked him slightly. Not because it wasn’t true. Because for the first time in his life, he hadn’t tried softening the truth before saying it. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. By the time George finally arrived at the paddock later that morning, the soft emotional calm from waking up had been replaced by nervous energy sitting painfully beneath his ribs. The Saudi paddock buzzed with its usual post-race chaos while mechanics dismantled sections of garages and journalists hurried between final interviews before departures.

Everything looked normal. George absolutely did not. “You’re smiling again.” George looked sharply sideways as Lando fell into step beside him near McLaren hospitality holding an iced coffee. “I’m not smiling.” “You literally looked happy walking through the paddock.” George immediately looked away. “That sounds fake.”

Lando stared at him in visible horror. “Oh my God.” “What?” “You kissed her.” Silence. Complete silence. George stopped walking immediately while Lando looked entirely too proud of himself. “You’re terrifyingly obvious.” George rubbed a hand across his face. “Please stop talking.” “That’s a yes!”

Unfortunately: George’s silence absolutely confirmed it. Lando made an actual emotional noise. “No way.” “Please,” George muttered flatly, “I’m already struggling.” That only made things worse. Lando burst out laughing loudly enough that two Ferrari mechanics nearby looked over briefly. “You’re admitting it now!” George shoved both hands into the pockets of his jacket aggressively while continuing toward the Mercedes garage.

“I hate every single person in this paddock.” “No, seriously.” Lando caught up beside him again. “You look different.” The sentence landed unexpectedly hard. Because George knew exactly what he meant. Calmer. Softer. Ruined. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You smiled at your phone this morning too, didn’t you?”

George looked horrified immediately. Lando pointed dramatically at his face. “That expression means yes.” Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Before the conversation could become even more humiliating, George spotted her near the media center entrance. And immediately forgot everything else around him. Of course. She stood beside one of the photographers reviewing something on a camera screen while sunlight reflected brightly across the paddock around her.

George noticed instantly that she looked tired too. But happy. The realization settled warm beneath his ribs before he could stop it. Dangerous. Very dangerous. She looked up. Their eyes met across the paddock. And suddenly George understood something terrifying: he could actually see the moment she relaxed after spotting him too.

The emotional impact nearly destroyed him. Because now it wasn’t only instinctive for him anymore. It was mutual. Lando looked between them once before sighing dramatically. “You two are disgusting now.” George barely heard him. Because she was already walking toward him. And somehow that still felt unbelievable.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “Morning,” she said softly once she reached him. George became painfully aware of how intimate even simple greetings felt now after the kiss. “Morning.” The word came out quieter than intended. Warmer too. Lando physically recoiled beside them. “Oh my God.” Neither of them acknowledged him.

That visibly offended him. “You’re both impossible,” he announced before finally leaving toward McLaren hospitality with visible emotional trauma. George barely watched him go. Because she was looking at him differently now. Not cautiously anymore. Not uncertain. Just— openly. And that was infinitely more dangerous.

“You look tired,” she murmured quietly. George almost laughed. “You always say that.” “Yes,” she replied softly, “but now I’m allowed to care openly.” The sentence nearly stopped his heart. Because somehow that tiny shift changed everything. Allowed. No pretending anymore. No half-truths. No emotional detours.

Just honesty. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George looked away briefly toward the garages because suddenly the affection hidden inside her voice felt overwhelming beneath full daylight and crowded paddock noise. “You can’t say things like that this early in the morning,” he muttered quietly. A small smile appeared instantly against her mouth. “Why?” “Because I already can’t think properly around you.”

The honesty slipped out automatically again. At this point, George wasn’t even trying to stop it anymore. Her expression softened immediately afterward, and suddenly he became painfully aware of how natural standing close to her had started feeling. Like his body already assumed she belonged near him now. Terrifying realization. “You’re staring again,” she whispered softly. George held her gaze this time instead of looking away immediately. “Probably permanent now.”

That visibly affected her. Small. Still enough. And suddenly George realized something horrifying: he liked making her react like that. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Around them, the paddock noise faded slightly beneath the weight of the moment stretching quietly between them. Journalists crossed between hospitality units.

Mechanics rolled equipment cases toward the transport trucks. Neither of them paid attention anymore. Because George couldn’t stop looking at her. Not after last night. Not after finally kissing her and realizing it felt exactly like something he’d been missing for weeks. “You kissed me like you meant it,” she said softly. Silence. Heavy silence.

Because they both remembered exactly how it felt. George stepped slightly closer before answering quietly: “I did.” No hesitation. No joke. No avoidance. No fear hidden behind sarcasm. Just truth. And somehow that honesty hit harder than the kiss itself. Her breathing shifted unevenly immediately afterward while the bright paddock sunlight reflected against her sunglasses resting in her hair.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. George reached up before fully thinking about it. Another mistake. His fingers brushed softly against a loose strand of hair near her face before tucking it gently behind her ear. Tiny gesture. Barely anything. Yet the second it happened, both of them went completely still.

Because this felt different from the tension before. Softer. Instinctive. Real. George’s chest tightened painfully beneath the realization. He touched her now without thinking. Like closeness had already become natural. Terrifying. She stared at him silently afterward, and suddenly George became painfully aware of how exposed he’d become around her.

No walls left. No performance left. Just him. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what scares me?” he asked quietly after a second. Her eyes stayed fixed steadily on his. “What?” George swallowed once before answering honestly. “That none of this feels temporary anymore.” The vulnerability in the sentence settled heavily between them.

Because there it was again: the truth. This wasn’t casual. Wasn’t temporary. Wasn’t something he could walk away from cleanly anymore. And terrifyingly enough— he didn’t want to. For one long second, neither of them moved beneath the bright Jeddah sunlight while the entire paddock continued around them unnoticed. Then softly: “Good,” she whispered.

And somehow that single word ruined him emotionally all over again. The first problem appeared less than two hours after sunrise. The second problem was that George immediately wanted to fix it. Which, apparently, had become a dangerous habit lately. Jeddah’s paddock looked brighter on departure day, the tension of race weekend slowly dissolving into organized chaos while teams dismantled garages beneath the harsh Saudi heat. Equipment crates rolled across the pathways. Engineers disappeared into final debrief meetings. Journalists rushed to finish articles before flights.

And somehow, despite all of that movement, George still noticed the exact second her expression changed. Dangerous. Very dangerous. He spotted her near the media center entrance speaking with another journalist while scrolling through her phone. At first she looked normal. Focused. Calm. Then something shifted.

Small. Still enough. Her posture tightened slightly. The relaxed softness from this morning disappeared. And immediately George started walking toward her before fully thinking about it. Instinct. Again. Catastrophic. “You’re doing it again.” George barely glanced sideways at Alex while crossing the paddock. “Doing what?”

“Looking like someone personally offended your emotional support journalist.” George ignored him completely. Unfortunately, Alex followed anyway. “You know,” Alex continued casually, “watching you become emotionally domesticated in real time is deeply disturbing.” George stopped abruptly near the media center entrance and looked at him flatly. “Please find another hobby.” Alex looked delighted. “You didn’t deny it.”

Before George could answer, her eyes lifted from the phone screen. And there it was again. That immediate shift. Relief. Warmth. The terrifying mutual kind now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Alex physically recoiled. “Oh, you’re both gone.” “Leave,” George muttered. “Gladly.” But before walking away, Alex looked briefly between them and added: “You two realize people are starting to talk, right?”

Silence. Heavy silence. Because yes. They did know. That was becoming the problem now. Alex disappeared toward the Mercedes garage afterward, leaving George alone with her beneath the bright paddock sunlight. For one second neither of them spoke. Then softly: “You look stressed.” George stepped closer automatically.

“You look worse.” That earned him the faintest tired smile. Dangerous. Because now George noticed things immediately: tension around her eyes the way she gripped her phone tighter the carefulness returning beneath her expression And suddenly the calm happiness from this morning shifted uneasily beneath his ribs.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. Her gaze flickered briefly toward the phone again before returning to him. “Nothing dramatic.” “That’s usually a lie.” “That’s usually your line.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George held out his hand slightly. “Show me.” For one second, she hesitated. Then handed him the phone.

The mistake became obvious immediately. Pictures. Not terrible ones. Not scandalous. Worse. Subtle ones. Them: standing too close looking at each other too softly George touching her wrist yesterday the terrace from a distance him looking at her like the rest of the paddock didn’t exist

The captions underneath varied between: “something is definitely happening” and “Russell finally losing his mind?” George’s jaw tightened instantly. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “This is nothing,” he said quietly after a second. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s your professional opinion?” “Yes.” “That’s concerning.” George handed the phone back carefully before glancing around the paddock automatically.

Journalists moved through the pathways normally. Mechanics carried equipment crates nearby. Nobody seemed openly focused on them. Still: he felt tension settle sharply through his chest anyway. Because suddenly this wasn’t private anymore. The paddock had started noticing properly. “You’re worried,” she observed softly. George looked back at her immediately.

“You’re not?” “I’m trying to think realistically.” “And?” Her expression shifted slightly. Smaller. More uncertain. “That this could become complicated for you very quickly.” The sentence irritated him instantly. Not because she was wrong. Because she sounded more worried about protecting him than herself. Dangerous realization.

George stepped slightly closer without thinking. “Why are you acting like this only affects me?” “Because you’re a Formula One driver, George.” “And you think that means I care more about headlines than—” He stopped himself immediately. Too late. Her eyes widened slightly. Because they both heard exactly what almost came out.

George exhaled sharply through his nose while dragging one hand briefly across his jaw. “That’s not what I meant.” “It kind of was.” Dangerous. Very dangerous. For several seconds, silence stretched between them beneath the bright paddock sunlight while movement continued around them unnoticed. Then softly: “You know what scares me?” she asked quietly.

George’s chest tightened immediately. “What?” “That eventually this becomes too much pressure and you regret…” She hesitated briefly. “Us.” The word us still did dangerous things to his nervous system. George stared at her for one long second. Then answered honestly: “I’m significantly more likely to punch a journalist than regret you.”

That startled a laugh out of her immediately. Warm. Real. Exactly what he wanted. Relief hit him embarrassingly fast afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You can’t threaten violence in the middle of the paddock,” she muttered through lingering amusement. “I said likely.” “That doesn’t help.” George almost smiled despite himself.

Almost. Then movement behind them caught his attention. Two journalists crossing the pathway nearby looked directly toward them before immediately lowering their voices. George noticed instantly. So did she. The atmosphere shifted again. Reality returning. Dangerous reality. “This is what I mean,” she murmured quietly.

George watched the journalists disappear farther down the paddock before looking back at her. And suddenly something protective settled heavily beneath his ribs. Not irritation. Not jealousy. Protection. Terrifying realization. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this alone,” he said quietly. Her expression softened immediately afterward.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You don’t have to protect me.” George answered without hesitation this time. “Yes, I do.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because neither of them expected how immediate the answer sounded. Or how true. The words settled between them while bright sunlight reflected sharply against the glass hospitality walls around the paddock.

George became painfully aware of the fact that he meant it instinctively. Protecting her felt natural already. Terrifying. Her gaze stayed fixed on him for one long second afterward. Then softly: “That’s a very boyfriend thing to say.” George’s pulse nearly stopped. Because technically: they still hadn’t defined anything.

And yet somehow the word didn’t feel wrong at all. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. “You make that sound terrifying,” he muttered quietly. “You look terrified.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George laughed softly under his breath before glancing briefly around the paddock again. More people were watching now.

Not openly. Still enough. The problem was: George no longer knew how to act normal around her. And apparently everyone else had started noticing that too. “Do you think they know?” she asked quietly. George frowned slightly. “Know what?” “That we kissed.” The memory hit instantly.

Terrace lights. Her hands in his jacket. Relief crashing through him the second she kissed him first. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George looked at her properly again and immediately forgot how to breathe normally. “They definitely know something changed,” he admitted quietly. Because it was obvious now.

They stood differently around each other. Looked at each other differently. Moved toward each other instinctively. No hiding left. And somehow that should have scared him more than it did. “You know what’s bad?” she whispered softly. “What?” “We probably look even worse when we’re alone.”

George nearly laughed. Because unfortunately: she was absolutely right. When they were alone now, all remaining self-control disappeared almost immediately. Dangerous. Very dangerous. A Mercedes PR assistant suddenly appeared near the garage entrance looking mildly panicked already. “There you are,” she said toward George. “Media wants clarification on rumors.”

George blinked once. “Already?” The PR assistant gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “You touched her wrist in the middle of the paddock like you were in a romance movie.” Silence. Then, horrifyingly: She was trying not to laugh. George looked at her flatly. “This is your fault somehow.”

“That’s not how causality works.” The PR assistant looked briefly between them before sighing dramatically. “You two are impossible.” Neither of them denied it. That seemed to emotionally damage her further. “I need a different job,” she muttered before walking back toward the Mercedes garage. George watched her leave before slowly looking back at the woman standing in front of him. And suddenly: they both started laughing.

Quietly at first. Then harder. Because the situation had officially become absurd. The paddock knew something. Mercedes knew something. The media definitely knew something. And somehow despite all of that— George still couldn’t regret kissing her even slightly. Not even close. la partie 3 The laughter disappeared faster than either of them expected.

That was the problem. The second the moment softened too much, reality returned immediately afterward. Rumors. Media. Mercedes. The paddock watching them constantly now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George followed her away from the crowded pathway near the media center after the PR assistant disappeared back toward the garage.

Neither of them spoke at first while they crossed between the transport trucks lining the quieter side of the paddock. The silence felt different now. Not uncertain anymore. Heavy. Because suddenly this wasn’t only about feelings. Now consequences existed too. The floodlights overhead flickered softly against the empty pathways while distant garage noises echoed through the warm evening air. Most teams had already started preparing departures after the race weekend.

The paddock slowly emptied around them. George became painfully aware of how naturally they still walked beside each other despite the tension settling heavier with every minute. Like separation itself had become unnatural now. Terrifying realization. “You’re quiet,” she murmured softly. George glanced sideways briefly. “I’m thinking.” “That sounds dangerous.”

“It probably is.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. For several seconds, neither of them spoke again. Then quietly: “Do you regret it?” The question stopped George immediately. She slowed too a second later, turning toward him beneath the white floodlights while the distant noise of dismantled garages echoed softly somewhere behind them.

And suddenly George realized something terrifying. She looked genuinely afraid of the answer. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “Regret what?” he asked quietly, even though he already knew. Her expression tightened slightly. “Kissing me.” The vulnerability in the sentence hit painfully beneath his ribs. Because suddenly he understood: despite everything, despite the kiss, despite the way he looked at her now—

Part of her still expected him to panic eventually. George stared at her silently for one long second while warm night air drifted softly through the nearly empty paddock. Then: “Say you regret it.” The sentence landed heavily between them. Not a challenge. A plea. And somehow that hurt infinitely worse.

George’s chest tightened sharply because he could hear it now: the fear hidden underneath. If he said yes— this would break her. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. Silence stretched painfully afterward while the floodlights cast long shadows across the pavement around them. George looked away briefly toward the transport trucks because suddenly emotions sat too heavily inside his chest to sort through properly. Then finally, honestly: “I can’t.”

The words came out quieter than intended. Still devastatingly real. Her breathing caught immediately afterward. George noticed instantly. Of course he did. And suddenly the tension between them shifted again, softer now but infinitely more emotional. Because there it was. The truth. Not: “I don’t regret it.”

Worse. “I can’t.” As if regret itself had become impossible now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. For one long second, neither of them moved. Then she looked down briefly, visibly overwhelmed by relief before laughing softly under her breath. Small. Shaky. Emotional. And somehow that nearly ruined George completely.

“You really scared yourself into thinking I’d say yes?” he asked quietly. Her eyes lifted back toward his slowly. “You scare yourself into running all the time.” Fair. Painfully fair. George rubbed a hand briefly against the back of his neck while exhaling softly through his nose. “That’s becoming an issue, apparently.” “You think?”

A faint smile almost appeared against his mouth. Almost. The silence afterward felt gentler now, less sharp around the edges. George stepped closer instinctively again without fully thinking about it. Another mistake. Because now her expression softened immediately the second the distance between them disappeared. Like she trusted closeness now. Dangerous realization.

Very dangerous. “You know what’s terrifying?” George asked quietly after a second. Her gaze stayed fixed steadily on him. “What?” George hesitated briefly. Then finally: “I’ve never been this honest with someone before.” The confession settled heavily into the quiet space between them. Because it was true.

George spent years controlling himself carefully around everyone. Drivers. Media. Teams. Friends. Even family sometimes. But around her? Everything slipped into honesty eventually. Terrifying honesty. Her expression softened completely afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “I noticed,” she whispered softly. That nearly destroyed him emotionally. Because somehow she sounded careful with his feelings now too.

And George realized suddenly: this wasn’t only attraction anymore. This was trust. Real trust. The realization hit hard enough that he looked away briefly toward the floodlit paddock around them. The world outside suddenly felt strangely distant compared to the woman standing in front of him. Like none of it mattered as much anymore. Terrifying. “You know what the worst part is?” he murmured quietly.

“What?” George laughed softly under his breath without humor. “I don’t even want things to go back to before.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because they both remembered exactly what before looked like. Arguments. Distance. Pretending. Half-truths. Now? Now George looked for her first every morning. Now touching her felt instinctive.

Now the idea of losing this made his chest hurt. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’ve changed,” she whispered softly. George looked back at her immediately. “How?” For one second, she just watched him quietly beneath the floodlights. Then: “You stopped acting like caring is weakness.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs.

Because once again: she understood him too well. George swallowed once before answering honestly. “That’s because of you.” The emotional impact visibly hit her immediately afterward. Small. Still enough. And suddenly George realized he liked making her feel wanted far too much already. Dangerous realization.

Very dangerous. Neither of them spoke for several seconds afterward. The quiet between them no longer felt uncertain now. Just intimate. Like they’d already built something fragile and terrifying together without noticing when it happened. “You know what’s funny?” she murmured eventually. George’s hand brushed lightly against hers while standing beside her. Instinct again.

Everything with her became instinct. “What?” “We still technically never defined whatever this is.” George stared at her for one second longer than necessary. Then quietly: “That feels a little irrelevant now.” The truth of the sentence settled heavily between them. Because honestly? What exactly were they supposed to define anymore?

They already acted like: a couple emotional partners people completely attached to each other The labels were the least important part now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Her fingers slowly intertwined with his afterward. Tiny movement. Huge emotional consequence. George looked down briefly toward their hands before something warm and terrifying spread painfully through his chest.

Because this felt natural too. Nothing about them should have felt this easy this quickly. And yet: everything did. “You know what scares me now?” she asked softly. George lifted his eyes back toward hers. “What?” For one moment, she hesitated. Then quietly: “That eventually I’m going to matter too much.”

The sentence nearly stopped his heart. Because the terrifying part? She already did. George stepped closer slowly until almost no distance remained between them beneath the harsh white floodlights. “You already do,” he admitted quietly. Silence. Real silence. Because there it was again: another confession.

And somehow they just kept becoming easier now. No walls left anymore. George lifted one hand carefully toward her face before stopping briefly like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch her this way now. Then his fingers brushed softly against her cheek. Gentle. Tender. Instinctive. The look on her face afterward nearly ruined him emotionally all over again.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. This time when he kissed her, everything felt different. Not explosive like the terrace. Not overwhelming panic and relief colliding together. Softer. Slower. Intimate. George kissed her carefully beneath the paddock lights while her fingers tightened lightly around his hand, and suddenly the rest of the world disappeared completely again.

No Mercedes. No media. No rumors. Just her. And terrifyingly enough— that felt like enough now. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Couldn’t, maybe. George rested his forehead lightly against hers while both of them breathed unevenly in the quiet space between the transport trucks.

And for the first time since all of this started, one realization settled fully and completely inside his chest. He wasn’t afraid of loving her anymore. He was afraid of losing her. George realized they were acting married approximately fourteen minutes after arriving at the new paddock. Which honestly felt concerning. Monza buzzed with its usual chaotic energy beneath pale Italian morning sunlight while journalists rushed between hospitality units carrying coffees and camera equipment. Mechanics crossed the paddock hauling crates toward garages. Fans pressed against barriers farther outside the paddock gates already shouting drivers’ names.

Normal Formula One chaos. Except now George had a girlfriend. Well. Technically they still hadn’t said the word. But after Jeddah? After the kisses? After falling asleep on FaceTime two nights ago because neither of them wanted to hang up? Yeah. They were absolutely together.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. The problem was: George apparently forgot they were supposed to hide it. Because less than five minutes after entering the paddock, he spotted her near the media center entrance balancing: coffee laptop notebook phone all at once. And immediately walked over to take half the things from her hands without thinking.

Instinct. Catastrophic instinct. “You’re carrying too much,” he muttered automatically while taking the coffee and notebook. She looked up at him over the edge of her sunglasses. “Good morning to you too.” George ignored that entirely. “When did you last sleep?” “That sounds accusatory.” “That’s because you slept four hours.”

“You tracked my sleep?” George blinked once. Right. Maybe that sounded worse out loud. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You texted me at three in the morning,” he defended weakly. “You answered immediately.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. A small smile appeared against her mouth while they started walking toward the paddock pathway together naturally.

Too naturally. Because neither of them noticed: how close they walked how George still carried her coffee the fact he automatically slowed his pace for her Until someone loudly cleared their throat beside them. Lando. Of course. He stared at them with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing a slow emotional car crash in real time.

“You two realize people can SEE you, right?” George frowned slightly. “We’re literally standing here.” “That’s not the issue!” She physically laughed beside him while Lando pointed dramatically between them. “You took her coffee!” George looked confused. “And?” “You adjusted your walking speed for her!”

George looked even more confused now. “That feels normal.” Lando made an actual strangled noise. “Oh my God, you’re domesticated.” The horrifying part? George genuinely didn’t understand why everyone kept reacting like this lately. Because helping her had become automatic now. Like: bringing her coffee

checking if she ate texting when she landed safely knowing when she was tired just by her posture None of it felt strange anymore. Terrifying realization. Very terrifying realization. “We’re fine,” George answered flatly. Lando looked at her. “Is he serious?” “He genuinely thinks this is subtle.”

“IT’S NOT.” Several nearby journalists turned briefly toward the noise. George immediately glared at Lando. “You’re making this worse.” “I’m making this visible.” “That’s unfortunately my line,” she muttered. Lando looked deeply offended. “You have couple dialogue now.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because— oh no. George looked sideways toward her.

She was trying not to smile. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Lando stared between them again before dragging one hand dramatically down his face. “You know what? I’m leaving before I accidentally witness emotional intimacy before breakfast.” Then he walked away muttering: “Domesticated. Unbelievable.” George watched him disappear into the McLaren garage before looking back at her.

“He’s dramatic.” “He’s right.” That stopped him immediately. Her eyebrows lifted slightly over her sunglasses while sunlight reflected sharply across the Monza paddock around them. “You act like my boyfriend now.” George’s pulse shifted unpleasantly. Not because the statement scared him. Because it didn’t. That was the terrifying part.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You say that like it’s surprising,” he muttered quietly. For one second, she just stared at him. Then slowly: “Oh my God.” George frowned slightly. “What?” “That didn’t even make you panic.” Right. That. Interesting. Because she was right. Three weeks ago, the word boyfriend would’ve emotionally destroyed him.

Now? Now it just felt accurate. Terrifying realization. George looked away briefly toward the Ferrari hospitality entrance while trying unsuccessfully to ignore the warmth settling beneath his ribs. “You make this difficult,” he muttered. “You kissed me in Saudi Arabia and now track my sleeping habits.” Fair. Painfully fair.

Before George could answer, her phone nearly slipped from the top of the pile she was carrying awkwardly under one arm. George caught it immediately without even looking. Instinct again. Catastrophic instinct. She stared at him. Lando, unfortunately, reappeared exactly in time to witness it. “Oh, COME ON.” George closed his eyes briefly.

“Why are you back?” “I forgot my pass.” Lando pointed aggressively toward them again. “And now you’re catching her phone like a husband in a romantic comedy.” “He’s exaggerating,” George muttered. “You looked offended that gravity almost touched her phone.” That was— unfortunately— slightly accurate. She was openly laughing now. Dangerous.

Because George realized suddenly: he liked making her laugh more than almost anything lately. Terrifying. Lando looked between them once more before shaking his head dramatically. “No one is buying whatever fake professionalism act you two think you’re doing.” Then he disappeared again. Hopefully permanently this time. Silence settled softly between them afterward while the paddock buzzed around them. Then quietly:

“You know what’s bad?” she asked. George adjusted his grip on her notebook automatically while they resumed walking. “What?” “You don’t even notice when you do it anymore.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs. Because— again— she was right. George genuinely didn’t notice half the things anymore. The touching.

The helping. The constant attention. Everything around her had started feeling instinctive. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s worse?” he murmured quietly. Her gaze lifted toward him immediately. “What?” George hesitated briefly before admitting: “I don’t think I want to stop.” The vulnerability in the sentence settled softly between them while sunlight reflected against the polished paddock pavement nearby.

And suddenly the world around them faded slightly again. Because now honesty happened too easily between them. No walls left anymore. Her expression softened instantly afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know,” she murmured softly, “you used to look at me like being close to me stressed you out.” George almost laughed.

“That’s because it did.” “And now?” George looked at her properly. Another mistake. Because she looked warm beneath the sunlight. Comfortable beside him. Like she belonged there naturally. And terrifyingly enough: that felt true now. “Now,” he answered quietly, “you’re kind of the only relaxing part of this place.”

The emotional impact hit her immediately. Small. Still enough. George became painfully aware of the fact that he was holding: her coffee her notebook her phone while looking at her like she personally invented happiness. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. “You’re staring again,” she whispered softly. George smiled slightly before he could stop himself.

“Probably permanent.” That visibly affected her. Again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Around them, paddock noise continued normally while people crossed between garages completely unaware of the emotional disaster unfolding near the media center pathway. Well. Mostly unaware. Because as George handed her coffee back finally, Charles walked past them toward Ferrari hospitality, took one look at the scene, and physically stopped walking.

Then slowly: “You two are either secretly dating or thirty years into a marriage.” Silence. George looked at her. She looked at him. Then both of them answered at the exact same time: “We’re not married.” Charles stared at them for one long second. Then burst out laughing loud enough that several Ferrari mechanics looked over.

“Oh, you’re gone gone.” George hated how warm that statement made him feel. Haut du formulaire George realized they had developed old married couple arguments sometime around Thursday afternoon. Specifically: over a hoodie. Which was humiliating. “You stole it.” She looked up from her laptop near the back of the media center with complete calm.

“Interesting accusation.” “That’s my hoodie.” “It’s on my chair now.” “That doesn’t answer the question.” “It kind of does.” George stared at her flatly while she continued typing like she hadn’t personally committed emotional terrorism against him. Around them, journalists moved between tables beneath the low hum of conversations and keyboard clicking, but George barely noticed any of it. Because she was wearing his Mercedes hoodie.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. The problem was: she looked comfortable in it. And George discovered very quickly that seeing her in his clothes did deeply concerning things to his nervous system. Catastrophic realization. “You didn’t even ask,” he muttered. That finally made her glance up over the top of her screen. “You left it in my hotel room.”

Silence. Complete silence. Two nearby journalists immediately looked up. George realized exactly how terrible that sentence sounded approximately one second too late. “Oh my God,” one of the journalists whispered. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. She immediately buried her face in her hands laughing while George rubbed one hand aggressively across his jaw.

“That’s not—” “Oh no,” the journalist interrupted immediately. “Please continue.” George pointed at him flatly. “You heard nothing.” “We heard enough.” The worst part? They absolutely had. Dangerous. Very dangerous. She was still laughing quietly when George finally sat beside her at the media center table, mostly because standing there while everyone stared felt emotionally unsafe.

“You think this is funny,” he muttered. “You looked genuinely offended about the hoodie.” “That’s because you stole it.” “You gave it to me.” “I absolutely did not.” She tilted her head slightly. “You literally put it around my shoulders last night because I said I was cold.” George stopped speaking immediately.

Right. That. Interesting. Because honestly? He had completely forgotten doing it. Not because it didn’t matter. Because helping her had become so automatic lately that his brain barely registered it anymore. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. “Oh my God,” the journalist whispered again from nearby. George glared at him immediately.

“Please leave.” “No, seriously,” the journalist continued, visibly emotional now. “You two sound married.” She physically laughed harder at that while George leaned back in his chair with the exhausted expression of a man realizing his relationship had apparently become public entertainment. Catastrophic. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he muttered toward her. “You’re the one interrogating me over fabric.” “It’s my hoodie.”

“You sound possessive.” George opened his mouth immediately. Then stopped. Because— oh no. That sounded worse. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what the problem is?” she asked softly while closing her laptop finally. George narrowed his eyes slightly. “I assume you’re about to emotionally attack me.”

“You stopped realizing when you act like my boyfriend.” The sentence landed directly beneath his ribs. Because once again: she was right. George genuinely didn’t think about it anymore when he: handed her coffee automatically adjusted things she forgot remembered her schedule checked if she’d eaten

reached for her instinctively Everything had become natural terrifyingly fast. Silence stretched softly between them afterward while movement continued around the media center around them. Then quietly: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” That visibly affected her immediately. Small. Still enough. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Before the conversation could become even softer, Alex appeared beside the table holding an iced coffee and immediately froze. Then slowly: “Is that your hoodie?” George closed his eyes briefly. Of course. “She stole it,” he muttered. “I borrowed it,” she corrected instantly. Alex stared between them once.

Then burst into laughter loud enough that several journalists nearby joined in immediately. “Oh my God, this is getting worse.” George looked deeply exhausted already. “I’m surrounded by children.” “No,” Alex corrected through laughter, “you’re sitting beside your secret girlfriend arguing over shared clothing in public.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because technically: that statement was accurate.

Neither of them denied it. Alex immediately looked horrified. “WAIT.” Too late. Way too late. “You admitted it with silence!” “She literally wears your clothes now!” the journalist from earlier added emotionally. George rubbed one hand down his face again while she hid her smile behind her coffee cup beside him.

Traitor. Dangerous traitor. Alex pointed dramatically between them. “You know what’s insane? You two still somehow act like you hate each other half the time.” “That’s just his personality,” she answered calmly. George looked offended immediately. “Excuse me?” Alex nearly collapsed laughing. “This is EXACTLY what I mean!”

Unfortunately: he wasn’t wrong. Because somehow their relationship still sounded like arguments even when they flirted. “You criticize my sleep schedule daily,” George defended. “Because you sleep like a Victorian ghost.” “You stole my hoodie.” “You emotionally adopted me first.” Silence. Then: Alex physically turned away laughing.

“Oh my God, you’re actually impossible.” The worst part? George could feel himself smiling slightly now too. Because this— this ridiculous arguing, this comfort, this effortless closeness— felt terrifyingly good. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. Eventually Alex disappeared back toward the paddock still muttering about emotional disasters while the nearby journalists returned to work, though several of them still looked deeply entertained.

George leaned back slightly in his chair afterward while she reopened her laptop calmly beside him. Then: without even looking, she slid his coffee closer toward him because she knew he’d forgotten it existed. Instinctive. Domestic. Terrifying. George stared at the coffee for one second too long. “You just did it again,” she murmured softly without looking up from the screen. “Did what?”

“Looked emotional over caffeine.” “That’s concerning.” “You’re becoming soft.” George almost smiled despite himself. “Only around you.” The sentence slipped out casually. Too casually. Because suddenly she stopped typing. And silence settled softly between them again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George became painfully aware of how easy honesty had become lately.

No panic anymore. No running. Just truths slipping naturally into conversations because being emotionally vulnerable around her no longer felt terrifying. It felt safe. Catastrophic realization. “You know what’s bad?” she whispered softly after a second. George looked at her immediately. “What?” “We forgot we’re supposed to be hiding this.”

Right. That. Interesting. Because she was absolutely correct. George glanced briefly around the media center. People were absolutely watching them. Not subtly anymore either. A photographer across the room literally lowered his camera when George looked over. Caught. Fantastic. “You know what’s worse?” George muttered quietly.

Her gaze lifted toward him immediately. “What?” George leaned slightly closer before answering softly: “I don’t think I care anymore.” The emotional impact hit her instantly. Small. Still enough. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Before she could answer, Lando suddenly dropped into the chair across from them with the exhausted expression of a man who had given up emotionally.

“I need both of you to explain something to me.” George sighed already. “No.” “You argue like divorced parents.” “That feels dramatic.” “And then,” Lando continued aggressively, “five minutes later he’s touching your back like you’re in a Jane Austen adaptation.” She physically laughed while George looked deeply offended. “That happened once.”

“It happened THIS MORNING.” Fair. Painfully fair. Lando pointed between them dramatically. “This is why people think you’re together.” Silence. Complete silence. Because— oh. Right. George looked sideways toward her. She looked back at him slowly. And suddenly both of them realized the same thing at the exact same time:

They had gotten so comfortable together that they genuinely forgot the rest of the paddock could see them. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. “We’re terrible at this,” she whispered softly. George’s gaze stayed fixed on hers for one second longer than necessary before he answered quietly: “At hiding or being together?” The silence afterward nearly ruined both of them emotionally. Because the terrifying part?

George already knew the answer. Haut du formulaire The rumors became genuinely unhinged by Saturday night. That was the first thing George realized when Alex accidentally showed him a Reddit thread during dinner. “Well,” Alex said while trying very hard not to laugh, “apparently the internet thinks you’re either secretly dating or going through a messy divorce.” George stared at the screen flatly. “What divorce?” Alex scrolled slightly farther down the thread.

“Somebody said and I quote: ‘No one argues that much unless feelings are involved.’” Lando nearly choked on his drink across the table. “Oh my God, they figured it out.” “They figured out NOTHING,” George muttered immediately. “That’s true,” Charles added helpfully from farther down the table. “One comment says she probably threw your belongings out of a hotel window.” She physically covered her face laughing beside George while he leaned back in his chair with the exhausted expression of a man watching his own emotional downfall become public entertainment.

Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. The Monza paddock dinner buzzed loudly around them beneath soft restaurant lighting while drivers, engineers and journalists crowded around long tables after qualifying. Music played faintly somewhere in the background. Glasses clinked. Conversations overlapped across the room. And apparently: half the paddock had started building conspiracy theories about George’s love life. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. “This one says,” Alex continued dramatically while reading from the phone, “‘Either they’re secretly together or they genuinely cannot stand each other.’” Lando pointed immediately across the table. “See? That’s what I said!” George rubbed one hand down his face. “Why are people discussing me like I’m a documentary subject?” “Because,” Charles answered calmly, “you look at her like she personally invented oxygen.”

Silence. Heavy silence. Because— well. That was unfortunately accurate. George glanced sideways automatically toward her. Big mistake. Because she was already looking at him too. And suddenly the rest of the dinner noise faded slightly into background static again. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “Oh my God,” Lando groaned dramatically.

“THE LOOKING.” She physically laughed into her drink while George looked away immediately toward the restaurant windows. “This is humiliating.” “No,” Alex corrected instantly. “This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened in Formula One.” “Rude.” “Accurate.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. The problem was: George genuinely hadn’t realized how obvious they’d become until the last two days.

Because now: she sat beside him automatically he handed her things without looking they leaned toward each other instinctively during conversations they tracked each other across rooms unconsciously And apparently everyone else noticed every single second of it. Catastrophic realization. “You know what’s concerning?” Charles asked thoughtfully.

George already hated this conversation. “What?” “You two somehow still sound like enemies while flirting.” Lando immediately pointed across the table dramatically. “YES.” She looked offended. “We do not.” “You argued over a hoodie for twenty minutes,” Alex reminded her. “That was a valid argument.”

George looked deeply offended. “It absolutely was not.” “See?” Lando nearly shouted. “THIS.” Several nearby people at the restaurant turned briefly toward the noise while laughter spread farther down the table. George closed his eyes briefly. This was a nightmare. A very emotionally attached nightmare.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s worse?” Alex continued through obvious amusement. “Nobody can actually tell if you’re together because you both act like bickering Victorian spouses.” Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Or divorced lawyers.” “That’s oddly specific,” she muttered. “You corrected his media answer yesterday before he even finished speaking,” Lando added.

George blinked once. Right. That. Interesting. Because she had. And he hadn’t even noticed until now. Terrifying realization. “You also stole food off his plate without asking,” Alex added. “You literally tied her paddock pass for her because it was twisted,” Charles contributed immediately afterward.

Silence. George stared blankly at the table. Because— oh no. They were absolutely right. Not about the divorce part. Hopefully. About everything else. Dangerous. Very dangerous. The horrifying part? Half these things happened so naturally now that George barely registered them anymore. Helping her. Touching her.

Looking for her. Knowing her habits. It all felt instinctive. Like breathing. Terrifying realization. “This is getting deeply upsetting,” George muttered quietly. Lando looked delighted. “You know what the funniest part is?” “No.” “You both still think people don’t know.” She physically laughed harder beside him while George pointed aggressively across the table.

“Nobody officially knows anything.” “That sounds like a legal statement.” “It probably should be.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. The dinner continued around them afterward, though unfortunately the teasing only became worse as the night went on. Because every single time George did something automatically— someone noticed. And apparently: he did a lot of things automatically now.

Like: moving her drink farther from the edge of the table without looking. Or: passing her his jacket when the restaurant got colder. Or: remembering she hated sparkling water and switching their glasses absentmindedly halfway through dinner. Catastrophic. “You’re literally acting married,” Alex whispered emotionally after the water incident. George stared at him flatly. “I’m trying to survive this dinner.” “No,” Alex corrected.

“You’re building a home.” That nearly killed her laughing. George hated how warm hearing that made him feel. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Eventually the conversation drifted toward race strategy and travel schedules long enough for the teasing to calm slightly. George relaxed back into his chair afterward while she leaned beside him scrolling distractedly through her phone under the table. Then suddenly she froze.

Tiny movement. Still enough. George noticed immediately. Of course he did. “What?” he asked quietly. Her expression looked deeply horrified suddenly. “That article.” George’s chest tightened instantly. Dangerous. Very dangerous. She turned the screen slightly toward him beneath the table. Headline: “Russell and mystery journalist continue heated paddock feud.”

Silence. Then: George started laughing. Actually laughing. Because— what? Lando immediately looked offended across the table. “What happened?” George handed him the phone still laughing quietly under his breath. Lando read the headline. Then physically bent over the table screaming. “THEY THINK YOU HATE EACH OTHER.”

That immediately attracted attention from nearby tables. Alex grabbed the phone next. Then Charles. And within thirty seconds: the entire dinner table was emotionally collapsing. “She called him emotionally repressed in Bahrain!” Alex shouted through laughter. “He told her she was exhausting!” Charles added. “You argued for three straight race weekends!” Lando nearly cried. George looked sideways toward her while both of them tried unsuccessfully to stop laughing now.

And suddenly the entire situation became absurdly funny. Because the paddock saw: arguments sarcasm tension bickering Meanwhile: they were secretly kissing between interviews. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. Eventually, after several minutes of complete chaos, Alex finally managed to breathe normally again before looking between them with tears literally in his eyes.

Then dramatically: “You two realize married couples argue less than you do, right?” Silence. George opened his mouth automatically. “We’re not—” Then stopped. Because— wait. Beside him, she blinked once before slowly lowering her glass. Then: “Wait.” George looked sideways toward her immediately. Her eyes widened slightly in realization.

And at the exact same time, they both said: “You thought we hated each other?” Complete silence exploded across the table afterward. Real silence. Because apparently nobody had considered the possibility that the arguments were flirting. Lando looked genuinely betrayed. “THAT WAS FLIRTING?” George frowned slightly.

“Wasn’t that obvious?” The entire table erupted instantly. Alex physically pushed his chair backward laughing while Charles buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God,” Lando whispered emotionally. “You’re both insane.” The horrifying part? George genuinely thought people understood. Because to him, the teasing felt obvious.

The tension felt obvious. The affection underneath it all felt obvious. Apparently: it absolutely was not. Catastrophic realization. “You called her emotionally dangerous!” “She called me emotionally constipated!” “That was flirting?!” Alex shouted. “Yes?!” both of them answered simultaneously. Another explosion of laughter immediately followed.

George leaned back in his chair afterward while she laughed beside him hard enough to nearly hide her face against his shoulder. And without thinking— completely instinctively— George rested one hand lightly against her back. Comforting. Natural. Automatic. The entire table went silent again immediately. Oh. Right.

That. Interesting. Lando pointed dramatically. “SEE? THAT.” George blinked once before realizing what he’d done. Then looked sideways toward her. She was still smiling. Softly now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. And suddenly the teasing around them blurred slightly into background noise because George realized something terrifyingly simple beneath all the chaos:

He loved this version of them. Not the tension. Not the hiding. Not the panic. Just— this. Her laughing beside him. Their ridiculous arguments. The instinctive closeness. Home. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. Much later, after the dinner finally ended and the paddock quieted beneath the Italian night, George walked beside her toward the parking area outside the hospitality buildings.

The air felt cooler now. Quieter. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then softly: “You know what’s horrifying?” she murmured. George glanced sideways toward her. “What?” “We really do argue like divorced parents.” George laughed quietly under his breath. “Yeah.” “And apparently that’s our flirting style.”

“That’s concerning.” “A little.” Silence settled softly afterward while city lights shimmered beyond the paddock fences. Then George looked at her properly. And there it was again. That terrifying calm he only seemed to find around her now. “She thought we hated each other,” he murmured quietly. Her smile softened instantly.

“You did tell me I was exhausting.” “You are exhausting.” She looked offended immediately. “Wow.” George kissed her before she could continue the argument. Soft. Warm. Automatic. And somehow that felt even more dangerous now than before. Because this— them— had stopped feeling temporary entirely.

George accidentally kissed her in public because she stole his AirPod. Which honestly felt like a ridiculous way for their secret relationship to collapse. Singapore’s paddock glowed beneath bright artificial lights while humid evening air wrapped heavily around the circuit. The night race atmosphere always felt slightly unreal, especially this late in the weekend when exhaustion softened everyone’s professionalism around the edges. George was tired. Overworked. Emotionally attached beyond repair. And apparently incapable of functioning normally around his girlfriend anymore.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You took the left one again.” She looked up innocently from where she stood beside him near Mercedes hospitality, one of his AirPods already in place while scrolling through something on her phone. “You weren’t using it.” “That’s not the issue.” “You say that every time.” Because she did.

Every single time. George stared at her flatly while mechanics crossed nearby carrying equipment cases toward the garages. Around them, the paddock buzzed with its usual controlled chaos before FP3. And somehow despite all the noise, George still focused automatically on: the way she leaned slightly into his space the fact she wore his hoodie again the tiny smile hidden at the corner of her mouth Catastrophic.

Absolutely catastrophic. “You’re staring,” she murmured softly without looking up from her phone. George adjusted the remaining AirPod in his ear. “You stole my music.” “You gave me access willingly.” “That sounds manipulative.” “That’s because you’re dramatic.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. Nearby, Alex slowed while walking past them before physically stopping.

Then slowly: “Why are you sharing AirPods?” George blinked once. Right. That probably looked bad. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “She stole one,” George answered immediately. “I borrowed one,” she corrected calmly. Alex stared between them for one long second. Then: “Oh my God.” George sighed already.

“Please don’t.” “You’re literally attached to each other now.” “That feels dramatic.” “She followed me into three different rooms this morning,” she added helpfully. George looked offended immediately. “You disappeared.” Alex physically covered his face laughing. “YOU SEE?” he shouted emotionally toward absolutely nobody. The worst part?

George genuinely still didn’t understand why everyone reacted so strongly to things that felt normal now. Because obviously he followed her around sometimes. Not intentionally. Mostly. It just happened because whenever she left a room, his attention tracked her automatically now. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. “You’re doing it again,” Alex informed him.

George frowned slightly. “Doing what?” “You looked around for her while she was literally standing next to you.” Silence. Because— oh. Right. That. Interesting. She was openly laughing beside him now while George rubbed one hand across his jaw with the exhausted expression of a man realizing his emotional stability had become public entertainment again.

Catastrophic. “You’re all deeply irritating,” he muttered. “No,” Alex corrected immediately. “You’re deeply in love.” George nearly choked on air. Beside him, she physically froze. Alex’s eyes widened instantly afterward. “Oh my God,” he whispered emotionally. “That was your face.” George looked horrified immediately. “I hate this conversation.”

“YOU DIDN’T DENY IT.” Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Before George could recover emotionally, she reached up automatically and fixed the collar of his shirt where it had folded awkwardly beneath his paddock pass. Tiny gesture. Barely anything. Complete silence immediately exploded around them. Because apparently every nearby person witnessed it.

George looked sideways toward her. She froze too now. And suddenly both of them realized: oh no. That looked incredibly couple-like. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Alex stared at them with tears literally forming in his eyes from emotional distress. “You touch him like a wife from a period drama.”

“She fixed my collar.” “You leaned down automatically!” George stopped speaking immediately. Because— again— Alex was unfortunately correct. He had leaned down automatically. Instinct. Everything around her had become instinctive now. Terrifying realization. Lando appeared out of nowhere exactly in time to witness the aftermath.

“What happened?” Alex pointed dramatically toward George like a man exposing government corruption. “THEY’RE DOING DOMESTIC BEHAVIORS AGAIN.” Lando looked between them once. Then immediately: “Oh, disgusting.” She laughed loudly enough to lean briefly against George’s shoulder without thinking. Another mistake. Because George’s hand immediately settled against her waist automatically to steady her.

Silence. Real silence. Several nearby Mercedes mechanics physically stopped walking. One of them muttered: “Oh my God, finally.” George closed his eyes briefly. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. The horrifying part? He still didn’t move his hand. Because she fit there naturally now. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous.

“You know what’s insane?” Lando asked while looking deeply offended emotionally. “You two spent like six race weekends acting like divorced enemies.” “That was flirting,” George answered automatically. Complete silence. Then: Alex screamed. Actual screaming. “I TOLD YOU.” Nearby journalists immediately looked over toward the noise while Lando physically bent over laughing.

“She admitted he was emotionally constipated!” “She called me exhausting first,” George defended. “That was foreplay?!” Lando nearly shouted. “Yes?!” both of them answered simultaneously. Another explosion of chaos followed immediately afterward. George became painfully aware of the fact that he was: holding her coffee sharing headphones with her

touching her waist while publicly arguing about flirting semantics. Catastrophic realization. They were terrible at hiding this. Absolutely terrible. “You know what’s worse?” she whispered softly beside him while everyone continued emotionally collapsing around them. George looked down toward her immediately. “What?” Her expression softened slightly beneath the bright Singapore paddock lights.

“You still haven’t noticed you smile around me now.” The sentence hit directly beneath his ribs. Because— oh. Right. Interesting. George stared at her silently for one second too long while noise and movement continued around them unnoticed. Then quietly: “That feels like your fault.”

“That sounds affectionate.” “It probably is.” The honesty settled softly between them. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Lando physically pointed between them again. “THIS. THIS IS WHAT I MEAN.” Neither of them even reacted anymore. That seemed to emotionally damage him further. “You’re both impossible,” he muttered dramatically.

The problem was: George barely heard him now. Because she was still standing impossibly close beneath the bright paddock lights, smiling softly at him like this version of them had become natural too. And terrifyingly enough— it had. “You know what’s concerning?” Alex asked suddenly. George sighed already. “What now?” “You two look happier every weekend.”

Silence. Heavy silence. Because nobody joked immediately afterward. Not even Lando. George glanced sideways toward her instinctively again. And there it was. That terrifying calm he only ever seemed to feel around her now. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. Before he could think better of it, George leaned down automatically and kissed her quickly.

Soft. Brief. Natural. Like breathing. The second it ended— George froze. Oh. Right. Public. The entire paddock went silent. Silence in Formula One was terrifying. Especially in a paddock. Because paddocks were never actually quiet. There was always: movement radios mechanics conversations journalists talking too loudly

So when the entire area around Mercedes hospitality suddenly stopped making noise after George kissed her— That was catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. George realized what he’d done approximately one second too late. His hand still rested lightly against her waist. Her coffee remained in his other hand. One shared AirPod still connected them together. And now: half the paddock stared at them in complete emotional shock.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. Lando blinked once. Twice. Then suddenly screamed: “I KNEW IT.” The silence shattered instantly afterward. Chaos exploded around them immediately while several nearby journalists started talking at once and Alex physically bent over laughing hard enough he nearly lost balance. “Oh my God,” Alex wheezed.

“OH MY GOD YOU WERE SERIOUS.” George closed his eyes briefly. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Beside him, she looked equally horrified and amused now, somewhere between wanting to disappear emotionally and laughing at the situation. Unfortunately: George mostly felt calm. That realization terrified him more than the public kiss itself. Dangerous.

Very dangerous. Because he should have panicked. Instead, all he could think was: well… that was inevitable. “You kissed her!” Lando shouted emotionally. George opened his eyes slowly. “Thank you for the live commentary.” “In PUBLIC.” “That part I noticed afterward.” Alex physically pointed toward them again.

“WAIT. YOU WERE ACTUALLY TOGETHER THIS WHOLE TIME?” George frowned slightly. “That depends how you define whole time.” That somehow made everything worse. Because now the nearby journalists looked emotionally invested too. “Oh my God,” one whispered. “That answer means something complicated.” Fair. Annoyingly fair.

Beside him, she finally buried her face in her hands laughing quietly. “This is a disaster.” George looked sideways toward her immediately. Then automatically: his hand moved gently against her waist reassuringly. Another mistake. Because Alex made a sound like he was witnessing emotional warfare firsthand. “You’re TOUCHING her like it’s muscle memory now.” George blinked once.

Right. That. Interesting. Because— again— Alex was correct. Everything around her had become automatic lately. The touching. The helping. The looking for her first in every room. It all happened before he consciously thought anymore. Terrifying realization. Very terrifying realization. Lando pointed dramatically between them.

“How long has this been happening?” Silence. George looked sideways toward her. She looked back at him immediately. And suddenly: neither of them answered. Because honestly? That question had become complicated. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Emotionally? George thought he’d belonged to her somewhere around Bahrain. Officially?

Maybe Saudi Arabia. Maybe before. Maybe after. Who knew anymore. The silence stretched too long. Alex’s eyes widened immediately. “OH MY GOD.” Lando looked genuinely emotional now. “You don’t even know.” George rubbed one hand across his jaw slowly. “That’s actually a very complicated question.”

The entire paddock exploded again. Journalists immediately started talking over each other while several nearby mechanics physically walked away laughing. “She stole his hoodie in Monza!” “They were flirting through arguments!” “He followed her through three garages yesterday!” “She fixed his collar!” George looked deeply exhausted already. “This feels invasive.”

“You kissed her in public!” Lando shouted. Fair. Painfully fair. Beside him, she leaned slightly into his side while laughing quietly under her breath, and George immediately became more focused on that than the chaos around them. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Because suddenly he realized: he didn’t care anymore. Not really.

The paddock knew now. Mercedes knew now. The media absolutely knew now. And somehow none of that scared him as much as he thought it would. Terrifying realization. “You know what’s insane?” Alex continued emotionally. “WE THOUGHT YOU HATED EACH OTHER.” George looked genuinely confused.

“Why?” Complete silence immediately followed. Then Charles, who had apparently appeared midway through the disaster without anyone noticing, stared at him flatly. “You called her emotionally dangerous.” “She called me emotionally constipated,” George defended. “That was flirting,” she added helpfully. Charles physically closed his eyes. “I need all of you to understand that normal people do not flirt like this.”

“That sounds judgmental,” George muttered. “You argued for six race weekends!” “And?” both of them answered simultaneously. Another explosion of laughter immediately followed. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. The horrifying part? George still didn’t understand why this surprised everyone so much. Because to him, it always felt obvious.

The tension. The attention. The fact he looked for her constantly. Apparently everyone saw the chemistry. They just misunderstood the genre entirely. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. One of the journalists nearby suddenly asked the question loudly enough for everyone to hear: “So wait… are you officially together now?”

Silence. Heavy silence. George looked sideways toward her automatically. And suddenly the chaos around them softened slightly beneath the weight of the question hanging between them. Because despite everything— despite the kissing, despite the domestic behavior, despite acting married for two race weekends— they still never really said it out loud. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Her expression softened slightly while looking back at him beneath the bright Singapore lights. And terrifyingly enough: George didn’t feel trapped anymore. No panic. No instinct to run. Just her. Terrifying realization. George glanced briefly around the paddock afterward. Everyone waited. Lando looked seconds away from emotional collapse.

Alex was filming now for some reason. Charles looked deeply exhausted by all of them. Then George looked back at her. And suddenly the answer felt incredibly simple. “Yes.” The silence afterward lasted exactly one second. Then the entire paddock lost its mind. Lando screamed again.

Alex physically dropped his phone. One Mercedes mechanic started clapping sarcastically in the background. And beside him— she started laughing so hard she nearly hid her face against his shoulder again. Instinctively, George wrapped one arm around her waist properly this time to steady her. No hesitation anymore. No pretending anymore. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic.

“You know what’s horrifying?” Alex asked loudly over the chaos. George already hated this conversation. “What?” “You two somehow became MORE obvious after trying to hide it.” “That sounds fake.” “You literally just announced your relationship while holding her like a romance novel cover.” George looked down briefly. Right.

That. Interesting. Because she fit there naturally too. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. The journalists nearby had fully stopped pretending not to listen now. “So who confessed first?” George immediately pointed sideways toward her. “She kissed me first.” “Oh my God,” she whispered, horrified. “You traitor.”

“You started this.” “You flirted with me by psychologically profiling me for three race weekends!” “That’s not a normal sentence,” Charles muttered. “That’s not normal flirting!” Lando added emotionally. George looked genuinely confused again. “It worked though.” The silence afterward nearly killed everyone. Because unfortunately: he was right.

Beside him, she physically covered her face laughing while George realized something deeply concerning: He was happy. Not nervous. Not overwhelmed. Happy. The realization settled heavily and warmly inside his chest while the paddock continued emotionally collapsing around them. Dangerous. Very dangerous. And somehow for the first time since all of this started—

George finally stopped caring who saw it. For the first time since the paddock found out, George felt strangely calm afterward. That should probably have concerned him more. Singapore’s paddock slowly quieted as the evening stretched later into the night, though the emotional damage from the public relationship reveal clearly continued spreading through Formula One like wildfire. Every few minutes somebody walked past them and reacted dramatically all over again. One mechanic saluted George silently. Another whispered: “About time.” Lando still looked emotionally devastated.

George mostly found all of it amusing now. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’re smiling again.” George looked sideways immediately while they walked together through the quieter side of the paddock toward the hospitality exits. Warm Singapore air wrapped heavily around the circuit while floodlights reflected against polished pathways and transport trucks nearby. She walked close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. Neither of them moved away anymore.

“I’m not smiling.” “You literally announced our relationship and now look emotionally peaceful.” “That sounds fake.” “It sounds terrifying.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George glanced sideways toward her again and immediately felt that now-familiar warmth settle beneath his ribs. The one that kept appearing every time she looked at him softly.

Which happened constantly now. Catastrophic realization. The problem was: everything felt easier suddenly. The hiding was over. The panic was gone. No more pretending they were just emotionally aggressive coworkers who accidentally stared at each other like soulmates. Now? They were simply together. And terrifyingly enough— George liked that.

A lot. “You know what’s weird?” she asked quietly after a second. George adjusted his pace automatically when she slowed slightly beside him. “What?” “Nobody actually seemed surprised.” George almost laughed. “That’s because apparently we were obvious.” “We were not that obvious.” George looked at her flatly.

“You stole my hoodie and started carrying my spare charger.” “That feels unrelated.” “You literally knew my coffee order before I did.” “You sleep like you’re haunted.” “That’s not relevant.” She smiled slightly beneath the Singapore lights while George felt his chest tighten warmly all over again. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

The paddock noise faded softer behind them as they reached the quieter area near the team parking entrance. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then softly: “You really don’t care anymore?” George looked sideways toward her immediately. “About people knowing?” She nodded slightly. The question settled heavily between them while warm night air drifted softly around the nearly empty pathway.

And honestly? George surprised himself with how quickly the answer came. “No.” The honesty felt calm now. Certain. Not terrifying anymore. Her expression softened immediately afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George shoved one hand into the pocket of his jacket while continuing beside her slowly beneath the floodlights.

“I thought I would,” he admitted quietly after a second. “What changed?” George looked ahead briefly toward the distant paddock gates glowing beneath the Singapore night before answering honestly. “You.” Silence. Heavy silence. Because there it was again. Another confession slipping out naturally. And somehow they always felt easier around her now.

No walls left anymore. George exhaled softly through his nose before continuing quietly: “I spent weeks thinking this would ruin everything.” Her gaze stayed fixed steadily on him while they walked. “And now?” George laughed softly under his breath. “Now I think hiding you felt worse.” The emotional impact hit her instantly.

Small. Still enough. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? The secrecy. The pretending. The constant almosts. None of it felt as good as simply having her beside him openly now. Terrifying realization. They reached the hotel entrance eventually, though neither of them moved toward the doors immediately.

Instead they stopped near the edge of the walkway beneath softer lighting while the city shimmered brightly somewhere beyond the circuit. And suddenly everything quieted. No journalists. No drivers. No teasing. Just them. George became painfully aware of how natural her presence felt beside him now. Like his brain had fully rewritten itself around her existence somewhere along the way.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You know what’s funny?” she murmured softly. George leaned lightly against the railing beside her. “What?” “You spent six race weekends acting emotionally tortured because you liked me.” “That’s rude.” “That’s accurate.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George looked at her properly then. Another mistake.

Because she looked beautiful beneath the soft hotel lights and suddenly all the noise from the paddock reveal earlier faded completely into the background. There was only her again. Always her. “You know what’s worse?” he asked quietly. Her eyes stayed fixed steadily on his. “What?” George hesitated briefly. Then finally:

“I genuinely think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.” The sentence settled softly into the warm night air between them. No panic. No hesitation. No instinct to take it back afterward. Just truth. And somehow that felt bigger than every confession before it. Her expression changed immediately.

Softer. More emotional. Almost overwhelmed. Dangerous. Very dangerous. George stepped closer instinctively while the city lights reflected faintly in her eyes beneath the soft Singapore night. “I didn’t think…” He stopped briefly before trying again. “I didn’t think loving someone would feel calming.” Silence. Heavy silence.

Because there it was. The word. Love. Finally. And somehow it didn’t feel terrifying anymore. Not when he looked at her. Her breath caught softly while George realized something almost unbelievable: He meant it without fear. Not panic. Not pressure. Just certainty. “You know what the scary part is?” he murmured quietly.

Her voice came out softer now too. “What?” George reached up carefully, brushing his fingers gently against her cheek. “That losing you feels impossible now.” The vulnerability in the sentence nearly destroyed both of them. Because suddenly everything underneath their relationship became painfully visible: the attachment the trust

the comfort the dependence the love Real love. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. She leaned slightly into his hand instinctively afterward, and George genuinely thought that tiny movement might emotionally ruin him permanently. Catastrophic. Absolutely catastrophic. “You’re very soft now,” she whispered softly. George laughed quietly under his breath.

“That’s your fault.” “That sounds affectionate.” “It definitely is.” The honesty between them no longer shocked him anymore. It just felt natural. Like loving her had quietly become the most honest thing about him. George kissed her slowly afterward beneath the soft hotel lights, one hand still resting gently against her face while warm Singapore air drifted around them. No desperation this time.

No panic. No fear. Just home. And suddenly George understood something terrifyingly simple: For the first time in years, he felt calm. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Couldn’t, maybe. She smiled softly against his mouth while George rested his forehead lightly against hers, eyes closing briefly beneath the warm night air.

And for one perfect quiet moment, nothing else existed beyond her breathing and the steady warmth in his chest. No media. No paddock. No chaos. Just happiness. Real happiness. The kind George never thought he’d find in Formula One. Or anywhere. “I love you,” he whispered softly.

And for the first time in his life, the words didn’t feel terrifying at all. The first time George realized people had stopped reacting to them, it genuinely unsettled him. Because for months, the paddock had treated their relationship like live entertainment. At first: confusion. Then: suspicion. Then: collective emotional collapse once everyone realized the “aggressive arguing” had apparently been flirting the entire time. Now? Now it was six months later and apparently everyone had simply accepted the fact that George Russell functioned like a normal human being only around one specific person.

Terrifying. Very terrifying. “You’re staring again.” George blinked once before looking up from his phone across the Mercedes hospitality room. She sat curled sideways on the couch near the back corner beneath soft evening lighting, one of his hoodies hanging off one shoulder while reviewing interview notes on her laptop. Formula One noise buzzed faintly outside the hospitality walls during media day in Abu Dhabi, but inside the room everything felt quieter somehow. Softer. Home.

Dangerous realization. “I’m literally across the room,” he defended weakly. “That has never stopped you before.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. George smiled slightly despite himself before returning to the strategy notes on his phone. Which lasted approximately twelve seconds before his attention drifted back toward her automatically. Again.

Always again. The terrifying part was: after all these months, it still happened instinctively. Like his brain permanently tracked her existence somewhere in the background now. Catastrophic. “You know,” Lewis said casually while walking past with coffee in one hand, “this stopped being subtle around race seven.” George looked mildly offended. “We were subtle.” Lewis physically laughed.

Across the room, she didn’t even look up from the laptop before adding: “He followed me through four paddocks before we even started dating.” “That sounds manipulative when you phrase it like that.” “You tracked my sleep schedule.” “You slept four hours.” “You memorized my coffee orders.” “You cried during an airport delay.” Silence. Lewis slowly looked between them.

Then: “Oh my God, you still flirt like divorced lawyers.” George looked genuinely confused. “This is normal conversation.” “That’s the concerning part.” Fair. Painfully fair. The thing was: nothing about their relationship had changed fundamentally after Singapore. Not really. They still argued constantly. Still teased each other.

Still acted emotionally exhausting in public. The only difference now was: George kissed her afterward instead of staring at walls dramatically for three days. Much healthier. Probably. “You know what’s terrifying?” Lando asked while dropping into the chair nearby with dramatic exhaustion already written across his face. George immediately distrusted the conversation. “What?” “You two somehow got worse after becoming official.”

“That sounds fake.” “No,” Lando corrected immediately. “You’re emotionally fused now.” Beside George, she physically laughed quietly into her coffee while George looked deeply unimpressed. “We’re fine.” “You finished each other’s sentences during the FIA press conference yesterday.” George blinked once. Right. That. Interesting. Because they had.

Completely accidentally. Terrifying realization. Lando pointed dramatically between them. “At this point, I genuinely think separating you two would damage the ecosystem.” “That feels dramatic.” “You flew to London for twelve hours because she said she missed you.” Silence. George stared at him flatly. “That information feels private.”

“You literally posted airport coffee together.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. The worst part? George still hadn’t adjusted to the fact people noticed everything now. Not because he hid it badly anymore. Because he stopped trying entirely. Dangerous. Very dangerous. At some point between Singapore and now, loving her had simply become part of him naturally.

Publicly. Openly. And honestly? It felt good. Terrifyingly good. “You know what’s funny?” she asked softly from the couch suddenly. George looked toward her immediately. Always immediate. “What?” She finally looked up from the laptop with the exact soft expression that still completely destroyed his emotional stability after all these months.

“You used to panic when people thought we liked each other.” George almost laughed. Because— God. That version of himself felt exhausting now. Emotionally tortured George. Pre-relationship George. George who stared dramatically across paddocks pretending jealousy was “professional concern.” Humiliating. “I was going through something,” he muttered.

“You were in love with me and acting like it was terminal.” Lewis physically turned away laughing. Lando nearly fell out of his chair. George looked betrayed immediately. “You’re all deeply irritating.” “No,” Lewis corrected through lingering amusement. “You were just unbelievably obvious.” Unfortunately: he was right.

Because now George could admit it honestly. He’d been gone long before Saudi Arabia. Long before the terrace. Long before the first kiss. Maybe from the first time she challenged him without caring who he was. Maybe from the first time she looked at him like he was a person instead of a driver. Maybe from the first time she stayed. Dangerous realization.

Very dangerous. The paddock outside buzzed louder suddenly as another media session ended nearby. George glanced automatically toward the door when voices approached. Then immediately relaxed once he recognized Toto entering with several engineers behind him. That didn’t go unnoticed. “See?” Lando pointed emotionally. “That. That’s what I mean.”

George frowned slightly. “What?” “You visibly relax every time she’s nearby.” Silence. Because— oh. Right. Interesting. George looked sideways toward her again. She was already watching him softly now, like she understood exactly what realization just hit him. Dangerous. Very dangerous. The horrifying part? Lando was absolutely right.

George spent years existing permanently tense inside Formula One. Pressure. Expectations. Performance. Every season felt like survival disguised as professionalism. Then somehow she appeared and turned calm into something possible again. Terrifying. “You know what’s disgusting?” Alex added while entering the hospitality late enough to apparently continue the emotional bullying immediately.

“He smiles now.” “That still feels exaggerated,” George muttered. “No,” Alex corrected instantly. “It’s genuinely horrifying.” Beside George, she closed her laptop finally before standing slowly from the couch. And immediately— without thinking— George shifted sideways automatically to make room for her near him. Instinct. Still instinct after all this time.

Catastrophic. Alex physically pointed. “THAT.” George looked exhausted already. “I don’t know what you want from me.” “You used to look emotionally constipated,” Lando answered immediately. “She called me that first.” “Because you WERE.” Fair. Painfully fair. She stepped beside him afterward, and George handed her his coffee automatically because hers had gone cold hours ago.

Tiny gesture. Still enough. Because immediately all three men across from them looked emotionally offended again. Lewis pointed slowly. “You do realize married couples behave less married than this.” George frowned slightly. “We’re not married.” The silence afterward lasted exactly one second. Then: everybody started laughing.

Because apparently that was no longer the important part. Dangerous realization. Very dangerous. The thing was: they had become something quieter than the chaos of their beginning. Not less intense. Just steadier. Now: George knew exactly how she took her coffee she knew when he was overwhelmed before he spoke

he slept better beside her she stole his hoodies permanently he kissed her forehead automatically during stressful weekends they still argued constantly they still flirted through insults But beneath all of it sat something solid now. Trust. Home. Love. Real love. And honestly? That terrified George more than the relationship itself ever had.

Because now he understood exactly how much he could lose. “You’re thinking again,” she murmured softly beside him. George blinked once before realizing everyone else had already returned to their own conversations around the hospitality. Right. Focus. “You say that like it’s dangerous.” “With you? Usually.”

Fair. Annoyingly fair. George looked down toward her quietly while the evening paddock lights reflected softly through the hospitality windows behind them. And suddenly the noise faded slightly again. Still happened. After all this time. Like his brain naturally softened around her. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

“You know what’s weird?” he murmured softly after a second. Her gaze lifted immediately toward his. “What?” George hesitated briefly. Then honestly: “I still expect to wake up and realize this was temporary.” The vulnerability in the sentence settled quietly between them. Because despite everything— the public relationship, the months together, the ridiculous domesticity—

part of George still struggled understanding how someone like her stayed. Her expression softened instantly afterward. Dangerous. Very dangerous. “You’re an idiot sometimes,” she whispered softly. “That sounds affectionate.” “It is.” The answer came immediately. Warmly. Naturally. And suddenly George realized something terrifyingly simple: This no longer felt fragile.

At the beginning, everything between them felt like balancing fire in his hands. One wrong movement and the entire thing would collapse. Now? Now loving her felt inevitable. Steady. Like something woven permanently into his life. Catastrophic realization. Outside, Abu Dhabi glowed beneath the night sky while Formula One continued moving endlessly around them.

Another season ending. Another year disappearing into airports, race weekends and impossible schedules. Yet somehow the thing George remembered most from this entire year wasn’t podiums or media headlines. It was: her stealing his AirPods in Singapore Saudi terrace lights laughing over ridiculous Reddit rumors airport coffee at six in the morning

her asleep in his hoodie during flights finally feeling calm for the first time in years Dangerous memories. Very dangerous. “You’re smiling again,” she whispered softly. George looked down toward her. Then finally— completely honestly— “I think that’s just permanent now.” The emotional softness in her expression afterward nearly ruined him all over again.

Because somehow after everything, she still looked at him like loving him was easy. Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. She reached up slowly afterward, fingers brushing lightly against the collar of his shirt where it had folded awkwardly beneath his paddock pass. Instinctive. Familiar. Home. And suddenly George remembered the exact moment in Singapore when Alex screamed because she fixed his collar in public.

Back then, it felt catastrophic. Now? Now George leaned down automatically so she could reach easier. Which immediately caused Lando to shout from across the hospitality: “SEE? THEY’RE DOING IT AGAIN.” She burst out laughing instantly while George closed his eyes briefly in exhausted affection. Nothing changed.

Nothing would ever change. And honestly? He didn’t want it to. Not anymore. Not ever again. Later that night, long after the hospitality emptied and the paddock quieted into soft distant noise beyond the hotel windows, George lay awake beside her while Abu Dhabi lights glowed faintly across the dark room. She slept curled against his chest beneath one of his hoodies, breathing slow and even while one hand rested lightly against his waist. George stared quietly at the ceiling for several long seconds.

Then down at her. Dangerous mistake. Very dangerous. Because even now— months later— looking at her still felt overwhelming sometimes. Not in the terrifying way anymore. In the quiet way. The permanent way. Like she existed beneath his ribs now. He brushed his fingers slowly through her hair while the city lights shimmered outside the hotel windows beyond them.

And suddenly George understood something terrifyingly simple: Before her, Formula One felt like survival. After her, it finally felt like living. The realization settled softly through his chest while she shifted slightly in her sleep, instinctively moving closer toward him afterward. Automatic. Always automatic. George smiled quietly to himself before pressing a soft kiss against her forehead beneath the dark hotel room shadows. Then finally closed his eyes too. Completely calm. For once. Haut du formulaire Bas du formulaire Bas du formulaire Bas du formulaire Bas du formulaire Haut du formulaire Bas du formulaire Haut du formulaire Bas du formulaire

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