──★ ｡🪼*:･ Cogito ergo sum
Ollie Bearman x Toto's Daughter
୨ৎ Summary: The story between a HAAS driver and a Mercedes raised daughter.
୨ৎ Genre: Forbidden romance, slow burn? a bit enemies to lover? a bit angsty
୨ৎ Note: kinda long sorry. don’t come for me, i know there are typos 😭 proofreading? yeah no we don’t do that here. brain is sleepy, heart is full. drop your requests anytime & enjoy the mess <3
Oliver Bearman signed his life to Formula One before he could legally drink champagne on a podium.
Years in the Ferrari Driver Academy turned into reserve roles, and now? Haas driver. Full-time. Real deal.
Still wearing red on the inside, but with the weight of expectation crushing his shoulders.
He had finally made it. The dream was real.
And yet, all he could think about was the one clause buried in every contract from the beginning:
“Romantic involvement or entanglements with any personnel or immediate family of senior management from Ferrari-affiliated teams is strictly prohibited.”
Back then, it was fine print.
Because now he wasn’t just thinking about her—he was falling.
For Y/N Wolff.
Toto Wolff’s daughter. Mercedes-born. Silver-spined. A living, walking reminder of everything he wasn’t supposed to touch.
She entered the paddock like it was her runway.
Wearing a Mercedes team hoodie, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up, a black tennis skirt that swayed with every step, and heavy boots that thudded across the concrete floor with no hesitation. A pair of vintage sunglasses slid low across the bridge of her nose, and her lips curled at the corners—equal parts amused and unbothered.
She didn’t walk. She glided.
She didn’t try. She owned the space.
Like her last name didn’t carry weight in every boardroom. Like her bloodline wasn’t inked into contracts across multiple teams.
From across the grid, leaning against the Haas garage setup, he watched her. Helmet under his arm. Heat crawling up his neck despite the breezy weather. She laughed at something on her phone—probably a text from Susie. Her hair was tied up, her posture relaxed. She looked at home in the chaos. Born in it.
And maybe that was the problem.
She was home. She belonged here. And ollie? He wasn’t supposed to come anywhere close to that kind of belonging.
“Oi, Bearman,” one of the Haas engineers teased, nudging him out of his daze. “Focus on the tire data, not Mercedes’s royal family.”
Ollie’s head was already swimming—not with telemetry or track strategy—but with the way she had glanced at him earlier that week. Just once. Just enough to light a fire under his skin.
He knew the risk. He knew what people would say if word ever got out. Wolff’s daughter with a Ferrari-bred driver? A scandal waiting to happen. But when she looked at him, he felt weightless. Borderline reckless.
You know Descartes’ philosophy?
“I think, therefore I am.” Cogito ergo sum.
Well, when Ollie sees Y/N—
Therefore, he doesn’t sum.
They weren’t supposed to speak.
That’s what made it worse—the fact that neither of them planned it.
It happened in the one place no one would look for sparks: the hospitality coffee line in Monaco. The early kind of morning where the world hadn’t woken up yet and the paddock still smelled like sea air and tire rubber.
She was holding up the line.
Not on purpose—just scrolling through her phone, half-distracted, trying to decide between oat milk and normal milk like the world hinged on it.
He knew he should wait. Should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned and walked.
“You take milk like it’s a race strategy.”
Y/N turned slowly, raising an eyebrow, sunglasses pushed halfway up her forehead. “And you talk like someone who’s not afraid of getting fired.”
And then… she smiled. Not sweet. Not friendly. Smug. Curious. Like he’d surprised her, and that didn’t happen often.
“I—” he started, fumbling slightly. “Didn’t mean it like—”
“No,” she interrupted, pulling a small smile to her lips. “You did. And it was funny.”
Then: “Oat milk. Final answer,” she said, tapping it on the screen.
He huffed a breath of a laugh. “Good choice.”
Her eyes flicked down to the Haas logo on his shirt, and something changed in her expression—not colder, not cruel… just guarded.
“Enjoy the coffee, Bearman.”
He said nothing. Did nothing.
Just stood there long enough for the barista to ask twice if he was okay.
After that it was just stolen glances from across the paddock.
Quick ones. The kind that linger a heartbeat too long. The kind that only mean something if you want them to.
Oliver Bearman kept his distance—publicly. But when Y/N stood near the pit wall, when her laugh echoed down the paddock or when her eyes scanned the garage and paused on him…
He cracked.
Not completely. Just enough to ruin himself a little more each time.
The memory of Monaco hung quietly between them—unspoken but alive in the space they shared. It had been their first real conversation. Brief. Fleeting. Not what Ollie had imagined it would be. But it left a mark all the same—thrilling in its own quiet way. A spark that hadn’t gone out since.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” she said, watching him over the rim of her glass, her tone calm—casual, even—but her eyes told a different story. She remembered.
Ollie glanced at her, his mouth pulling into a faint, crooked smile. “And you’re exactly as sharp as you were in Monaco.”
Her brow lifted, but there was amusement behind it. “Sharp?”
He didn’t answer right away. His mind flicked back—early morning, sea air, her standing at the coffee machine like the world revolved around her milk choices. The first time he said something he shouldn’t have. The first time she smiled like she might bite.
“Dangerous,” he said finally. “That’s probably more accurate.”
That made her laugh—quiet and unbothered, like she wasn’t the very reason he’d been on edge for weeks. “Right. The coffee line,” she mused, setting her glass down. “Didn’t peg you for someone who remembers a five-minute conversation.”
“Didn’t peg you for someone who’d answer back.”
She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Maybe I was bored.”
“Maybe I wasn’t,” he replied before he could stop himself.
That made her pause. Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough for everything to switch between them, heavier now—weighted with the memory of what had already begun, and the knowing that neither of them had done a damn thing to stop it.
After that, something in the air between them shifted—subtle but undeniable. It became something they both knew they should walk away from… but but neither of them moved.
It was like something magnetic that keeps them grounded, a pull that makes them come back for more.
There were a thousand possibilities between them—each one more tempting than the last. But in every alternate version, in every imagined universe, the ending was always the same: it wasn’t meant to last.
The paddock was quieter at night—emptied out, the chaos packed away in shipping crates and media vans. Most people were already gone, leaving behind the faint buzz of overhead lights and the metallic smell of rubber and fuel. It was the only time the place felt still.
Y/N didn’t expect anyone to be around, least of all him.
But there he was—Ollie Bearman—leaning against a tire stack outside the Haas garage, half-zipped out of his suit and hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t break stride.
But he still called out, voice low and laced with something that made her steps falter.
She didn’t turn, just answered over her shoulder, casual and cold:
“Please. If I were, you'd never know it.”
Ollie pushed off the tires, falling into step beside her. His grin was annoyingly easy. Like this wasn’t dangerous. Like they weren’t toeing a line neither of them could afford to cross.
“Stealth mode? I’m honored.”
She glanced sideways, lips twitching despite herself. “I thought Haas drivers had curfews.”
“Only if someone tattles,” he said, raising an eyebrow. A beat. Then—
“You gonna tell your dad on me?”
She turned slowly, facing him now under the soft yellow glow of the paddock lights. The smile slipped from her face, replaced by something sharper. “You think this is a game?”
His smirk faltered. Just for a second. But she caught it.
“No,” he said, quieter now. “I think it’s a really bad idea that doesn’t feel bad when I’m near you.”
She hated that her heart responded to that. Hated that her hands felt warm even though the night breeze had turned cold.
They were too close now. Not touching, but close enough that if someone turned the corner, there would be questions neither of them could answer.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Then why are you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Not immediately.
Instead, her eyes searched his face—memorizing the way his jaw clenched slightly, how his eyes didn’t waver. He wasn’t playing. Not anymore.
“Because I’m selfish,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Honest.
His response came just as softly.
Silence stretched again, thick and fragile.
From somewhere deeper in the paddock, the clatter of tools echoed. But here—between them—there was only the sound of breath and possibility.
“Five more minutes,” Ollie said. “Then you can pretend this never happened.”
She stared at him. Really looked. And that was the problem—he didn’t look dangerous. He looked safe. Familiar in a way he shouldn’t be.
But something in her still whispered yes.
And when she spoke, it was barely louder than a breath.
He smiled—soft this time. No teasing. No cockiness.
And she knew, even as the words left her lips, that they were already far past the point of pretending.
Ollie’s smile lingered, something careful behind it now. Like he knew he was walking on a wire—but somehow, he couldn’t stop. And neither could she.
They didn’t move at first.
Just stood there, watching each other in that stillness that only existed after midnight and just before everything went wrong.
“You always talk like that?” she asked after a moment, folding her arms loosely. “All confident and reckless?”
“Only around people I’m not supposed to be talking to.”
She let out a quiet breath that almost—almost—sounded like a laugh. It surprised even her.
“You know, if someone sees us—”
“They won’t,” he said quickly, then softer, “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
That made her look at him again—really look.
Because Oliver Bearman didn’t say things like that. Not in press conferences. Not in interviews. And definitely not in casual passing.
But here, under the flickering lights of an empty paddock, it felt like truth.
She swallowed, unsure if the sudden thudding in her chest was adrenaline or something much worse.
“You’re too bold for your own good,” she murmured.
“You’re too careful for yours,” he shot back, eyes locking with hers.
She finally let out a laugh. A real laugh. "Oh how the tables are turned."
He said nothing—just smiled at her like she was a masterpiece he wasn’t meant to touch. Flawless at first glance, but hiding something he couldn’t name. Something that made him want to keep looking.
Then a pause. One she could’ve broken—but didn’t.
“Why are you still here?” she asked, softer now. There was no edge to it. No teasing. Just honest confusion and the tiniest crack in her carefully built walls.
“Because five minutes with you feels better than an entire weekend on the podium,” he said without hesitation.
Her breath hitched. It wasn’t the words. It was how simply he said them. No dramatics. No performance.
And for a second, she hated him for it. Because she believed him.
“This can’t happen,” she whispered.
“But I still want it,” he said.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
And for the first time since Monaco, Y/N didn’t have anything to say.
Before they knew it, they were leaning in.
Slow. Careful. Drawn together like two sides of a secret they hadn’t meant to share.
Their eyes didn’t break.
Couldn’t.
It felt like if one of them looked away, the moment would collapse. Their foreheads almost touched. Their mouths, just inches apart.
The voice made her flinch.
Her breath caught mid-chest, and Oliver stepped back almost instantly, like the air itself had snapped between them.
She turned toward the sound, pulse hammering.
He stood a few feet away, holding her tablet, his expression unreadable. His presence filled the quiet space with something heavier than just authority—it was fatherhood, and it cracked through her like thunder.
“You forgot this in the briefing room,” he said, offering the tablet.
She swallowed hard, nodding as she approached him with a forced calm.
“Thanks dad,” she managed, voice steady despite the heat still rising under her skin.
Toto’s eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder. “Bearman.”
Ollie straightened, posture sharp. “Sir.”
There was nothing overt in the way Toto said it—no suspicion, no sharp edge. But it lingered long enough to remind them both of what was at stake.
Toto glanced back at his daughter, brow raised slightly. “You good?”
She nodded, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just needed air.”
A pause. Too long to be normal.
“Come on, then,” Toto said finally. “Let’s go. It’s late.”
She hesitated. Just for a second.
She didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
Because if she did, she might stay.
She fell into step beside her father, hands wrapped tight around the tablet like it was the only thing holding her together.
Behind her, Ollie didn’t say anything.
But she felt it—his gaze. Like a tether still stretched between them, pulled taut and trembling.
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing quieter with each one. And as they disappeared into the night, Ollie finally let himself breathe.
The kiss hadn’t happened. But that didn’t make it any less real.
Y/N wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew that.
She wasn’t supposed to be on this floor.
Team hotel rules were clear—stick to your designated floors, don’t wander, don’t risk headlines. But the elevator had dinged on Level 8 by mistake, and before she could hit the button again, she saw him.
Slouched against the door to his room, hoodie pulled over his head, phone in hand, thumb pausing mid-scroll when he looked up and saw her.
Her breath hitched. She didn’t mean to stop walking.
Neither of them spoke at first. The hallway was too quiet—the kind of quiet that made everything louder. Footsteps. Heartbeats. The hum of electricity in the walls.
“You lost?” he asked, voice low, like even the hotel walls had ears.
She shook her head, slowly. “No. Just… wrong floor.”
A half-truth. Maybe less.
He stood straighter, pulling his hood down. Hair tousled, eyes rimmed with exhaustion—but soft. Soft in a way she hated herself for noticing.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I am.” Then a pause. “You look like you’re about to change your mind.”
That made her freeze. “About what?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because her eyes gave it away. They always did when it came to him. “You’re not making this easy,” she muttered, fingers curling into her sleeves.
He laughed, quiet and short. “Not trying to.”
She took a step closer. So did he.
“You know what happens if anyone sees me here.”
Her resolve thinned, crumbling like paper left out in the rain. “You’re an idiot.”
“So are you,” he said, almost smiling. “You showed up.”
He didn’t say another word after that—just watched her the way he always did. Like she was a secret too beautiful to keep—but too dangerous to share.
She hated how her heart answered him before her head could.
But it was already too late.
Her feet moved before reason could catch up, slow steps shrinking the space between them until they were standing face to face in the middle of a hotel hallway that could ruin them both.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move. But his eyes dropped to her mouth—and that was enough.
“Tell me not to,” he whispered.
“Tell me not to want this. Tell me you don’t think about it. About what almost happened last night.” Her breath caught.
That was it. That was the truth. “You were going to kiss me,” she said.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough to want to.”
His voice cracked through whatever restraint she had left.
She could feel it slipping—the control, the logic, the weight of her last name.
“Say the word and I’ll back off.” He leaned in, forehead brushing hers, breath warm. “I’ll stop.”
Instead, she whispered what would ruin everything— “Don’t stop.”
Ollie kissed her like he was afraid she’d disappear. Careful, warm, like a secret he’d been dying to keep close. Her hands clutched at the front of his hoodie, anchoring herself to him like it was the only real thing left in the world.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.
It was worse. It was real.
But just as she leaned into him fully—just as their mouths deepened, hearts slamming against the walls they’d tried to build—
Her phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
Ollie stepped back. Hands clenched at his sides, lips parted like he was still chasing her.
“Shit,” she breathed, guilt slamming into her chest like impact.
He nodded, saying nothing.
She stared at him for a moment longer, like she wasn’t ready to leave this behind—even if she had to.
“Don’t say anything,” she whispered. “Please. I can’t—”
She didn’t finish. Couldn’t.
She turned away, swiping to answer the call. “Hi, yeah, I’m just grabbing something from the lobby. I’ll be back in five.”
Then the elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside.
Just like that, she was gone.
It wasn’t until the next morning that everything fell apart.
Y/N woke to her phone blowing up with notifications. Messages. Missed calls. Group chats that never usually spoke before 10 a.m. suddenly active with—
"Tell me this isn't real."
"Y/N. You and Bearman???"
She opened Twitter. And there it was. A picture of you two kissing, it was blurry— a dim lit picture that showed the two of you together.
Clear enough to see her hands in his hoodie.
Clear enough to see Oliver’s lips on hers.
The caption read: “That doesn’t look like just coffee in Monaco anymore.”
And the rest of the world? Was already putting the pieces together.
Your heart dropped at the sight— chest heaving frantically up and down, the pain in your chest worsen as you red the chat Toto sent.
Reality hitting you like a train. Quick and painful.
The paddock felt different today.
Quieter. Colder. Like everyone knew something she wasn’t ready to admit out loud.
Y/N kept her head down, sunglasses shielding her face despite the overcast skies above. Every step toward the Mercedes motorhome felt heavier. More deliberate. She could feel eyes on her—sharp, curious, loaded with the kind of silence that screamed.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Another message from her father.
No hello. No warmth. Just weight.
She swallowed hard and cut across the back lot toward the motorhome—only to pause when she caught sight of him.
Standing outside the Haas hospitality unit, flanked by two members of the PR team. One was scrolling through a phone, the other speaking low and fast, gesturing with restrained panic. Ollie just stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed tight into a line. His jaw was locked, his hair still wet from the shower, hoodie clinging to his frame like armor.
When his eyes flicked up and found her across the way, he blinked like he hadn’t expected her to be there. His expression shifted—softened—but only for a second.
The woman next to him said something sharp, and he looked away.
Back to business. Back to damage control.
She should’ve looked away too.
And he didn’t come after her.
So she turned and kept walking, each step louder than the last until the motorhome door clicked shut behind her.
Toto’s office was quiet when she entered. Too quiet.
He stood at the window, arms crossed behind his back like a general surveying a battlefield. He didn’t turn around when she walked in. Didn’t greet her. Just let the silence build like pressure in her chest.
“You want to tell me what the hell I saw on the internet this morning?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He turned then—finally—and the look in his eyes was worse than yelling. Not angry. Just… disappointed. “You think I care about the PR mess? The articles? No. I care that you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” she said quickly. Then quieter, “I just didn’t tell you.”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Toto ran a hand down his face and let out a slow breath. “Do you even understand what this means?”
“No, you don’t. You’re my daughter. He’s a Haas driver. You don’t just kiss each other in a hallway and hope the cameras missed it. You jeopardize reputations. Contracts. His career.”
That hit harder than she expected.
Because she knew he was right.
And maybe that was what made it worse.
“I didn’t mean to put him in that position,” she said, eyes dropping to the floor.
“But you did,” Toto said. “And now it’s not just between you two. It’s headlines. It’s leverage. It’s political.”
He sat down behind his desk, voice leveling out again. “I’m not going to ask you what’s going on between you. I don’t want to know.”
That stung more than it should have.
“But from here on out, it’s over. Do you understand me?”
She looked up at him slowly, chest tight. “You can’t control who I feel—”
“I can control what happens inside this paddock,” he cut in, sharply.
“And you need to decide if whatever this is… is worth everything it could destroy.”
Because the truth? She didn’t know.
The storm didn’t start with the rain. It started with her father.
The conversation still echoed in her head—sharp, final, the kind that left no room to breathe. But as soon as she stepped out of the motorhome, the sky followed suit.
Rain fell like the universe had timed it. Like it had been listening in.
It wasn’t heavy—but it was cold. Sharp. Relentless. The kind of rain that sank through your clothes, clung to your skin, and made you feel like the world was punishing you for wanting too much.
Like it wasn’t enough for your heart to break— It had to drown too.
Y/N stood under a flickering paddock light, arms crossed over her chest. Her ponytail was drenched, strands sticking to her cheeks. The Mercedes hoodie clung to her skin, heavy with water, like even it knew she was carrying the weight of something she shouldn’t.
She hadn't moved in ten minutes. She wasn’t sure she could.
Then she heard footsteps.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.
Ollie stopped a few feet away, water dripping from his curls, fireproofs half-zipped, chest rising and falling like he’d just run there.
Neither of them said anything at first.
“You shouldn't be here,” she finally muttered. Her voice was low. Shaky. “We said—”
“Don’t.” Her eyes flicked up, tired and wet and burning. “Don’t make this harder.”
“I’m not trying to make it harder,” he said. “I’m trying to make it real.”
She laughed once, bitter and sharp.
“It was real, Ollie. That’s the problem. And now the whole world knows it.”
“Easy for you to say.” She snapped now, finally letting the frustration rise to the surface. “You’re not the team principal’s daughter. You’re not the one with your dad in your ear telling you to pick a side—telling you you’re the reason someone else’s future is at risk.”
She looked away quickly, like she regretted saying it. The rain was relentless now, plastering her sleeves to her skin.
Ollie was quiet. But only for a second.
“Do you think I care about my future if it means I lose you?”
His voice cracked—not loud, just broken. “Do you think I can go back to pretending like everything didn’t happen? Like I didn’t feel it every time you looked at me?”
“That’s not fair,” she whispered.
“None of this is fair.” He stepped forward again.
She didn’t move this time.
“You think I haven’t been trying to forget you? You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering if it would’ve been easier if I’d just kept walking in that damn coffee line?”
His hands clenched at his sides.
“But I didn’t. Because you smiled. And that was it. You ruined everything in one second—and I haven’t wanted anything more since.”
Y/N shook her head, half a warning, half a plea. “Stop. Don’t say that. You’ll get dropped.”
“Then I’ll get dropped.” His voice was steady now. “But don’t ask me to walk away from you. I won’t survive it.”
Her chest rose with a sharp inhale. Eyes glistening—not just from the rain.
Then another step. Until she was right in front of him.
Still angry. Still heartbroken. But more than anything—undone.
“You idiot,” she whispered. And then she kissed him. Hard.
Like it was a war they’d both already lost.
His hands gripped her waist like they were still in free fall. Her fingers twisted into his fireproofs, anchoring herself to him because she knew—this might be the only moment they ever get to be honest.
When they finally broke apart, breathing hard and rain-soaked, she pressed her forehead to his.
Ollie laughed under his breath. “Yeah. But I’ve never wanted anything more.”
And this time—Even after the fight, the storm, the warnings— Nobody walked away.
He’d told himself a hundred times—not yet. Not until the season was over. Not until the media heat died down. Not until he had more leverage. More wins. More certainty.
But Oliver Bearman had just driven the race of his life. Haas was on fire—figuratively, for once—and he’d finished P7 after a brutal last-lap battle that left the garage screaming and the paddock watching.
And as soon as he pulled into parc fermé, helmet still on, he was scanning the crowd. Not for his race engineer. Not even for Guenther.
And she was already watching him—arms folded, sunglasses in her hair, smirking like she knew. Like she always knew.
The cameras were following his every move, but he didn’t care.
He made it halfway down the hallway behind the paddock when he saw her waiting—leaning casually against the wall, dressed in a loose black blazer and that ever-present Mercedes lanyard around her neck. Her nails were painted silver. Her lip gloss shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights.
“P7,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “Not bad.”
“Could’ve been better,” he replied, stepping closer. “You weren’t at the grid before the start.”
“Mercedes briefing. Sorry.” But her tone wasn’t apologetic.
“You could’ve at least sent a good luck text.”
“I was going to.” She paused. “Then I remembered your contract forbids emotional entanglements.”
He laughed softly, eyes locked on hers. “You think this is emotional?”
“I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
And maybe it was. Maybe it had always been. But if it was going to ruin him—if it was going to cost him—he wanted to make damn sure it was worth it.
So he stepped forward, no words, no hesitation, and kissed her.
Right there in the hallway. In front of a stunned Red Bull media assistant, two comms engineers, and a cameraman who visibly froze mid-step.
Her hands went to his collar. His fingers curled around her waist. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t rushed. It was steady. Intentional. Like sealing something they’d been trying to deny for far too long.
When he finally pulled away, her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, and her next breath shook with adrenaline.
“You really think that’s gonna go unnoticed?” she asked, voice low.
“I hope it doesn’t,” he said.
The kiss went viral in under five minutes. Twitter was broken. Instagram was full of blurry zoomed-in reposts from a panicked F1 intern’s story.
The captions practically wrote themselves:
“DID BEARMAN JUST HARD LAUNCH Y/N WOLFF???”
“Tell me this isn’t real. I’m crying and screaming.”
“We finally have an enemies-to-lovers paddock AU in real life.”
Even the F1 official account got in on it:
📰 BREAKING: Bearman x Wolff confirmed. And no, it’s not a crossover fanfic.
The next day, Ollie was summoned to Toto’s office.
It was colder than usual. Minimal words. Y/N sat beside him, calm and poised. But her heel bounced slightly against the marble floor.
Toto looked at Ollie like he was measuring something. Like he was weighing every possible consequence of this boy kissing his daughter in front of the entire racing world.
“You do understand what you’ve done,” he said finally.
“Yes, sir,” Ollie said. “I do.”
Toto leaned back. “Your team isn’t happy.”
“I know.” His voice was steady. “But I’d do it again.”
Then, a slow breath. Toto turned to Y/N. “And you?”
She met his gaze, unapologetic. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
A beat passed. Then another.
Toto sighed. Long. Tired. “You both are idiots.”
Y/N blinked. “So that’s a yes?”
“No,” he said. “That’s a don’t get caught doing anything dumber than that kiss.”
Oliver nearly laughed in relief.
“And if you’re serious about this,” Toto continued, voice firm, “then you bring him to family dinner next week. I’m not having my daughter dating a boy I only know from pit lane radio.”
