Still...

You’ve never been one to do things halfway.

From the moment you stepped into your first NFL locker room as an intern, microphone shaking slightly in your hand, you knew you’d fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. And you did.

You clawed your way from rookie sideline reporter to the woman everyone looked to for breaking stories. The NBA followed, then an award or two, and soon enough, Formula 1 came knocking.

You’ve always been easygoing — the kind of woman who can laugh with a PR team one second and grill a head coach the next — but you don’t tolerate nonsense when it comes to your work. You’re sharp, thorough, and relentless when chasing a story, and that reputation precedes you.

Even now, as you step onto the paddock for the first time, credential swinging from your neck and heels clicking on the asphalt, you feel that old rush of purpose.

This is where you’re meant to be. The air is thick with gasoline and competition, fans screaming from the fences, cameras flashing — and you thrive in it.

You’ve followed Formula 1 for years, but secretly, you’ve always had a favorite: Scuderia Ferrari’s silver-haired, red-eyed prodigy, Sylus Qin.

You’ve watched him rise from his F2 debut to the big leagues, and maybe, just maybe, you’re a little biased. Not that you’d ever let that slip.

You’re here to work — to break stories, to get the inside scoop, to prove that women like you belong in this world.

Still, as you catch sight of him in Ferrari red across the paddock, laughing with his engineer under the blistering sun, your breath catches just a little.

Just because you’re a boss doesn’t mean you’re immune to a pretty face.

On the other hand, Sylus had been in Formula 1 long enough to know the rhythm of a race weekend.

Three seasons in the red meant press calls, simulator sessions, briefings, sponsors — rinse, repeat. He moved through it with the easy swagger of someone who knew exactly where he stood.

The fans adored him, the team relied on him, and the media couldn’t get enough of his sharp one-liners and devastating smiles.

But lately, he found himself scanning the press room for a different reason.

He spotted you almost immediately, notebook in hand, camera slung across your shoulder like an extension of your body.

You weren’t like the others — no frantic scrambling for clickbait, no shouting questions just to get a sound bite. You asked the right ones, the kind that made him pause and think before answering. And God, did he look forward to it.

Even now, as he slid into his chair at the press conference table, he felt that spark of anticipation — searching the rows until he found you. There you were, leaning forward slightly, focus sharp, lips pressed together in quiet concentration as the moderator read the first question.

Sylus hid a smirk behind his water bottle.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself — polished but not performative, with just enough steel in your voice to match his own — but he couldn’t help himself.

He liked the chase. The subtle game between the two of you. The way you barely flinched when he teased you, when his gaze lingered a second too long after answering one of your questions.

“Ready?” his race engineer muttered beside him.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to you.

“Always,” he replied — though he wasn’t talking about the race.

You were always meticulous about separating your personal life from work. Everyone was aware of this, and it was one of the reasons why you were so incredibly successful in your field.

You asked clean, sharp questions, never letting yourself get flustered or crossing any lines. People trusted you for that.

Everyone except Sylus, that is.

“Journalist of the Year,” he drawled as he stepped into the media pen, still in his fireproofs, hair damp from the helmet. He was grinning like he had just been told the world’s funniest joke. “Are you going to ask me something difficult today, or can I relax?”

“I always ask difficult questions,” you shot back, pen poised over your notepad. “It’s not my fault if you keep giving me easy answers.”

The other journalists laughed under their breath, and Sylus tilted his head, red eyes glinting in amusement.

“Careful,” he said, leaning just a little closer so only you could hear. “One day you might make me work too hard, and then I’ll have to find another reason to keep coming back here.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction — not really.

Just a slight quirk of your brow as you fired off your question about Ferrari’s strategy calls, perfectly professional. Still, you caught the small smirk he tried to hide when he answered you, just vague enough to be cheeky.

“Classic Sylus,” someone muttered behind you, but you stayed focused, scribbling down his words, even as you could feel his gaze linger on you a beat longer than necessary before he moved on to the next reporter.

It was becoming a pattern.

Post-qualifying interviews where he’d answer your questions with a grin that was just shy of flirtatious. Media pen sessions where he’d throw you a playful quip, knowing it’d get a rise out of you. And you? You handled him like you handled everyone — calm, composed, untouchable.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The pen finally cleared, leaving you with your clipboard, your notes, and the faint echo of Sylus’s laughter still bouncing around your head. You shook it off — you had a deadline to meet.

“You know,” a fellow journalist sidled up beside you, smirking, “if I had men like that looking at me like that, I’d stop pretending I don’t notice.”

Another one chimed in, leaning against the table. “Seriously, do you have ice in your veins or what? He’s Ferrari’s golden boy. He doesn’t flirt like that with anyone else.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your notepad into your bag. “He’s just being nice. He does that with everyone.”

“Mmhm,” your colleague said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure. And I’m the next World Champion.”

Their laughter followed you as you made your way back to the media center, but you didn’t slow your pace. The teasing was familiar, harmless, but you weren’t about to let yourself get caught up in speculation.

You had an article to finish, an editor to appease, and an entire grid’s worth of drivers to cover — not just one annoyingly attractive one with red eyes and a penchant for smirking at you in the middle of press conferences.

Still, as you sat back down at your laptop and replayed the day’s interviews, your cursor lingered a little too long on the section where Sylus had leaned close, voice low, grin infuriatingly charming.

You told yourself it would wear off.

It had to.

You weren’t the type to get distracted.

Not by anyone — and definitely not by him.

Sylus had always kept things simple — race hard, spend harder, and avoid getting tangled in anything that didn’t involve a checkered flag.

Emotions, relationships, commitments? Too messy. Too distracting.

And yet, he found himself scanning every paddock he walked into, looking for you.

You were easy to spot, somehow — not because you were loud, but because you carried yourself with that quiet authority that made people move aside without even realizing it.

He’d catch glimpses of you with your hair pinned back, pen between your teeth as you typed furiously into your laptop, or kneeling by a photographer to compare notes before the next interview block.

You were in the pen rain or shine, notebook in hand, voice steady even when questions got heated. He’d seen you put your mic down once — once — when a rival driver tried to bait you into gossip.

“Respectfully, I’m here to talk about the race, not rumors,” you’d said, and Sylus had barely suppressed a grin. You didn’t flinch, didn’t cave, and everyone respected you for it.

But Sylus wanted more than your professionalism.

He’d caught himself lingering near the media center after debriefs, listening to your laugh carry down the hall, low and warm. He’d seen you stay long after everyone had left, poring over transcripts until your eyes were half-shut.

Once, in Suzuka, you were crouched on the floor with a laptop and three half-empty coffee cups, muttering deadlines under your breath — and it made something inside him twist.

“You’re going to burn yourself out like that,” he’d teased, passing by, helmet still in hand.

You’d barely glanced up. “Better burned out than sloppy reporting.”

It had been an offhand remark, but Sylus had thought about it all night.

For a man who thought he’d seen it all — the fast cars, the fast lives, the beautiful people — he hadn’t expected someone like you to catch his eye. But now, when he saw your smile after a long day or caught the tired little sigh of relief when a story went live, it was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like… something he wasn’t ready to name.

It started small.

Sylus lingered a little longer in the media pen that Thursday, a hat tucked under his arm as usual, but this time he didn’t walk past your little corner. He stopped right in front of you.

“You look like you haven’t slept since Miami,” he drawled, a teasing glint in his crimson eyes.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, pen hovering over your notes.

“I sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Not enough,” he replied, leaning against the barrier as if he had nowhere else to be. Cameras clicked nearby, other drivers walked past, but Sylus’s attention didn’t waver.

“Try not to pass out during my quali tomorrow, yeah? I’d hate to put on a show and not have my favorite journalist see it.”

Your friends lost it.

The second Sylus walked away — with a lazy wink, no less — one of them slapped your arm. “Favorite journalist? Are you kidding me right now?”

Another laughed. “Do you have any idea how many women would kill to have Sylus Qin say that to them?”

You tried to play it off, flipping your notebook shut with a sigh. “He’s just being Sylus. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” your friend smirked, “but he’s never like that with us.”

You ignored them, returning to your laptop, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You told yourself it would wear off. That it was nothing. Just another driver being cheeky.

But deep down, you knew better.

On Saturday, the media pen was buzzing after quali — Red Bull locked out the front row again, Ferrari had one driver in P13 and Sylus in P7. Not the worst result, but definitely not what the Tifosi were hoping for.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

“P7,” you said, voice even and professional as your cameraman gave you the cue. “Not quite where you wanted to be, but still solid points potential for tomorrow. Walk me through that lap.”

Sylus didn’t even answer right away. Instead, he gave you a look — slow, deliberate, the kind that made you suddenly very aware of the cameras, the crowd, the mic in your hand.

“P7 isn’t bad,” he finally said, leaning slightly closer so only you could really hear the low drawl in his voice, “but I’d have gone faster if I knew you’d be waiting for me at the finish line.”

Your jaw nearly dropped, but you recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. “Professional answer, Sylus,” you reminded him, trying not to look like your heart was doing backflips.

“Oh, right,” he smirked, pretending to think as he crossed his arms, the scarlet of his fireproofs creasing just enough to show off the outline of his muscles.

“Car felt decent. Still fighting a bit with traction out of Turn 3, but I’ll figure it out before tomorrow. Don’t worry — I plan on giving you something worth writing about.”

The way he said it — direct, playful — had heat rushing to your face before you could stop it. Your cameraman, bless him, cleared his throat loudly to break whatever electricity had just sparked between you two.

You jumped slightly, flashing the camera a quick, professional smile as though nothing happened.

“Well, we’ll be watching. Good luck tomorrow, Sylus.”

He didn’t leave right away. Instead, he gave you one last look — that slow, knowing smirk curling his lips — before finally walking off to the next reporter.

Your friends in the pen didn’t let you breathe.

“Oh my god,” one of them whispered as soon as he was out of earshot. “Do you two need a moment?”

You rolled your eyes, tucking your hair behind your ear to hide the very obvious blush creeping up your neck. “Focus,” you hissed, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Because no matter how hard you tried to keep the walls up, Sylus Qin had just made it very clear — the chase was on.

Meanwhile, you didn’t want to challenge your boundaries — you’d worked too hard to earn your reputation as the paddock’s consummate professional — but Sylus had started seeking you out more often, until the line between “work” and “whatever this was” began to blur.

It wasn’t noticeable at first. A teasing quip after a press conference, a wink when you passed him in the paddock. But soon it became an every weekend occurrence — and people were starting to notice.

During one Thursday media day, you were standing with a group of journalists, notebook in hand, when Sylus strolled by. He slowed just enough to make eye contact with you and said, “Hope you’re asking the hard questions tomorrow — wouldn’t want you to go easy on me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “When have I ever gone easy on you?”

His grin was slow, wolfish. “Never. And that’s why you’re my favorite.”

The other drivers definitely heard that one. Ollie, walking just behind Sylus, did a full double take before breaking into a grin and muttering, “Oh, this is getting good.”

By Saturday’s quali, the banter had escalated. When you went to interview him post-session, he leaned on the barrier in front of you and gave you that signature smirk.

“You look like you want to yell at me for P11,” he said, casually peeling off his gloves.

“I don’t yell,” you replied coolly, but you couldn’t stop the corner of your mouth from twitching upward.

“Mm. Not yet,” he teased, and the camera guy audibly snorted behind you.

And then there was the time during the driver parade when he waved at the crowd — and then directly at you.

The gesture was so obvious that Isack, standing next to him, leaned over with an incredulous grin and said into the mic just loudly enough for the F1TV feed to catch:

“Mate, you’re not even subtle anymore.”

Sylus just shrugged, totally unapologetic.

By now, the banter was so frequent that your friends in the press room started keeping score.

Who teased who first? Who left the other flustered? You pretended to brush it off, nose buried in your work — but you couldn’t deny the spark that crackled every time you two locked eyes.

It wasn’t just flirting anymore. It was becoming a game — one that the whole paddock was in on.

It scared you — more than you wanted to admit.

You’d worked so hard to keep your personal and professional life separate, yet suddenly it felt like the whole world was watching you eradicate that line that you, yourself, built.

The whispers, the cameras, the headlines — they were all there, quietly reminding you that one wrong step could undo everything in the blink of an eye.

So when Sylus invited you out for dinner after the race weekend, you almost said no. Almost.

But now, sitting across from him at a quiet little restaurant tucked away from the busy streets, wine glass in hand, you finally let the words spill.

“It’s… a lot,” you admitted softly, eyes trained on the tablecloth. “Being around you. Having people look at me differently. I worked so hard to build this reputation, Sylus, and now I feel like every time someone takes a picture of us, they’re waiting for me to slip up.”

Sylus didn’t interrupt. He just listened, leaning back in his chair, letting you say every thought you’d been holding back for weeks.

Finally, he reached across the table, gently taking your hand in his.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady, the kind that made your chest loosen. “I would never let anything bad happen to you. Not because of me. Not because of any of this.”

You glanced up, and for once there wasn’t any teasing in his expression — just raw honesty.

“I love what you do,” he continued. “You’re good at it. You make us look good even when we’re having the worst day of our lives out there. You make people see us — not just the drivers, but the humans. And I… I love that about you.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear — it was relief.

“You really mean that?” you asked quietly.

Sylus squeezed your hand. “I’ve never meant anything more. I’m not trying to mess with your career. I just… want to be part of your world, if you’ll let me.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight on your shoulders eased just a little.

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly, “I can let work and my feelings mesh for a bit. Just to see where it goes.”

Sylus grinned then, soft but triumphant, and raised his glass.

“To seeing where it goes,” he said.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel scared — you felt excited.

The next race weekend in Monza felt different.

You weren’t sure if it was the quiet confidence Sylus left you with after that dinner or the way he seemed lighter too, but everything just… felt easier.

You still did your job the way you always had — microphone in hand, crisp questions ready, professional smile firmly in place — but you didn’t flinch when Sylus found you in the paddock, leaning casually against the Ferrari motorhome, grinning like he had a secret.

“Good luck charm,” he teased as you walked by, just loud enough for your cameraman to hear.

“You wish,” you shot back, but there was no heat behind it. If anything, the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

And maybe that’s why the cameras caught it.

Because by the time qualifying ended and Sylus put his car P1, the internet already had screenshots of the way you looked at him as he walked past you in the media pen, all smug and flushed with adrenaline.

Then came the headlines.

“Ferrari’s Sylus Qin and Paddock Darling Spark More Romance Rumors After Quali Banter.”

“F1’s New Power Couple? Fans Compare Y/n and Sylus to Alonso & Melissa.”

“New WAG Era Incoming — and She’s a Total Boss.”

Your journalist friends wouldn’t stop sending you TikToks and fan edits.

“Oh my God,” one of them gasped, holding up her phone during lunch. “People are calling you the ‘CEO of the paddock.’ This edit is literally saying you’re the definition of boss woman.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the laugh. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not as insufferable as Ferrari’s golden boy looking at you like you hung the moon,” your friend shot back.

And just when you were about to fire back some sarcastic reply, Sylus appeared behind you, still in his red polo, hair slightly damp from the heat.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just set the internet on fire.

Your friends exchanged a look, biting back their grins.

“Ready for what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“For dinner. Again. Unless you’re going to pretend you don’t like seeing me outside of work anymore,” he said, and there was that grin — the one that got him into trouble.

The table went quiet, then erupted in teasing.

“Oh, she’s ready,” one of your colleagues laughed.

And maybe you should have been embarrassed, but you weren’t.

Because when Sylus reached for your hand as you got up, you didn’t pull away this time. You let him lead you through the paddock, the cameras flashing, the fans screaming, and for once you didn’t care.

If anything, you found yourself smiling, letting them take their photos.

Because maybe you weren’t just the journalist anymore.

Maybe you were the journalist who had the heart of Ferrari’s brightest star — and maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a scary thought after all.

The atmosphere in the Ferrari driver room was electric. The roar of the Tifosi outside still echoed through the walls, and the celebratory red confetti clung to Sylus’s hair.

He was still in his fireproofs, sitting with one leg bouncing, energy buzzing off of him as though the race hadn’t ended thirty minutes ago.

And you — still in your work clothes, laptop perched on your knees — were frantically typing out your post-race article before deadline.

“Don’t you have a team for this?” Sylus teased, leaning over to peek at your screen.

“Yes,” you said without looking up, “but this one is mine. Ferrari Home Win at Monza? I’d never let someone else write it.”

He smirked, leaning closer until his chin nearly rested on your shoulder. “So serious,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “Some of us have jobs outside of driving fast cars, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice dropping to a low rumble as his hand slid over your thigh, thumb brushing against the seam of your skirt. “I just think maybe the journalist deserves a break. Preferably with the driver who just won his home race.”

“Sylus,” you hissed, trying not to laugh, “I have ten minutes to turn this in—”

“And I have all night to celebrate,” he cut you off, pulling your chair closer to him so you were practically in his lap now.

You tried to protest, but the grin on his face was too contagious.

“You’re impossible,” you said finally, typing with one hand now because the other was occupied with keeping his big hands off your laptop.

“Mm, but you like me this way,” he said smugly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before leaning back just enough to watch you type.

“Go on then, boss woman. I’ll wait. But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight.”

“Good,” you muttered under your breath, and that earned you one of his rare, boyish laughs — the kind that made your chest feel warm.

When you hit send on the article, Sylus didn’t even give you a chance to close the laptop before he took it gently from your lap and set it aside.

“My turn,” he said simply, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, the noise of the Tifosi outside now nothing compared to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

By the time your article went live, Ferrari’s media team had already posted their shot — Sylus sitting in the driver room with you perched on his lap, still holding your laptop, his cheek pressed against your temple.

The photo went viral within minutes.

“Boss woman WAG era??”

“This is so Fernando + Melissa coded but younger??”

“She really just filed her article from the driver’s room in his lap??? Iconic.”

The edits came fast — TikToks with slow zooms on the way Sylus’s thumb traced lazy circles on your knee, compilations of him looking for you in the media pen spliced with clips of this moment. Twitter (or X, whatever it was these days) was in full meltdown.

You caught wind of it later that night, scrolling through your phone in Sylus’s hotel room as he lounged shirtless on the bed behind you.

“‘Most professional paddock relationship ever,’” you read aloud, suppressing a laugh. “‘Can deliver a Monza Ferrari win and 800 words before deadline.’”

Sylus peeked over your shoulder, grinning. “They’re not wrong.”

“Do you realize the amount of edits out there of you staring at me during interviews?” you teased, tossing your phone onto the bed.

He didn’t even look guilty. “Good. Let them know.”

You raised a brow. “Let them know what?”

“That I’ve been gone for them,” he said simply, pulling you down beside him. “From the start.”

It was ridiculous — you were supposed to be the professional one, the serious journalist who kept her personal life out of the headlines. And yet, somehow, being in the spotlight with him didn’t feel invasive. It felt… right.