The Ultimate Excuse
Summary: Winning passes to the Visa Cash App RB garage is the ultimate upgrade. But when a bold rookie spots you trying to explain the sport to your friend, he jumps at the perfect excuse to crash your lesson.
Song: Belong To The City · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Taglist: @papayasolace13, @knight-of-flowerss, @rosereadsarchive
Author’s note: I loved writing this so much! Sorry if the text wasn't coming out before but I fixed it now! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 8.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
@not.y/n
liked by not.y/n, sarah.b and 2,396 others.
not.y/n: After years of watching race weekends from my couch, I’m finally here with my bestie! 😝
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It was Arvid's first time at Silverstone with Visa Cash App RB and he was grateful to represent one of his countries, though the weight of the expectation felt like an extra ten kilograms of ballast in the cockpit.
He could feel the vibration of the engine rattling through his spine, a violent, mechanical hunger that demanded more than he was currently giving it.
The English countryside was a blur of manicured green and grey asphalt, a high-speed carousel where a single inch of miscalculation would send him spinning into the gravel.
Hours later, the adrenaline of the track shifted into the electric roar of the fan zone. Arvid felt a surge of warmth, not from the engine, but from the thousands of faces screaming his name as he and Liam stepped onto the F1 Drivers' Stage.
Walking alongside the Red Bull drivers, Isack and Max, the contrast in their stature was evident—the seasoned veterans versus the fresh-faced newcomers—but the crowd didn't care about the gap in experience.
They only cared that the new blood had arrived, and the cheers were so loud they seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Arvid's bones.
He kept his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the toes of his sponsors' sneakers, the sudden spotlight feeling less like a celebration and more like an interrogation.
He had spent most of the morning trying to blend into the paddock walls, terrified that one wrong word would expose him as an impostor in a world of titans.
But as he looked up and saw the sea of blue and red banners, the genuine, raw hunger for his success reflecting in the eyes of the fans, the knot in his stomach loosened.
He was still a rookie, a novice playing a game of millimeters, but the warmth of their acceptance acted as a catalyst, pushing him to straighten his back and offer a hesitant, genuine smile.
"The car is a beast, but we're learning how to tame it together," Arvid told the interviewer, his voice steadier than he felt. He began to lean into the questions, pivoting from nervous stammers to sharp, insightful observations about the track's evolving grip and the precise moment he felt the rear end step out at Copse.
By the time the microphone was pulled away, he realized the tremor in his hands had vanished. "If the veterans think the new blood is just for show," he added with a sudden, daring glint in his eye, "they might want to check their mirrors in the final sector."
He stepped off the stage and felt the sudden, jarring silence of the backstage corridor, where the roar of the crowd became a muffled hum.
The air here was cooler, smelling of ozone and expensive espresso, and for the first time, the paddock didn't feel like a maze designed to swallow him whole.
He caught his reflection in a polished chrome panel—the team's polo clinging to his chest, the focused intensity in his own gaze—and recognized a man who belonged in the cockpit, not just as a placeholder, but as a predator.
The silence of the corridor was interrupted by a burst of laughter from a small group of VIP pass-holders lingering near the hospitality entrance.
Arvid paused, his gaze landing on a woman who was gesturing emphatically toward a faded program in her friend's hand. "For the love of God, Sarah, look at the driver list! Charles Leclerc has been the face of Ferrari for years; he didn't just suddenly vanish from the grid," she exclaimed, her voice a melodic contrast to the sterile surroundings.
Arvid didn't know them, and he certainly didn't care about Sarah's lack of sporting knowledge, but he found himself rooted to the spot, struck by the way the sunlight caught the gold in the stranger's eyes.
She was breathtaking, possessing a raw, effortless beauty that made the surrounding glitz of the paddock seem dull.
"Listen, we can make this look like a 'Fan-POV' organic discovery piece," Arvid whispered, leaning closer to the team's social media manager, Marcus, while keeping a cautious eye on you.
"If you let me bring them back for a 'surprise' tour—exclusive access, behind-the-scenes grit—it'll blow up on TikTok. The contrast of a total novice like Sarah and a superfan like her against the high-tech garage? That’s the kind of human-interest content the sponsors crave. Just call it a random act of kindness for the fans."
Marcus hesitated, glancing at the strict security protocols, but Arvid pressed on, his voice low and urgent. "Trust me, the engagement metrics on 'authentic' encounters are peaking right now. You get the views, the team looks approachable, and I get to… well, it just feels like the right thing for the brand."
You can hardly believe you’re actually here, the weight of the VIP lanyard around your neck feeling like a golden ticket to a different dimension.
Winning the competition was a fluke, a statistical miracle, but standing inside the Visa Cash App RB garage is a sensory overload of carbon fiber and high-octane ambition. Beside you, Sarah is staring blankly at a set of heat exchangers, her expression one of profound confusion.
You spend the next ten minutes in a feverish rush, explaining the difference between a soft and a hard compound, the physics of the dirty air, and why the underfloor aerodynamics are the secret weapon of the current era, relishing every second of being the expert in her eyes.
"Wait, so the tires actually melt if they get too hot, but they need to be hot to stick?" Sarah asks, tilting her head as she finally looks away from the machinery.
You laugh, leaning in closer to point out the precise wear patterns on the discarded rubber in the bin. "Exactly," you tell her, your voice animated, "it's a constant balancing act between grip and disaster; if you push too hard into the turn, the tires just give up on you."
The surrealism of the afternoon peaks when you are escorted to the Paddock Club balcony, finding yourselves sandwiched between a legendary Hollywood actor and a tech mogul who owns half of Silicon Valley.
You and Sarah exchange a frantic, wide-eyed glance, acutely aware that you are both just eighteen-year-old university freshmen who should be worrying about introductory psychology midterms rather than discussing downforce with billionaires.
There is a dizzying disconnect between the luxury of the champagne-filled lounge and the reality of the student loan applications waiting back home, making the high-society chatter feel like a movie you've been cast in without a script.
Just as you were preparing to venture further into the restricted zones, a Visa Cash App RB staff member clutching a sleek smartphone approached you both with a practiced, professional smile.
"Excuse me," he said, glancing at the device. "The drivers are available for a few moments. Would you two like a personal tour from Arvid and Liam?"
Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest, and you began to stammer, your voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear, while Sarah simply nodded with an eerie, composed grace.
"That would be lovely, thank you," she replied calmly, as if being offered a tour by F1 drivers was as mundane as a trip to the grocery store.
Before you could even process the shock, you were led through a maze of white tents and humming generators toward the hospitality room where the two pilots were waiting.
As you rounded the corner and caught sight of him, your breath hitched; you had always thought Arvid looked cool, but seeing him in person was a different kind of intensity.
Arvid and Liam were huddled in a low-voiced conversation, their heads close together, seemingly oblivious to the world until they finally pivoted toward the entrance.
The moment they looked your way, you became acutely aware of the social media manager hovering just behind you, his gimbal-stabilized camera aimed squarely at your face.
The lens felt like a predatory eye, magnifying every nervous twitch of your eyelids and the frantic pulse in your throat, and as Arvid stepped forward, his presence suddenly filling your entire field of vision, your mind went completely blank.
"Hi," he said, his voice a smooth, grounding rumble that snapped you back to reality.
You opened your mouth, but only a small, breathless sound came out, and you realized with a jolt of horror that you had completely forgotten to say your own name while he was standing mere inches away.
Liam let out a short, amused huff, leaning back against a sleek white countertop with a smirk that suggested he’d seen this particular brand of panic a thousand times before. "Easy there," Liam joked, his tone light but observant.
"We don't bite, though the engineers might if you touch their telemetry screens without permission." Arvid didn't laugh; instead, he kept his gaze locked on yours, a flicker of genuine curiosity replacing the polished PR mask he had worn on the stage earlier.
You swallowed hard, your voice finally returning, though it sounded thin and distant to your own ears. "I'm… I'm Y/N," you managed to stutter, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "And this is Sarah. We're students. From London. Well, I am, she's from…"
You trailed off as Sarah gave a small, enigmatic wave, leaving you to scramble for a conversation topic that didn't involve your own sheer terror.
Arvid’s smile widened, not in a mocking way, but with a sudden, focused intensity that made the surrounding bustle of the hospitality suite fade into a dull blur.
"Y/N," he repeated, testing the weight of the name as if it were a new piece of technical data.
He turned slightly to Marcus, the social media manager, and gave a subtle nod of approval, though his eyes never truly left yours, suggesting that the 'organic discovery' he had plotted was working exactly as intended.
"Since we've already done the garage, let's show them where we actually hide when the press gets too loud," Arvid said, gesturing toward the sleek, towering structure of the team motorhome.
As they led you and Sarah inside, the atmosphere shifted from the industrial roar of the paddock to a hushed, climate-controlled luxury that smelled of expensive leather and eucalyptus. Liam pointed toward a row of customized racing seats that looked more like spacecraft than chairs.
"These are the driver's pods," Liam explained, sliding a hand over the carbon fiber. "This is where we analyze the data and pretend to listen to the engineers while actually thinking about what we're having for dinner."
Arvid let out a soft laugh, adding, "Or where I spend an hour staring at the telemetry of Copse, trying to figure out why the car decided to dance on its own."
Sarah seemed entirely unfazed, trailing her fingers along a polished surface and asking if the espresso machine was sponsored by a rocket company, which earned a genuine, startled laugh from Liam.
"So, Y/N," Arvid started, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped slightly closer, "you mentioned you're a student in London. What are you actually studying, or is F1 just a way to avoid your textbooks this weekend?"
He asked the question while looking directly at you, ignoring the fact that Sarah was currently trying to figure out if the racing seats were heated.
"Actually, I'm in my first year of psychology," you replied, your voice gaining a bit of strength as you felt the strange, magnetic pull of his attention. "But honestly, the textbooks can wait. Well, I've loved Formula 1 my whole life, so I took the chance with both hands to come here and to meet you."
You felt your cheeks flush as you realized how forward it sounded, but Arvid didn't recoil; instead, he seemed to lean into the admission, his pupils dilating slightly.
As the group began to move toward the telemetry room, the hallway narrowed significantly. Arvid stepped in front of you to lead the way, and as he did, his hand found the small of your back.
It was a light, fleeting pressure—barely a brush of his palm through the fabric of your shirt—but it felt like a live wire.
He used the tight space as a convenient excuse, guiding you forward with a subtle nudge that felt far too intentional to be accidental, while Liam and Sarah drifted a few paces behind, locked in a debate about the aerodynamics of a hairdryer.
"Psychology, huh?" Arvid asked, slowing his pace so that he was almost walking in sync with you. "Does that mean you're currently analyzing me? Tell me the truth—do I look like a nervous wreck or a calculated risk?"
You looked up at him, catching the way his expression softened. "A bit of both, maybe," you teased, your confidence growing. "The 'predator' persona on stage was a good touch, but the way you're glancing at the exit every few minutes suggests you'd rather be anywhere but in front of a camera right now."
"Is it that obvious?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he paused in a quiet alcove of the motorhome. "Most people just see the helmet and the sponsors and assume we're made of stone. But the truth is, the silence is the only thing that actually scares me."
"Then maybe the 'calculated risk' is admitting you're human," you replied, tilting your head as you studied the tension in his jaw. "Because for someone who wants to hide from the cameras, you seem remarkably focused on making sure I'm still paying attention to you."
Arvid shifted, his shoulders curving inward as he looked down at his sneakers, the bold predator from the stage suddenly replaced by a boy who seemed unsure of where to put his hands. "Is it that obvious?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant thrum of the paddock.
"I'm not usually this… forward. I just felt like, for once, I didn't want to be the one being analyzed." He stole a quick glance up at you, his eyes flickering with a vulnerability that felt far more intimate than any scripted interview.
"I… I didn't mean to call you out," you whispered, your voice trailing off as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling the heat climb up your neck. "It's just that you have this way of… looking at people. Like you're trying to memorize them."
Arvid let out a soft, shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before snapping back to your eyes. "Maybe I am," he replied, his tone tentative, almost pleading, as the space between you shrank to a mere breath of air.
The fragile bubble of intimacy was abruptly popped by a loud, theatrical cough from behind you. You both jumped, spinning around to find Liam and Sarah standing there with their arms crossed, wearing identical expressions of amused skepticism.
"Am I interrupting a telemetry meeting, or has the 'calculated risk' finally paid off?" Liam asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow while Sarah leaned in, her eyes darting between the two of you with a knowing, mischievous glint.
Arvid cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to regain his composure, though his chest was still heaving slightly from the sudden proximity.
He tried to summon his usual poise, but the tips of his ears were a vivid shade of crimson that betrayed him completely.
"We were just… discussing the psychological pressure of the first corner," he lied poorly, his voice cracking slightly, which only prompted Liam to let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the sterile white hallway.
The sudden attention of the group, coupled with the realization that Marcus was still hovering nearby with the camera rolling, sent a wave of heat crashing over you. Suddenly feeling exposed, you retreated toward Sarah, subconsciously pulling your shoulders in as if to hide.
You fell into step beside her, pretending to be deeply interested in the way Liam was gesturing wildly toward the telemetry screens, desperately trying to fade into the background.
Sarah leaned in, her shoulder brushing yours, and whispered with a wicked grin, "Wow, look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl. I didn't know you had a 'type,' but apparently, it's 'brooding F1 driver with a savior complex.'"
Liam continued his tour with an infectious energy, pointing out the precise calibration of the steering wheel and the sheer madness of the G-forces, but you could feel Arvid’s presence like a physical weight behind you.
Even as he spoke to the group, his body remained oriented toward you; while his head turned to explain the brake ducts, his torso and feet remained angled firmly in your direction.
"So, Liam," you asked, stepping closer to the screen and narrowing your eyes at a jagged spike in the data, "when you hit the apex at Copse, are you fighting a snap-oversteer caused by the rear-end instability, or is it more of a gradual wash-out because the front wing is losing load under the rotation?"
Liam stopped mid-sentence, his hand freezing in mid-air. He blinked, his smirk faltering as he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. "I… sorry, what? Where did a psych student learn about load loss during rotation?" he asked, his voice sounding genuinely bewildered.
Sarah leaned over, glancing at the complex graph and then back at Liam's bewildered expression. "She's basically asking if you're actually driving the car or just riding it like a passenger on a very expensive rollercoaster," she joked, nudging your shoulder with a mischievous wink.
Liam let out a loud bark of a laugh, shaking his head as he looked at Arvid, who was staring at you with an expression that hovered somewhere between shock and profound admiration.
"Wait, you actually understand the telemetry?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping the rehearsed PR tone and becoming something raw and curious. "Most people just ask about the speed, but you're talking about the rotation of the front axle under load. Where the hell did you learn to read a data trace like that?"
"My dad was a mechanic for a local karting circuit back home," you replied, leaning closer to the screen to point out the exact millisecond the line dipped. "He used to let me sit in on the debriefs when I was ten. He always said if you can't read the graph, you're just guessing where the grip is, and he hated guessing."
"Wait, so you've actually been analyzing racing lines since you were in primary school?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping into a low, focused register. "That's practically a crime. You've been hiding this kind of knowledge while pretending to be a bewildered tourist?"
"I didn't think it was relevant to the 'fan experience' tour," you teased, glancing up at him, only to find him standing much closer than before. "Besides, I figured the 'calculated risk' was more interested in my psychology degree than my knowledge of understeer."
"I'm starting to think the psychology is just a cover for a secret racing strategist," Liam chimed in, crossing his arms with a grin as he looked between the two of you. "Honestly, Arvid, if she can spot a load-loss rotation from a static screen, she’s probably better suited for the pit wall than you are on some Tuesdays."
Sarah let out a loud, delighted snort and nudged you hard in the ribs, pointing at Arvid’s wide-eyed expression. You couldn't help yourself, breaking into a fit of giggles at the sight of the normally composed driver looking completely flustered by a university student's technical prowess.
You and Sarah laughed together, the sound echoing through the sterile white corridor, while Arvid looked embarrassed, his gaze darting from the telemetry screen to the floor as he struggled to find a witty comeback.
"It's okay, Arvid, I won't take your seat yet," you joked, glancing over your shoulder at the customized carbon fiber bucket seat of his car, which sat waiting in the garage.
You gave him a playful wink, the tension between you shifting from nervous electricity to a sort of competitive chemistry. Arvid let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound genuine and light, as he finally found his footing, shaking his head in disbelief at your boldness.
He leaned back toward Marcus, who was still capturing every micro-expression for the social media feed, and let out a loud, theatrical sigh.
"I can't believe this," Arvid said, his voice projecting for the camera but his eyes locked firmly on yours. "We thought we were just doing a nice PR stunt, but it turns out we picked the craziest fan to give a tour to; she's probably trying to steal my telemetry data to start her own team."
The tour was winding down as the five of you walked back toward the hospitality suite, the atmosphere buzzing with Sarah and Liam's loud banter.
Just as you rounded a sharp corner near the service elevators, a firm hand caught your arm, pulling you back and halting your momentum.
You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs, to find Arvid standing inches away. He pressed a finger to his lips, a silent command for secrecy, before sliding his hand into yours and guiding you away from the group and toward a narrow, dim corridor.
"Come with me," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that felt like it was echoing in your very marrow, "before Marcus realizes his 'organic discovery' is about to go off-script."
The corridor was narrow, smelling of old rubber and industrial wax, far removed from the sterile luxury of the main suite.
He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he laced his fingers through yours, the warmth of his palm anchoring you as he led you toward a small, secluded balcony overlooking the track.
The roar of the engines in the distance felt like a heartbeat, rhythmic and urgent, mirroring the sudden tension that crackled between the two of you in the sudden silence.
Then, as if remembering the dozens of cameras and prying eyes that governed his every move, Arvid dropped your hand.
"I'm sorry for kidnapping you from your friend, but the camera was really pissing me off and I could use you as an excuse to lose them," Arvid admitted, his voice dropping the polished facade of a public figure.
He leaned back against the railing, the sunlight filtering through the overhead canopy and casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his face.
You looked at him, seeing the subtle tremor in his fingers and the way he seemed to deflate now that the gaze of a thousand fans and a gimbal-stabilized lens had finally vanished. "Fair enough, I don't know how you guys can do it 24/7…. it sounds exhausting."
Arvid nodded and you joined him by leaning against the railing, the cold metal pressing through your clothes as you both looked out over the shimmering asphalt of the Silverstone circuit.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with the kind of anticipation that usually precedes a green light on the starting grid.
"Do you usually take your fans here, or am I the lucky one?" you asked, not looking at him, instead focusing on a distant marshal waving a yellow flag in the pit lane.
"This is the first and probably the only one after we get caught," Arvid replied, his voice barely a whisper as he shifted his weight, closing the remaining few inches between you.
"Then we should go meet them right? I don't want you to get in trouble," you said, moving from the railing to head back toward the group, but a hand stopped you, his fingers curling firmly around your wrist to pull you back into his space.
"For a psychology student, you really can't read the room," Arvid admitted shyly, his voice barely audible over the distant scream of an engine.
You paused, tilting your head in confusion as you tried to decipher the sudden shift in his energy. Then you looked closer.
His face was flushed, an almost red hue creeping up from his collar to the tips of his ears, and as he leaned in, you noticed his pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hem of his team polo and wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow despite the cool breeze of the balcony.
The realization hit you like a physical wave: he wasn't nervous about the press or the race—he was nervous about you.
A hot prickle of embarrassment washed over you, and you let out a small, soft "oh" of discovery.
Arvid let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked everywhere but your eyes. "I'm sorry, this is probably the first time an F1 driver tried to flirt with you," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to reclaim some shred of the confidence he’d projected on stage. "And based on your face, I'm doing a pretty terrible job of it."
You felt a sudden, daring surge of confidence, stepping back into his personal space until you could smell the faint, metallic scent of the paddock clinging to his skin.
You reached out, your fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve, and looked up at him with a crooked smile. "Actually," you whispered, "the vulnerability is way more effective than the 'predator' act. It's a much better strategy."
Arvid froze as you reached up and casually adjusted the collar of his polo, your fingers lingering just a second too long against the warmth of his neck.
He looked as though he’d been hit by a sudden surge of G-force, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes widening in genuine shock.
He had spent the last hour trying to maintain a shred of control over the interaction, but in one simple, tactile gesture, you had completely dismantled his composure, leaving him momentarily speechless and staring at you as if you were the most unpredictable variable in his entire race weekend.
The silence stretched between you, thick with an honesty that no PR script could ever capture. Arvid looked away, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon of the track before snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, raw intensity.
"I really thought you were beautiful, so I made an excuse to give you a tour," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper and stripped of all pretense.
You laughed, the sound light and genuine, breaking the heavy tension that had settled over the balcony.
It wasn't a mocking sound, but one of sheer amusement at the idea of a world-class athlete, used to battling the most dangerous corners in the world at two hundred miles per hour, being completely undone by a girl who knew a little bit about tire wear and psychology.
"You're a terrible liar, Arvid," you teased, your voice softening as you stepped back just enough to give him air, though you didn't let go of the tension between you. "The 'organic discovery' for the sponsors? The 'human interest' content? You just wanted a reason to talk to me without a camera in your face."
Arvid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for minutes, a small, crooked smile finally breaking through the remnants of his nervousness. "Guilty as charged," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, renewed focus.
He didn't move away; instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a register that felt like a secret shared in the middle of a storm. "But for the record, the strategy worked. You're still here."
The moment was shattered by the distant, distorted crackle of a walkie-talkie from the corridor and Marcus's muffled voice calling out for them, sounding increasingly impatient.
A sudden jolt of adrenaline hit you, and you realized with a dizzying rush that you were currently tucked away in a blind spot of the paddock, completely alone with an F1 driver.
"What do you want to do?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you looked from the distant call of the social media manager back to the raw, expectant look in Arvid's eyes.
"Well, I didn't kidnap you not to get your number," he joked, though the playful glint in his eyes was underscored by a desperate kind of hope.
He reached into the pocket of his racing trousers and pulled out a phone, holding it out with a hand that still trembled slightly, the screen glowing white against the dimming light of the balcony.
You took the device, your fingertips brushing his as you typed in your digits, the small contact of skin-on-skin feeling like a final confirmation of something neither of you had dared to name.
You handed it back, noting how he stared at the screen for a heartbeat as if he were verifying a winning lottery ticket before slipping it back into his pocket with a satisfied sigh.
Before he could find the words to invite you back, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin radiating against your lips.
"Wipe it off before Marcus sees and thinks you've had some kind of allergic reaction to the excitement," you whispered with a playful grin, glancing back toward the corridor where the search party was likely closing in.
Arvid stood frozen, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as he instinctively touched the spot where your lips had lingered, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face.
He looked like a man who had just experienced a sudden loss of traction at three hundred kilometers per hour, completely blindsided by the sudden shift in momentum.
"Y/N! Arvid! If you've eloped, please just let us know so we can update the press release!" Liam's voice boomed from the end of the hallway, followed by the rhythmic clicking of Marcus's gimbal as the camera rounded the corner.
Arvid quickly straightened his posture, though the dazed, smitten expression remained etched into his features as he stepped back to lead you toward the light.
He paused for a split second, glancing back at the secluded nook and then at the bewildered look on Marcus's face. "Sorry about that, we just got lost," Arvid lied with a sudden, newfound confidence, throwing a casual arm over your shoulder to guide you back into the flow of the group.
He used the excuse of the confusing motorhome layout to mask the lingering scent of your perfume on his collar, his thumb tracing a small, hidden circle against your arm that only you could feel.
As the walk back to the main paddock continued, the air seemed to vibrate with a different kind of energy, the professional distance between driver and fan having dissolved into something far more precarious.
You walked in a comfortable silence, your shoulder brushing his with every step, while Sarah kept shooting you knowing looks that suggested she had seen every single micro-expression of the last ten minutes.
By the time the five of you finally stepped back into the plush, white-walled sanctuary of the hospitality suite, Marcus was already repositioning his lighting for the final shot.
Liam stepped center-frame with a mischievous grin, leaning in toward the camera as Arvid slid in beside him, his arm still draped loosely and possessively across your shoulders.
"Alright, that's a wrap on the exclusive behind-the-scenes look!" Liam announced to the lens, his voice booming with theatrical energy. "Now, for the moment of truth—Y/N, Sarah, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the tour? Be honest, or Arvid might actually cry."
Sarah didn't hesitate, giving a thumbs-up and a laugh that suggested the chaos of the afternoon was a ten out of ten.
You felt Arvid's gaze shift from the camera to you, his eyes searching yours for an answer that had nothing to do with the garage or the telemetry screens.
You leaned toward the microphone, a playful glint in your eyes as you caught the way his grip on your shoulder tightened slightly. "The technical side was a solid eight," you teased, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum, "but the personal guidance? That definitely earns a bonus point."
The video cut and Sarah was thanking Liam for the tour while Marcus began packing away the gimbal, his movements efficient and detached.
The artificial bubble of the 'content shoot' burst, leaving the five of you in a sudden, heavy silence that felt far more honest than the noise of the crowd.
Sarah’s voice drifted over the sound of the receding crew, but your focus was entirely on the way Arvid was looking at you—no longer as a driver to a fan, but as a boy who had just discovered something he wasn't prepared to let go of.
"Do you… do you actually think the bonus point was…?" Arvid started, his voice barely a thread, his gaze dropping to the polished floor.
He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching against the seam of his trousers as he struggled to find the words. "I mean, if you were just being nice for the camera, I probably wouldn't… it's just that the way you said it sounded… real."
The suddenness of his vulnerability caught you off guard, the confident facade of the "predator" from the stage now completely replaced by a boy who looked like he was holding his breath for a signal that might never come.
You reached out and gently caught his hand, your thumb grazing the back of his knuckles in a slow, rhythmic motion.
"Arvid, look at me," you whispered, waiting until he finally lifted his eyes, his pupils wide and searching. "I don't do 'nice for the camera'—I'm a psychology student, remember? I'm far too observant for that."
"Oh," he breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. He looked away for a split second, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register that made the bustling paddock around you feel miles away.
You giggled before leaving, "i'll text you before the race," as you stepped back from him, the distance between you feeling like a physical ache the moment you broke contact.
You gave his hand one last squeeze, a silent promise that the chemistry you'd sparked in the shadows of the motorhome wasn't just a fluke of the adrenaline.
"Come on, let's get out of here before the crowds swallow us whole," Sarah said, hooking her arm through yours and steering you toward the exit.
As you walked with Sarah back to the garage to retrieve your bags, she didn't even let you speak before leaning in with a predatory grin. "So, are we just going to ignore the fact that you basically just seduced the next big thing in Formula 1, or are we going to talk about how he was looking at you like you were the only person in the entire stadium?"
"I don't even know what happened," you admitted, your voice breathless as you felt the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. You leaned your head against Sarah's shoulder, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a dizzying sense of disbelief.
"One minute I'm explaining tire compounds, and the next, he's taking me to a secret balcony and looking at me like… well, like I actually mattered."
"Did he actually give you his number, or did you just imagine the part where he looked like a lost puppy?" Sarah asked, her eyes dancing with mischief as she practically skipped toward the luggage area.
"Because if you're lying, I'm claiming the bonus points for myself, and if you're telling the truth, you've officially won the weekend without even needing a ticket to the final lap."
"He did, and for the record, he was the one who was nervous," you replied, glancing back over your shoulder to see Arvid still standing by the motorhome, a solitary figure amidst the chaos of mechanics and engineers. "He’s not exactly the 'cool, collected' type when the cameras aren't rolling, which is honestly the most surprising thing about the whole day."
The walk back to the garage was a blur of neon colors and the scent of burnt fuel, and just as you retrieved your belongings, you and Arvid found yourselves side-by-side once more.
You settled into a quiet corner of the garage, the air thick with the rhythmic thrum of air guns and the frantic energy of the final preparations, and as you turned toward the monitor, the drivers' parade started as you watched on the screen.
Seeing him there, waving to the crowd with that practiced, professional smile, felt like watching a different person entirely—the public face of a rising star, while you held the secret of the shaking hands and the whispered confessions.
Afterwards, the drivers headed to their final debrief to review the strategy one last time before disappearing into their private rooms to change into their race suits.
As you waited by the hospitality entrance, you felt the vibration of your phone and quickly typed out a message.
“Don’t let the nerves get to you out there. Just remember the 'calculated risk' part. Good luck, Arvid,” you sent, watching the three dots appear almost instantly.
His reply was short but breathless: "I've got the best kind of luck on my side today. See you later."
The tension in the paddock shifted into a heavy, electric silence as the engines began to scream in unison, a primal roar that vibrated through the very soles of your shoes.
You watched from the pit wall, your knuckles white as you gripped the railing, tracking the blue-and-yellow blur of the RB car as it sliced through the air at Copse.
Every time he braked late into a corner or danced the car on the edge of the gravel, your heart hammered against your ribs, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, terrifying understanding of the stakes he played for every single Sunday.
When the checkered flag finally waved, the roar of the crowd drowned out the telemetry, but you didn't need the big screens to know the result.
He had secured 3rd place, a staggering achievement for a rookie that represented the best score of his career and a seismic shift in the team's standings.
The paddock erupted into a frenzy of celebration, the engineers screaming into their headsets as Arvid’s car slowed, the blue-and-yellow livery dusted with the grit of a hard-fought battle.
You were screaming with Sarah in the garage, the two of you clinging to each other in a chaotic blur of adrenaline and sheer disbelief as the roar of the fans surged through the open bays like a tidal wave.
Your voice was gone, replaced by a raw, throat-tearing cheer that competed with the high-pitched whine of the cooling engines, both of you jumping in synchronized frantic energy as the telemetry screens flashed his final position in bold, triumphant digits.
"I can't believe he actually did it, Y/N, he actually pulled it off!" Sarah yelled over the noise, her face flushed with a reflected victory.
You didn't answer immediately, your eyes locked on the monitor where Arvid was climbing out of the cockpit, his movements slow and heavy with exhaustion, the helmet still obscuring his face but his body language radiating a sudden, violent release of tension.
Despite the euphoria, you felt a sudden, grounding chill as you watched the swarm of PR agents, engineers, and eager journalists descend upon him like a pack of wolves.
You knew the machinery of a podium finish; the immediate debriefs, the mandatory weighing, the endless cycle of flashing bulbs and rehearsed quotes that would stretch well into the night.
You knew it would be a long time before Arvid would have time to breathe, let alone find a quiet moment to reach for his phone and text you.
While the team celebrated in the inner sanctum of the garage, you drifted toward the fan-zone barriers, letting the adrenaline settle into a warm, buzzing glow.
You spent the next few hours immersed in the electric camaraderie of the crowd, swapping theories about the final lap with a group of Swedish fans who had flown halfway across the world to see him.
By the time the sun began to dip, you had exchanged Instagram handles with a few fellow psychology students who had also won the competition, turning a whirlwind of professional chaos into a genuine circle of new friends who were just as shell-shocked by the day's events as you were.
"Do you think he's actually going to remember us in the middle of all that champagne and flashing lights?" Sarah asked, leaning her head against your shoulder as you both walked toward the parking lot, her voice sounding tired but satisfied.
You looked down at your phone, the screen still dark, the silence of the device contrasting sharply with the lingering roar of the engines. "He'll remember," you replied, though a small, cautious knot of doubt tightened in your stomach.
"Arvid doesn't do things by halves; if he can handle a three-hundred-kilometer-per-hour slide into a hairpin, he can manage a text message."
Your phone suddenly buzzed, the vibration jarring against your palm.
It was a message from Arvid: “Please tell me you haven't gone home yet. I can't deal with the PR people for another second. Meet me in my garage? I'll make sure the security lets you back in.”
You stared at the words, a small, triumphant smile tugging at your lips. The "predator" was officially off the clock, and he was calling for a rescue.
Sarah caught a glimpse of the screen over your shoulder and let out a low, dramatic whistle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. He’s literally a podium finisher and he’s already acting like a lovestruck puppy," she remarked, stepping back and beginning to veer toward the ride-share area.
"Look, I love a good romance, but I am physically exhausted and my feet are killing me. You’re on your own for this one—go get your man, and just make sure you text me every single detail tomorrow morning. I'm going home to sleep for a decade."
As you waved her off and turned back toward the paddock, the atmosphere had shifted from the chaotic noise of the race to a heavy, expectant stillness.
The crowds were thinning, leaving behind a trail of confetti and discarded programs that crunched beneath your sneakers. Passing through the security gate felt like crossing a border into a private world, the silence of the cooling engines creating a strange, cathedral-like hush.
Your heart began to race again, not from the adrenaline of the track, but from the anticipation of seeing him without the helmet, without the cameras, and without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
You navigated the labyrinth of the garage, weaving past stacks of carbon-fiber winglets and rows of pristine tool chests, until you spotted a slumped figure tucked away in the shadow of a towering pile of Pirelli softs.
"Got you," you whispered, reaching out to tap his shoulder. Arvid jumped, nearly slipping off the tire wall, but as his gaze cleared and landed on you, a look of pure, unfiltered relief washed over his face.
You opened your arms wide, and he didn't hesitate, lunging forward to pull you against him; you melted into the hug with a long, shuddering sigh, your head resting against the cool fabric of his team kit while the scent of Nomex and sweat clung to him like a second skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes bloodshot from the exertion of the race but shimmering with a quiet intensity.
"I thought they'd never let me get away," he murmured, his voice raspy and stripped of the polished confidence he'd used for the press. "Every time I tried to slip out the back, some journalist would appear out of thin air asking about my sector three times. I think I actually started hallucinating the sound of your voice over the team radio."
You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the cavernous, empty garage, and reached up to brush a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead.
For a moment, the prestige of the podium and the roar of the thousands of fans felt like a distant, irrelevant memory, leaving only the two of you in the dim light of the paddock, caught in the fragile space between a public triumph and a private longing.
"I… I didn't know if you'd actually come back," Arvid murmured, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register as he looked down at his shoes, his fingers nervously picking at the velcro of his racing suit.
You shifted your weight, suddenly feeling the familiar prickle of shyness return, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I told you I'd text you… though I didn't think you'd actually be hiding behind a pile of tires."
He let out a small, self-conscious chuckle, glancing at you through his lashes, and for a few seconds, neither of you knew where to put your hands, the electric tension between you thickening into a heavy, sweet silence.
"I know the way today went though, this probably feels weird and sudden—" Arvid ranted, his words spilling out in a hurried, anxious rush as he finally looked back up at you. "The podium, the cameras, the whole… 'organic' thing with Marcus. I just don't want you to think this was all some PR stunt or that I'm just riding the high-"
"Arvid," you interrupted softly, the shyness making your voice tremble just enough to match his. "Stop thinking for a second."
You stepped into his space, the air between you humming with a different kind of frequency than the race track, and leaned in to press a lingering, tentative kiss against his cheek.
He froze, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually forget how to breathe, his face flushing a deep, vivid crimson that put his team colors to shame.
"I… I didn't think you'd actually…" he started, his voice cracking slightly. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with a clumsy movement, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips.
"You're not… you're not just being nice because I got a trophy, are you?"
You felt a soft giggle bubble up in your throat, your own gaze dropping to the scuffed toes of your shoes as you murmured, "Maybe the trophy helped, but you're the one who's actually a calculated risk."
Arvid let out a nervous, airy chuckle, the sound echoing softly in the hollow garage. "Would you want to go out tomorrow then? With me, of course," he asked, his eyes flickering back to yours with a tentative, hopeful intensity.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, the shyness returning in a wave. "Where to?" you asked softly. Arvid opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, his expression blank as he realized he hadn't actually thought this far ahead. "Umm… the skatepark?" he finally suggested, his voice sounding uncertain.
You beamed at him and replied, "Okay! I've never been to any skate park or rode a skateboard before," which earned a surprised, genuine grin from him.
The prospect of a skatepark felt absurdly grounded compared to the high-velocity glamour of the paddock, and the contrast made the moment feel even more real. He reached out, his fingers tentatively brushing against your wrist, a silent request for connection that felt more honest than any podium celebration.
"I can teach you," he whispered, "or we can both just fall over together."
You laughed, the sound filling the space between you, and for the first time that day, the noise of the outside world—the PR agents, the telemetry, the crushing weight of expectations—felt completely irrelevant.
As the security guard gave a distant, impatient shout from the garage entrance, reminding Arvid that his debrief was still pending, he didn't move to leave immediately.
He stayed anchored in your space, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in the dim light. He stepped back slowly, his hand sliding away from yours with a reluctant hesitation, leaving a cold void where the warmth had been.
"I'll text you the time," he promised, his voice regaining a hint of that "predator" confidence, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed the boy who had just been rescued from a pile of tires.
"Wait, are you actually a good skater, or is this just another 'calculated risk' where you're hoping I won't notice you falling?" you teased, stepping back toward the garage exit.
"Hey, I have a very high center of gravity and a lot of balance," Arvid retorted with a playful scoff, though he was already imagining the sheer chaos of trying to balance a novice on a board. "Just don't expect me to catch you every single time you wipe out—though, knowing me, I probably will."
"Is that a challenge?" you asked, crossing your arms and tilting your head. "Because if we're talking about risk management, I think my psychology degree gives me a strategic advantage in predicting exactly when you're going to lose your balance."
He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that didn't belong in a press conference, and for a moment, the gap between a global sports star and a university freshman vanished entirely. . . .
@not.y/n
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not.y/n: POV: You found your favorite new skater
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