Starset

“Hey!” said Samira falling at your side at the counter.

You were still too distracted by the two to even tear your gaze away and look at her. “Hey.”

Samira followed your eyeline. “You're staring, you know that?”

You nodded.

Robby rubbed at the side of his face as his cheeks flushed, Noelle shifted her weight onto her other heeled foot- apparently getting herself comfortable.

“Who is that, again?” asked Doctor Mohan.

“Noelle. She's from insurance.”

Samira nodded. “Noelle from insurance. Annnd do we like Noelle, from insurance?”

At that you realised just how transparent your glares might have been.

“Oh, you know,” you mumbled, finally looking back down to your tablet that had grown dark in the absence of movement. “It's our job to like everyone.”

Santos passed by you then, dropping herself down into your favourite chair in exhaustion. “Not everyone.”

“So we're all having a great day, I see,” you commented, sarcastically. However the sardonic tone of your voice was over-saturated with a loud laugh.

Your head practically snapped up to see Noelle laughing at something Robby had said. Even his face was scrunched up at his joke. You watched as Noelle's hand darted to his bicep, playfully hitting him in a way that could only be recognised as flirting.

You watched as Robby looked down to her hand on him and then he looked up, finding you and finding your watchful gaze. Only then did the pink in his cheeks subside and the wrinkles of amusement die.

“Didn't they have a thing before you and him got together?” asked Santos.

You sighed. “Yes, they did, thank you, Trinity.”

“Hey, just trying to be helpful.”

“Save it for the patients,” you said.

Robby took one step in your direction but you'd already dismissed yourself from Santos and Mohan, walking the ward like it was a battle field.

But you could hear your boyfriends heavy boots close behind you.

“Don't do that,” he said, calling after you.

“Do what? See a patient?”

“It's not what you think,” he said.

“Of course it's not,” you said, trying your best to be indifferent.

You knew about Noelle and Robby's history, just as you knew about his and Heathers, and his and the pathologist from upstairs, and the one from ortho. You knew and you understood, heck you'd even been around to joke about with Landon. Robby's famous seven-week itch.

Rumour had it before he finally got to hold your hand and kiss you whenever he liked he'd been trying to nail you down for years, but you weren't sure how much you believed.

It had been nine months, maybe closer to ten since you and Robby had officially started seeing each other. It was the real boyfriend-girlfriend deal where you could call each other at any moments of the day, could get take out together and discuss the boring things together.

Yet, you did none of that.

Robby and you didn't talk.

You fucked- but only each other. You worked on cases together- strictly professional. On the days where you were desperate there was an on-call room Robby could book out and steal time away with you.

But you didn't remember the last time you'd laughed like that with him.

“It's not,” said Robby again.

“Of course it's not.”

Robby sighed, falling closer behind you. “Well, it doesn't really sound like you believe me.”

“I believe you,” you said. “Do I believe Noelle...”

“Oh, c'mon,” Robby chuckled, like the very idea of them was ridiculous. Like the two of you didn't begin where they ended. “You seriously gonna be hung up on that?”

“Don't,” you warn, shaking your head.

You reached for an exam room door, where a sixteen year old boy was complaining of migraines but Robby grabbed your wrist and stirred you away.

“You wanna argue, not here,” he said.

“I don't want to argue.”

Robby led you out to the ambulance bay. Any nurses stealing a couple minutes of peace quickly diverted back in and even ambulances seemed to divert away. He let go of you, standing away and folding his arms over his chest, defensive. “So come on, tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You're mad because I was talking to Noelle- about a case, might I add,” he said. There was nothing soft in his tone, nothing that calmed your nerves on edge. He said it all like it was a joke that he already knew the punchline to.

You rubbed at your temple. “You can talk to Noelle about cases, of course you can-”

“- Oh, thank you, glad I have your permission,” he chuckled.

“Can you just not be a dick about this, for once!” you snapped.

Robby's brows rose to his head, almost shocked at your snap at him. He held out his hands. “Okay, I'm not being a dick.”

“You are, and it's like sometimes you don't even realise.”

His hands were worn with the mornings patients and you could see the stress he tried to hide away as he wiped up and down his face.

You took a deep breath. “Robby, if you don't want this to work out all you have to do is say.” You said it, un-sure if you even meant it. Un-sure that you could ever go back to who you were before meeting Robby, let alone sharing in his life. In the small moments grabbing take out together and eating it on his sofa. In the mornings where you both naturally woke up early enough to just admire each other before you had to get to work.

Robby chuckled dryly, hands on his hips. “Oh my god, all of this because I spoke to another woman?”

“Because you laughed with her like you haven't with me for weeks!” you argued.

For once, Robby was silent.

You told yourself after the seven week mark that it would be any day now, that he'd tell you you were better off friends; colleagues. Every day and week it didn't come, every month he got more comfortable in your bed you figured you'd easily get rid of him in your life as easily as you welcomed him.

Now you stood across from him in the early morning light of the ambulance bay knowing if he left you now you'd never get back on your feet again.

“I see the way Noelle looks at you, how the others from upstairs do to,” you begin.

Robby shook his head, something earnest in his gaze. “They're not- they don't-”

“- I know, I know,” you said, cutting him off with a grimace of a smile. “ ”I know you don't love them, Robby. I'm just not sure you love me either.”

As un-cultured as you were with your own relationships you weren't sure when the right time to say I love you was. You knew Santos had said it to Garcia drunk one night and woke up with regret pinning her to the bed. You knew Dana and Benji had said it to each other a week in. You knew you loved Robby before you even kissed him.

Robby looked down to his boots, shaking his head. “That's not fair.”

Your heart pinched. “I know I love you, Robby. But I can't watch all these woman over you and-and wonder.”

“Your insecurities are not my fault!” Robby snapped.

You knew he didn't mean it, or hoped he didn't. You knew in the very small arguments you'd had that he spoke without thinking and came grovelling back.

Maybe it was worse this time because you knew it was the truth. You knew these women- his ex something's- didn't get to see Robby in the early mornings and be the last thing he spoke to at night. You knew Robby wasn't inviting them into his self, but he wasn't pushing them away either.

They'd all been quick, snaps of bands on wrists. You were supposed to be something more.

Maybe you weren't.

Biting on the inside of your cheek, you felt the familiar burning in your chest, rising up to your neck.

“Okay.” You held yourself tight, heading past him and to the doors that were already welcoming you back.

Robby was hot on your heels, quicker even as he pushed himself ahead of you. “No, no, no- hey- wait, no I-I didn't mean that.” His eyes were wide, hands held out in front of you, not quite clasped together, pointing to the sky but pleading none the less.

“We shouldn't talk about this now, Robby-”

“- I- we... honey, please.”

He stood in between you and the doors. Beyond him you saw the chaos of the room, the charts being passed, the labs being reported. The world still turned.

Robby's hands fell to your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “Let me- jus' let me-let me-”

“Hey! You two!”

Robby didn't jump apart from you, he squeezed your arms tighter as the two of you looked back to Dana who rushed out, wisps of grey hair falling around her. “What is it?”

“There's been a crash down the docks, all hands on deck!”

You thought you knew chaos, having seen all sorts of terror and oddities in the Pitt but the scenes at the dock were nothing like it. A complication with a boat, an explosion- small enough- rattled ferries and had them crashing into one another like terrible scene of dominoes.

Heck, you weren't even sure if the docks were safe to be standing on.

There were fire trucks and ambulances that didn't just respond to PTMC but Presby too. Police were corning off the area, talking to any witnesses but everyone blurred in one as you weaved in and out of them.

You'd been sent as an emergency respondent thanks to how level-headed and sturdy you were in the Pittfest. You still remembered how Robby nominated you as well as Whitaker to go with some from surgery, his eyes dark on you, a trusting nod passed before you were handed a jacket and pushed into an ambulance.

You'd already pulled a sheet over three bodies, one of them too small for your liking.

“Any for me?” asked a first emergency responder, you think his name was Spencer, catching it in the rig you caught a ride in. “We can take two.”

“Yeah!” you yelled and led him away. “This guy, approximately in his thirties, head lack to the right, needs to go to surgery immediately. This woman, late twenties, lost consciousness, possible pelvic bleed but she's stabilised, need's a ultrasound.”

“Got it!”

You'd gone through almost all the gloves you had in your pockets. There was blood seeping into your scrub uniform at your knees. You'd forgone your coat to a little girl who took an ambulance back with her mother, trembling from the cold.

A steady, firm hand settled between your shoulder blades.

“How you holding on, Slugger?”

Your heart soared in relief when you recognised Jack's voice, felt his steady hand and saw his easy smile in the middle of all the pain.

“Jack, thank god. Are you here with your team?” you asked, eying the uniform he was in.

“Yeah, we came to secure the area, doing everything I can to help,” he said, the two of you nudging your way through the people, stepping over the rubble and pools of water or blood. “How you holding up?”

“Lost three,” you told him.

Jack looked down at you, the weight of his gaze always heavy. “And how many you saved, huh? Focus on that number.”

The wind picked up, sending a chill over your bones.

“Hey, where's your jacket?” asked Jack, a frown taking over his features.

You chuckled. “Probably half way to Presby by now, think we've handed off all the traumas PTMC can take.”

Jack tutted and shook his head aside. “I reckon they've got one more in them.”

You didn't know how you and Jack had got so close, somewhere along the lines of hand-offs and covering night shifts you just always gravitated toward each other, working well and saving lives. Every daring procedure you'd taken was with him over your shoulder only for him to go and boast about you to Robby later.

Jack led you to Robby, for that you always had to be thankful.

“Hey! I've got a guy seizing over here!”

With your case in hand the two of you rushed off.

The man seemed middle-aged with no obvious wound to him as you and Jack took either side. The man was at the edge of the docks, the crashing of the waves fighting against you as you worked to stablilse him.

Jack steadied him. “Check if there's any medication on him! It might be a disorder!”

You checked, coming up empty pocketed. You fumbled in your bag and tried your pockets before finding the vial and clean needle. “Pushing diazepam!”

With five cc's in his seizing slowed to dull twitches.

“We need a back board and neck brace,” said Jack, looking around to try and flag down anyone.

Nobody was catching your eyes. This close to the water you were out of the way of most of the chaos.

“Go!” you told Jack. “I'll stay with him, make sure he doesn't sieze again.”

Jack's brows pinched together for a second. “You sure?”

You nodded. Your hands remained on your patient, feeling his tremors and already timing his pulse with your watch. “I've got it, go!”

In hind sight you should have thought about the implications. You'd been grabbed and yelled at and spat at in the ED by less sever patients but once you'd been attacked by a man who just woke up from a seizure, dazed and confused and naming you his enemy.

Robby had never been so close to murder.

It took weeks for the bruises to go down, for your hand to heal properly from the fall and you were on bed rest for a week.

You knew what it meant to be alone with a patient, but sometimes you supposed it couldn't be helped.

The diazepam should have helped- you've seen it help- but soon enough the man started twitching, slow at first, before it started to fit and his whole body moved.

He was a strong man. You weren't.

“It's okay, sir- sir!” you threw your weight against him to hold him still, wonder what you can do to stop him biting down on his tongue with the little equipment you had.

The man was mumbling to himself, thrashing violently.

“C'mon Jack, c'mon-”

It only took a wide sweep of the mans arm to send you hurtling back and crashing into the icy water.

The sky was darkening by the time Robby counted off his thirtieth patient of the day. Twenty-five of them had been from the incident at the docks. Only one he couldn't save, two sent up to the OR.

He counted the patients, counted the hours that ticked by, counted every ambulance that came by not carrying you. He'd expected you back by now, expected to have a little piece of mind with seeing you back in his eyeline.

Robby's heart was being squeezed progressively as the day went on, ever since he'd snapped and said words he never even meant.

Every second, passing from patient to patient and tearing off gloves to replace them with clean ones he checked his phone for any update from you.

Nothing.

You must have been busy down there.

But just three ambulances ago Whitaker returned saying he lost sight of you practically immediately.

So where the hell were you?

“Hey, Dana-” he called, rounding on the nurses station.

She looked as dishevelled as he felt, wisps of hair, dark circles under her eyes.

“Can you get a hold of transport, ask where the hell is my resident.”

“I just got off the phone with them, Robby-” she reached over and placed a hand on his, the one that had been tapping relentlessly. “She's on her way in now.”

Before Robby could even wonder why Dana had to hold his hand to tell him, why her eyes were glassed over and her voice trembled to tell him the doors bust open.

“Robby!” Jack yelled out.

He turned, catching sight of his old friend, the greying hair damp and sticking to his skin. He was half dressed in SWAT gear, his jacket discarded and bits of tinfoil falling from his shoulders. Jack was set over a gurney, hammering down on a chest and going in for CPR the old fashioned way.

“What happened? You fall in-”

Robby got to the other side of the gurney and breath caught in his chest.

“She's been down thirty- thirty-five minutes, I dunno, man,” said Jack as he continued hammering down on your chest.

It was you. Blue in the face and eyes closed, droplets of water at your lashes. Your hair was turning to ice fanned out underneath you. He'd been running his hand through your hair just that morning, had he not. There was a blanket, maybe two, thrown over you but your body only reacted to the thumping Jack delivered on your chest, pinching your nose to breath down your open mouth.

This morning you'd been warm, so warm, with a leg thrown over his hips in attempts to keep him in your bed. And he'd been close, so close to burying himself in your warmth.

He didn't even have to touch you to know you were cold.

“I found her- in the water- pulled her out-” gasped Jack as he continued compressions.

“What do you mean in the water?” asked Robby, surprising himself by how calm he sounded.

“She- she fell, or-or something, I dunno man-”

“You don't know?” he snapped. “Why isn't she bagged?”

“We ran out,” said the paramedic pushing you in.

“You ran out?!”

“Robby- Robby!” Dana's hands were on his chest, keeping him at bay before Robby even knew what he was going to do.

Robby shook her off. “What's open?”

“Trauma two just got cleaned up-”

He grabbed the gurney and pushed you into the room. The weight of Jack on top of you trying to save your life squeaking the wheels against the floor not long wiped from blood. Robby was aware of other voices, of people wondering if that was Jack and was it... no... it couldn't have been.

The doors closed behind a team of people all teaming in, stuttering when they saw you.

“Hook her up!” ordered Robby, ignoring any protocol of gowns and gloves. If he was going to get you back he was going to feel the beat of your heart under his palms. “Jack, move!”

Jack slowly climbed down and Robby jumped up next, quickly taking over compressions.

He remembered kissing down your chest, hiding himself there on mornings he wanted to steal away five minutes, pulling the covers up past the two of you. How he was breaking ribs to keep you alive. “Somebody get a bag on her, now!”

“She's- she's been down a long time,” said Jack, catching his breath.

Robby thumped down on your chest, kidding himself with the dull flutter of your eyelashes, knowing it was only through the force of his hammering down on you. “She's alive.”

“Jesus, Jack, you're as cold as ice,” said Dana from somewhere behind Robby.

“I'm fine,” he dismissed. “Robby, you shouldn't be working on her, brother.”

Others in the room stopped, hearing that.

It was protocol family waited outside, that if family or friends ever came in demanding help the same DNA did not attend. They were too emotionally clouded. To invested to think straight. The last time Robby found himself in this situation: blood pumping in his ears, chest tight was trying to save Jake's girlfriends life.

He'd failed.

The only person to pull him back from that was you.

There'd be nobody if you didn't pull through. He'd be left in that pedes room, never to leave.

“Robby!” Jack tried again.

“Shut up and get me some warm saline!”

“Oh, no,” said Jack, walking around till he was on the other side of your gurney. “No, I'm not going anywhere.”

Robby was still pressing his hands down on your chest when Jack reached over, past the bag they'd finally clamped over on you, and stroked back your hair.

“We're gonna get you through this,” he uttered in an oddly tender moment.

“We need to get a central line in her,” said Matteo.

Jack looked at Robby. “Brother.”

“No.”

“You have to move, we need to get a line in her.”

Robby knew that. He knew so much as a doctor, as chief attending. But he couldn't stop, he physically couldn't bring himself to.

“Robby, man, you gotta let go.”

“I can't... I can't... I can't...” he said. The only thing keeping him sane was the one, two, three, four count in his head, was the cold feeling of your flesh under his hands. “Push three milligrams of epi.”

Jack huffed in frustration, probably the only thing keeping him warm. He marched around your bed to his side. “Robby, so help me god I will drag you out of here if you don't let her go!”

“I can't!” he yelled.

It was selfish but Robby had some how convinced himself he could be selfish with you. He could hold on tighter in the mornings and let you go for the rest of the day. He could watch patients get close to you because he knew it was him who got to kiss you. He could hold back the worst parts of himself to keep you, no matter how much it tore him apart to push you away on the days he wanted to be closest.

No, Robby could never let you go.

If you ever tried to leave him, he'd hold on tighter.

Robby dropped his voice low. “I can't.”

Jack took in a slow breath, a gentle hand on Robby's bicep. “Okay. Okay. You don't have to let her go... but to save her you have to move aside.”

A monitor somewhere in the room beeped.

Slowly, Robby moved from your chest.

The people swarmed you. Someone cut into you, getting a central line in on your other side.

Robby stayed where he was, a hand holding yours tightly as if he could squeeze his own life into yours. He cried- maybe loudly- at the feel of how cold you were.

“What's her temp?” asked Jack.

“Eighty.”

Robby looked up to the monitor reading your vitals. “That's- that's too low.”

“We're getting her warmed up.”

“Get the warm saline.”

“We are.”

Robby leaned over you once the line was placed, brushing back your hair and trying desperately to ignore how cold you were. “You're not dead, you're not,” he said, low for you. Your vitals may have been saying different. “You're not dead.”

“Doctor Robby-”

“Please,” he begged with trembling lips. “Please, don't do this to me.”

A monitor sung low and dry. The classic song of a flatline.

His head jerked up.

Jack caught his stupor and pushed him from you, sending him into Dana's ready hold. “She's going into V-fib!”

Dana held Robby. Physically she wasn't strong enough to hold him back but Robby wasn't strong enough to fight against her. “Robby... Robby, c'mon, let's wait outside.”

He was shaking his head.

“Panels, charge to three hundred!” called out Jack.

Dana had just managed to push him out the doors as he shouted clear!

Through the glass Robby watched your body jerk but not respond.

“Please, please, please,” he uttered. His back hit the nurses station, his knees giving out as he slowly slid and sank to the floor.

“Okay, okay,” muttered Dana, falling with him and holding him there.

The Pitt seemed to stand still at the sight of their boss, white faced and hands trembling, brushing back his hair. Noise travelled quick, that it was you in the bed, ribs breaking from compressions, chest hurting from the shock.

Robby's hands clasped in front of him, his star of David chain clenched in his hands. “Please.... she can't do this to me, please.”

Dana tugged on his body, bringing him in closer. With her sharp gaze she pushed everyone else that dared try and get closer away. “C'mon, Robby, she's strong, you know that. And stubborn like hell, huh?”

Robby nodded along with her words, un-sure if he could believe it.

“Charge again, three hundred, let's go!” called Jack, rubbing the panels before everyone backed up. “Clear!”

There was a small beep, a pick up in the line.

“There! Resume compressions!”

“Doctor Robby!” Santos ran up, her gown like a cape around her. She slowed to a stop in front of the two slumped. “Dana. Dana, is it- is it true, is it?”

Robby looked up, tear stained cheeks red.

“Yeah, kid,” said Dana, sadly.

Santo's jaw trembled before she shook her head in resolute, saying one simple word. No. Then she stormed into the room.

Robby knew you favoured Santos and somewhere along the way Robby had come to look for her when an interesting case came in. He came to favour the way you smiled at Santos when she did things right and Robby searched for any smile he could get from you.

So, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and followed her in- back into the chaos that was your room. The blankets had slipped from your body in the shocks and he desperately tried to hold himself back from fixing them.

“Doctor Abbot-” said a nurse or a intern or someone in the room. “It's been thirty minutes.”

“Hold compressions.”

Robby knew it was to check your pulse but he winced when they paused, when your body didn't respond.

“Still asystole, resume compressions.” Jack caught Robby's gaze.

He'd seen that look on Jack's face. Had seen the hopelessness and the devastation at losing a patient not only in his face but in his own reflection. “Don't-”

Jack lowered his head. “Robby.”

“No, Jack, her temp is not up! She's cold,” he said, walking back around the room. He rolled his shoulders back, pulling on gloves. If nobody else was going to save you he would. “She is not dead! She's not- She's not dead till she's warm and dead! Push another round of epi!”

Matteo jumped at the chance.

Jack stood by Robby's side. “Just... prepare yourself, okay? She's been down a long time. She might not come back from this.”

Robby glanced back at him. “She will.”

“And even if she did-”

Robby cut him off. “She will.”

They couldn't send you up to the OR- there was nothing surgical to do. They couldn't send you to the ICU- you weren't stable. They could work on you for hours, in the pitts of hell.

Robby didn't stop Jesse from compressions but he leant over you, leaning his lips into your forehead. “You'll come back, you have to come back.”

“What's her temp?”

“We're up to eighty-eight.”

“When was our last epi?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Push again.”

At some point Santos pushed her through the crowd, taking compressions from Jesse who she deemed weak-armed.

“Doctor Santos-” said Jack, the only one seeing this for what it was. A disaster. One more emotional person in the room wasn't going to help. If you woke you might just choke on tears from them all.

“I can do it,” she argued, nodding to the night attending. “I can do it.”

Santos was as stubborn as you. If anyone might have been able to beat her heart into beating, it would be her.

Robby leant over you. Robby could feel your skin cold against his lips and he pet back any bit of you he could reach, trying to warm you. He caught Jack's tired gaze, his lifeless stare like he was already grieving you. “I never told her I love her, Jack.”

“Get an APG,” said Santos.

Jack clasped his shoulder. “Tell her now.”

Robby looked back down to you, past the bag pushing your breath, through Santos keeping your heart beat. He kissed your forehead. “I-” he chocked on the words. He couldn't remember a time where he'd said it and meant it like he does now.

He knew Jack was giving him a way out. He knew Jack was giving him the chance to live with no regrets.

But Robby would regret not dying with you if you didn't make it.

There was a silence throughout the room, not even the beating of a monitor keeping him sane.

Robby's hot tears hit your cheeks.

“Temp?”

“Up to neinty.”

“Halt compressions.”

Santos paused.

Nothing.

Then a shrill beeping.

If Robby thought it was life he was going to be souly mistaken.

“She's in V-fib again!”

Robby backed away, tucking his head down to his chest as he watched Jack get the panels, rub the gel on.

“Charge to three hundred- clear!”

Your body jolted again, blankets slipping down your bare body and Robby suddenly wanted to cover you, wanted to pull every tube keeping you alive out and just hold you. Warm or cold. He just wanted to hold you.

“Again, charge. Clear!”

There was a silence. Maybe you were so angry at him you were proving a point by dying. You were a good swimmer. Why didn't you swim?

Everyone in the room paused, seeming to wait for someone to call it.

Jack looked at Robby.

“No,” he said, pushing past everyone.

“Robby-” interjected Jack.

He snatched the panels from Jack. “Charge again, three hundred-”

“-Robby-”

“I said charge again!”

The room was heavy as Jesse moved to do so, charging them up.

“Clear!”

Your body jerked again, violent. Your face remained peaceful, Santos remained off to the side, waiting for orders, waiting to know. Everyone else was looking to each other, silently deciding who would be the one to drag Robby away from your body.

“Wait- there!”

In the middle of them all there sat a pick up in your heart.

The room jumped into discussion about how to carry on, about how to keep the momentum going while Robby pressed his stethoscope into his ears and the other down on you. He listened, catching the beat of your heart.

“She's warm, she's warm and she's alive,” said Jack with a smile.

You were dreaming. It was a sweet sort of thing.

It was a warm body blanketing you and hands holding you. It was lips you knew pressing along you and drawing out pleasure. There were three tiny words spoken into flesh.

It was Robby, his head laid upon your chest in your bed and mumbling the words, tracing every letter over your ribs. When you reached for his hair, when you tried to say the words again you coughed up water instead. You clawed at your throat. You chocked in panic-

Then there was a beeping bringing you out of sweet dreams.

“Hey, hey. Honey? Honey, can you look at me?” a warm hand was running over your head, pushing back your hair. “Open your eyes.”

You tried to. They felt heavy. Sleep heavy.

But someone was coaxing you through it, holding your hand and brushing back your hair.

“Yeah, there we go... there we go, hey.”

The lights were bright, almost painfully so as they blared in your eyes. It took you a couple blinks to get them right but when you did there was a dark shadow looming over you, blocking out the lights.

There was the ragged pull of a beard and the slope of a well known nose.

You breathed in and smelt burnt coffee and hand sanitiser. “Robby?”

He smiled, crows feet at his eyes. “Hey, honey.”

You pushed up your arm, finding it oddly weak like it had been weighted down. You found an IV down in your arm. The white lights... the white walls and the IV all made slow sense.

“Wh-what?”

“Easy, easy.” Robby grabbed at your arms, holding you. He helped you sit up, reaching over and plumping your pillow and holding you there.

Only when you heard the monitor calming down and felt the pain lessen did Robby let you go, perching close on the bed next to you and grabbing your hand again.

“What happened?” you asked, finding your throat parched.

Robby sighed, pulling your hand into your lap. “There was an accident at the docks. You went with the responders to help. Your patient had a seizure and...”

You remembered the dock, the wind cold and the yells. You remembered Jack was there and the patient, he was seizing. “What happened to him?” you asked.

Robby stared at you, a small shake in his head as his brows pinched together.

“The seizing, the patient.”

There was a small look of disbelief, a soft smile creasing his chapped lips.

“What?”

His smile turned sharp with affection as he looked down. Your hand, engulfed in his, was pressed to his lips. He stayed like that as the scenes played in his head and the smile slowly started to fall. “You were brought in, your body temp was eighty. Jack was- was doing compressions. We- we had to shock you, so much, you don't- ” Robby sighed out a shaky breath. “You don't know what it was like.”

The dock, the bodies, Jack. The bite of cold water like a thousand daggers piercing into your skin. You had gasped for breath, limbs flailing.

It had felt like dying.

“Oh.”

You rubbed at your chest, pain blooming.

“You might be a bit burnt, from the shocks. And we were- we did compressions for a while so you broke a rib,” he said, chocking down a cry.

You squeezed his hand. “We?”

He nodded, chin tucked into his chest. His lips were pursed.

You'd seen Robby cry before, in shades of red face and clenched palms and always trying to hide it away. But you'd never seen him try to hide away as much as he was now. Your hand escaped his hold, caressing down his cheek.

“Robby.... hey....”

His lips puckered to your palm, pressing a kiss there. His palm was large as he held your hand up to his cheek.

“Hey,” you cooed.

Robby glanced up at you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“No, no it's not, it's not okay,” Robby took a shaky breath and scooted closer. His arm came over you, bracing himself on the bed. “You almost died.”

You searched his eyes but only found pain and defeat. He looked tired. Really tired. “But I didn't.”

“That's not the point,” he said. He brushed back strands of your hair, kept petting it down in a way you guessed comforted him more. “Jack was doing compressions for almost an hour. Your temp was down the whole time. We shocked you four times. Four.”

Robby's voice broke.

“You almost died and the last thing we did was argue.”

You didn't know what to say to that. The words I'm sorry were already rising and like he sensed it, Robby gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah... probably wasn't the best timing.”

“We're never arguing again, you understand?”

You smirked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You could feel the race of his pulse. “Give us a week.”

“No,” said Robby. “Never.”

Something sour tasted it your mouth.

“Because we- are we, broken up?”

“No. No. We are not,” he said sternly.

You let out a breath. “Good. Good. I'd have hated to wake up from near death to that.”

“I should have listened to you,” he uttered. “Noelle is nothing, everyone else is nothing, nobody means anything to me, only you. Only ever you. And I am never letting you go again, ever.” He kissed your hand again.

You smiled at him. “What if I need to pee?”

“You can hold my hand.”

“And on mornings where I have really bad morning breath?” you teased.

“That doesn't happen, you know that,” Robby smiled.

Without any arguments left you gave up, sinking into your sheets with a shiver.

Robby frowned. “Are you cold?” he was up at once, pulling at the covers over you and the blankets. He was all but tucking you in as you laid there, taking it.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?” he hummed.

You tugged at his arm, pulling him down.

“What are you- what are you doing?” he chuckled, lightly.

“I'm cold, you're a human furnace, hold me.”

Robby was on the verge of complaining even as you pulled him down on the bed. He grunted at the squeak of the bed, was careful of the monitors assessing you. He squeezed in, pulling the rail back up as you curled up to the side to give him space. “These beds are not made for two.”

“You'll have to get onto the attending about that,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, first thing tomorrow.”

“Meh, I can persuade him, if you like.”

Robby smirked. “He'll do whatever you say.”

His arm slung over your shoulder and rested there, holding your body into him till your head was on his chest and you could feel the beat of his heart. It was just like you dream. Of comfort and warmth.

Robby said your name in a whisper.

You looked up at him to see his eyes screwed shut before releasing them.

“I...”

You watched the move of his lips. “Robby, you don't have to-”

“No, I want to,” he said. Robby's hand was careful as he cupped your face.

“You don't have to say it just because of what happened.”

“I'm not, believe me, I'm not,” he said. “I love you.”

It was the words you wanted to hear, the words you needed to know, the very thing to finish off your dream.

“Robby-” you interjected.

“I love you,” he smiled, grinning wide at you. “I've said it now, I don't think you'll get me to shut up.” There was fake remorse in his voice, a feigned sort of sorry.

“I can think of a few ways.”

Robby's lips were warm and giving as you puckered your up to his, kissing him slow. If you lost your breath kissing him it'd be a hell of a way to go.

Robby smiled against your lips. “That might work.”

His body half rolled onto yours, the bed creaking in protest. Only when your monitor warned of you losing breath did he pull away and check the machine.

“Get some rest, Robby, you look like you need it,” you said, kissing his cheek slow.

There was fight of protest in him that quickly gave up.

Robby looked up at you, wide eyed. “Can I stay?”

You nodded.

“I love you.”

The words he'd given you, the words he'd never forget to say. The words he'd spoken and would never take back.

Though you could have very well done without all the drama that had led to it happening in the first place, you wouldn’t change anything that happened all weekend.

Between the Sprint, Quali and Race, Saturday and Sunday had been filled with holding hands, nothing new there, stolen kisses behind tyre stacks, very much very new, and a lovely dinner your best friend boyfriend? Had somehow managed to arrange in such a short time that you suspected P to be behind it all.

And from there on it was one thing after the other. From a win for Charles who you were required to celebrate with as your boss, to Maranello first thing Monday morning for race debrief in which you had zero use to anyone, to somehow ending up spending time with Kimi who needed a little comfort after his disastrous race ending.

How that last one had come to happen you were still not quite sure but you weren’t going to complain after he paid for your lunch on Wednesday before you went to the airport and home to Monaco.

Lando had been there since Monday evening, race debrief being done far faster then the one Ferrari had held and thus being home 2 days before you.

2 days of missing him so much you were sure it had been 2 years, at least that’s what it felt like.

It wasn’t that you had never missed him before when you hadn’t joined Ferrari yet and had your fixed job in Monaco but somehow that too had changed since your confession.

The aircraft touched down in Nice, a weight you hadn’t felt until then falling off your shoulders and feeling more at easy when you got into the back of Charles car after Alexandra had insisted that they would drive you home since you were basically neighbors either way. That arrangement had been established after your first race weekend on the job in canada.

Bit dreamy you sat in the back, not noticing how Charles kept a slightly worried eye on you through the rearview mirror, watching you look out the window with a dopey smile that left him wondering if the summer heat had now finally gotten to your head.

You were so in your headyou hadn’t even noticed him leaning over to Alexandra to whisper, “You think she’s okay? She’s been like this all weekend. It’s getting a bit scary, no…”

His wife chuckled with a glance back.

“I think whatever’s got her like this, just has her really happy.”

She wouldn’t dare tell Charles that she had seen you and Lando more than a bit cozy after Quali, at least not until you felt comfortable enough to tell him yourself.

Even married to your boss, she knew that it wasn’t her secret to tell.

“If you say so, but if this goes into Spa—”

“It most definitely will and you will say nothing.”

The Monegasque huffed playfully at her tone just as he pulled up in front of your building.

As if someone had pressed a button somewhere, you snapped out of trance and looked up.

“Oh, are we here already?” you asked a bit dazed and reached to unbuckle yourself before getting out of the car. You grabbed your suitcase from the trunk and went to say bye.

“Tell Lando hi from me!” Alexandra said with a wink that left you frozen with wide eyes before the car was off.

For a few more seconds you stood on the side walk, stunned and frozen in place until your brain had caught up again before shaking your head and heading inside to get out of the heat.

The elevator took its sweet time coming down from the 11th floor, opening its door just as you got more antsy to fall into Lando’s embrace waiting up on your floor. You were already later then planned, the 1and a half hour delay of the plane having messed with your planes quite a bit and if the influx of texts from Lando was any indication then he was just as unamused by it as you were.

The doors opened on your floor, prompting you to practically speed down the hall to the right apartment, keys almost landing on the floor as you rummaged through your purse to find them in the first place. They jingled once, door unlocking with a click.

A long breath left you, one that released every bit of tension left behind by the last few days and the suitcase pushed to the side to be forgotten until you found the will to do laundry.

The door had barely fell shut behind you before hurried footsteps echoed through the apartment and a second later Lando was there in your space.

Gigantic hands cupping your cheek as his lips pressed hard against yours, already moving ever so gently. Not even a piece of paper would have fit between you with the way he had caged you against the wooden surface of the apartment door.

“You took too long,” he sighed against your mouth, unwilling to part as he went in for another kiss that was far more demanding.

His words had you huff a soft laugh into the kiss, fingers twirling a stray strand of hair at the back of his neck

“Lan, its been 2 days.”

He quickly shook his head making the messy curls on his head bounce for a moment, face buried in the crock of your neck and stealing your breath as his mouth focused on the skin there.

“To long now that I get to have you properly!”

Heat rushed to your face, warming your face and skin all over.

“You’ve always had me!” you breathed out, head falling back against wood, enjoying what he was doing to you so easily.

“Not like this!” Lando argued without coming up or stopping at all.

“God you’re so needy”

Shameless as he was Lando looked up and gave you a devilish grin that simply screamed mischief.

“For you? Fuck yes.”

He didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. No, it just made him grin bigger as his right hand traveled lower to settle on your waist. His hold wasn’t rough but it wasn’t gentle either. Instead it was like he wasn’t risking you getting away for even a second if he could prevent it in any way.

Good for him that you weren’t trying to get away. Your knees threatened to give out under you, growing weak once you felt his mouth back on yours, tongue desperate to be let in.

Lando, eager as a puppy slipped his hand under your shirt, finger splayed out on your skin as the top rode up.

Your lips parted, letting out an involuntary moan at his ministrations and when his leg somehow found its way between yours and pressed up against you, your breath hitched.

Quickly you hit his chest to get him to back off a little. The look of utter confusion and desperation almost made you laugh out loud.

“What?”

“You know…” you snorted. “As much as I want you, I really don’t want you to fuck me against our front door.”

The reaction was immediate. Instead of letting up however, his hands found your ass, smacking encouraging against it with a smirk. “Jump.”

You didn’t let him tell you twice and you jumped, legs wrapping around his waist as he held you up with ease. The bulge in his sweats pressed deliciously into your thigh a friction you couldn’t help but grind against as much as you could in your position.

Lando hissed under his breath, nearly stumbling with you in his arms as he quickly caught himself and shouldered the door to the bedroom open.

With a loud oof, you landed on the bed.

Raised eyebrow, hands pushing yourself upright on the mattress you smirked cheekily.

“Elegant as ever Mr. Norris.”

Lando rolled his eyes at the teasing. “Ever thought that you might just be heavy?”

The joke was evident in the glint in his eyes and the tone of his voice and so you didn’t react in any way, choosing to laugh instead of getting revenge.

You burst into laughter, shaking your head as you reached out to catch the front of his T-shirt to tug it over his head, revealing his chest when he threw it somewhere behind him before climbing onto the bed to join you. He settled quickly between your legs again and making quick work with your own shirt which landed similar to his somewhere behind him.

The moment it was gone his focus fell to your chest. The black bra lined with some delicate red-ish flowers that you had picked this morning doing more for him then probably appropriate.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” he hummed against your throat, getting on top of you and kissing lower along the line of the lace covering your nipples.

“And you talk to much!”

With that you quickly got to work. Your jeans got shrugged off, hands reaching for his sweatpants so you were both in equal states of undress.

Lando caught your wrists before you could finish tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants, a crooked grin spreading across his face as he leaned down.

“So impatient too,” he murmured, amusement dancing in his eyes, though the way he looked at you made your heart race all the same. You reached up to brush an unruly curl away from his face, unable to stop smiling when he immediately leaned into your touch.

“Missed you,” he admitted quietly this time, the teasing slipping away just enough for the words to sound painfully honest. You answered by stealing another lingering kiss, slow and unhurried and surprised him by flipping him on his back.

“Missed you too.” You whispered against his lips.

Caught off guard by landing on his back the brit could only stare as you sat up, reached back to unclasp the hook behind your back and the fabric fell away entirely. He almost drooled at the sight of you.

“You done starring yet?” you quipped and ground down against his dick still straining against his boxers. It was cruel, that you knew and yet you didn’t care. Instead you kept doing it again and again, leaving him a bit breathless as he twitched eager against your pussy.

“You done running that mouth of yours?” Lando groaned at the feeling. He sat up, you still in his lap and his mouth all of a sudden wrapped around your right nipple, tongue lapping at the bud insistently and the already there wet patch in your slip growing bigger.

“Oh–“ you moaned loudly and clenched around nothing.

“Seems like it, hm… my love all helpless from just this? Wonder what you sound like riding me then…” The words were sweet, almost like honey and they fired up the urged to actually get his dick out and inside off you.

Lando could see what it was doing to you and quickly go rid of the last of your clothing.

His cock sprang free, making your mouth water.

As if he had read your mind he shook his head. “Not now, just let me feel you,” he said cupping you jaw and brushing his thumb over your little pout.

Retaliating you quickly wrapped your lips around the digit, tongue lapping at it for a second meant to tease.

“No, dont play dirty love. Not when you’re already dripping on my thigh…”

“Then hurry up and get a condom before I start taking care of it myself!” you bit out impatient as ever, making him grin wolfishly.

“You sure? We could—”

You quickly cut him off with a look. “Baby, unless you want a little mini you in nine months, you should get that condom… at least until I can get back on the pill.”

That shut him up and scrambling to the nightstand fast. Not that he didn’t want kids but he didn’t want them now.

Lando returned a moment later, the foil packet pinched between his fingers, though the smug grin on his face hadn’t faded in the slightest.

“Happy now?” he asked, climbing back onto the bed, only for you to steal it from his hand.

“I am,” you smiled, reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over the pink tint that lingered across his cheeks.

You ripped the package open, taking the rubber out and slipped it on. Lando nearly went insane leaning against the beds headboard once he felt your warm hand gently wrap around him, rolling the condom on with ease. It also sent a little spark of jealousy through him. The ease with which you did so, no matter the mischievous grin you gave him as you looked up through your lashes, reminded him that you knew what you were doing. That he was not the only man or woman to have you this close.

Before you could see it though, he took your hand his. Pulling until you were settle on top of him again.

You reached down, lining him up and sank down slowly.

The feeling was overwhelming, the sheer size of him nearly making you fall forward as you whimpered at the stretch. It was a noise of pleasure, one that Lando never wanted anyone else to hear again but him. He moaned low.

Finally feeling you on him, around him and with him as he had imagined for months now whenever he had gotten off by himself or met with some to take his mind off of you.

The little noise you made as he was fully sheeted inside you high and whiny and music to his ears.

Your thighs shook, your eyes met his and you began to roll your hips with his giant hands settled on your waist to help find a rhythm that escalated soon after into something frantic and fast.

“Fuck!” Lando growled out, the sound getting to your head and turning you on even more. “Feels so good my love.”

Letting your head tip forward against his shoulders, your hips stuttered. “L– Lan…”

“That’s right, just keep moving for me. Doing so good for me,”

The praise went straight to your head making you clench tight around him.

“oh, Ohh you like being good for me?” The question was rhetorically and not meant to be answered. Neither did he let you, rolling to the side and you under him to start building a rhythm of his own when he felt your growing tired on top of him.

Your breath got stuck in your throat, the pace he started drilling into you unmatched. His cock dragged deliciously against your wet walls, over your g-spot. It was so much you weren’t sure how you were going to survive this.

Orgasm building quick and still a bit to out of reach you whined helplessly. Lando seemed to notice your dilemma, being just as close as you were, reaching and rubbing your clit with pressure that had you come just from that.

Lando followed right behind, the fluttering of your walls triggering his own release.

Heavy breathing filled the room, hearts racing and only slowly calming down as your bodies stayed entangled for some time longer until he rolled off.

He slipped out, leaving you empty and spent to catch your breath while he pulled off the condom, trying not to make that big off a mess as he tied it up before crawling in beside you again.

Lando’s fingers traced absentminded patterns along your back as you rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. Every now and then he pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

You felt him smile against your hair, his arms tightening around you slightly. For a moment it was just the two of you, the world outside the apartment forgotten. No races, no pressure, no cameras, no expectations. Just Lando and you.

“I can go.” You say, standing up and grabbing your phone off the island counter.

“Just give me ten minutes baby, I’ll come with you.” Will says, stirring something a bit faster than before.

“I can go to the store by myself.” You joke, but Will is still stirring fast.

“I’ll go with her.” Mack says standing up and heading over to his shoes.

“Keep cooking, we’ll be right back.” You say, kissing Will’s cheek and putting your shoes on.

Will watches as you grab your keys off the hook, and you wink at him as you and Mack leave the house, the cool November air of San Jose hitting you both as you get into the car, and make your way to the store.

—

“Now what is that!” You exclaim with a laugh, as you notice Macklin throwing another random item into the basket.

“Since when do you control me?” He asks in a teasing manner.

“Since you left your wallet at home.” You say with a dead pan stare.

“Yeah, okay that’s fair.” He says with his usual gummy smile. But you see his eyes catch on something behind you. And you turn to see the cooler packed full of Red Bull.

“Go on then!” You say, and Macklin smiles gratefully. “Meet me at the front!” You call as you both split up in two different directions.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?”

“Not nearly enough!” You say back, laughing as you make your way up to the front. You’re excited to get back to the house, the smell of whatever Colleen was cooking is calling your name.

But before you could make it to the registers, something strange catches your eye. A man is walking around, hood up and skiddish. Suddenly, you regret not sticking with Macklin.

And at that moment too many things happen all at once. Mack rounds the corner, about two aisles separating you guys from each other. Then the man starts yelling, and before you know it shots are fired into the air as people scream and hit the ground.

You and Mack both duck, and the man screams for everyone to get down. You look around, a woman with her child tucked tightly to her, an elderly couple shaking on the floor, random men and women all scattered around the checkouts. And then your eyes flash back to Macklin, “don’t move” Mack mouths to you. And you nod your head so slightly, like you are too afraid to move it half an inch.

Then, the silence was broken.

WILL SMITH, your phone announces into the store. His contact picture pops up, and your eyes go to it as it’s on the floor near you. But you’re too paralyzed to make a move to stop it, because the man has already heard it. His sights already set on you.

“Who the hell was that?” The man asks, approaching where you’re kneeling on the ground. You get a good look at him as he does. He’s frantic, his hand shaking as it holds the gun. His eyes look wired, and then, as they flick to Macklin, they light with recognition.

“Holy shit.” The man says, and you feel the blood drain from you. He recognizes Mack, recognizes the name that called your phone. “You’re that kid.” He says, waving the gun around in hopeless abandon, but his words seem.. angry.

“Hey, man, it’s okay. Nobody’s doing anything.” Mack says as he raises both hands slowly.

“You’re that fucking hockey kid! You know I bet against you, you made me lose a lot of fucking money!”

“Mack.” You whimper before you can stop yourself, and that makes the man’s gaze snap to you.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” Mack’s voice goes sharper.

“You want me to spare her?” The man asks, and Macklin says yes instantly. “Then give me your fucking wallet, kid.”

“I don’t have it with me.” Mack says, and you can see how hard he’s forcing himself to remain steady.

“Bullshit.” The man calls, his gun aimed directly at Macklin.

“I don’t.” Mack’s hands stay up, but his eyes keep flicking to you. “I left it behind, I swear.”

“What about you?” The man demands. “You’re with him, you’ve got money.” And you watch as the gun swings toward you and your entire body locks.

“Okay, okay.” You say, your voice shaking as you slowly reach for your pocket. Mack moves half an inch, so little that you almost miss it, but the man doesn’t.

“Don’t!” The man screams, and it causes Mack to freeze.

“Okay!” Mack says, voice trembling now. “Okay. Just… just don’t point that at her.”

Your fingers fumble, and you stare at the weapon still pointed at you. And for a moment, your life flashes before your eyes. You see Will on the ice, in the kitchen on a lazy morning, you see Mack next to you at the kitchen island while he sneaks chocolate chips away from his best friend. You see the blonde shine of Grace’s hair, and feel how she’s always loved you from the second you guys met.

And then, you see movement behind the man. And your eyes widen as two men go to tackle the robber down. It all moves so fast, fast enough to make the gun jerk, fast enough that pain registers before the deafening shot rings out through the grocery store.

Then Mack screams your name, and there’s so much pain in his voice that you focus on that. For a second, your not really sure how you got onto your back, or why Mack leans above you, why he’s screaming, why his hands are pressing against you.

“No, no, no, no!” He’s pleading, voice breaking. “Stay with me. Stay with me. Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

And you try, try to focus but his face swims above you. He looks pale, and younger than you’ve ever seen him.

“Mack?” You breathe out with a question, but the pain rips through you then. And you cry on the floor of the grocery store.

“I’m here.” His says as his hands press harder against your abdomen. “I’m right here. You’re okay, I’m not leaving you, you’re going to be okay.” His voice is cracking, tears dropping down from his eyes and landing around you.

“I want Will.” You croak out, and Macklin nods. Nods but doesn’t take his eyes away from you as you can hear the sirens approaching.

“I’m going to call him, I’m going to call him as soon as they get you stabilized okay? You’ll see him very soon, I promise.” Mack says, and despite his tears, despite the pain, despite the tunnel vision starting in your eyes, you believe Mack. Because Mack wouldn’t lie to you, so you nod in agreement.

“I love him.” You whisper to Mack, but you don’t hear his reply as your eyes start to shut.

“No, no, Y/N!” Mack says, one of his bloody hands coming up to cup your face. “You’ve got to stay awake, stay awake for Will, please.” He begs you, but your eyes shut completely, and as you go limp in his arms, Macklin screams.

—

Colleen wipes her hands on the towel as Will’s phone misses another call.

“Will.” She says to her son, who is just finishing up on his portion of the meal. “You missed another call.” She says, and he starts washing his hands, but then her phone rings.

She pulls it from her back pocket, the unknown number displayed across the screen. But for some reason she feels the need to answer it.

“Hello?” She asks, and the person on the other end of the line makes her heart stop.

“Is this Colleen Smith?”

“Yes this is.” She says, and the eyes of her husband, son and daughter fly to her.

“I’m calling from the San Jose Medical Hospital-“ The voice says, and Colleen gasps as the nurse relays the information to her.

Robbery. Gunshot. Surgery.

Her eyes fill with tears as Will and Grace are begging her for some information.

“We need to go now.” Colleen says quickly to her family, still remaining on the phone as the nurse continues to fill her in.

“Mom what’s going on?” Will asks her, and she bites back a cry as she responds.

“There was a robbery at the store. Honey… Y/N’s in surgery.”

Will’s lips part, and for half a second he just stares. Then his knees buckle, but his dad catches him under the arms before he fully drops.

“No.” Will gasps. “No. Mom, no.”

“Get your shoes on, let’s go.” She says, and the Smith family rushes towards the door.

“Macklin!” Will exclaims. “Macklin was with her.”

“Was there a boy with her? Macklin Celebrini?” Colleen asks, and when she tells him that Mack is unharmed, Will squeezes his eyes shut, a sound coming out of him that is half relief and half agony.

But he doesn’t dwell on much else as his family rushes towards the hospital. As Will rushes to you.

—

The ER is just as horrible as Will thinks. The smell crawls through his senses, the lights seem too bright, and as he runs towards the direction that the front desk attendant told him, he sees his best friend.

Macklin Celebrini sits in a chair in a small private waiting room, a shirt on his body that is definitely not his, but it’s his hands that cause Will to choke.

Mack’s hands are shaking so violently, and Will stares at the red staining them. It’s in his nail beds, in the cracks of his skin. Like he tried to scrub it, but it wouldn’t all come off.

And like Mack could sense that he was no longer alone, he looks up. And his face crumples the second he sees Will.

Will crosses the room in three strides, and for one second, Mack flinches like he expects Will to smack him. Instead, Will grabs his best friend and pulls him into his arms.

Will and Mack completely break and the feeling of the other.

“I’m sorry.” Macklin sobs into Will. “I’m so sorry, Will. I was right there. I was right there and I couldn’t-“

Will grips the back of his shirt so tightly his knuckles go white.

“It’s not your fault Macklin, it’s not your fault.” He sobs, so relieved that his best friend is okay, but so terrified at the same time. His family is still behind them both, the three crying silently and trying to give the pair a moment.

“It should have been me.” Mack says, his voice so crackling and wet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Will says, pulling him in tighter if that’s even possible.

“I should have protected her.”

“Look at me.” Will says, pulling back a bit to look in the red bloodshot eyes of Mack. “I need you, Macklin. I need you to tell me what happened, and I need you to not fall apart on me because if you fall apart, I’m gonna fall apart.” Will says, like they both aren’t already falling apart. “Do it for her.” Will whispers, and Mack nods quickly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, leaving a faint red smear against his cheek.

Will sees it, and his stomach turns. Blood. Your blood.

They all sit down as Mack tells them exactly what happened, exactly how he split up to grab Red Bull because he knows Will loves them.

It cracks his heart in two, and as he listens to Macklin, Will looks toward the double doors.

Surgery. You’re in surgery. Somewhere in this hospital you’re cold, alone, and in pain. And Will can’t breathe.

A nurse comes to update them after what feels like hours, when Will sees her he shoots up so fast he knocks the chair back. The loud scrape causing Macklin to jump.

“She’s still in surgery.” The nurse relays. “But she’s tough, she’s a real fighter.”

“Yeah.” Will says, new tears falling. “Yeah she is.”

He listens as the nurse gives them more information, but he can’t get himself to rip his eyes away from Mack’s hands. Colleen managed to grab some wipes from the nurses desk, and she’s been carefully working on cleaning your dried blood from them.

“I need air.” Will finally says, standing and walking towards the doors.

“Will-“ Grace says, but their father grabs her arm softly, probably whispering something about letting him go.

He makes it out the automatic doors, moving towards the side of the hospital that is not facing the parking lot. He closes his eyes for one moment before he hurls over, puking in the bushes.

His stomach rolls, his throat burning as he thinks he’s done only to realize he’s not. But when he’s sure now that his stomach is completely empty he spits a few times, too scared and too tired to be embarrassed by it.

He walks towards a bench, biting his lip to stop the tears from leaving his eyes as he tilts his head back. The San Jose sky is clear tonight, the stars shining brightly down on him. And he almost laughs at the irony of it. How many times have you laid in the backyard staring at the stars? How many times have you pointed to them, telling Will which constellation is which? And yet here they are, shining bright, but you aren’t here to see them.

Will initially wants to scream at them, almost begging for clouds instead. But then he pictures your face, how happy you are when you’re able to lay under them. So he cries, he looks up and sobs.

“Please.” He begs, and he doesn’t feel any ounce of embarrassment for begging the stars. “Please don’t take her from me.” He says, voice cracking. He keeps staring up, like maybe they’ll answer him, like they can promise him that you’ll be okay. “She’s everything to me, please.” He whispers, putting his head in his hands and sobbing.

He doesn’t notice someone coming towards him until they are almost next to him, and without looking he can tell it’s Macklin. He sits down on the bench, and Will turns into him, holding tightly onto the fabric of the shirt the hospital must have given him.

“I can’t lose her Macklin.” He sobs. “I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

“You’re not going to.” Mack says, voice shaking but firm at the same time. “She’s stubborn as hell. She’s gonna wake up and be pissed about them cutting your sweatshirt off of her.”

Will snorts, nodding his head. And he and Mack stay on that bench for a long time.

—

The doctor comes to the waiting room at 1:17am. Will knows that because he’s been staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick by for a few hours since him and Mack came back inside.

Everyone stands up, anxiously waiting as the doctor confirms what Will has been hoping to hear.

“She made it through the surgery.” The man says, and Colleen sobs, covering her mouth, Grace cries into their father, and Will and Mack both grip the arms of their chairs, processing the words.

“She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable. You guys have a real fighter, you should all be proud.” He says with a smile, and Will runs his hands through his hair in relief.

“Can we see her?” He asks, not realizing when he moved towards the doctor a few steps.

“Yes, but we need calm and quiet in the room.”

“Of course.” Colleen says, and everyone swallows their fears and emotions as they walk into the room.

Will stops in the doorway as he sees you, wires and tubes hooked up to you in various places, but all he can look at is the rise and fall of your chest. Like seeing that is finally what he needed to tell himself that you’re alive.

He rushes to your side, the nurse kindly stepping out of his way. He sits down in the chair positioned right next to your bed, and he so gently, so carefully grabs your hand.

“I’m here, baby.” He whispers, eyes so glossy that his vision shakes. “I’m with you. And you’re okay, you made it.” He kisses your knuckles softly, your skin cool to the touch. “You’re so strong, you’re the strongest person I know.”

Someone behind Will whimpers, but he doesn’t care enough to turn around and see who. All he’s focused on is you, and for the next few hours, he doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from your body. He refuses water, a sweatshirt, food. Will Smith barely breathes until your fingers twitch in his, and he sees your eyes slowly open.

—

To say you have no clue what happened is an understatement. But as your eyes adjust to the dimmed hospital lights the memories come flooding back.

The grocery store. The man. The gun. Macklin. The urge to see Will one last time.

Voices sound to your right, but they sound muffled. Like you’re underwater. But there’s that familiar feeling, that feeling of home. And as you look to your right, you understand why.

Will sits there, eyes wide as his mouth moves. And then finally you can hear it.

“Hey, hey. Don’t move baby. You’re safe, I’m here.” He keeps uttering like a broken record.

A few nurses come in, and Mack has to pull Will back while they adjust the machines around you. But he stays locked in on your eyes, and they find his, glossy and wide, and you make an attempt to reach for him.

One of the nurses steps aside, softly reminding Will to be careful, but letting him reach for you back.

His hand takes yours, his other going to your face and resting on your cheek.

“Will?” You ask, and Will has never heard a more perfect voice in all of this life.

“I’m here. I’m right here with you.” He says, and you cry with him.

“I love you.” You say, because that’s the first thing you want him to know. The most important thing to get off of your chest.

Will laughs, sniffling as he plants the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you more, beautiful girl.” He says.

Phoenix Raceway.

Third in points going into the weekend, which meant everything and nothing simultaneously — enough to matter, not enough to breathe easy. The end of season races had a way of doing that, compressing the whole season into a handful of weekends where every decision, every lap, every pit call carried a weight that the regular season only approximated.

She'd learned not to think too far ahead. Just this weekend. Just Phoenix.

Scout had opinions about Phoenix, specifically about the desert heat in October which was different from the desert heat in March and somehow worse, and had communicated these opinions by refusing to move from the air-conditioned motorhome until absolutely necessary. She couldn't blame her.

Friday morning had that particular race weekend energy — sharper than usual, everyone a little more deliberate, the garages moving like it knew something was at stake. She'd done her debrief, walked the track with her engineer, gone over notes she already knew by heart. The usual.

The noise — the other noise, the kind that lived in comment sections and reply threads and the particular corners of the internet that had decided she was a convenient target — she'd gotten good at letting that exist at a distance. It was always there. The people who'd decided she was Carson's shadow, or something that had arrived in NASCAR sideways rather than through the years of work that had actually gotten her here. She'd learned not to look directly at it. Not because it didn't sting, but because it was always going to be there and she had a car to drive.

Her fans were louder than they used to be, which helped. After her earlier wins and Las Vegas especially — she'd watched her own corner of the internet grow teeth in real time, watched people who'd always been there suddenly have company, watched the Reddit thread that had gotten everything wrong pivot into something that got her exactly right. That helped too.

It didn't make the other stuff quieter. It just made it easier to hear past it.

She had a sponsor event at noon.

The event was straightforward — a Spire Motorsports partner thing, the kind of Friday afternoon access situation that involved a small media contingent, some brand content, and the particular performance of being personable and professional simultaneously. She was good at it but would rather not have to be there. Carson was unpredictable at it, which their PR person had long since accepted as a fixed condition of his existence (He'd already said something mildly unhinged to someone from the sponsor's social media team and she'd given him a look and he'd dialed it back to merely chaotic, which was the best available outcome.) Daniel was great, he had long ago mastered the trick of making corporate obligations feel like actual conversations. He wasn't flashy about it. He just looked people in the eye, smiled, asked questions back, and left everyone convinced they'd gotten a little more of his time than the schedule had actually allowed.

The questions were routine for the first twenty minutes. Chase position, the car, Phoenix specifically, what the weekend looked like from where she was standing. She answered them the way she always did — direct, specific, no filler. She'd never seen the point of filler.

Then a reporter she didn't recognize — credentials she hadn't caught, the kind of access that sometimes materialized at these events from sources that weren't exactly the core motorsport press — leaned forward with the particular energy of someone who had decided they were about to say something interesting.

"Given everything that's happened this season off the track," he said, "do you think your profile has risen more because of your relationship with Verstappen than because of your actual results?"

The room did a thing. Not loud — just a shift, the kind that happened when something landed wrong and everyone felt it before they'd processed why.

She took a breath. She knew how to answer this. She'd been answering versions of this her whole career, in different words, with different names attached, the same essential implication underneath all of them: are you sure you belong here, or did someone just hold the door open for you?

She opened her mouth.

"That's funny," Carson said.

His voice was completely even. Not loud, not aggressive — just present, cutting through the room with the calm of someone who had already decided how this was going to go. 

She turned to look at him. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the reporter with an expression that was almost pleasant, which somehow made it worse.

"Because she was outrunning half this field before he even knew what a choose cone was."

Silence.

Not uncomfortable silence — the other kind. The kind that settled after something accurate had been said plainly and the room was catching up to it. The reporter opened his mouth. Carson looked at him with the patient expression of someone willing to wait and see if whatever came next was going to be worth his time. Nothing came next.

She looked at Carson. He glanced at her briefly — just a flick of eye contact, checking she was okay — and then back at the room like nothing had happened, like he was perfectly prepared to move on to the next question and had simply made a small factual correction.

The event moved on.

She didn't say anything. She wasn't sure she had words for it yet.

r/NASCAR

📌 Y/N Carter Updates — the carson hocevar choose cone clip 

Posted by u/spire95daily • 47 minutes ago

if you haven't seen it yet. WATCH IT.

[video link]

I don't have anything else to say. I just need everyone to see this.

↑ 9.4k | 673 comments

u/Monsterorbust • 44m "before he even knew what a choose cone was" I need him to know he said that for ALL of us

u/95ganggang • 43m the way he didn't even raise his voice. he just said it. like it was obvious. BECAUSE IT IS OBVIOUS.

u/lurkingengineer • 41m that reporter really looked at a woman who has been racing since she was a teenager, who has built a career from the ground up at one of the hardest tracks on the circuit, who is THIRD IN POINTS IN THE CHASE, and decided the interesting question was about her boyfriend. I'm going to be so normal about this. u/f1nascarcrossoverfan • 40m you are not going to be normal about this   u/lurkingengineer • 39m   I am not going to be normal about this

u/nascarnotes • 38m her FACE when he said it. she did not see that coming. you can see the exact moment she realizes what he just did

u/redbullorbust • 37m she turned and looked at him like — I don't even have words for that look

u/95ganggang • 36m that's the look of someone who has a best friend who just said the thing she wasn't going to let herself say

u/oldschoolnascarfan • 30m third in points in the chase. runs that nobody in this garage would have called possible in a Spire car two years ago. and someone really asked her that question. in a room full of people. on camera. I genuinely don't know what to tell you about the state of motorsport media.

u/95ganggang • 28m at least Carson was there    u/oldschoolnascarfan • 27m   at least Carson was there.

u/maxshipper_supreme • 25m not to make this about something else but do we think Max has seen this yet u/lurkingengineer • 23m it's been 47 minutes and lando norris exists so yes. absolutely yes.

675 more comments

They walked back from the event in the late afternoon Phoenix heat without saying much.

That was unusual for Carson, who treated silence like a personal challenge, which meant he understood this one needed having. She was grateful for it in the way you're grateful for things you don't have to ask for.

"Carson."

"What?"

She looked at him for a moment — at this person who had been in her corner since before anyone was paying attention, who had sent her chaotic Reddit threads at 1am and talked her down from stress spirals and vaulted things he shouldn't vault to get to her in victory lane and today had just — quietly, calmly, completely — said the thing she hadn't let herself say.

"Thank you," she said. Simple. No speech attached.

Something moved across his face. Not the grin, not the deflection — something quieter underneath those things.

"You were going to answer it fine," he said.

"I know."

"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "You shouldn't have to. Keep answering that. You've answered it enough."

She nodded. Her throat felt slightly stupid about that, which she chose not to acknowledge.

He looked at her for one more second and then he shrugged — easy, loose, like it had been nothing, like he hadn't just meant every single word of it.

"Come on," he said. "Scout's been in the motorhome for four hours. She's going to be unhinged."

She laughed, and they walked, and the clip kept spreading somewhere behind them across every corner of the internet, and she let it.

Scout was, in fact, unhinged.

She'd done three full laps of the motorhome at speed the moment the door opened, investigated Carson thoroughly, stolen one of his shoes directly off his foot somehow, and was now lying in the middle of the floor looking extremely pleased with herself.

"She got my shoe," Carson said, pointing.

"She does that."

"How."

"Nobody knows."

He looked at Scout. Scout looked back at him with the absolute confidence of a dog who had no regrets. He reached over and scratched her ear and she closed her eyes like she'd won something, which she had.

She made coffee and Carson sat on the floor with Scout and they talked about the weekend — the car, the track, what Sunday looked like from where they both were in points — and it was completely normal, the most normal thing, and she was grateful for it in a way she couldn't have explained.

He left an hour later. She stood in the doorway of the motorhome and watched him go and then went back inside and sat with Scout and her coffee and the quiet desert evening.

Her phone buzzed.

From: Max 💙

Can I call you?

She looked at that for a second. He always asked. She'd noticed that early on — he never just called, always checked first, like he understood that her time was hers and he was a guest in it.

To: Max 💙

yeah

It rang almost immediately.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey." His voice was the same as always — unhurried, a little dry — but underneath it something was paying closer attention than usual. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

“Uh huh.”

She almost smiled. "I am."

"Okay," he said, in the tone that meant he was going to let her have it for now but hadn't fully believed her.

She leaned back against the couch cushion. Scout lifted her head, decided nothing interesting was happening, and put it back down.

"I watched the clip," he said.

"I figured."

"Lando sent it."

"Of course he did."

He was quiet for a beat. The thinking kind of quiet.

"Does it happen a lot," he said. "Questions like that."

She exhaled. "Versions of it."

"Before me?"

"Different names. Same question underneath." She looked at Scout, solid and warm. "Are you sure you belong here? Did someone let you in? Can you actually do this or does it just look that way?" A pause. "You get good at answering it. You have to."

The quiet on his end had a weight to it.

"You do belong there," he said. Not loud. Not emphatic. Just plain, the way he said things that were obvious to him and didn't require decoration.

"I know that."

"I know you know." A beat. "I just wanted to say it."

She pressed her lips together. Her throat did the slightly stupid thing it had been doing all afternoon.

"Where are you right now?" she asked, because sometimes that was the thing — just knowing where he was in the world when she couldn't be there.

"Monaco. The balcony." A pause. "Jimmy is on my lap. Sassy is ignoring me from inside."

"Standard."

"Standard," he agreed.

She looked out the small window of the motorhome at the darkening Arizona sky. Monaco and Phoenix — different continents, different time zones, different everything. She'd gotten used to the math of it. What time it was for him when she woke up. What he was doing when she was at the track. The way a conversation could happen in the ten minute gap between one commitment and the next and feel longer than it was because they'd both learned to be present in it.

"What does it look like," she said. "The water."

He was quiet for a moment, and she knew he was actually looking. "The sun’s just barely up," he said. "Calm. There are still lights on in the boats."

"I like when you describe it."

"I know." Not smug about it. Just — certain. "Jimmy is purring. You can probably hear it."

She listened. She could, faintly, underneath everything. "Yeah."

"He likes the mornings out here."

"Scout stole Carson's shoe today."

“Really?” 

"Right off his foot. He didn't even notice until he went to take a step."

"How."

"Nobody knows. She's done it to nearly everyone. It's affection apparently."

"That's terrifying."

"She likes Carson," she said. "That's high praise from her."

"She likes me," Max said, with the mild confidence of someone who had been thoroughly investigated by a doberman and came out the other side approved.

"She does," she agreed.

 She settled back into the couch cushion. Outside the motorhome the desert had gone fully dark, the kind of dark that only happened away from cities, and she could see a handful of stars through the small window. In Monaco it was early morning — the sun barely up, the water doing that thing it did at dawn where it looked like it hadn't decided on a color yet. She'd seen it once, in person, standing on his balcony with coffee while he was still asleep, and she'd built it carefully in her head since then so she could find it when she needed it.

That was the thing about the distance. You built things in your head. His balcony at sunrise. The way Jimmy always chose his lap over any available surface. The particular sound of Monaco quiet, which was different from any other quiet she'd been in.

He'd built things about her too, she knew. He knew what a race weekend sounded like from inside the motorhome. He knew Scout's schedule and the way her voice changed after a bad result versus a good one and that she made coffee before she looked at her phone in the morning without exception.

You learned each other from a distance and then when you were in the same room it was like confirmation. Like finding out the thing you'd built in your head was right.

"I hate that you're not here," she said. Not dramatic about it. Just true.

"I know." A pause. "Four more weekends."

"Four more weekends," she agreed.

It wasn't a promise exactly. Just the math of it, laid out plainly. Three more race weekends and then one more where she finished up the end of season stuff regardless of her results, then she would join him in Las Vegas before following him to the last few races of his own season, they'd figure out the rest from there. 

"Tell me something," she said. "Anything."

He thought for a moment. She could hear him shift on the balcony, Jimmy adjusting with him.

"Sassy knocked a glass off the counter this morning," he said. "Made eye contact with me the entire time. Did not break eye contact when it hit the floor."

She laughed. "She did not."

"She did."

"She's punishing you for something."

"I gave her the wrong food yesterday. Apparently she's making her feelings known."

"Reasonable."

"I don't think it's reasonable. I think it's disproportionate."

"Max. She's a cat. Disproportionate is the whole thing."

"Fair," he said.

She was smiling though he couldn’t see.

They stayed on the phone like that for a while after that — not talking about anything much, just existing in the same space across a thousand miles. 

It was never the same as being there. But it was theirs, this — the particular intimacy of shared quiet across a thousand miles, of knowing the shape of someone's silence well enough to sit in it comfortably. She'd learned to hold that carefully, the way you held things that mattered.

"Go sleep," he said eventually, softly.

"You first."

"I asked first."

"That's not how it works."

A pause. Then, quieter: "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," she said. "You will."

"Goodnight."

Requested: Yes/ Anon

Word count: 4797

Author’s note: Hey guys, this one made me tear up a bit while writing. Hope you love it, stay safe xx

Masterlist

The rain in Monaco always sounded louder than it actually was, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass of the apartment overlooking the harbor. You sat on the edge of the marble kitchen counter, your fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of ginger tea that had long since gone cold. Your chest felt tight, a familiar, suffocating weight that had nothing to do with the humidity outside and everything to do with the small white envelope tucked beneath a stack of racing magazines on the coffee table.

In twenty four hours, Max would be leaving for the triple header. Three weeks of intense, back to back racing, endless media scuffles, and the crushing pressure of defending a world championship. He was already stretched thin, his jaw tighter than usual during breakfast, his eyes constantly scanning telemetry data on his iPad even while he chewed his toast. You knew that look. It was the hyper focus that made him a formidable driver, the absolute closing off of the outside world to ensure nothing, absolutely nothing, interfered with the car and the track.

And that was exactly why you could not tell him.

You took a shallow breath, wincing as a sharp, burning pain flared deep in your ribs. The doctors at the clinic in Nice had been very specific. The condition was progressing faster than they anticipated, a chronic cardiovascular anomaly that you had managed with medication for years was no longer responding to the standard dosage. They wanted you admitted for a comprehensive exploratory procedure, and they wanted it done by the end of the week. They used words like critical risks and immediate intervention.

But you had looked at the calendar, seen the upcoming races in Austin, Mexico, and Brazil, and you had quietly asked for a prescription rewrite instead. Just enough to get through the month. Just enough to keep you on your feet so Max wouldn't notice the tremors in your hands or the way you had to catch your breath after walking up a single flight of stairs.

The front door clicked open, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. You quickly shoved the cold tea into the sink and leaned against the counter, forcing a soft smile onto your face as Max walked in. He looked exhausted, his hair damp from the rain, his oversized team hoodie clinging to his shoulders. He dropped his gear bag by the door and kicked off his sneakers, exhaling a long, heavy breath.

“Hey,” Max said, his voice low and gravelly from a long day in the simulator. He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He smelled like rain and the faint, chemical scent of the factory. “It was a mess today. The front end balance is completely off on the new floor update. We spent four hours trying to fix the simulation models and we are still nowhere.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs at the sudden pressure of his embrace. You fought down a gasp, keeping your breathing as shallow and unnoticeable as possible. “You will figure it out, Max. You always do. You and GP just need to get on the track and see how it feels in real life.”

Max mumbled something against your skin, his hands shifting slightly on your lower back. He pulled away just enough to look down at you, his blue eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned your face. “You look pale, Y/N. Are you sleeping okay? I woke up at three AM last night and you were not in bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you kept the smile plastered on your face, reaching up to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from his forehead. “I was just restless. I drank some coffee too late in the afternoon. I am fine, Max, really. Just a bit tired from the weather.”

He did not look entirely convinced, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip, but his mind was clearly pulling him back to the data. “Yeah, the rain makes everyone sluggish. I need to review these lap times before I go to sleep. Do you mind if I just eat something quick and head to the office?”

“Of course not,” you said, stepping back to open the refrigerator before he could notice how hard your hands were shaking. “I made some pasta. I can heat it up for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning over to press a quick, dry kiss to your forehead. “You are the best, honestly. I do not know how I would handle this weekend if I had to worry about things at home too.”

The words felt like a physical blow to your chest. You kept your back turned to him as you set the bowl in the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating food inside. He needed this peace of mind. He needed to believe that everything at home was perfectly stable, perfectly safe, so he could drive a car at three hundred kilometers an hour on the edge of control. If you told him your heart was failing to pump blood properly, if you told him you needed surgery, he would drop everything. He would sit in a hospital chair, missing sessions, losing his focus, blaming himself for being away. You could not let your body become his distraction.

The next morning, the apartment was a whirlwind of activity. Max was packing his final things, tossing t shirts into his rimowa suitcase while talking on speakerphone with his trainer, Bradley. You stood by the bedroom door, one hand gripping the doorframe tightly to keep your balance. The room felt like it was spinning slightly, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of your neck.

“Yeah, Brad, I have the hydration tablets,” Max said into the phone, zipping the suitcase shut with a sharp tug. “I will meet you at the terminal at eleven. Okay, see you.” He hung up and looked up at you, his expression immediately softening. He walked over and grabbed your hands, his brows furrowing. “Your hands are freezing, Y/N. Are you sure you are not catching a cold?”

“Just poor circulation,” you lied smoothly, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “It is always like this in the winter.”

“It is October,” Max pointed out, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained worried. “But okay. Look after yourself while I am gone. Do not just eat takeout. Call your sister if you get lonely, okay?”

“I will,” you promised, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. You held onto him a little tighter this time, a little longer, wondering if this would be the last time you could hold him without a hospital gown between you. “Drive fast, Max. Bring home the win.”

“Always do,” he said with that stubborn, confident tilt of his chin that you loved so much. He picked up his bags, gave you one last, lingering look, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed his departure was heavy and suffocating. The moment the sound of the elevator faded down the hall, your legs gave out. You slid down the doorframe, sinking onto the hardwood floor, grasping at your chest as a massive, crushing pressure clamped down on your heart. You gasped for air, but it felt like trying to breathe through a wet cloth. Tears pricked your eyes as you crawled toward the kitchen, reaching up to grab the bottle of medication from the top shelf. You swallowed two pills dry, collapsing against the lower cabinets as you waited for the chemical calm to wash over your erratic pulse.

“Just three weeks,” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling. “Just three weeks, and then he will have a break. Just hold on until then.”

The first week was a blur of exhausting pain and carefully curated phone calls. You made sure to memorize the race schedule down to the minute, calculating the time differences precisely so you would only answer his FaceTime calls when you were sitting down, fully made up, and capable of masking your fatigue.

When he called from Austin after Friday practice, he was ecstatic. The new floor was working perfectly, the car felt connected, and he had secured provisional pole. You sat on the couch with a thick blanket covering your lap to hide the heating pad pressed against your chest, smiling brightly into the camera.

“You looked amazing out there,” you said, your voice steady despite the fact that you had spent the previous three hours vomiting from the side effects of the increased medication dosage. “The sector three times were incredible.”

“Yeah, the car is a rocket ship here,” Max said, his face flushed and happy through the screen. He was sitting in his hotel room, a plate of grilled chicken and rice in front of him. “GP was happy for once. Can you believe it? He actually smiled during the debrief. I wish you were here, Y/N. The crowd is crazy this year.”

“I wish I was there too, Max,” you said, and that, at least, was the absolute truth. “But someone has to stay back and make sure the apartment doesn't flood again. Plus, I have some work things to finish up.”

Max nodded, taking a bite of his food. His eyes drifted to something off screen for a second before returning to you, his expression turning slightly serious. “You look smaller in that sweatshirt, Y/N. Have you been eating enough? Do not skip meals just because I am not there to cook.”

“I am eating, Max, I promise,” you lied, your throat tightening. In reality, you could barely manage a bowl of broth without feeling intensely nauseous. “I am just wearing one of your old hoodies. It makes me look smaller.”

He smiled, that warm, private smile that he only ever saved for you. “Okay. I miss you. I will call you after the sprint tomorrow, okay?”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you too, Y/N. Go to sleep early.”

When the call disconnected, the smile dropped from your face instantly. You let your head fall back against the cushions, gasping as a sharp pain vibrated through your left shoulder. You reached for your phone, dialing the number for the clinic in Nice.

“Dr. Laurent,” you said when the receptionist put you through. “It is Y/N. The tablets are not working as well anymore. The chest pain is radiating to my arm now.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “Y/N, we discussed this. The myocardial strain is reaching a dangerous threshold. You are risking acute heart failure if you continue to delay this. You need to come in. Today.”

“I can’t,” you choked out, a tear slipping down your cheek. “My partner is in the middle of the championship. If I go into the hospital now, it will be all over the news. He will find out, and he will fly back. He has worked the entire year for this. Please, just tell me how much more medication I can safely take to buy two more weeks.”

“I cannot ethically advise you to increase the dose further,” the doctor said, his voice firm and laced with deep concern. “You are playing Russian roulette with your health, Y/N. If you experience severe shortness of breath, sudden sweating, or prolonged fainting, you must call an ambulance immediately. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” you murmured, though you knew you would do everything in your power to avoid causing a scene that might flash across a sports ticker while Max was getting into his cockpit.

By the time the Mexican Grand Prix weekend arrived, you could barely leave the bed. The world had shrunk down to the four walls of the bedroom and the agonizing rhythm of your failing heart. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. Your skin had turned a ghostly, translucent shade of white, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath your eyes. You hadn't slept more than two hours a night, terrified that if you closed your eyes, your heart would simply stop beating altogether.

Max called you on Thursday evening from Mexico City. You had spent forty minutes in the bathroom beforehand, applying layers of concealer and blush to your hollow cheeks, trying to make yourself look human. You propped the phone up on the pillow, lying on your side and wrapping the duvet tightly up to your chin.

“Hey,” Max said, his face appearing on the screen. He looked stressed, his brow furrowed deeply. “The altitude here is terrible. The cooling on the brakes is a nightmare, and the engine keeps derating on the straightaways. We are losing four tenths to the Ferraris.”

“You will find a solution,” you whispered, your voice sounding raspy even to your own ears. You cleared your throat quickly, trying to sound stronger. “You always find a way around the engine issues.”

Max stopped talking, his eyes locking onto yours through the camera. The usual distraction in his gaze vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. He leaned closer to his screen. “Y/N. What is wrong with your voice?”

“Nothing,” you said, forcing a small chuckle that turned into a dry, painful cough. You managed to stifle it into your elbow. “Just a scratchy throat. The air conditioning in the apartment has been acting up.”

“You look different,” Max insisted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. His eyes scanned your face, noting the way you were burying yourself in the blankets, the slight tremor in the phone as you adjusted it. “You look sick, Y/N. Really sick. Turn the light on in the room.”

“Max, it is fine, the light is just bad,” you pleaded, your heart beginning to race erratically, a terrifying flutter starting up in your chest. “Do not worry about me. Focus on the setup. You have final practice in the morning.”

“Fuck the setup,” Max snapped, his temper flaring, a rare sign of how stressed he actually was. “Something is wrong. You have been acting strange for three weeks. You never want to show me your whole face on the camera, you are always under a blanket, and you sound like you can barely breathe. Tell me what is going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” you said, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, breaking through the concealer. “I just miss you. I am just tired, Max, please. Go back to your data. Please.”

Max stared at you, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger, confusion, and sudden, deep seated fear. “I am calling Bradley. I am going to have someone come check on you.”

“No, Max, do not do that,” you cried out, but the sudden exertion was too much.

A wave of blinding, catastrophic pain exploded across your chest, radiating down your arm and up into your jaw. It felt as if a physical fist had reached inside your torso and squeezed your heart with agonizing force. You gasped, a choked, terrible sound escaping your lips as the phone slipped from your hand, tumbling onto the mattress.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Max’s voice was screaming from the speaker, tiny and distant. “Y/N, answer me! What is happening? Y/N!”

You could not move. The room went dark at the edges, tunneling down until the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the ceiling light. You reached blindly for the phone, your fingers brushing against the glass, but you didn't have the strength to lift it. Your breathing became ragged, shallow gasps that brought no oxygen to your lungs.

“Max,” you whimpered, the sound barely a whisper against the sheets.

Then, the darkness swallowed you completely.

When Max heard the heavy thud through the speaker, followed by nothing but the sound of labored, irregular breathing, his entire world stopped. The telemetry data, the championship points, the issues with the Ferrari straight line speed, all of it vanished, wiped clean from his mind in a single fraction of a second.

“Y/N!” he yelled, slamming his hands onto the desk of his hotel room. He stood up so fast his chair flipped backward, crashing onto the carpet. “Y/N, talk to me! Please, fuck, Y/N!”

There was no response. Only the distant, faint sound of the Monaco rain against the windows of their apartment, thousands of miles away.

Max’s hands shook violently as he grabbed his second phone, frantically dialing Christian Horner’s number. He did not wait for the team principal to finish his greeting.

“I need a plane,” Max said, his voice cracking, completely stripped of his usual composure. “Now, Christian. I need to go back to Monaco right now.”

“Max? What is going on? The qualifying briefing is in an hour,” Christian said, his tone startled and confused.

“I do not care about qualifying,” Max roared, his chest heaving as panic took absolute control of him. “Something happened to Y/N. She is unconscious on the floor of our apartment and she is not breathing right. Get me a private jet now, or I am walking to the commercial terminal myself. I am leaving, Christian. I am done here.”

Christian didn't argue. The sheer terror in the young driver’s voice was enough to tell him everything he needed to know. “Okay. Okay, Max. Give me ten minutes. I will call the airfield. Go pack your things.”

Max did not pack. He grabbed his passport, his wallet, and his phone, leaving his racing gear, his clothes, and his helmet scattered across the hotel room. He ran down the corridor, slamming his shoulder into the exit doors, bursting into the lobby where Bradley was waiting.

“Max? Where are you going?” Brad asked, jogging to keep up with Max’s frantic, dead-set sprint toward the entrance.

“Call the emergency services in Monaco,” Max ordered, his voice trembling so badly he could barely articulate the words. “Give them our address. Tell them my girlfriend collapsed. Tell them they need to break the door down if they have to. Just get them there, Brad, please, do it now!”

The flight back across the Atlantic was eleven hours of pure, unadulterated hell. Max sat in the leather seat of the private jet, his hands pressed against his face, his eyes staring blankly at the dark window. Christian had tried to talk to him before he boarded, trying to offer words of comfort, but Max had completely shut down. He had refused food, refused water, refused to speak to anyone. The only thing he did was stare at his phone, waiting for Bradley to send updates from the local paramedics.

The update had come six hours into the flight. The paramedics had found you unconscious on the bedroom floor. Your heart rate was dangerously high and unstable, and they had transferred you to the intensive care unit at the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco before immediately airlifting you to the specialized cardiac thoracic center in Nice. The doctors had found the hidden medical files in your bedside drawer, along with the empty prescription bottles.

Max had read the text message over and over again until the words lost meaning. You had been sick for months. You had known your heart was failing. And you had hidden it from him so he could drive a car.

He felt a sudden, violent surge of nausea, burying his head in his knees. He felt sick to his stomach, angry, terrified, and profoundly broken. How could you think a stupid trophy mattered more than your life? How could he have been so blind, so utterly consumed by his own career that he hadn't noticed his own girlfriend was dying right in front of him?

The moment the wheels of the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice, Max was out of his seat. He didn't wait for the stairs to fully deploy, jumping the last few steps onto the rainy concrete. A rental car was waiting for him, the engine running. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and slammed his foot onto the accelerator, driving through the stormy French roads with a reckless desperation that eclipsed any risk he had ever taken on a racetrack.

When he burst through the doors of the cardiac ICU in Nice, he was a ghost of himself. His hair was wild, his clothes were wrinkled and damp from the rain, and his eyes were bloodshot. The nurses at the front desk tried to stop him, but he blew past them, his eyes frantically searching the names on the glass doors until he saw yours.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

You were lying in the center of a sterile, white room, surrounded by an array of humming monitors and blinking lights. A clear oxygen mask was strapped over your face, misting slightly with every weak breath you took. IV lines ran into the backs of both of your hands, and a thin, white bandage was taped over your chest, monitoring your heart’s electrical activity. You looked so incredibly small, your skin almost matching the color of the hospital sheets.

Max felt his knees tremble. He walked into the room, his footsteps completely silent against the linoleum floor. He approached the side of the bed, his hand reaching out, hovering over yours as if he was afraid that if he touched you, you would shatter into pieces.

Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his large, calloused hand around yours. Your fingers were cold, so cold, but they twitched slightly at his touch.

Max let out a ragged, choking sob, dropping his forehead onto the edge of the mattress, his shoulders shaking violently as the dam broke. He wept openly, holding your cold hand against his cheek, letting his tears wet your skin.

“Why?” he whispered into the quiet room, his voice broken and raw. “Why did you do this to me, Y/N? Why didn't you tell me?”

A soft, rustling sound made him look up. Your eyelids fluttered, opening slowly. Your vision was blurry, the bright hospital lights making your head thrum, but as the shapes started to focus, you saw the familiar outline of short blonde hair and the bright, tear soaked blue eyes of the boy you loved.

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled your voice, and your throat felt like sand. You moved your hand slightly, your thumb brushing against the back of his knuckles.

Max immediately stood up, leaning over you, his hands framing your face with an incredible, desperate gentleness. He helped you slide the mask down to your chin, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Max,” you croaked out, your voice barely audible over the hum of the heart monitor. “What are you doing here? The race. The qualifying session.”

Hearing those words, the very proof of why you had almost died in silence, broke something inside him. A flash of pure, agonizing frustration crossed his face, though his touch remained incredibly soft.

“Are you crazy?” Max choked out, more tears spilling down his cheeks, landing on your hospital gown. “Are you completely insane, Y/N? You almost died. Do you understand me? The doctors said if I had not called the paramedics when I did, your heart would have stopped completely within an hour. And you are asking me about a fucking qualifying session?”

“You needed to focus,” you whispered, a tear leaking from the corner of your eye, tracking down into your hair. “You worked all year for this championship, Max. If I told you, you would have left. I knew you would leave. I did not want to ruin it for you.”

“Ruin it?” Max repeated, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself, closing his eyes tightly to steady his breathing. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. “Y/N, look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his intense, shattered gaze.

“Nothing matters without you,” Max said, each word deliberate, heavy with an absolute, unshakeable certainty. “Do you honestly think I care about a plastic trophy or some points on a piece of paper if it means I come home to an empty apartment? Do you think I could ever drive that car knowing that you were sitting here, dying alone because of me?”

“It was not because of you,” you protested weakly. “It is my body, Max. It is my illness.”

“You hid it because of me,” he countered, his voice thick with guilt. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, as if he could physically press the life back into you. “I was so busy talking about the car, complaining about the balance, complaining about the engine. I did not see you struggling. I did not see how much weight you lost. I was so fucking selfish, Y/N.”

“No,” you said, trying to shake your head, but the monitor behind you beeped sharply as your heart rate spiked at your distress.

Max noticed immediately. He smoothed his hands over your hair, taking deep, steady breaths, guiding you to match his rhythm. “Shh, okay, calm down. Do not get upset. The doctors said you need to stay calm. Your heart cannot take the stress right now.”

You forced your breathing to slow down, watching him. “Are you going back for the race?”

“No,” Max said without a single second of hesitation. “I am not going back to Mexico. I am not going to Brazil. I am staying right here in this room until you are allowed to leave.”

Your eyes widened in panic. “Max, no! You can’t do that! Red Bull will lose the constructors, and you might lose the drivers championship if Lewis or Lando win the next few races. You have a thirty point lead, but it is not enough to just skip two races!”

“I do not care if I lose the championship by a hundred points,” Max said, his jaw tightening into that stubborn line, but this time, it was entirely directed at protecting you. “They can give the trophy to whoever they want. Let Lando have it. Let Lewis have it. I do not care, Y/N. I mean it. If I have to choose between driving that car and sitting in this chair making sure you are breathing, I will choose you every single day of my life. You come first. You always come first. I need you to understand that. My life does not start when I put the helmet on. My life starts when I come home to you.”

The absolute gravity of his words finally broke through the walls of guilt you had built around yourself. You looked at him, seeing the raw, unguarded vulnerability in his eyes, the complete absence of the fierce, untouchable racing driver. In his place was just Max, the boy who loved you so much he was willing to throw away everything he had built since he was a child just to hold your hand in a hospital room.

“I am sorry,” you sobbed, the tears flowing freely now. “I am so sorry, Max. I was just so scared. I did not want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden,” he murmured, leaning down to gently press his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, lingering, tasting of salt from both of your tears, but it felt like life pouring back into your veins. He pulled away slowly, resting his cheek against yours on the pillow. “The doctors are going to do the surgery tomorrow morning. They are going to repair the valve, and they said after a few months of rest, you will be completely healthy again. No more pain. No more hiding.”

“Are you really staying?” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his hoodie sleeve.

“I am right here,” Max promised, shifting his position to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair right beside your mattress, pulling your hand up to rest against his chest, right over his own steady, powerful heartbeat. “I am not moving an inch. Close your eyes, Y/N. Get some sleep. I will be here when you wake up.”

For the first time in months, the crushing weight in your chest felt a little lighter. You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beeping of the monitor, perfectly synced with the warm, reassuring pulse of Max’s heart beneath your fingers. Outside, the rain continued to fall over the French Riviera, but inside the quiet room, the storm had finally passed.

“Nein. Follow my advice. With my suggestions and modifications the team made after the initial testing, the car should be better than you remember. Now, go drive fast, my little guinea pig.”

Ouch. Cold. But yet his heart still fluttered, even if you weren’t even trying to flirt with him. And, just like you predicted, he is flying on the straights. Internally, his alpha preens. He wants to be able to show how skilled he is for you. To puff out his chest and show off a little. 

Which, he doesn’t. Lando ends up acting like a school boy trying to flirt while making a sandcastle on the playground.  

“How do you say that in German?”

There’s a heavy pause on your end, as if you can’t believe he just asked that. Then you answer. 

“... Do you mean the entire sentence?”

“No– no, just guinea pigs” He pauses, focusing on turning a corner. The corners are so slow. McLaren cars have always been slow on corners, no matter how many improvements he’s tried to help the team make. He hopes that with you there, and your engineer-y mind, you’ll improve it. 

“Die Meerschweinchen. That is the plural.” 

You still sound stiff, but not totally standoffish anymore. More confused about why he’s asking you this. After everything that had happened the day before, you hadn’t even tried to bring it up to him. Bluntly telling him you hadn’t wanted to discuss it at all. Literally walking out of the room at one point, mid conversation, when Zak tried to suggest talking about what happened the day before. Niki had dragged you back in while apologizing to Zak and Andrea about how rude you were being, all with you hiding partially behind your sire, a sour expression on your face.

“And the single, lonely, form?”

“Lonely form— that is certainly a way to describe the singular. It’s ‘das Meerschweinchen.’ and it means little sea pig. I don’t know why.” 

There’s an edge of amusement in your tone this time. His heart flutters again and a nervous little laugh slips out. 

“So I’m your little sea pig?”

“No. You’re ‘mein Versuchskaninchen’. A testing rabbit. Which is also neuter, so it would be ‘das Versuchskaninchen’. Do you understand?”

“... I think so.” 

“You are lucky you are pretty, Norris.”

“You think I’m pretty?” 

To be honest, Lando had no idea what he’s saying. Just hoping he didn’t sound like too much of an idiot. He could almost hear the tweets about this conversation happening. Probably a fair amount of people who’d be a bit annoyed he was being so chatty and playful, when he should be focused on driving. 

“...You are on lap twenty. We are aiming for twenty five laps. Continue driving. I will provide feedback as you go.” You sound tired. Lando can almost see you rubbing your temples, leaning towards the monitor on the pit lane, back hunched. Fancy, custom notebook probably open with a few pages filled.  “....And yes, Norris. You are very… pretty.” 

Lando doesn’t think he’s driven that well in a while. He’s preening, as he finishes the last five laps. He’s focused on that singular bit of praise from you. You’d called him pretty! The corners are still slow and he makes sure to tell you in the most professional way possible, so that you can make your notes and get it addressed as soon as possible. 

When he’s pulled back into the garage, the screens of his data come down. One has information about the car. Tire degradation, speed on the straights, and how each corner has gotten a little bit better, even if they are slow in comparison to Mercedes and Red Bull. 

The second screen is what really matters to him. The times. Who’s on top, who’s done the best, and who needs to get to know the track a bit better. Lando isn’t shocked by Daniel being on top– he’s secretly a bit excited to see his friend and former teammate there– but he’s utterly thrilled that he’s right there in second. 1:32.9! 

What a way to start the season! And Oscar right behind him! 

There’s whoops and claps around him as the results are reflected up on one of the bigger monitors for everyone to see. He feels a bit dazed, as he pulls himself up and out of the car, hands on the halo, like he’s floating on a cloud. Feet on the ground. Surrounded by his team. He keeps his eyes on the monitor, feeling his mechanics patting him on the back, congratulating him on a good practice, and there are similar sounds from the other side of the garage that lets him know that Oscar’s getting a similar treatment. 

He looks around for you in the garage, only to look up into the pit lane, eyes meeting yours. You’re leaning against the pit lane stand, arms folded, head tilted to the side. This small, satisfied smirk on your lips as he realizes you’ve been looking right at him the entire time.

Lando flushes pink, not from the heat, but how you’re staring right into his soul. Like he’s a puzzle for you to solve. You walk into the garage, passing right by the car without a second glance, Eggroll trotting right behind you, wearing a little set of protective headsets on her floppy ears. But you murmur something to him that has him shuddering and turning to follow you with his eyes as you walk away, slipping into a door that leads to the motorhome for the team. 

“Well done, mein Versuchskaninchen.” 

You disappear then, while strategists and others swarm, starting to discuss what should come back, what should stay, their voices blurring around him as he sees the last trace of yourself and Eggroll fade away as the door closes. And oh. Lando would do just about anything to earn your praise again, still focused on the door you’d left through, lost in a dream, and the memory of your scent. 

He is, unfortunately, very rudely awoken from his daydream by Oscar clapping a hand down on his shoulder. The team has dispersed, just a few mechanics here and there, working on the car. Andrea and Zak have gone back to the motorhome. Back to strategizing. Probably to talk to you.

“You seem awfully focused on that door.” Oscar grins, a knowing look in his eyes. They’re both heading towards the motorhome, towards their private rooms to shower and rest, before the next free practice session. “Or… maybe, it was who went through it?” 

“Shut up, you muppet,” Lando turns away, keeping his head down. His chin touching his chest from how low he was ducking his head. His cheeks and the tips of his ears tinted a traitorous red that reveal his true feelings. “You’re being a dickhead, you are.”

Oscar only laughs, his bunny teeth flashing as he takes a few quick steps ahead of Lando, calling over his shoulder to control his blush or the press will make up rumors about him before the season even gets off to a proper start. Logan is there, waiting for his omega, smiling and listening to Oscar chatter as they walk back towards the pack motorhome. 

His teammate seemed to light up around his boyfriend, becoming more open, talking easier. That’s what you got, Lando supposed, when you had known your partner for so long. And Lando hardly knew you, but he would do anything if it meant he’d get the chance to know you better, and not just as your driver, but as a person, too. 

Would you open up? Would you get chatty? Or would you be more similar to when he’d attempted to talk to you, just the day before, when you had reached to touch your nose to his?  You’d looked so perfect then. Snuggled into one of Lewis’s hoodies. Eggroll had been curled up at your side, head resting on her paws. Though, the little beagle had looked at him cautiously. As if she was waiting for him to do something. Just what was she trained for, that made her so cautious? 

Maybe you’d be the same. Lando was okay with that. He liked your wit. He loved to banter with you. You seemed to think it was just for the sake of the camera with him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Lando wanted to simply talk with you. To spend hours sitting next to you, maybe in a little cafe or on a plush couch, just talking about whatever was on your mind.

What if he asked you about your classic cars? 

An idea pops into his head, and Lando finally takes another step forward, towards the pack motorhome, before making up his mind to actually enter it. He’d ask about the cars you’d collected, and hopefully get to know you a bit more.

And to his surprise, it’s buzzing with activity. No one even notices he’s there at first until Esteban brushes past him, breaking into a grin, and pulling him into the kitchen to snack on the grazing board Marlene and Fernando had set up. 

“Ah! Just in time. Fernando had… lovely words, with the nutritionists of the teams, and then set this up with Marlene,” Carlos grins from where he already has a plate full of fruits, cheese, and meats, gasping when he pulls a little rose of thin meat from the board. “They have jamón!” 

“Of course I have jamón,” Fernando snips back, looking at Carlos as though he’d grown another head. “I have pride in being Spanish.” 

You’re nowhere to be found. But Lando can see Eggroll trotting around the kitchen, wandering around from pack member to pack member before sitting rather politely at George’s feet, looking up at him and begging for a little bit of salami from the Mercedes driver. If Eggroll was here, you weren’t far. 

It makes him smile, seeing how intently Eggroll was watching George. 

“You are very focused on my dog.” 

Lando swears he jumps about three feet in the air at the sound of your voice. You’re standing behind him. Expression controlled, with that signature little smirk that he now finds irritably charming. 

“Your dog is focused on George’s food.” Lando quips right back, after his heart had stopped hammering in his chest. “You, however, scared the shit out of me. Trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Yes. I want to kill my driver. So that I can drive a formula car, when I don’t even have my own license.”

The deadpan delivery and your dry tone almost makes him laugh. Muffling the snort into his hand. 

“You can’t drive?”

“No. I’m legally blind. I have told you this, no?” You almost smile, now also watching how Eggroll is standing on her hind legs, pawing at George’s lap. 

“Forgot about it, sad to say.” Lando sighs dramatically. The almost smile stays on your face.

“Yes. Likely distracted by my face. You did scream, and then say ‘waaah, what the fuck is wrong with your face?’ when you saw me.” 

“Because you were scowling at me. You have a terrifying scowl.”

“I always scowl.”

“Not always.” Lando finds himself speaking before he can think to do anything else. “You smile, pretty often actually. You smiled when Max tripped on wires when we were heading into free practice.” 

“That’s because he deserves it.” You grin, and then smooth your face down. “That is… a bad example.”

“Do you want more?”

“You have more?”

“Of course I do. I like your face.” Lando looks at you. It makes your stomach flutter, the way he does. It’s kind. His gaze is… soft, with his mouth quirked into a little smile that shakes you to your core. “I’ve told you that before, though.” 

You can’t find your words, opening and closing your mouth. Lando only dips his head, as if he’s bowing to you, before slipping off, snatching Carlos’s plate from his hands and leaving. Your heart hammers in your chest in an unfamiliar staccato that you’ve never felt before. Is this… what flirting was like?

You stay still for a second, and then, annoyingly, you follow after him. You don’t know why, exactly. But you do. 

“Norris!” 

He seems surprised that you followed, a bit of salami partially in his mouth. Leaning casually against the back of the pack motorhome, like he felt he didn’t belong in the home proper. 

“Oh, shit, what did I do now?” He dips his head back just a little, swallowing it and then wiping any grease away with the back of his hand, looking suddenly wary, especially for someone who’d just been flirting with you. “Was it the comment about your face? I was being genuine, y’know, I do like your face without all the that skin-evening makeup—” 

“How do you know I wear that?” You interrupt him. A bit incredulous that he even knows that. 

“You mentioned it.” Lando sets the plate down. Straightening his posture, but tucking his hands in his hoodie pockets, like he’s just a random 24-year-old man, and not a famous Formula 1 driver, with charm to spare and boyish good looks that make him popular with the fans. “Said it evened out the skin, made your face look… normal?” “So my face isn’t normal?” 

Lando flushes at that, looking at the ground to avoid your gaze. 

You want to strangle yourself for saying that. What is happening to you?! You’ve never acted like this. Never, not even when he was being creepy, trying to flirt with you, when all you’d wanted to do was simply work. 

“Who cares if it’s normal? People like your face.”

“You. You like my face. You’ve said it twice now.” 

Inside, your hindbrain is preening. The omega side that you’ve always loathed, is now screaming at you about Lando and his compliments. How he’s trying to extend courtship! Which you severely doubt, because out of all his options, why would he want you?

And another part of you… hates it. Because clearly, there is someone else who you should try to find. That mysterious scent. It’d been so nice. Whoever the alpha had been, they’d smelled like melting sugar. You’d rubbed noses with them on instinct alone. With the alpha smelling of summer, sugar, and campfires. 

According to legend, your mate’s scent would compliment your own. And that mystery alpha matched yours to a tee. The only problem is you didn’t know who exactly that was. And no one you knew smelled like that, not in the pack, at least. 

“And… I have a favor to ask.” You look at Lando. Still standing like he’s not one of the more notable drivers on the grid. “You… would consider yourself a gossip, yes?”

“By what standard?” He raises an eyebrow, folding his arms. “But, yes. I’ll take that. I’m a bit of a gossip. Why do you ask?”

“Would you say you know the scents of… members of the grid? Or at least, who were in the pack’s motorhome, yesterday? Aside from ourselves.”

“If you were to give me direct samples and names of the people, absolutely.” Lando seems even more concerned now. “....where is this going?”

“There was… someone, who I need to know the scent of. After. The entire thing yesterday.”

“Oh. So we are going to talk about yesterday, then?” He leans down, just a little, head tilted to the side. An aggravating little smirk on his lips. One hand braces on the wall near your head. 

“After you help me.” You don’t waver. You’re a Lauda, damnit! You never waver. “There was a… scent, yesterday. I need to know whose scent it was. For personal reasons.”

“Ooh, is this who Niki brought to meet you?” Lando must find teasing you second nature, with how easily it seems to come to him. “After— y’know, all the chaos.” 

Your silence is answer enough. 

“So it is about him!”

“How do you know it’s a him,” You hiss, and he has the audacity to laugh. 

“The scent. I know who you’re talking about.”

Now that gets your attention. The change is instant, with your head snapping up to look at him. Looking at him in a way you’d never looked at him before, your eyes wide and filled with hope, as if this question had been haunting you. 

“Give me his name!”

And suddenly, he looks sheepish, holding up his hands in defense and refusing to meet your eyes. Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“What aren’t you telling me, Norris?” 

“Okay, exaggeration. I don’t know who he is, but I know him by his scent.” Lando squeaks out. And when he looks at you, his gaze is soft. Just like it was inside. That same little smile. You give in almost immediately. “But I’ll do my best to find his name, okay?” 

“Thank you.” You mutter, looking away, partially to hide the blush, and partially to hide the disappointment you know is written across your face. The pattern thumping in your chest won’t stop. The fluttering in your heart. 

It’s not anxiety— you know that rhythm well. And after all of last year, you know it's definitely not fear. But it’s a similar enough pattern to the latter that you brace against the wall, slinking up into your room to hide, and try to identify the rapid beating of your heart. 

Lando’s little smile and his gaze won’t leave your mind. Especially when you know they were directed at you and you alone. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your omega preens. Niki looked at Marlene that way. When he thought she couldn’t see him. 

You’d asked her, once, what those looks meant. 

Marlene's face had crumbled, and then partially rebuilt itself. 

“He looks at me… because he loves me, Maus.”

“Do you love him?”

“That is… complicated. I do… but…” She’d closed her eyes then, as if hurt. You’d just hugged her closely, as if that could help ease her pain at all. 

You hate that you know exactly what you’re feeling. And you push it down. Refusing to acknowledge it, turning away from Lando, to the sanctuary of your room before needing to leave to get ready for the next free practice, and then qualifying after that. 

February 29th, 2024. Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, Bahrain Qualifying

There is an energy in the air. You’re sitting at the pit lane stand now. Eggroll at your feet, laying calmly, but always needing to touch you throughout this all. You’re grateful for the touch. That constant grounding. You have your hands folded in front of you, elbows on the desk, eyes closed. This means something. The free practices had gone well enough. FP2 had been a bit rough— Lando had come in dead last, but you didn’t blame him. 

You open your eyes again. Looking at the keyboard in front of you. You almost go to push your glasses up, before realizing you’re wearing your contacts. 

Despite everything, your hands are shaking a little. Niki and Marlene are back in the motorhome with the pups of the pack. You could call them, and they’d be there for you. They’d drop anything to help you. Mathias and Lucas were probably here by now, too. You could call them. Any single member of your immediate pack. They’d sprint across the paddock to reach you. 

You close your eyes again. Eggroll presses up a bit more on your legs. Probably able to tell you’re getting anxious. 

Perhaps text Lewis? Or Nico? Not Logan. You didn’t want to get him in trouble. You wanted him to do the best he could, even if you could already see his love for the sport slowly dying when he spoke to you. 

The taste of blood fills your mouth and you find yourself frowning, annoyed by your own actions. You’d been gnawing at the inside of your cheek unconsciously, now to the point you’d managed to draw blood. A nasty habit that you’d developed in the past few months. But it was better than when you’d pick at the tips of your fingers. That was visible— that made it so the pack would notice when you did things like this. Lecturing you when they caught you. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

You still taste blood on your tongue. But you look up at the screens. Your notebook is open. All your notes on Lando’s performances scrawled on the paper, and reminders to try and be nicer to him. 

“We’ll be fine.” You murmur, more to yourself, even as you reach down to scratch Eggroll’s head. “We’ll be alright.” 

“Of course you will.” 

You turn, looking to see your sire standing there. Stubbornly wearing a red cap that says ‘NIKI’ across the front in big, bold letters. The ones they’d made for the entire grid in 2019, when you’d come so close to losing him. 

When you’d given him one of your kidneys, if it meant having him for another year, another month, hell, even just another week with him. Niki hadn’t asked you to do anything. He had been worried you’d blame yourself if the kidney hadn’t worked. 

He’d recovered. You’d recovered. The Monaco Grand Prix had gone on. 

Now, he’s wearing the hat. Grinning broadly as he comes to stand behind you. You slip easily out of the chair and fold into his outstretched arms.

“Sisi,” 

“Hush. Alles gut, alles gut.” 

You bury your face in his neck. Near his scent glands, trying to coat yourself in the familiar smell. You need it, the stability it brought. You’re painfully aware that the cameras are trained on you now. Netflix’s crew focused on this rare public interaction between legendary sire and pup. The director is probably already thinking about the episode they can make of this, highlighting the legacy, and passing of the crown to you, the same age he was when he started his career. 

“I’m so nervous,” you admit as one of Niki’s hands comes to wipe away a tear you hadn’t even realized was falling. “So, so nervous,”

“Why?” Niki chides, pinching your cheek, knowing it’ll make you laugh. His eyes study your face. “Ah. Keine Brille für dich heute? Kontaktlinsen?”

“Ja, Sisi. Ich möchte mir keine Sorgen um Blendung machen müssen.”

“I don’t want to worry about the glare, she says. My silly pup.” Niki laughs. “You’ll do great. And,”

He lifts the cap off his head. Showing the scars and his lack of hair, before gently placing the cap on your head. Niki barely ever took his hat off, even when in private. It was a way to hide the scarring, and how it had taken parts of his scalp, leaving him with noticeable bald spots, even when he’d been younger with hair to spare. 

“There. Perfect fit.” Niki is grinning broadly at you. One hand on top of your head, after pulling the ponytail through the closure. “You’re the boss now, Maus.” 

You sniffle, mouth trembling slightly before you press against him  to hide your face. Eggroll stands on her back legs, front paws placed on your back, whimpering, clearly wanting to be a part of your hug with Niki. 

“Hush— hush, you’re fine,” Niki pulls away first, gently scratching Eggroll’s ears while keeping his hand braced against your shoulder. “This dog. Clingy, just like a certain pup I remember,” 

“Sisi!” You flush, and Niki laughs, head tilted back. 

“Who said it was you?” Teasing coats every syllable. But there’s no mistaking the pride in his gaze as he looks at you. “It could have been your littermates. You don’t know that.”

There’s a few more seconds of letting yourself huddle against your sire. Of being vulnerable. And then you straighten yourself out. Commanding your emotions and pushing them back down and looking serious. Getting right into work and explaining your thought process to Niki while the camera snaps picture after picture. 

f1: A new McLaren legend in the making. @maus.lauda @nikilauda @mclarenf1

liked by lewishamilton, nikilauda, nicorosberg, and 1.2 million others

[The first picture in the carousel shows you, with a serious expression, with a downturned mouth (aside from the one corner of your mouth that is permanently etched upwards by your scars) and cold eyes. It’s a candid shot of you at the pitlane stand, looking up at the computers. Your new ‘NIKI’ cap sat firmly on your head. The second photo is yet another candid, as you seemingly talk last-minute strategy with Niki, who appears to be offering you feedback, pointing at things in your journal with a mirroring, serious expression. The next picture shows Andrea and Zak, listening as Niki and yourself talk about something, both of the men focused on whatever you’re talking about. The final picture has your journal in the focus, while you’re in the background, back turned to the camera, though your hair is visible in the picture, making it clear who the journal belonged to.] 

niki.niki.do12: Omg yes Niki getting his McLaren recognition as he deserves!!

    L4nd0St4r: @niki.niki.do12 sis this post was about his daughter…. 

    massive.bawlsJH: @L4nd0St4r yeah his illegitimate daughter lmao

    niki.niki.12: @massive.bawlsJH silence, you’re literally a James Hunt fan in the year of our lord 2024

    mothmanGP: @massive.bawlsJH tf does it matter if our Maus is illegitimate? is it 1309? stfu

mclaren: Genius must run in the family! Happy to have them both on our side 🧡🧡🧡

nikilauda: Always proud, my Maus. 

maus.lauda: Excited for the season. Let’s keep pushing.

    landonorris: @maus.lauda be gentle with me. I’m delicate. [Content Deleted]

    maus.lauda: delicate my ass [Content Deleted]

    landonorris: @maus.lauda Well said, Miss Race Engineer Ma’am 

    maus.lauda: @landonorris schleimer [Content Deleted]

    nowwislando: AYO??? DID ANYONE SEE THE DELETED COMMENTS??

    nowins4: what does schleimer even mean??

    LaudaFanLife: @nowins4 oh it means ass kisser, in a much less vulgar way than she could have said.

    ratteandmaus: aww she’s censoring herself! she’s made progress!     nicorosberg: Massive progress, actually. 

    LN4FanGirl: Nico’s comment 💀💀💀

Lando sees the posts as he’s doing a final doom scroll before slipping into the car. You look serious. Cold. It’s terrifying to see you in this light. To see you how the rest of the world sees you. How he sees you still. And the caption only reinforces that.

Lando is a fan favorite. He knows that even if he’s never world champion, he’ll be remembered. Just like Daniel, just like David Coulthard, and so many others before him. 

But he could do so much more. He could be doing better. He could have had his first win by now, he knows it. Yet he doesn’t. That single achievement that will uplift him into the rare few who had actually achieved victory. He wants it badly. So, so badly, he can imagine the taste of the champagne, sitting on the top step as God Save The King plays, his flag waving behind him. 

He looks at your photo, the second one. You’re actually smiling somewhat, while you talk to your sire. Your little smile makes his heart stutter. What he wouldn’t do to have you smile at him like that— not even a big smile, one that would split your face— he wanted just a little grin, maybe from him saying something that would have you laugh, breathing out through your nose. 

He takes one last glance before swiping out of the app, and before he swipes out of it totally, his phone buzzes with a notification. It’s not like it matters much— it’s his private account after all, with only about 200 followers of other drivers and personal friends— and he normally never messages people on this account. 

But someone’s just reached out to him, which is a bit shocking. Everyone knows not to message him here, if they really need to talk to him, they can text him directly to get an answer. 

He needs to get in the car in less than a minute. You’re already approaching him with a hand outstretched for his phone. You liked to take it personally, so he’d know exactly where it was when he had to be focused on the task at hand. But before you take it, he glances at the message.

It’s from Will. It’d been the only way to contact him at this point. People he didn’t follow back couldn’t contact him without Lando allowing it on his official account, and he’d since unfollowed Will after the mess that had been testing.

Will never had his personal number. Only the one to the custom papaya-orange Pixel 8, and when Will was let go from testing early, due to his outburst, Lando had blocked and then deleted the number. Even insisted stubbornly on getting a new number, after he’d had a chance to really talk and get to know you. Or, whatever could be counted from that singular FaceTime. 

Lando was a bit desperate to talk, okay? 

blondie_wdj sent 2 new messages

He turns off the phone before he can read or even check the messages. You take it wordlessly, nodding at him, before turning on your heel and walking briskly to the pit lane. You don’t react when he comes out of the garage. 

What did Will want to say to him that he felt so desperate as to message his private account? It all seemed a bit ridiculous. But he couldn’t think about that now, not with qualifying right before him.

He pulls out of the garage and into the pit lane. Your voice in his ears, urging him forward. 

“Welcome to the first real drive of the 2024 season, Mr. Norris. It’s time to fly, ja?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Ana checked her phone because she was waiting for an email.

That was all.

It was not meant to become anything.

There were, in Ana’s experience, several categories of messages one might receive after spending a morning in Paris with Lewis and Susie, during which Dior had somehow become involved in her wedding dress and Jonathan Anderson had developed opinions about an embroidered veil.

Category one: Susie sending a picture of a fabric sample with too many heart emojis.

Category two: Lewis sending another pinterest moodboard about tiara hairstyles, captioned only, I am still thinking.

Category three: Max sending messaged from the living room of their own house because he was bored, injured, and had decided that being a room away from her qualified as a long-distance relationship.

Category four: wedding logistics.

Ana had expected one of those.

She had not expected an unknown number.

At first, she did not open it.

Unknown numbers were usually a waste of time. 

Delivery issues. People who had acquired her number through professional leakage and wanted access to Toto. Junior engineers too nervous to use official channels. Occasionally journalists with much more audacity than judgment.

Ana ignored most of them.

Then the phone vibrated again.

And again.

And again.

Ana stood in the kitchen, and watched nine messages arrive in rapid succession.

Unknown Number.

No contact photograph.

No name.

No metadata visible without opening the thread.

Her first thought was not fear.

It was irritation.

Then she opened the messages.

The irritation disappeared.

For several seconds, Ana did not move.

The kitchen was quiet around her. Late-afternoon Monaco light fell pale and expensive across the island, across the stack of wedding venue notes Max had printed because apparently digital documents were not enough when one was planning bridge security. 

Somewhere in the living room, Max was on the sofa with his broken leg elevated, arguing with Nikolai about whether “resting” could include reviewing onboard footage.

Ana could hear his voice.

Low. Annoyed. Alive.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

The messages were not long at first.

That made them worse.

Long messages provided data. Structure. Emotional leakage. Spelling patterns. Repetition. A chance to classify.

These were short.

Ugly.

Direct.

You ruined everything.

You think your father can protect you forever?

You should have kept your mouth shut.

You think being Toto Wolff’s broken little project makes you untouchable?

Ana read that one twice.

Not because she needed to.

Because her brain, unhelpfully, tried to verify that the words said what they said.

Then another message arrived.

He should have died in Baku and so should you.

Her hand went cold.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

The phone became hard and slick in her fingers.

Another message.

It was supposed to be me.

Ana stopped breathing.

For one second, the room changed shape.

The window too bright. The sound of Max’s voice from down the corridor too far away and too close at once.

It was supposed to be me.

A sentence like a hand at the back of her neck.

Then another.

It all started with you.

Ana stared.

The next message came before she could process that.

If you had done what you were supposed to do, none of this would have happened.

If you had let me fix you, Verstappen would never have gotten my seat.

Ana’s vision narrowed.

Not dramatically. Not like films made panic look. There was no sudden collapse, no scream, no obvious break.

The room simply began to lose edges.

Sink. Oven. Window. Phone.

All of it became too sharp and too distant at once.

It was mine.

I would have been safe.

Mercedes would have kept me.

Another.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

The phone nearly slipped.

Ana caught it by reflex.

Baku.

The word sat there on the screen like a confession and a threat at once.

She read the message again.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

Her brain, inconveniently precise even under stress, began arranging implications.

He was admitting knowledge.

Or implying it. Or taunting.

No, not merely taunting.

George Russell.

She knew.

Not because the number said so.

Because entitlement had a fingerprint.

Because George Russell had once leaned against the edge of her workstation in Brackley after a late debrief and smiled like he had discovered a secret everyone else had been too polite to say aloud. You know people find you intimidating, right?

Because he had once said, in a corridor outside the simulator suite, I’m only telling you because I care. You’d be easier to work with if you didn’t correct everyone like that.

Because he had texted her, Most women are so emotional but you’ve got that ice-in-your-veins thing. Cold as a fish but gets the job done 💪

Because he had said, You know, Ana, you might get farther if you softened your tone a bit. You come across a little… intimidating in meetings. 

You should let me take you shopping so you can look the part of a Mercedes engineer.

I’m just saying, people find you a little hard to approach. If you just smiled more, or I don’t know, tried asking how someone’s day was before launching into compression ratios…

I just think you’d get through to people more if you weren’t so …robotic.

Because he had kissed her against her will and looked shocked when she had fought him.

Because he had thought dating her father’s daughter was a career strategy.

Because he had thought Ana herself was a malfunctioning thing that could be repaired into usefulness if only she would stop resisting the man kind enough to chase her.

Another message arrived.

You always acted like you didn’t understand what I was offering you.

Ana did not move.

You’re not special. You’re defective.

The word hit somewhere old.

Not because she believed it. She did not. Intellectually.

The problem with panic was that intellect remained intact and useless, like an emergency manual locked behind glass while the room filled with smoke.

Her lungs forgot the next step.

Inhale.

That was the step.

She knew that.

It did not happen.

Then the thread shifted.

The messages became longer.

Worse.

You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I should be grateful just to breathe the same air as Toto’s damaged little genius. You don’t even know what you are. You don’t know how lucky you were that I wanted you anyway.

Ana’s hand began to shake. She noticed it distantly. Unacceptable.

I could have made you useful. I could have taught you how to be normal. I could have made you stop looking through people like you’re some machine pretending to be a woman.

Ana’s thumb hovered over the screen. Another message.

You should have let me touch you. You should have let me show you what you were missing. You clearly never had a real man in your life or you wouldn’t have acted like that.

The floor seemed to shift under her feet.

She gripped the edge of the kitchen island with her free hand.

Another.

Maybe I still should.

Ana’s lungs locked.

The words did not become images.

She refused them that.

But they became pressure.

Hands. Corridor. George’s body too close. The smell of his cologne. Her wrist twisting. The instant of surprise on his face when she shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. His hand catching her arm. Pain. Susie’s voice later. Toto’s face. 

Another message.

Maybe I’ll finish what I started.

The phone hit the island.

Not hard. Not dramatically.

It simply slipped from Ana’s hand because her fingers stopped moving.

Ana stared at it.

Her pulse was in her throat now. Too fast. Too loud. The air in the study had become thick and insufficient. She could still hear Max in the living room, but the sound had stretched strangely, like audio underwater.

She needed to move.

No.

She needed to stay still.

No.

She needed—

The phone vibrated again against the stone.

Ana flinched.

She hated that.

Unknown Number.

Your father can’t keep everyone away.

Another vibration.

Verstappen should have burned in that car. 

Ana could not breathe.

That was a problem.

Her body had decided, apparently, to become stupid.

She knew the mechanics. 

Diaphragm. Intercostal muscles. Oxygen exchange. Carbon dioxide. 

Simple. Automatic.

There was no reason she could not do it.

No reason except the room had narrowed into the phone, and the phone had become George, and George had become Baku, and Baku had become Max in a car with sabotaged systems, Max in a car other people had touched, Max in a car that George thought should have killed him.

Max, alive in the other room.

Max, with a broken leg.

Max, not known to George as hers.

That made the threats stranger.

No.

Not stranger.

Worse.

George was not threatening her because she loved Max.

George did not know.

He was threatening her because in his mind she was the first point of failure.

Ana had not let him have her.

Ana had not let him use her.

Ana had not let him become Toto Wolff’s son-in-law-shaped insurance policy.

So Mercedes had let him go.

So Max had come.

So George had needed Baku.

In George’s logic, every consequence of George’s choices had begun with Ana saying no.

The phone vibrated again.

This is your fault.

Ana’s vision went white at the edges.

“Nastya?”

Max’s voice came from the hallway.

She had not heard the crutches.

That was bad.

Not because he had moved quietly. Max could move quietly when he wanted to, even injured, which was annoying and occasionally impressive. It was bad because she had not noticed.

She turned.

Too quickly.

The room tilted.

Max stood in the doorway, crutches under his arms, his broken leg held awkwardly off the floor. 

He wore soft black joggers and one of his prototype merch shirts, and his face had already changed.

He knew.

Not what.

But that there was a what.

“What happened?” he asked.

Ana looked at him.

There were several possible answers.

Nothing. Inefficient and false.

Unknown number. Accurate but incomplete.

A security issue. True.

A threat. Also true.

George. Not confirmed but functionally certain.

The words did not line up.

Her tongue felt wrong in her mouth.

Max’s eyes sharpened.

“Nastya?”

She tried to inhale.

Could not.

That was irritating.

She knew how breathing worked.

She had passed biology.

She had experienced respiration successfully for twenty-seven years.

There was no reason for this.

“I need—” she started.

The sentence broke.

Max’s crutch thudded once against the floor as he shifted forward.

Ana lifted one hand immediately.

Stop.

Not because she did not want him.

Because if he came too close too quickly, she was going to fall apart, and falling apart in front of Max while he had one broken leg and no ability to physically fix the world would make him worse, and if Max got worse then she would have to manage that too, and—

“Nikolai,” she forced out.

Max went completely still. Then he turned his head and shouted, “Nikolai!”

No hesitation. No question.

Ana appreciated that more than she could say.

Somewhere outside the room, a chair moved.

Nikolai Maroz appeared within seconds.

Not hurried. Never hurried.

That was one of the first things Ana had trusted about him.

Nikolai never made emergency look like panic.

He had been in Ana’s life long before Max had started thinking of him as the terrifying man in black who appeared when Toto decided paranoia had become policy. 

Officially, Nikolai was private security. 

Unofficially, he was one of Toto’s oldest contingencies made human.

Toto had hired him first when Ana was at Cambridge.

Toto had a stalker. There hadn’t been a specific threat against Ana. But there had been threats. Several. Technically. 

Ana had called it excessive.

Toto had called it necessary.

Nikolai had arrived in Cambridge with no visible opinion on either position, learned her schedule by the end of the first day, corrected her Russian pronunciation once without smiling, and then spent months proving that protective did not have to mean intrusive.

He did not hover.

He did not ask stupid questions.

He did not call her fragile.

He stood at the right distance, watched the right doors, and once, when Ana had left a supervision meeting shaking with silent overload, had handed her noise-cancelling headphones without looking at her face.

That had been the beginning.

Years later, when Baku happened and Ana became quietly, ruthlessly paranoid about Max’s safety, she had wanted him back. 

Now he stood behind Max in the study doorway and took one look at Ana.

One look.

His face did not change. That was how she knew he saw too much.

“What happened?” Nikolai asked.

Ana pointed at the phone on the island.

Her hand was shaking.

Damn it.

Nikolai saw.

Max saw.

“May I?” Nikolai asked.

Ana nodded once.

He crossed the room and picked up the phone without turning the screen away from her. He did not snatch. Did not grab. Did not make ownership of the threat another thing taken from her.

He read.

His expression remained completely still.

That was how she knew he took it seriously.

People who did not take threats seriously reacted visibly. They frowned. They swore. They said things like probably nothing or some idiot online or don’t let it get to you, as if the emotional effect was the primary concern rather than the possibility of escalation.

Nikolai read all the messages once.

Then again.

Then his face changed. Barely. A small hardening around the eyes.

Ana had known Nikolai Maroz for years.

She had seen him remove men from rooms without raising his voice.

She had seen him stand between her and photographers, students, journalists, drunk strangers, overfamiliar sponsors, and once a Cambridge fellow who had thought academic seniority exempted him from basic distance.

She had never seen him look like that at a phone. “When did these start?” Nikolai asked.

Ana opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Annoying.

Max made a sound.

Small. Dangerous.

Nikolai’s eyes did not leave Ana.

“Breathe first,” he said.

Ana glared at him.

Or attempted to.

It did not feel successful.

Max shifted.

Nikolai raised one hand without looking at him. “Do not move.”

Max looked ready to bite him.

Nikolai ignored that too.

Ana hated everyone.

Her chest tightened again.

The room dipped.

Nikolai’s voice changed.

Not softer, exactly.

Lower.

Russian.

“Anastasia. Look at me.”

She did.

Because her body remembered Cambridge before her pride could object.

“There,” he said. “Good. Count.”

“I do not need—”

“Count.”

She wanted to tell him that counting was infantilizing and unnecessary and that she was perfectly capable of managing autonomic dysregulation without being treated like a malfunctioning child.

Instead, her lungs seized again.

Nikolai’s eyes held hers.

“In Russian,” he said. “One.”

Ana’s jaw tightened.

“Odin,” she said.

“Two.”

“Dva.”

“Three.”

“Tri.”

Max did not move.

That helped.

He wanted to. She could feel it. Every line of him was angled toward her, fury and fear held together by the thinnest possible thread. But he stayed where he was, crutch planted, broken leg useless, eyes fixed on her like she was the only apex on track.

“Four,” Nikolai said.

“Chetyre.”

The air came in.

Not enough.

Enough to prove the system still worked.

“Five.”

“Pyat.”

Again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The room did not return all at once. It came back in pieces.

Kitchen.

Sink.

Window.

Max.

Nikolai.

Phone.

Threats.

Ana lowered her hand, which she had not realized was pressed against her sternum.

Nikolai nodded once.

“Good.”

“I hate this,” she said in Russian. 

“Noted.”

Nikolai turned back to the phone.

“When did these start?”

Ana swallowed. “Approximately eight minutes ago.”

“Any prior messages from this number?”

“No.”

“You recognize it?”

“No.”

“Did you reply?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Max’s hand tightened on the crutch.

“What is it?” he asked.

Nikolai looked at Ana. Not Max.

Ana  nodded once.

Nikolai turned the phone slightly so Max could see.

Max read the messages.

Ana watched him do it.

She had seen Max angry many times.

Racing angry. Family angry. Media angry. Anger at himself, which was the worst kind because it went quiet and sharp and inward. Anger for her, which had a particular heat, a particular violence of stillness.

This was different.

This was immediate.

Physical.

His face emptied.

Then his eyes changed.

“Nikolai,” Ana said.

The warning came out before Max moved.

Nikolai’s hand was already up, not touching Max, simply occupying the space between impulse and action.

“No,” Nikolai said.

Max’s jaw flexed.

Ana saw the exact moment he remembered he had one broken leg.

It did not make him calmer.

It only made him more furious.

“Who sent this?” Max asked.

“We do not know yet,” Nikolai said.

“Yes, we do,” Ana said.

Both men looked at her.

Her voice sounded too flat now.

That was better than breathless. Maybe.

“It was George Russell.”

Max’s eyes went black.

Nikolai’s gaze sharpened.

“You are certain?”

“Yes.” Ana said. “The language is his. And he mentions Baku.”

Max looked back at the phone.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

The muscles in his jaw moved once.

For a moment, Ana thought he might be sick. Then she realized that was anger.

Nikolai asked, “He has used similar language before?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

The room threatened to tilt again.

Nikolai saw it immediately.

“Slow,” he said.

She nodded once.

Slow was possible. Slow was a process.

“Earlier this year,” she said, “George kissed me against my will. I punched him to get away. I broke my wrist.”

Nikolai did not react outwardly.

Max already knew this part.

Mostly.

Not all of it.

He knew the event. He knew the broken wrist. He knew Toto had put George on leave and that the legal and HR situation had ended George’s Mercedes seat. He knew Ana had gone to Monaco with Susie afterward. 

But she had not told him everything.

Not because she had meant to hide it.

Because some memories had edges she preferred not to handle unless necessary.

Now it was necessary.

Max’s hands closed slowly into fists.

“Against your will,” Nikolai repeated.

“Yes.”

“And he lost his seat afterward.”

“Yes.”

Nikolai’s expression remained controlled. “Continue.”

Ana swallowed.

“He believed proximity to me would protect his position at Mercedes. Or improve it. I am not entirely sure which version was dominant in his thinking.”

Nikolai waited.

Max did not breathe loudly enough.

“He thought,” Ana said carefully, “that if he was with me, Papa would have to keep him in his seat. Or at least find it harder not to.”

Nikolai’s face became completely blank. “He thought being your boyfriend would save his job,” he said.

“Yes.”

“He was never your boyfriend,” Max snapped. 

“No.”

“He kissed you once against your will and thought that was—”

Max stopped.

Not because he had run out of words. Because there were too many.

Nikolai said, “He was not aware of your relationship with Max?”

“No,” Ana said.

Max’s head turned slightly.

Ana did not look at him.

“He does not know,” she said. “The messages are not about Max and me. They are about Mercedes. About Papa. About George losing what he believed he was owed.”

“About you refusing him,” Nikolai said.

Ana’s mouth tightened.

“Yes.”

Max made a sound under his breath.

Ana did not ask him to repeat it.

She did not want the translation.

“He had been inappropriate before that,” she continued. “Not physical. Not until the kiss.”

“Define inappropriate,” Nikolai said.

Ana’s mouth tightened again.

George’s voice returned with the horrible clarity of a recording.

You know, you’d be less intimidating if you let someone help you.

I’m good with people. I could teach you.

Half the time you don’t even realize how you come across.

You’d be prettier if you stopped looking like you’re calculating everyone’s weaknesses.

A little warmth wouldn’t hurt. People say you’re cold. Unfeeling. 

 I could fix you, but also I’d rather learn from you. You know?

Loosen you up. You’re always so serious. You don’t even blink most of the time. 

You think you’re happy. But have you ever considered that maybe the version of you everyone sees isn’t the best version?

You’re looking… surprisingly put-together for someone who’s been in this chaos all morning.

I just think maybe now—with Max coming, and everything changing—it might be the right time. You and I could start something.

I think we’ve been dancing around something for a while. 

“He said he could make me easier to be around,” Ana said.

Max’s face went blank.

“He said he could teach me how to be normal,” she continued. “He thought that he could fix me. That he could make me better.”

Nikolai’s eyes darkened.

Max did not move.

The stillness was worse than shouting would have been.

“He used the word fix?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes.”

“Multiple times?”

“Yes.”

“At Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“While employed there?”

“Yes.”

“With witnesses?”

“Sometimes.”

“Names?”

“I can provide them.”

“You will.”

Ana nodded.

Max’s voice came very quietly. “You did not tell me all of that.”

Ana looked at him then.

His face was pale beneath the anger.

Ana felt the wrongness of it immediately.

Not because he was owed every detail of her trauma.

He was not.

Max knew that. He would never demand it.

But because he had been standing beside her for nearly ten years, learning every locked door she would let him see, and some part of him had still been left outside this one while George Russell had used the language of patience and normality like a hand around her throat.

“I didn’t want it to become even bigger,” Ana said.

Max laughed once.

It was not humour.

“It was already big.”

“Yes.”

“Someone touched you against your will.”

“Yes.”

“And before that he was telling you he could fix you.”

Ana’s fingers tightened. “Yes.”

“And now he is threatening to come here and—”

Max stopped.

He could not say it.

Ana was grateful.

Not because the threat became smaller unsaid.

Because the words already existed on the phone and did not deserve a second life in Max’s mouth.

Nikolai said, “I am calling Toto.”

Ana’s head came up. “No.”

Nikolai looked at her.

Max did too.

“No?” Max repeated.

“I will tell Papa.”

“You are so not managing Toto’s emotional response right now,” Max said.

Ana stared at him.

The sentence was too accurate to dismiss and too irritating to accept. “I am not—”

“Yes,” Max said. “You are.”

Ana’s mouth closed.

Nikolai, wisely, said nothing.

Max leaned forward as much as his leg allowed. “Nastya,” he said, softer now. Still angry, but not at her. Never at her. “You got death threats.”

“I received threatening messages.”

“You got death threats.”

She looked at him.

He held her gaze. “And sexual threats.”

Ana flinched.

She hated that too.

Max looked like he wanted to tear the room apart with his teeth.

But his voice stayed low.

“You do not have to phrase it like a report because you think if you say it normally everyone will become too much.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

That was unfair. Because it was true.

“I do not want Papa to—”

“I know,” Max said. “I know you don’t. But he is your father. And this is security. And George was Mercedes. And Baku. And Toto needs to know.”

Ana looked down at her phone.

Another message arrived.

The vibration was small. The whole room reacted.

Max moved.

Nikolai’s hand snapped out. “Do not touch it.”

Max froze.

Ana did too.

Nikolai stepped closer. “Do not open it yet.”

“It previewed,” Ana said.

“What does it say?”

Ana looked at the screen.

Unknown Number.

I know you’re scared now.

Her mouth went dry.

Nikolai’s face remained still.

“Screenshot lock screen,” he said.

Ana did.

Her hand shook again.

Worse this time.

Nikolai saw.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I am fine.”

“Sit down.”

“I need to—”

“Anastasia,” he said, in Russian again, and the sound of her full name in that accent snapped something old back into place. “Sit.”

She sat.

Not because she wanted to. Because her knees had started to feel theoretical.

Max swore under his breath.

Nikolai’s eyes moved to him.

“Do not make more noise.”

Max looked murderous.

Nikolai ignored it and handed the phone back only once Ana’s fingers were steadier.

“Open it.”

She did.

There were two more messages.

Good. You should be.

And then:

When I get out, I’m going to make you understand exactly what you cost me.

Ana went white.

She knew because the room went black at the edges.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

A slow closing.

Like a tunnel.

The message did not say everything.

It did not have to.

Her body understood the threat before her mind finished reading it.

She had time to be annoyed.

Then she could not hear properly.

Max’s voice came from very far away.

“Nastya.”

The phone was no longer in her hand.

When had that happened?

There was a hand on her shoulder.

No.

Not grabbing.

Grounding.

Nikolai.

He was in front of her now, not Max. That was right. That was correct. Nikolai knew not to crowd her with the person she loved most when panic made love too large to process.

“Look at me,” he said.

Ana tried.

Her eyes would not focus.

“I can’t—” she said.

The sentence broke.

That was humiliating.

She hated it.

She hated George.

She hated the messages.

She hated her body for being so predictable and so disobedient.

She hated that one sentence could reach past every adult certainty she had built and put a hand on an old wound that had Stephanie’s fingerprints and Irina’s absence and George’s voice all layered together.

Worth keeping.

Defective.

Fix you.

Make you understand.

As if she had not spent her entire life trying to become indisputably useful enough that no one could misplace her again.

As if Max loved her by mistake.

As if Toto staying had been an administrative decision.

As if Susie choosing her was pity.

As if every soft thing in her life was conditional and George Russell, of all people, had been the only one honest enough to say so.

“Nastya,” Max said.

Closer now.

Broken.

Not loud.

That was worse.

She could not breathe.

Her chest locked down hard enough that pain cut across her ribs.

Nikolai crouched in front of her.

“Hands,” he said.

Ana did not understand.

He took one of her hands only after she failed to move it herself. Pressed it flat against the cool stonetop of the island.

“Here. Feel this.”

Island.

stone.

Cold.

Real.

“Feet.”

Her shoes were on the floor.

Also real.

“Name five things,” Nikolai said.

“I know grounding techniques,” Ana snapped.

Good.

A sentence.

Rude, but complete.

Nikolai looked almost satisfied. “Then use them.”

Max made a small sound that might have been a laugh if his face had not looked like something had been carved out of it.

Ana pressed her hand harder against the island.

Stone.

Edge.

Corner.

A faint groove in the finish.

She inhaled.

It caught.

She tried again.

Air entered.

Not enough.

Enough.

“One,” Nikolai said.

“Island,” Ana said.

“Two.”

“Phone.”

“Three.”

“Max.”

Max’s face changed.

“Four.”

“Window.”

“Five.”

She looked at Nikolai.

His face was steady.

Annoyingly steady.

“Nikolai,” she said.

“Good.”

Her breathing began to return in increments.

Not smoothly.

Not elegantly.

But the tunnel widened.

The room reassembled itself around her.

Max was sitting because someone — probably Nikolai — had either ordered or physically forced him back down. His crutches was on the floor beside him, one hand white-knuckled against his thigh, the other reaching toward her but not touching.

Waiting.

That nearly made her cry.

Nikolai stood and turned to Max.

“She is coming down. Do not rush her.”

Max’s eyes did not leave Ana.

“I know.”

Nikolai studied him for half a second.

Then nodded as if Max had passed a test by the smallest possible margin.

Ana hated everyone slightly less.

Nikolai picked up her phone again.

“I am calling Toto now.”

This time, Ana did not say no.

She did not have the breath for it.

Max reached out slowly.

Stopped halfway.

Ana looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

His eyes were furious and terrified and so full of love that George’s messages became, suddenly, obviously insane.

Max knew what she was.

Not all of it.

Nobody knew all of it.

But more than most.

Enough to know she was not a problem to solve.

Enough to know that silence did not mean absence, that stillness did not mean coldness, that being difficult to read did not mean not worth reading.

Enough to sit there with his broken leg and let Nikolai be between them because Max understood that protecting her sometimes meant not being the first person to touch her.

Ana placed her hand in his.

Max’s fingers closed carefully.

Not tight.

Never tight unless she asked.

“I know what you are,” he said.

Ana’s throat hurt.

She looked at him.

Max’s voice was low.

“You are Nastya.”

Her eyes burned.

“Max.”

“And you are mine,” he said, jaw tight. “Not because I own you. Because you chose me. Because I chose you. Because I know you.”

Ana looked at him.

He was shaking now.

Barely.

With fury, probably.

With restraint.

“And you are Toto’s daughter,” Max continued. “And Susie’s daughter. And Jack’s sister. And Nikolai’s worst client, probably.”

“I had worse,” Nikolai said from the corner, phone already to his ear.

Ana almost laughed.

It came out wrong.

A tiny broken sound.

Max heard it and held onto her hand like it mattered.

“George knows nothing,” Max said.

Ana breathed in.

Then out.

“Intellectually,” she said, voice thin, “I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Emotionally, I am less certain.”

“I know.”

She hated that he did. 

Paris, France - 13 October 2025

Ana had never considered wedding dress shopping a high-risk activity.

This was, in hindsight, a personal failure.

She had accounted for the obvious stressors. Fabric texture. Bright lights. Being looked at for extended periods. Women with measuring tapes. The possibility of strangers using words like vision and moment while asking her to explain a desire she did not possess in concrete terms.

She had not accounted for Lewis Hamilton’s version of Wedding Dress Shopping.

That had been her mistake.

“Lewis,” Ana said, standing in the private terminal at Nice at seven in the morning, watching him arrive with sunglasses, and a leather folder tucked under one arm. “What is that?”

Lewis looked down as if he had forgotten he was carrying half a fashion archive. “Options.”

Susie, beside Ana, made a sound suspiciously close to delight.

Ana turned her head slowly. “Options.”

“Yes,” Lewis said. “Reference images. Fabric thoughts. Some silhouettes. Also notes.”

“You have notes.”

“Of course I have notes.”

“For my wedding dress.”

Lewis smiled. “Well, somebody had to.” Lewis adjusted his sunglasses. “You had no idea what you wanted.”

“I have some idea. No scratchy lace, please.’”

“It is a boundary,” Susie corrected. “Not a dress.”

“It is an important boundary.”

Lewis nodded seriously. “It is. And we will, of course, respect it.”

Ana looked back at him.

He was enjoying himself far too much. That was the first sign of danger.

The second was the folder.

The third was the fact that Lewis Hamilton, seven-time World Champion and man of many unlikely skills, appeared to have dressed for wedding dress shopping with the same level of intentionality other people brought to red carpets. Wide trousers. Long coat. Jewellery. Sunglasses despite the fact that they were indoors and the sun had barely committed to the day.

Ana looked down at herself.

Black trousers. Soft sweater. Coat. Loafers. Hair tied back. No jewellery except her ring.

She was dressed like a person prepared to attend a meeting where fabric might become adversarial.

Lewis looked like he was about to personally negotiate with the House of Dior. (Which, it turned out, he kind of was.)

Susie accepted coffee from the attendant and said, “Ana and Max picked a venue.”

Lewis stopped. For the first time since arriving, he seemed genuinely surprised.

“What?”

Ana sighed.

Susie’s face softened with immediate triumph. “They picked a venue.”

Lewis turned fully toward Ana. “Oh my God.”

“It is not that dramatic.”

“It is extremely dramatic.”

“It is a venue.”

“You picked a venue! Where?!”

“Yes. Isle of Eriska. In Scotland.”

Lewis’s expression changed. Not teasing now.

“Oh,” he said. “That sounds beautiful.”

Ana glanced down at her ring, then back up. “It is.”

“Private island,” Susie added.

Lewis’s grin returned instantly. “Of course.”

“It has a bridge,” Ana said.

Lewis stared at her for one second, then burst out laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are laughing.”

“Because Max must have loved the bridge.”

“He had several operational thoughts about it.”

“I bet he did.”

“He asked about access control before he asked about flowers,” Susie said.

“That is romantic for Max,” Lewis said.

Ana considered that. “Yes.”

Lewis looked delighted. “When?”

“Twentieth of December.”

His face softened again.

“This year?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Ana.”

She looked away.

She should have expected that tone from Susie.

From Lewis, it was more destabilizing.

“I know,” she said, though she was not entirely sure what she was agreeing to.

Lewis leaned closer, not touching her, but close enough that his warmth entered the space. He had always been good at that. Respecting a boundary while still making sure one knew he was there.

“You’re getting married in December on a private island in Scotland,” he said.

“Yes.”

“To Max Verstappen.”

“Yes.”

“And your only bridal design direction is no scratchy lace.”

Ana opened her mouth. Closed it.

Susie made a quiet laughing sound into her coffee.

Ana said, “I also dislike excessive volume.”

Lewis nodded. “Good. That helps.”

“And bows.”

“On you? Agreed.”

“And anything that feels like a costume.”

“Strongly agreed.”

“And I need to be able to move.”

“Of course.”

“And if someone says princess, I will leave.”

Lewis placed one hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Susie murmured, “You might think it.”

“I might think it privately,” Lewis conceded.

Ana narrowed her eyes.

Lewis smiled. “But not because of the dress.”

Before Ana could decide whether to object to that, they were called to board.

The flight to Paris was short enough that Ana thought it should have been uneventful.

It was not.

Lewis opened the folder.

Ana stared at it.

There were tabs. Tabs.

“Lewis.”

“Don’t panic.”

“I am not panicking.”

“You are looking at my folder like it might attack you.”

“It has tabs.”

“Organisation is good.”

“Not when used against me.”

Susie leaned forward. “Show me.”

“Susie.”

“What? I’m allowed to enjoy this. You are not picking a wedding dress every day!”

Lewis opened the first section.

Reference images.

Ana recognized some of them as wedding dresses, some as couture gowns, some as historical silhouettes, and some as what appeared to be photographs of sleeves.

“You printed sleeves?” she asked.

“Sleeves matter.”

Susie nodded. “Sleeves matter,” she agreed sagely.

Ana stared at both of them.

Lewis tapped one image. “This, for example, is wrong for you.”

“Why is it in the folder if it is wrong?”

“To establish what we are avoiding.”

Ana closed her eyes briefly.

Lewis continued, “Too stiff. Too bridal in the expected way. You would look like someone had placed you in a ceremonial envelope.”

Susie made a sound that meant she was trying not to laugh.

Ana opened her eyes. “Why are you so good at this?”

Lewis looked offended. “Ana, please.”

“He knows clothes,” Susie said.

“I know he knows clothes.”

“I asked for a favour,” Lewis said, turning another page.

Ana looked up sharply. “From whom?”

Lewis’s expression turned very innocent. Too innocent. “Dior.”

Ana stared at him. “Lewis.”

“I know the house. I asked for a favour.”

“For a favour.”

“Yes.”

“That is requesting with celebrity infrastructure.”

Lewis looked pleased. “That was a very Ana sentence.”

Susie leaned back, delighted. “It was.”

Ana pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose.

Lewis’s voice softened. “They said yes.”

Ana looked at him.

He was still smiling, but not joking now. “I called because I thought it might help,” he said. “Not because you have to do anything. We can walk in, look at fabrics, speak to people, and if it’s wrong, we leave. No one will trap you in tulle.”

“Tulle is also on the no list,” Ana said automatically.

Lewis pointed at her. “Good. See? We’re making progress.” His smile gentled. Then he turned another page. “Now. Off-the-shoulder.”

Ana blinked. “We are doing this.”

“We are absolutely doing this.”

By the time they landed in Paris, Ana knew two things.

One, Lewis Hamilton had extremely definite opinions about neckline geometry. Two, Susie and Lewis agreed on way too many things for Ana’s comfort.

The car took them through Paris under a pale morning sky. Ana watched the city move past the window with the wary detachment of someone entering an environment where people might use fabric emotionally.

Susie reached across and squeezed her hand. “You’re all right,” she said.

“I know.”

Lewis, from the front seat, looked back. “You don’t have to decide anything today.”

Ana stared at him.

He smiled. “Except no scratchy lace.”

“That has already been decided.”

“Correct.”

They arrived at the Dior atelier through a private entrance, because Lewis had apparently asked for a favour with frightening efficiency.

Ana had expected beautiful. She had not expected quiet.

The rooms were pale and high-ceilinged, full of soft light and careful movement. 

There were mannequins in half-formed garments, rolls of fabric, sketches pinned to boards, tables of embroidery samples that looked less like decoration and more like small acts of art.

Ana went very still.

Not because she was overwhelmed.

Well, not only because she was overwhelmed.

Because this was work.

Hands. Skill. Precision. People making things that required patience and repetition and attention so exact it became reverent.

That, Ana understood.

Lewis noticed. Of course he did. “It’s different when you see the making,” he said quietly.

Ana nodded once. “Yes.”

A woman with silver hair and excellent posture greeted them in French, then English, and then Lewis took over with the smooth confidence of someone who had been in these rooms before and belonged in them.

Ana did not belong in them.

That was fine. Ana rarely belonged in rooms. She had learned to function anyway.

They were led into a private fitting salon with mirrors, flowers, and a table set with coffee, water, tea, and small pastries that looked too architecturally delicate to eat. Lewis placed his folder on the table.

The Dior team looked at it with professional interest.

Ana looked at it with fear.

Susie looked as if she were having the time of her life.

“So,” said the woman leading the appointment. “Tell us about the wedding.”

Ana opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

Lewis stepped in.

“Private island in Scotland,” he said. “December. Small but not casual. She needs to move. She hates scratchy lace, excessive volume, bows, anything too princess-y, and anything that makes her look like she’s playing a role.”

Ana stared at him. Susie’s face softened.

The Dior woman nodded as if this were a perfectly normal briefing.

“And what does she like?” she asked.

Lewis looked at Ana.

Ana looked back.

“I don’t know,” Ana said.

It came out more bluntly than she intended.

The room went gentle. She hated that.

Then Lewis said, “She likes precision.”

Ana turned to him.

“She likes things that are intentional,” he continued. “Not fussy. Not fragile. She likes structure.”

The room was quiet.

Ana had to look away.

Susie reached for her hand again. Ana let her.

The Dior woman smiled. “That is a very good start.”

Lewis looked pleased.

Ana felt betrayed by the fact that he was right.

They began with fabrics.

That, at least, Ana could handle.

Silk mikado. Heavy satin. Crepe. Organza. Lace samples placed at a safe distance until Ana touched one, frowned, and said, “Absolutely not.”

Lewis murmured, “Scratchy.”

“Yes.”

The lace was removed immediately.

Ana appreciated that more than she could say.

Then came sketches.

Too much volume. Too sharp. Too modern. Too romantic. Too much shoulder. Not enough shoulder. Sleeves wrong. Sleeves interesting. Neckline wrong. Neckline almost.

Lewis had thoughts. Many thoughts.

“Not that waist,” he said at one point, leaning forward. “She’ll hate feeling segmented.”

Ana looked at him. “Segmented?”

“You will.”

“I do not know what that means in this context.”

“You would once you’re in it.”

The Dior woman nodded thoughtfully.

Ana looked at Susie for help. Susie said, “He’s right.”

Lewis pulled one of the references closer. “This line, but softer. And sleeves, but not heavy. She needs long sleeves.”

“I do?” Ana asked.

“Yes. December in Scotland.”

“There will be heating.”

“It’s also the mood.”

“I have a mood?”

Lewis gave her a look. “Several.” Susie laughed.

Ana sat there, increasingly convinced that she was not actually needed for her own wedding dress shopping.

Then the door opened.

Not abruptly. Nothing at Dior happened abruptly.

But someone entered, and the room shifted.

Lewis turned first.

Then smiled.

Ana knew the man’s face because Lewis had shown her three reference images in the car and said, “There is a chance we might see him, but don’t panic.”

Which had, of course, made Ana panic internally and prepare not to show it.

Jonathan Anderson smiled as if he had only intended to look in briefly and not alter the trajectory of the entire morning.

“Lewis,” he said warmly.

Lewis stood. “Jonathan. Thank you for this.”

“I was nearby,” Jonathan said, which Ana suspected was a lie told beautifully. His gaze moved to Ana. “And this must be Ana.”

Ana stood because she knew how to function in rooms even when she would rather disappear into the nearest storage cupboard.

“Yes,” she said. “Hello. Very nice to meet you.”

Jonathan shook her hand. His grip was warm.“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced at the table. The folder. The samples. The sketches. Then at Lewis, who had the expression of a man trying and failing not to look too pleased.

“I wasn’t supposed to interrupt,” Jonathan said.

“You are not interrupting,” Lewis replied.

Ana suspected he had been waiting for this interruption with the patience of a strategist.

Jonathan looked at Ana. “May I listen for a minute?”

Ana glanced at Susie.

Susie’s face said: this is your choice.

Lewis’s face said: please say yes, I am trying to be calm about it.

Ana sighed internally. “Yes, of course.”

Jonathan sat.

The design director summarized briefly. Private Scottish island. December. Officiated outdoors, likely. Photos outside if weather allowed. Bride with sensory constraints. Strong aversion to scratchy lace. No princess effect. No excessive spectacle. Groom likely to become emotional and possibly overprotective, which Lewis added without shame.

Ana said, “That last part is not design relevant.”

Jonathan looked amused. “It is more relevant than you think.”

Ana frowned.

Then Jonathan looked at one of the sketches and tilted his head.

“Wait,” he said. “I have thoughts.”

Lewis looked like Christmas had arrived.

Ana immediately became suspicious.

Jonathan took a pencil and then began drawing.

“Off the shoulder,” he said. “But not fragile. It should feel deliberate. Almost architectural. Long sleeves. Clean through the body, not too narrow, not princess volume. It needs weight at the hem. Winter. Scotland. She should look grounded.”

Ana stared at the sketch forming under his hand.

The neckline was wide and quiet, sitting off the shoulders. The sleeves were long and fitted but not tight, the bodice structured without being harsh, the skirt falling in a line that felt formal but not theatrical.

For the first time all morning, Ana understood what people meant when they said they could see it.

“Oh,” Susie said softly.

Lewis smiled.

Ana did not speak.

Jonathan noticed. “Too much?”

Ana shook her head. “No. It’s beautiful.”

That was all she could manage.

Jonathan nodded, as if he had heard the rest anyway.

“And the veil,” Lewis said, because Lewis Hamilton apparently woke up every day choosing escalation.

Ana turned slowly. “What veil?”

Lewis opened another section of the folder.

Of course.

Veils.

Ana stared at him.

“You made a veil section?”

“You are getting married in Scotland in December in Dior,” Lewis said. “There is going to be a veil.”

Jonathan was looking at her thoughtfully.

“Not lace,” Ana said immediately.

“No scratchy lace,” Lewis added.

“No scratchy lace,” Jonathan agreed. “Embroidery.”

Ana hesitated.

“What embroidery?”

“Stars,” Susie said softly.

Ana went still.

Lewis looked at her.

Jonathan looked between them. “Stars?”

Ana’s throat tightened.

“My grandmother had a star chart,” she said.

The words were quieter than she intended.

Lewis’s face changed.

Susie’s hand moved to her back.

Jonathan did not say how lovely.

Thank God.

He only nodded. “Do you have the chart?”

“Yes.”

“Could we use it?”

Ana looked up.

“Not literally if you don’t want,” he said. “But as a map. Embroidered into the veil. Very fine. Almost something you only see when it moves.”

Ana could not breathe properly for a second.

The star chart, taken from a Moscow floor and carried through every house she had survived, turned into something she wore while walking toward Max.

That was dangerous.

That was too much.

That was—

“Yes,” Ana said.

Susie made a small sound.

Lewis looked away for half a second, suspiciously.

Jonathan smiled, small and satisfied. “Good.”

After that, there were three dresses.

Because apparently once one entered an atelier with Lewis Hamilton, one did not leave with a single garment like a reasonable person.

The wedding gown: off the shoulder, long sleeves, structured, clean, winter-weight silk, with a veil embroidered from Yelena’s star chart in thread so fine it would look almost like frost until light caught it.

The party gown: embroidered, easier to move in, still long but less formal, with subtle stars worked into the bodice, something that could catch candlelight and look different every time Ana moved. Lewis insisted she needed to dance.

“I do not dance,” Ana said.

“You will at your wedding.”

“Max does not dance.”

“Max will do anything you ask at your wedding.”

Ana considered that.

Lewis pointed at her. “See?”

“I was calculating feasibility.”

“You were imagining it.”

“Briefly.”

“Good.”

The rehearsal dinner gown came last, because Susie mentioned the dinner and Lewis said, “Obviously she needs something for that,” in a tone that suggested Ana had been planning to arrive wrapped in a spreadsheet and nothing else.

“I have enough dresses,” Ana said.

Jonathan, Lewis, and Susie all looked at her with varying levels of pity.

Apparently she did not.

By the time they broke for tea, Ana had been measured, sketched, turned gently toward mirrors, asked questions about movement, temperature, fabric, hair, jewellery, shoes, and whether she intended to wear any jewellery.

“I have a tiara.”

Lewis nearly dropped his cup. “You own a tiara?”

Ana looked at him. “Yes.”

Susie closed her eyes, already smiling.

Lewis put the cup down with great care. “How. Why. Explain.”

“It was a gift.”

“From who?!”

“Papa.”

Lewis stared. “Toto bought you a tiara?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“My twenty-fifth birthday.”

Lewis looked at Susie.

Susie nodded. “He did.”

“Why am I only finding this out now?!”

Ana frowned. “It is not something that comes up often.”

“You own a tiara and it does not come up often?”

“No.”

Lewis looked personally betrayed.

“What does it look like?”

Ana took out her phone, found the photograph after some searching, and handed it to him.

Lewis accepted it with the gravity of a man being shown state secrets.

Then his face changed.

“Oh, this is good.”

“It is excessive.”

“It is beautiful.”

“It is excessive.”

“Both.”

Susie leaned over. “It is beautiful.”

“It lives in a safe,” Ana said.

“And it should,” Lewis replied. “You’re wearing it.”

“It may be too much.”

“You are wearing an custom Dior gown, on a private island in Scotland, to marry Max Verstappen. We have left the realm of too much.”

Jonathan looked at the photo and tilted his head. “Actually, with the clean gown and the veil, it could work beautifully. If the hair is restrained.”

By the end of the appointment, Ana felt wrung out in a way she could not neatly categorize.

Not bad.

Not good.

Too much, but not wrong.

That was perhaps the most accurate phrase.

Too much, but not wrong.

Jonathan shook her hand before he left.

“I’ll have the sketches refined,” he said. “We’ll move quickly, but not carelessly.”

Ana nodded. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “No scratchy lace.”

“No scratchy lace,” she agreed.

Lewis looked far too pleased with himself.

In the car afterward, Ana sat between Susie and Lewis with a folder of fabric notes, preliminary sketches, and a headache forming behind her eyes.

Susie held her hand.

Lewis held the folder.

Ana let both things happen.

For three minutes, no one spoke.

Then Lewis said, “I still cannot believe you own a tiara.”

Ana closed her eyes. “Lewis.”

“I need pictures of you wearing it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“For research.”

“You have seen a photograph.”

“I need styling pictures. You are going to wear it and send me a picture.”

“I am not.”

Susie said, “You are.”

Ana turned to her in betrayal. “You are supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” Susie said, smiling. “I also want pictures.”

Lewis looked victorious and leaned slightly into her shoulder.

“Thank you for letting me come,” he said.

Ana looked at him.

He was still holding the folder, but his voice had changed.

This was not about dresses now.

Not really.

So she said the truth.

“Thank you for helping me. You are the only person I know who knows what he is around Haute Couture.”

Lewis laughed.

Susie laughed too, softly.

Ana frowned. “That was a compliment.”

“I know,” Lewis said, still smiling. “From you, it is practically a love letter.”

***

Press Release: Oracle Red Bull Racing

Oracle Red Bull Racing today confirms the appointment of Gerhard Berger as Team Principal with immediate effect.

Mr. Berger will assume responsibility for the team's sporting and operational leadership ahead of the United States Grand Prix.

Statement from Gerhard Berger

"It is an enormous honour to return to Oracle Red Bull Racing in this capacity.

This team has achieved extraordinary success over the past two decades through exceptional people, relentless innovation and an uncompromising desire to compete at the highest level. My responsibility now is to help ensure that continues.

However, before looking forward, it is important to acknowledge recent events.

The circumstances surrounding the Azerbaijan Grand Prix were dealt with in a manner that fell far below the standards that Oracle Red Bull Racing should expect of itself.

It is now clear that serious failures occurred within our organisation. Those failures affected individuals who deserved better from their team. For that, I offer my sincere apology.

Trust cannot be restored through statements alone. It must be earned through actions, transparency and accountability.

That process begins immediately.

Over the coming weeks we will continue implementing structural changes across multiple departments, strengthen internal oversight and ensure that every member of this organisation understands that integrity is not optional. 

Performance without trust is not sustainable.

I have already begun speaking with many members of the team, and I look forward to meeting many more in the days ahead.

Oracle Red Bull Racing has always been built by remarkable people. My job is to make sure they are able to do their remarkable work in an environment worthy of them.

Finally, I would like to thank our employees, partners and supporters for their patience during an exceptionally difficult period.

We know that trust must be rebuilt.

We intend to rebuild it."

Gerhard BergerTeam Principal Oracle Red Bull Racing

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: GERHARD BERGER?!?!

@/formularachel: GERHARD BERGER????????

@/formularachel: sorry i got distracted by the team principal jump scare but HE MENTIONED BAKU???????

@/lightsoutandawaywego: “dealt with in a manner that fell far below the standards” oh so we’re using REAL WORDS now

@/verstappensleftfront: no because red bull spent weeks acting like baku was a weather event and berger just walked in like “yeah that was deplorable actually”

@/maxv33rstappen: “those failures affected individuals who deserved better from their team” HIS NAME IS MAX VERSTAPPEN SAY IT WITH YOUR CHEST

@/carbonfibertears: i know pr language when i see it but “trust cannot be restored through statements alone” is still the most accountability we’ve gotten from red bull since this whole thing started

@/ferrarifoodtruck: gerhard berger on day one:

becomes team principal

says baku was handled badly

implies trust is broken

apologizes

@/smoothoperatorrr: “Performance without trust is not sustainable.” that line is going to be quoted in every f1 essay for the next decade

@/tifosigossip: This is a very carefully worded apology and also somehow a knife.

@/boxboxbitchred bull fans: new team principal! max fans: HE SAID BAKU mercedes fans: HE SAID BAKU everyone else: HE SAID BAKU

@/racepacefraud: Gerhard Berger really said “good morning, I have arrived, and yes the house was on fire before I got here”

@/leclercsrevenge: I do not even like Red Bull and I still felt my eyebrows hit my hairline at that statement

@/paddockparalegal: Not legal advice but if I were involved in any future litigation around Baku I would be printing this statement immediately.

@/teambossupdates: BREAKING: Oracle Red Bull Racing appoints Gerhard Berger as Team Principal with immediate effect. Berger’s opening statement references Azerbaijan GP, apologizes for organizational failures, and states trust must be rebuilt.

@/ricciardhoe: daniel ricciardo somewhere: I knew red bull needed adult supervision x

@/rbrcivilwar: new red bull era begins with a public apology for baku. insane sentence. absolutely insane.

@/f1_screaming: Remember when they tried to push “driver error” after Baku? Yeah. Wonder how that paragraph feels now.

@/33orangearmy: I will never forgive the driver error line. never. max got in that car. he trusted them. and they let it sound like he had caused it.

@/maxvstheworld: “affected individuals who deserved better from their team” max gave them four world championships and they gave him sabotage + PR fog. berger better mean every word.

@/f1politicsdaily: The omission of Verstappen’s name is probably deliberate, but the entire statement orbits him.

@/inchidentgirl: “individuals who deserved better” is such a loud non-name

@/mclarenmenace: “environment worthy of them” gerhard berger said the vibes were rancid

@/gridgossipgirl: The fact that Gerhard’s first statement is basically “we know Red Bull broke trust” means the internal situation must have been SO much worse than leaked.

@/f1_insiderish: Hearing that some senior staff were deeply unhappy with how Baku was communicated publicly. Berger’s wording may be aimed internally as much as externally.

@/haasbadideas: Gerhard Berger has been team principal for 7 minutes and already created more plot than some teams create in a season

@/mercedesmood: as a mercedes fan i am not touching this with a ten foot pole but also: OH MY GOD

@/silverarrowsburner: the george-shaped elephant in the room is so loud right now

@/carbonfibertears: everyone carefully not saying george russell’s name under this statement is making it worse actually

@/rbr_defender21: New boss, new chapter. People need to give Gerhard time.

@/verstappenarmy: we gave red bull time and they used it to invent “driver error”

@/rbr_defender21: That was before Berger.

@/verstappenarmy: exactly why we are watching him like a hawk

@/f1oldschoolfan: Berger is one of the few names with enough history and credibility to walk into this mess and not immediately be dismissed. Smart appointment, brutal timing.

@/formulawagsdaily: Question: will this affect Max Verstappen’s expected move to Mercedes?

@/maxielbrainrot: girl where have you been. that ship is not just sailed it has a austrian registration and toto wolff at the wheel

@/silverstarmax: The funniest part is Red Bull appointing Berger and acknowledging Baku while Max is probably sitting in Monaco with his leg up watching everyone combust.

@/delulu_drs: this season has:

sabotage

team principal change

mercedes seat war

red bull public apology

everyone traumatized

drive to survive producers crying because nobody will sign release forms

@/netflixgarage: DTS episode title: Trust Cannot Be Rebuilt Through Statements Alone

@/paddockprincess44: that title would EAT unfortunately

@/redbullchaosera: gerhard berger really said: hello employees sorry your house is haunted we begin exorcism today

@/aussiegritfan: Mark Webber somewhere drinking coffee like “not my circus, unfortunately still full of people I know”

@/f1journalwatch: Expect questions about Baku, Max Verstappen, internal accountability, and potential legal consequences at COTA. Berger’s first press appearance as Red Bull TP will be heavily scrutinized.

@/gp2enginegp2: press conference at cota is going to need security, lawyers, priests, and possibly a priest for an exorcism

@/verstappensleftfront: the worst part is that this statement is good. like annoyingly good. now they have to actually do the work.

@/f1_archivist: That’s the core issue. The statement is strong, but it creates a standard Berger will now be measured against. “Trust must be rebuilt” is not a closing line. It is a promise.

@/verstappenfiles: “Those failures affected individuals who deserved better from their team.”

That is the closest Red Bull has come to saying “we failed Max Verstappen” and I need to lie down.

@/grandprixgirlie: Not Red Bull Racing discovering accountability in Q4 of 2025.

@/paddockpoppy: “Trust cannot be restored through statements alone.”

Okay Gerhard. Now say “Max Verstappen was blamed publicly for something our organization caused.”

@/simplysainz: This statement is either the beginning of actual reform or the most expensive PR bandage in motorsport history. No in-between.

@/maxvstan: He nearly died. They called it driver error. He nearly died. They called it driver error. He nearly died. They called it driver error.

I do not care how nice this statement is. Never forget that.

@/antiheroinef1: The funniest part is Red Bull saying “we intend to rebuild trust” like Max Verstappen isn’t currently in Monaco with a broken leg, a Mercedes contract, and probably Toto Wolff’s entire legal department on speed dial.

@/formulawah: Gerhard Berger: We need transparency. Paddock: okay then transparently tell us who decided to call it driver error.

@/racepacewitch: This statement feels like when someone finally tells the truth after the group chat already knew for six weeks.

@/maxmaxmax33: I don’t want Max back at Red Bull. I don’t want a reconciliation arc. I want him happy, safe, and winning in silver/black while Red Bull cleans its own house.

@/tifosigirl16: Ferrari could never release a statement this direct. We would get twelve paragraphs about passion and no verbs.

@/mclarenmuppet: McLaren PR reading this and whispering “thank god our chaos is just Lando accidentally revealing secrets.”

@/maxshelmet: I do not care if Berger personally writes Max an apology in gold leaf. The people who signed off on driver error need to be named internally and gone.

@/f1teaaccount: Update: reporters are already asking whether Berger has reached out directly to Max Verstappen.

This is about to get messy.

@/gridgossip: Imagine being Gerhard Berger and your first job as Red Bull TP is apologizing to Max Verstappen, reassuring sponsors, calming staff, admitting Baku was mishandled, and trying not to get murdered by Toto Wolff.

***

Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

(Members:    Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)

Lando Norris:WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON

Alex Albon:That is literally the name of the chat.

Lando Norris:YES AND IT IS RELEVANT AGAIN.

Carlos Sainz:Gerhard Berger?

Pierre Gasly:Red Bull team principal. I thought someone was joking.

Yuki Tsunoda:I wish someone was joking about Red Bull more often these days.

Isack Hadjar:…Is this good?

Nico Hulkenberg:Define good.

Oscar Piastri:Competent, experienced, and unlikely to start a civil war during FP1?

Lando Norris:That feels aimed at someone.

Oscar Piastri:No comment.

Esteban Ocon:It is a good appointment.

Charles Leclerc:For Red Bull, yes.

Alex Albon:That does not mean any of us have to enjoy saying it.

Valtteri Bottas:Gerhard knows racing. Knows politics. Knows when to let drivers drive.

Fernando Alonso:Good choice.

Lando Norris:WHY ARE YOU SO CALM

Fernando Alonso:Because I knew.

Lando Norris:YOU WHAT

Fernando Alonso:I knew.

Lance Stroll:Of course you knew.

Lando Norris:Fernando just says “I knew” like he is an oracle in a linen shirt.

Fernando Alonso:Thank you.

Oscar Piastri:I don’t think that was a compliment.

Lewis Hamilton:It is a smart move.

Carlos Sainz:Agreed.

Pierre Gasly:Long overdue, honestly.

Liam Lawson:The apology part or the team principal part?

Pierre Gasly:Both.

Max Verstappen:He reached out to Toto privately last week.

Lando Norris:SORRY?

Carlos Sainz:To apologize?

Max Verstappen:Yes.

Charles Leclerc:For Baku?

Max Verstappen:Yes. So I would know before the announcement. 

Nico Hulkenberg:That is… surprisingly sensible.

Oscar Piastri:It is the bare minimum, but yes.

Lewis Hamilton:It matters that he did it before the appointment was public.

Max Verstappen:He wants to meet Wednesday.

Lando Norris:YOU ARE MEETING HIM?

Max Verstappen:Yes.

Lando Norris:MAX.

Oscar Piastri:That does not sound optional in tone.

Max Verstappen:It is optional.

Lando Norris:Then don’t go?

Max Verstappen:I want to hear what he says.

Alex Albon:That is mature.

Lando Norris:I hate when Max is mature. It makes me nervous.

Carlos Sainz:Are you meeting alone?

Max Verstappen:No.

Lewis Hamilton:Good.

Pierre Gasly:Very good.

Lando Norris:Who is with you?

Max Verstappen:Raymond. Ana. Probably Toto.

Charles Leclerc:Ana might go?

Max Verstappen:If she wants.

Lando Norris:I feel like Ana Wolff going to a Red Bull apology meeting is either brilliant or terrifying.

Oscar Piastri:Those are not mutually exclusive.

Lewis Hamilton:If Ana is there, Gerhard should prepare.

Valterri Bottas:Understatement.

Isack Hadjar:Is she scary?

Lando Norris:Mate.

Lewis Hamilton:She once told a room full of senior engineers that their proposed workflow had “the structural integrity of wet cardboard.” and then fixed it in 5 minutes. 

Kimi Antonelli:That is accurate sometimes!

Lewis Hamilton:She is not scary. She is precise.

Max Verstappen:She made conditions.

Lando Norris:Of course she did.

Alex Albon:What conditions?

Max Verstappen:Neutral location. No Red Bull facility. Not our house. No media. No surprise people. No cameras. No handshake expectation. No forgiveness requirement.

Valtteri Bottas:Good conditions.

Fernando Alonso:Very good.

Pierre Gasly:The no forgiveness requirement is important.

Lando Norris:I still hate Red Bull.

Yuki Tsunoda:Same.

Liam Lawson:Same.

Pierre Gasly:I have complicated feelings.

Alex Albon:Join the club.

Carlos Sainz:I think many of us have complicated feelings.

Nico Hulkenberg:Gerhard is a good appointment and Red Bull can still have been wrong.

Oscar Piastri:Correct.

Franco Colapinto:So everyone thinks good choice but still hates Red Bull?

Alex Albon:Basically.

Oscar Piastri:Nuance.

***

Group Chat: 2025 Team Principals

 (Members: Toto Wolff, Andrea Stella, Fred Vasseur, Andy Cowell, Ayao Komatsu, Alan Permane, James Vowles, Jonathan Wheatley, Flavio Briatore)

Fred Vasseur:GERHARD BERGER?

Andrea Stella:Good afternoon to you too, Fred.

James Vowles:So the municipal crisis has selected a mayor.

Alan Permane:And apparently a competent one.

Ayao Komatsu:That is disappointing. I was becoming fond of the interim committee rumour.

Andy Cowell:To be clear, Red Bull have appointed Gerhard Berger as team principal?

Jonathan Wheatley:Yes.

Flavio Briatore:Good choice.

Fred Vasseur:Toto knew.

Andrea Stella:Toto absolutely knew.

James Vowles:He knew and sat there letting us speculate.

Alan Permane:With a straight face, presumably.

Toto Wolff:You were all enjoying yourselves.

Fred Vasseur:I was not enjoying myself. I was investigating.

Andrea Stella:You asked if Christian Horner would return with a fake moustache.

Fred Vasseur:That was Flavio.

Flavio Briatore:Yes. Very good idea.

Jonathan Wheatley:It was not a good idea.

Flavio Briatore:It was funny.

Andy Cowell:Toto, did you know at the time?

Toto Wolff:Define know.

Fred Vasseur:No.

Andrea Stella:Absolutely not.

James Vowles:Do not lawyer this.

Alan Permane:He is lawyering it.

James Vowles:That means yes.

Alan Permane:That absolutely means yes.

Fred Vasseur:Unacceptable.

Andrea Stella:You let us embarrass ourselves.

Toto Wolff:You needed very little assistance.

Jonathan Wheatley:I am taking this personally.

Toto Wolff:That seems emotional.

Jonathan Wheatley:It is emotional.

Fred Vasseur:You should have told us.

Toto Wolff:I should not have.

Andrea Stella:How long have you known before today?

Toto Wolff:Enough.

Fred Vasseur:That is not an answer.

Ayao Komatsu:Did Gerhard tell you?

Toto Wolff:Gerhard reached out privately last week.

Fred Vasseur:Ah.

Andrea Stella:That explains the tone.

Andy Cowell:For Baku?

Toto Wolff:Yes.

James Vowles:Before the appointment was public?

Toto Wolff:Yes.

Ayao Komatsu:Good.

Jonathan Wheatley:I am still annoyed.

Flavio Briatore:You can be annoyed and admit it is good.

Jonathan Wheatley added Gerhard Berger to the chat.

Gerhard Berger:Good afternoon.

Fred Vasseur:There he is.

Andrea Stella:Welcome, Gerhard.

James Vowles:Congratulations. Or condolences. Possibly both.

Andy Cowell:Congratulations on the appointment.

Flavio Briatore:Finally someone old enough to ignore nonsense.

Gerhard Berger:That appears to be the job description.

Fred Vasseur:Already better media handling than Red Bull managed all season.

Toto Wolff:Agreed.

Gerhard Berger:And for the record, Toto did not have permission to share.

Fred Vasseur:We only asked for hints.

James Vowles:Even a first letter would have done.

Gerhard Berger:G.

Alan Permane:Too late.

Toto Wolff:You see? Ungrateful.

Fred Vasseur:Do not make yourself the victim.

Andrea Stella:Toto, you sat here while we considered “interim committee.”

Toto Wolff:That was very funny.

James Vowles:You admit it.

Toto Wolff:Yes.

Alan Permane:Shameless.

Andy Cowell:Gerhard, are you officially in post before COTA?

Gerhard Berger:Yes.

Flavio Briatore:Fantastic. Straight into the fire.

Gerhard Berger:That also appears to be the job description.

Fred Vasseur:You inherited a bonfire.

Gerhard Berger:I have noticed.

Andrea Stella:Gerhard, since you are now here, can you confirm Red Bull has remembered it is legally required to have a team principal?

Gerhard Berger:Yes.

James Vowles:Good.

Alan Permane:Progress.

Andy Cowell:Do you have an org chart?

Gerhard Berger:I have several contradictory org charts.

Ayao Komatsu:That sounds realistic.

Flavio Briatore:Throw them all away and make your own.

Jonathan Wheatley:That is genuinely good advice, unfortunately.

Gerhard Berger:I know.

Fred Vasseur:Has anyone told Laurent he was removed from the group?

Jonathan Wheatley:I assume he noticed.

Andrea Stella:That is not the same as telling him.

Jonathan Wheatley:He was removed by admin action. That is information.

James Vowles:Very Audi of you.

Jonathan Wheatley:I am not taking criticism from Williams about admin processes.

James Vowles:Fair.

Alan Permane:Gerhard, did Red Bull give you a welcome package?

Gerhard Berger:Yes.

Ayao Komatsu:What was in it?

Gerhard Berger:A laptop, a pass, forty-three unresolved leadership issues, and three people saying “alignment” before I reached my office.

Flavio Briatore:Only three? First day is quiet.

Andrea Stella:Welcome back to Formula One management.

Gerhard Berger:I had forgotten how many people say “alignment” when they mean “panic.”

James Vowles:That is most of the job.

Alan Permane:Also “process.”

Andy Cowell:And “clarity.”

Fred Vasseur:And “moving forward.”

Flavio Briatore:And “family.”

Toto Wolff:Careful with that one.

Gerhard Berger:Noted.

Gerhard Berger:Speaking of which, Toto, I assume Wednesday is still acceptable?

Jonathan Wheatley:Wednesday?

Fred Vasseur:What is Wednesday?

Andrea Stella:Toto?

Toto Wolff:Gerhard is meeting Max.

Alan Permane:Ah.

Andy Cowell:Good.

Ayao Komatsu:Long overdue.

Fred Vasseur:Very long overdue.

Jonathan Wheatley:Extremely long overdue.

Gerhard Berger:I know.

Flavio Briatore:At least he knows.

Andrea Stella:That is already an improvement.

Gerhard Berger:I reached out to Toto first because it was not appropriate to ask Max directly before speaking to his side.

Toto Wolff:That was appreciated.

Fred Vasseur:This is all very mature and I resent it.

Alan Permane:Same.

James Vowles:It is unsettling.

Jonathan Wheatley:I am still annoyed nobody told me, but yes, that was the correct thing to do.

Gerhard Berger:Thank you, Jonathan.

Jonathan Wheatley:Do not thank me yet. I may become annoying again.

Gerhard Berger:I would be disappointed otherwise.

James Vowles:I am glad this is being handled properly.

Alan Permane:Same.

Jonathan Wheatley:Still furious about Baku.

Gerhard Berger:You should be.

Gerhard Berger:I am not coming in to pretend the damage was smaller than it was.Red Bull failed Max.

Gerhard Berger:That should have been said sooner. Publicly and privately. That will be part of what I say to Max. If he chooses only to listen and never accept it, that is his right.

Flavio Briatore:This is almost too sensible for this chat.

Alan Permane:Give it time.

Fred Vasseur:Someone will ruin it.

Jonathan Wheatley:Do you actually know what you have walked into?

Gerhard Berger:Yes.

Jonathan Wheatley:No, I mean actually.

Gerhard Berger:Jonathan, I have eyes, ears, friends, enemies, and a phone that has not stopped ringing for nine hours. Yes, I know. But I appreciate the concern.

Jonathan Wheatley:It was not concern.

Fred Vasseur:It was concern.

Andrea Stella:Definitely concern.

Andy Cowell:So Austin will be calm then.

James Vowles:Absolutely not.

Ayao Komatsu:Never.

Fred Vasseur:Austin will be media hell.

Andrea Stella:Between this, Baku questions, Max, Mercedes, Red Bull restructuring—

Toto Wolff:And normal racing.

Fred Vasseur:Yes, if anyone remembers that.

Flavio Briatore:Nobody remembers racing when drama is available.

The last thing I wanted to do with only two weeks left before classes started again was attend my cousin’s wedding.

But since I was seventeen—and in my family that meant I had absolutely no say in anything—I swallowed my complaints, rolled my eyes, and endured the long drive to the middle of nowhere.

Because nothing screams happy marriage quite like getting married in the middle of fucking nowhere.

By the time we arrived at the villa where everyone would be staying, I was ready to throw myself onto the bed and not get up until thirty minutes before the bride said I do. Unfortunately, my mother had other plans, so we headed off to meet the rest of the family instead.

“I thought we’d never get here,” my mother complained the moment she spotted my grandmother.

“Don’t even get me started. I thought I’d need another hip replacement after sitting in that car for so long,” my grandmother joked, her dry laugh echoing through the room.

A wave of disgust settled in my stomach. Anyone listening would think she was just a funny old woman enjoying the last years of her life. None of them would ever guess she’d spent years making mine miserable.

“Y/N, aren’t you going to say hello to your grandmother?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at me.

I swallowed the sigh of irritation threatening to escape.

“Hi, Grandma.” I gave her a quick, half-hearted hug.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough to satisfy her. She was just about to lecture me when my cousin’s dramatic voice interrupted her.

It was only Wednesday. The wedding wasn’t until Saturday, yet according to my cousin, there were still a thousand things left to do before the groom’s family arrived the next day.

I spent the entire day running around, fulfilling every one of her demands. Every time I considered refusing, my mother shot me a look that promised my funeral would be sooner rather than later.

As far as she was concerned, I should’ve been grateful they’d even invited me. Apparently, after everything that had happened, being included in my cousin’s wedding was the greatest honor I could receive from that side of the family.

By nightfall, everyone gathered outside on the patio after dinner.

Several conversations were happening at once, but one in particular caught my attention. It was between my cousin Rose—the bride—and my cousin Angelina, who was about two years older than me.

“So… he’s really coming?” Angelina asked, lowering her voice.

Rose smiled immediately.

“Of course he is. He’s Carlo’s cousin. Why wouldn’t he come? He’s even one of the groomsmen.”

“And you said he’s single?” Angelina bit her lip, trying—and failing—to hide her smile.

“As far as I know.”

“Well… I hope he’s as handsome as you say.”

Rose laughed.

“Trust me, he is. And he’s loaded too. He’s a driver in a major racing series.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm. His name’s Kimi.”

Angelina’s eyebrows shot up.

“Guess I’ll have to make a little extra effort this weekend.”

Rose nudged her arm.

“I don’t think you’ll have to. My mother-in-law has been saying for weeks that you’d make the perfect couple.”

They both laughed.

I shook my head to myself.

Another conversation about men. Another conversation about setting someone up with someone else.

I lost interest almost instantly and focused on the glass in my hands instead.

Nothing that happened in this family mattered enough for me to join their conversations. And years ago, I’d learned they didn’t particularly care whether I did or not.

The next morning began as soon as the sun came up.

The villa fell into complete chaos with the arrival of the groom’s family. The most affected by it all seemed to be Angelina, who looked like she was waiting for Prince Charming himself to walk through the door.

As everyone introduced themselves, I limited myself to a polite smile and a handshake. Angelina, meanwhile, kept glancing toward the entrance. Apparently, the guy still hadn’t arrived.

Rose leaned over and whispered something in her ear and Angelina answered by making the saddest puppy face imaginable.

Pathetic.

I slipped away to another part of the villa to get some fresh air. About an hour later, I went back inside to find something to drink.

I poured myself a glass of lemonade. As I took a sip, I noticed a tin of cookies sitting on top of one of the kitchen cabinets. It was far too high to reach, so I dragged over a chair and climbed onto it. I had the cookies in my hand.

Victory was only seconds away.

Then the chair apparently decided it had fulfilled its purpose in life and It snapped beneath me. I braced for the impact, but instead, a pair of hands wrapped around my waist, stopping me just before I hit the floor.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My heart threatened to burst out of my chest, and I was certain every trace of color had drained from my face.

My eyes met a pair of warm brown ones staring back at me with the same startled expression.

“Are you okay?” he asked, carefully studying my face for any sign that I wasn’t.

I let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah.” The word barely came out.

God, this had to be the most embarrassing moment of my life. I was standing in front of one of the most attractive guys I’d ever seen, and he’d just saved me from falling off a chair because I’d risked my life for cookies.

“You should be more careful,” he said as he let go of my waist and stepped back. “That could’ve ended a lot worse.”

“Stupid fucking chair,” I muttered, glaring at the broken pieces scattered across the floor.

A quiet laugh escaped him.

I looked down at the cookies still clutched tightly in my hand. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding them.

I lifted the tin slightly.

“At least I accomplished my mission.”

He smiled.

“All this… for cookies?”

“They weren’t just cookies.”

He frowned.

“They were the cookies.”

“I see.” He nodded with exaggerated seriousness “A completely justified near-death experience.”

“Exactly.” For the first time since arriving in Italy, I smiled without feeling like I had to fake it.

He held out his hand.

“I’m Andrea.”

“Y/N.” I shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” There was something oddly calming about him. He didn’t seem like the type to force a conversation just to fill the silence.

His eyes drifted toward the broken chair before returning to me.

“Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“Depends.”

“Next time, try not to declare war on the furniture.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was a brief silence. Not an awkward one, the kind that happens when two strangers realize they genuinely don’t mind each other’s company.

“Are you part of the groom’s family?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I’m his cousin.”

“That explains the accent.”

He smiled.

“And you?”

“I’m the bride’s cousin.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to survive this wedding together.”

“Are Italian weddings really that bad?”

“No.” He shook his head “Big families are.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I laughed again.

For a brief moment, I found myself thinking that, under different circumstances, I’d probably like to get to know him better.

Then voices echoed down the hallway.

“Kimi! Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

He closed his eyes for a second, like he’d known this was coming.

“Coming!” he called back before turning to me.

Kimi.

My stomach flipped.

Not Andrea.

Kimi.

The Kimi Rose and Angelina had spent half the previous night talking about.

He looked at me one last time, offering a small, almost shy smile.

“I guess I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

“I guess you will.”

I watched him disappear down the hallway. The moment he turned the corner, I heard an excited voice.

“Kimi!”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Of fucking course, it had to be him.

(…)

The rest of the day, my family put on the most painful humiliation ritual I’d ever witnessed. I barely said a word, yet I could still feel my face burning with secondhand embarrassment.

By then, everyone had found out that Kimi—whose full name was Andrea Kimi, hence the confusion—was none other than a Formula 1 driver. Apparently, that earned him a red carpet and the right to have everyone kiss the ground he walked on.

I was genuinely worried my eyes would get stuck from rolling them so much.

Angelina and her parents were by far the worst. They never outright said anything, but the way they hovered around him made it painfully obvious how desperate they were to throw Angelina at Kimi every chance they got.

I simply watched in silence.

Every now and then, I’d feel someone looking at me. Whenever I glanced up, I’d find Kimi already watching me. He’d offer me the smallest of smiles.

I never smiled back.

By sunset, the bridesmaids and groomsmen were called away for the rehearsal. That was my cue to disappear unnoticed. I wandered around the property, lost in my thoughts.

Spending time with my family always left me feeling like this.

Exhausted.

Reflective.

From the outside, we probably looked like a loving family, maybe even a healthy one. But underneath it all, we were rotten.

I ended up beneath a large tree, watching the sun disappear beyond the hills while the first stars slowly emerged overhead.

Small lanterns lined the pathways around the villa, casting enough light that the gardens remained bright despite the growing darkness.

I was staring at the horizon when a familiar voice, carrying that unmistakably Italian accent, pulled me from my thoughts.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I looked up to find Kimi smiling at me. He didn’t wait for an answer before lowering himself onto the grass beside me. He held out a can of soda.

“For you.”

“Thanks.” I accepted it, and we both took a sip.

“So…” He glanced sideways at me. “What are you doing out here by yourself? I thought you’d be at the rehearsal with us.”

“I’m getting some fresh air. My family can be… a bit much.” I smiled faintly. “And to answer your other question… I’m not part of the bridal party.”

“You’re not? I thought everyone seemed really close.” His eyebrows lifted.

“They are.” I looked down at the soda in my hands. “I just don’t get along with Rose’s side of the family. My mom and my sister do, though, that’s why they’re involved.” I shrugged again, deliberately leaving out the rest.

Confusion flickered across his face, he clearly had questions. To his credit, he didn’t ask them. Instead, he tilted his head.

“How old are you?”

I laughed.

It was such an obvious attempt to steer the conversation somewhere lighter that I couldn’t help it.

The conversation drifted naturally after that. We talked about his family, childhood stories, my classes, and what life was like at boarding school in Switzerland.

“You go to boarding school?” His eyes widened. He looked genuinely astonished.

Like children raised in boarding schools were some sort of endangered species.

I laughed. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten that reaction.

“Yeah, it was my dad’s decision before he passed away.” The smile slowly faded from my face.

Kimi noticed immediately. Without saying a word, he gently squeezed my hand.

Then, just as quietly, he changed the subject. I silently thanked him for it.

We talked until there wasn’t a drop of soda left in either can. Until my throat felt dry from talking. Until my stomach hurt from laughing. Until the night had completely settled around us.

When we finally stood up, we exchanged a warm hug and a pair of quiet smiles before heading our separate ways.

The next morning started just as early as the previous one. The only difference was that the few hours of sleep I’d managed to get had left me in an even worse mood. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and I’d already argued with both my mother and my sister.

I escaped outside with my breakfast, hoping to eat in peace.

A moment later, Kimi appeared and sat beside me with an amused smile.

“So… How’d you sleep?” He leaned a little closer. “Did you dream about me?”

He was obviously teasing. Probably because the expression on my face made it clear I wanted the entire world to leave me alone.

Unfortunately for my bad mood, It worked. A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“Thankfully, I didn’t have any nightmares.” I took a sip of my orange juice.

He clutched his chest dramatically. That made me laugh even harder.

“There you are.” Angelina’s voice made me look up.

She was wearing a white linen dress and her trademark flawless smile. The kind anyone else would’ve mistaken for kindness.

I knew better.

It was the smile she wore right before saying something that only hurt if you knew the context.

“Good morning, Kimi,” she greeted warmly before turning to me. “Your mom’s been looking for you for at least ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I muttered.

She made no move to leave. Instead, she sat down across from us.

“I didn’t realize you two had become such good friends.”

“We met yesterday,” Kimi answered simply.

“Yes.” Angelina smiled. “Y/N has always had an easy time making friends.”

Anyone else would’ve taken it as a compliment.

I didn’t.

I knew that tone, I knew Angelina and I knew exactly what came next.

“Although…” she continued with a light laugh, “…she does have a tendency to get herself into trouble because of it.”

I felt my stomach tighten.

There it was, the first stone.

“Trouble?” Kimi frowned slightly.

“Oh, nothing serious.” Angelina waved a dismissive hand. “My cousin has just always been… intense.”

Intense.

What a convenient word.

Vague enough to spark curiosity, harmless enough that no one could accuse her of saying anything wrong.

I lowered my gaze to the table, I knew this conversation. First came the joke, then the implication, then someone would ask what she meant, and before I knew it I’d be thirteen years old all over again.

I reached for my glass of juice, ready to leave before it got any worse. Then Kimi spoke.

“That hasn’t been my impression.”

Angelina blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve only talked a couple of times,” he said calmly, “but she’s seemed like a genuinely nice person to me, maybe I just got lucky.” He shrugged.

Angelina laughed, this time, it sounded forced.

“Well… You’ll get to know her better.”

“I hope so.” He answered so naturally that, for a second, it almost sounded like he had no idea he’d just contradicted her.

But I knew.

And so did Angelina.

I saw it in the way her jaw tightened for the briefest moment before she smiled again. It happened so quickly anyone else would’ve missed it.

I didn’t.

I’d known her my entire life and she’d just realized that, for the first time, someone hadn’t accepted the version of me our family had spent years telling.

A little while later, I ran into my mother. Judging by the look on her face, she didn’t seem particularly happy to see me.

“Angelina told me you’ve been getting awfully close to that young man she likes.” Her brow was deeply furrowed.

“Mom—” I didn’t get to say another word before she cut me off.

“Don’t say a thing, Y/N. I’m only going to warn you once. I don’t ever want to go through something like this again. God help me and give me the strength to restrain myself from what I’ll do to you if it happens.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away.

My eyes burned with unshed tears.

My breathing became uneven as I hurried toward the side of the house where no one would see me. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was making a scene and giving them yet another reason to make my life miserable.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, trying to keep that familiar pressure from spreading across my chest.

“Are you alright?” A man’s voice made my eyes snap open.

A tanned man with graying hair was looking at me with unmistakable concern.

“Yes.” The smile I offered came out shaky.

“You don’t look alright. Come, sit over here.” He gestured for me to follow him.

With my legs still trembling, I followed him to a small wooden bench nearby. We sat down, and without losing the concerned expression on his face, he gently guided me through my breathing.

After a couple of minutes, my breathing finally steadied, and I could feel myself calming down again.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“It’s nothing.” He gave me a kind smile. “It breaks my heart to see someone as young as you suffering like that.”

My cheeks flushed. I lowered my head, staring at my restless hands.

“What happened to you?” he asked softly. “What could’ve caused you so much pain?”

A quiet laugh escaped me, completely devoid of humor.

“It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.” I forced my best smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

He studied me for a long moment before letting out a sigh of quiet surrender.

“I suppose I’ll choose to believe you.” He offered me a warm smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N.” I held out my hand.

“Marco.” He shook it gently. “I’m Kimi’s father. I think you already know who he is.”

My eyes widened. Apparently, getting away from him wasn’t as easy as I’d thought.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Marco continued, “but I do want to tell you something.”

I looked up at him.

“Whatever it is you’re going through, you can overcome it.” His voice was calm and reassuring. “No hardship lasts forever. Keep going, and one day you’ll look back and realize you made it through everything you thought would break you.”

He gave my shoulder a couple of gentle pats before walking away without another word.

Marco’s words stayed with me for the rest of the day and the rest of the night. I didn’t exchange a single word with anyone during dinner, and unlike the previous evening, when everyone left for the rehearsal, I went straight to my room.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to feel socially obligated to interact with anyone else.

Finally, Saturday arrived. The day everyone had been waiting for, the wedding day.

My morning started later than everyone else’s. The bride and her bridesmaids had begun getting their hair and makeup done almost as soon as they opened their eyes.

I took my time instead. I sat down with a mug of hot chocolate while I waited for my phone to catch a signal, then slowly started getting ready.

I wasn’t excited about the wedding. If anything, I just wanted this whole circus to be over so I could finally go back to Switzerland.

Even so, I paid special attention to my appearance that morning. When I finished getting ready, even I had to stop and catch my breath.

My dark curls fell freely to the middle of my back, my sun-kissed skin glowed, contrasting beautifully with my deep green eyes, while my lips looked almost the color of a pink pomegranate.

A blue dress hugged my curves delicately, and although my sandals weren’t exactly comfortable, they were beautiful.

The ceremony took place in a small church not far from the villa where we were staying.

While my mother and sister sat near the front as part of the bridal party, I found myself several rows behind them, surrounded by relatives I barely knew.

In a way, that was exactly what my life felt like. My family together. Me, pushed to the edges of it.

I tried my best to look happy, but there were moments during the priest’s homily when something inside me shifted. It wasn’t exactly sadness, it felt more like grief.

Once the ceremony ended, everyone made their way back to the reception tent. The moment we stepped inside, the celebration truly began.

Food and drinks started flowing as the dance floor quickly filled with members of both families. At one point, I spotted Kimi laughing with some of his relatives as they danced together.

He must have felt me watching because he immediately looked back at me, flashing me a wide smile.

I simply looked away without returning it.

The music changed to a much livelier Italian song, and the entire reception seemed to come alive even more. The tables gradually emptied as couples, children, and even grandparents filled the dance floor.

I stayed where I was, absentmindedly stirring the melting ice in my drink.

“And why are you sitting here all by yourself?” I recognized the voice before I even turned around.

Marco stood beside me, a glass of wine in one hand and the same warm smile on his face.

“Because I don’t have anyone to dance with.” I shrugged.

“Well, that’s an easy problem to fix.” He extended his hand toward me. “Dance with me.”

“No.” I shook my head immediately.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“And who said I wouldn’t?”

I couldn’t help smiling. Marco offered me his hand again.

I looked at the dance floor, then at his hand, finally, back at him. He wore the same calm expression he’d had when he’d found me struggling to breathe through my tears.

It was impossible to say no to him.

“Just one song.” I sighed.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He helped me to my feet, and together we walked onto the dance floor.

At first, my entire body was stiff and Marco noticed immediately.

“Relax your shoulders.”

I did.

“Now stop staring at the floor.”

I obeyed again.

“And smile a little.” He grinned. “You look like I’m forcing you to do this.”

“Because you are.” I rolled my eyes.

“Details.”

Another laugh escaped me. Little by little, the tension melted away.

Marco talked about anything and everything. How terrible his coordination was, how he always forgot the steps. About the time he had nearly dropped his wife in the middle of a dance.

Before I realized it, I wasn’t thinking about what everyone else might be saying anymore. I was simply having fun.

“That’s much better,” Marco said, sounding pleased.

“What is?”

“You don’t look like a girl waiting for the world to end anymore.”

I felt warmth creep into my cheeks.

Just then, the music changed again. It was one of those traditional songs where everyone switched partners as the dance went on.

Marco raised an eyebrow, an unreadable expression crossing his face. When it came time to change partners, he could have handed me off to anyone.

There were at least six people around us.

Instead, he turned directly toward Kimi. The two of them exchanged a brief glance that lasted barely a second.

Marco smiled.

“She’s all yours.” It wasn’t a question, nor an order. Just a simple sentence spoken with complete ease.

“My pleasure.” Kimi nodded.

Before I could process what was happening, Marco let go of my hand, and Kimi stepped into his place.

My stomach flipped.

“I think my dad just set us up,” Kimi said with a quiet laugh.

I couldn’t help laughing too.

“How embarrassing.”

“A little.”

The music continued playing. Kimi rested one hand gently against my waist, and we began moving to the rhythm of the song. It wasn’t a difficult dance, nor particularly impressive. But somehow, it felt incredibly easy when he was the one standing in front of me.

Our steps fell naturally into sync without either of us truly leading. It simply worked. Like we’d been dancing together for years.

“You look beautiful,” Kimi whispered.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

We danced through a couple more songs before I finally gave in to my thirst.

“I’m going to grab something to drink,” I said.

He nodded with an easy smile as I made my way toward the bar. I was drinking a glass of water when my sister appeared beside me. The expression on her face was anything but happy.

“Grandma wants to see you in the kitchen,” she said. “She needs to talk to you.” She shot me one last look—a grimace more than anything else—before walking away.

My heart tightened in my chest, I already knew what was coming. I swallowed hard before forcing my feet to follow her instructions.

When I reached the kitchen, my grandmother was waiting for me. Angelina’s mother stood beside her.

“So,” my aunt said, her raspy voice breaking the silence, “they finally managed to pry you away from that young man.”

“We were just dancing, like everyone else at the wedding,” I replied immediately.

“Such an impertinent little girl,” my grandmother snapped. “If you were half as quick and clever at doing something worthwhile with your life as you are at talking back, you might actually amount to something.”

“But—” She didn’t let me finish.

“No ‘buts.’ Your cousin Angelina is having a panic attack because, thanks to you, she’s making a fool of herself in front of everyone.”

“She’s making a fool of herself because you’re trying to parade her around like she’s a piece of meat. It has nothing to do with the fact that one guy isn’t interested in her.” The moment the last word left my mouth, I knew I’d just signed my own death warrant.

The looks on both my grandmother’s and my aunt’s faces confirmed it. For a moment, my grandmother said nothing. She simply walked toward me, slow but unwavering.

I held my breath.

“You’re an insolent little girl.” Her hand struck my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side.

Tears immediately stung my eyes. I tried to hold them back but there were simply too many, a few escaped and rolled down my face.

“You have no right to cry,” she hissed. “For years, you’ve been the source of this family’s misery. A little whore like you belongs in hell. We tried to give you a chance, but a pig will always find its way back to the mud.”

She looked me up and down one last time. Then she turned around, took my aunt by the arm, and walked out of the kitchen.

The moment they disappeared from sight everything inside me broke. I sank onto the cold kitchen floor and cried.

I cried like this would be my last day on earth.

I cried like there was no escape from any of it.

And I cried like the thirteen-year-old girl who was still wounded somewhere deep inside me.

(…)

I had no idea how much time had passed. The only thing I knew was that wine tasted a whole lot better after you’d finished half the bottle.

At some point, I’d gotten up from the kitchen floor, stolen a bottle of wine, slipped out of the reception, kicked off my uncomfortable heels, and decided to walk the mile back to the villa barefoot.

The plan would’ve been perfectly fine If I hadn’t gotten a little too enthusiastic with the wine.

Now I was sitting on the curb somewhere between the reception and the villa, too dizzy to take another step without collapsing onto the pavement.

The only things keeping me company were the moonlight, the sound of crickets, and a swarm of moths circling the streetlamp above my head.

I knew that if anyone in my family found me like this, the lecture would be absolute hell. But the truth was that I couldn’t find a single atom in my body that gave a fuck.

Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos swirling inside me, I decided it would be a great idea to start singing.

I was so painfully off-key I couldn’t even compete with the crickets.

The thought made me laugh like an idiot.

I was so caught up trying not to die from my own laughter that I didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until they were less than a yard away.

“There you are.” Kimi’s voice instantly sobered me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I studied his face. There was worry in his eyes but there was also something about his expression that struck me as so funny I burst into laughter all over again.

He looked at me somewhere between amused and concerned. Clearly unsure of what was going on, he sat down beside me.

That was when he noticed the wine bottle.

“What are you doing drinking this?” He picked it up, inspecting the label. “You’re seventeen. You’re not supposed to be drinking.”

The concern in his voice hit me so deeply that every emotion I’d been holding back came crashing down at once. One second I was laughing. The next, I was crying.

Kimi immediately set the bottle back on the ground. Without asking questions, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tried to comfort me.

It was obvious he had no idea what had happened. All he cared about was making sure I was okay.

“Why are you so nice to me?” I asked once my sobbing had finally settled.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His eyebrows pulled together.

“Because everyone in my family thinks I’m the Antichrist.” A ridiculous laugh escaped me.

Kimi let out a quiet chuckle.

“I think you’re more like the Second Coming of Jesus. The problem is your relatives are fake believers, so they can’t recognize the miracle when it’s standing right in front of them.” He simply shrugged.

I couldn’t stop looking at him.

It made no sense. This boy had walked into my life only two days ago, yet he’d already shown me more kindness and understanding than my own family had in years.

Without saying another word, I grabbed the wine bottle and took another long drink beneath Kimi’s disapproving gaze.

As soon as I lowered it, he gently took it from my hands. Then, to my surprise, he lifted it to his own lips and took a long sip. It felt almost symbolic, as if he was trying to tell me I wasn’t alone in this.

He set the bottle back on the ground before turning to look directly into my eyes.

“You know something?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. My heart pounded wildly as I watched him slowly lean closer.

Neither of us looked away. I barely blinked, terrified of what might happen next.

I knew that one small movement could lead to something I’d regret later. But the longer I looked into his eyes the blurrier that thought became.

Finally, I gave in.

My gaze dropped to his lips for the briefest second and that was all the invitation he needed. He closed the distance between us and kissed me.

At first, the kiss was gentle and careful. But little by little, it grew more intense. My hands found his face and his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer like he couldn’t bear the space between us. We stayed lost in that kiss for what felt like forever.

Then, without warning, my grandmother’s cold, unforgiving eyes flashed through my mind.

I pulled away abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, breathless. “I can’t do this.”

I grabbed my sandals from the ground. Adrenaline flooded my body. I jumped to my feet and ran toward the villa as fast as I could.

“Y/N!” Kimi’s voice echoed through the empty road behind me.

But I never stopped running.

(…)

I couldn’t sleep that night. The image of Kimi telling me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, followed by the kiss we had shared, replayed in my mind every time I closed my eyes.

Around four in the morning, I heard everyone returning to the villa. About half an hour later, silence settled over the place once again.

Eventually, I gave up on the idea of sleeping. I got out of bed, took a shower, and decided to go for a walk.

My body was still paying the price for my impulsive decision to drink a bottle of wine the night before, and I figured a little fresh air might help.

Hiking had never really been my thing, but I knew there were a few overlooks nearby with breathtaking views and since it was my last day there, I wanted to watch the sunrise.

At least I’d leave with one beautiful memory.

I’d been walking for a while when I started hearing footsteps behind me. I hadn’t noticed them before because the trail had only just become rocky enough for each step to echo.

When I turned around, I found a familiar face.

Kimi was about fifteen feet behind me, he looked exhausted. The moment he realized I’d noticed him, he stopped walking.

He didn’t greet me with one of his usual smiles. Instead, he wore an expression so serious that I decided not to say anything and simply continued on my way.

For nearly twenty minutes, we walked like that. He kept the same distance between us. Whenever I stopped for a moment, he stopped too.

Eventually, I reached a cliff overlooking the valley. The landscape stretched endlessly before me as the first light of dawn painted the sky in shades of gold and pink. I sat down to take it all in.

A moment later, Kimi finally closed the distance and sat beside me.

“Why did you follow me all the way out here?” I took a sip from my water bottle before handing it to him.

He accepted it gratefully.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He took a long drink before continuing. “Then I saw you leave by yourself so I followed you. I wanted to make sure you didn’t decide to throw yourself off one of these mountains.” He glanced toward the cliffs.

There wasn’t a trace of humor in his voice. I let out an offended scoff.

“Trust me, if I ever wanted to do that, it wouldn’t be here.” I shook my head with a quiet laugh. “My family would hate me even more. They’d probably say I couldn’t even stop bothering them with my dying breath. ‘Of course she’d choose to die dramatically the day after Rose’s wedding.’”

Kimi smiled for a brief second, then the seriousness returned.

“I wish I understood you.” The words came after several minutes of silence. “I know you like me and I like you too. I’ve felt this… whatever it is… ever since I caught you before you fell off that chair.”

He smiled faintly to himself.

My heart stumbled inside my chest. I held my breath.

“But for some reason, you won’t let yourself accept it. I know we’ve only known each other for three days,” he continued quietly, “but for me… that’s been enough to realize I’ve found the woman of my dreams.”

The morning sun slowly climbed over the horizon, bathing everything around us in soft golden light.

“And I know you feel at least part of it too. That’s why I couldn’t understand what happened last night.” He finally turned to look at me. “It hurt. But I know it wasn’t really about me, it was about something inside you and I really… I really want to know what it is.”

For the first time since we’d met, the emotion in his eyes didn’t match the calmness of his words.

I looked at him for a long moment, taking in every detail of his face. He was sincere and deep down I knew he was right about everything he’d just said. So, against every instinct telling me to stay silent, I decided to tell him the truth, my truth.

I turned my gaze back to the sunrise because I didn’t think I’d be able to look Kimi in the face while telling him everything I was about to confess.

“When I was thirteen, my cousin Lina—Rose's sister—and I were very close. She was sixteen, but we had a lot in common, so we spent most of our time together.” I cleared my throat before continuing. “She had a boyfriend named Alex. I got along with him too, although I always kept a respectful distance because, well… he was my cousin’s boyfriend.”

I took another long sip of water, my eyes never leaving the horizon. Kimi remained silent, listening.

“Back then, I used to spend a lot of time playing an online game where you could also meet and talk to other people. One day, a boy sent me a message, and we became friends. I spent hours on that game during school breaks, and eventually we grew close.”

“Or at least what passes for closeness when you've only ever known someone through a screen.” I let out a quiet laugh. “The point is… he started making comments that made me uncomfortable. From the very beginning, I knew they were wrong, so I asked him to stop. When he didn’t, I blocked him. It scared me, but I tried not to think too much about it.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, as if trying to shield myself from the cold that came with telling a story that, despite having happened years ago, still felt painfully close.

“A few days later, I was walking home from school when I ran into Alex. I greeted him like I always did, but he didn’t look happy to see me. Instead, he immediately started demanding that I unblock him in the game. He said I couldn’t play with his feelings like that.”

I glanced at Kimi and saw the shock written all over his face.

“You can imagine what that felt like. I’d spent months talking to my cousin’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend without knowing it. I didn’t know what to say or how to react and, even now, I still catch myself wondering what was going through his mind when he grabbed my face and kissed me.” I swallowed hard as a familiar knot formed in my throat. “I pushed him away and ran home. I told my mom and my dad what had happened. My mom couldn’t believe it, and my dad called his parents, then my cousin’s family.”

“After the initial shock wore off, my cousin started telling everyone I was lying. She said I’d gotten close to him through the game on purpose, that I’d been the one making advances, and that when he rejected me, I’d gone crazy and accused him of trying to force himself on me.”

I took a shaky breath before continuing.

“The rest of my family believed her. Every single one of them turned their backs on me. They all started saying I was a little girl my parents had failed to control… that I wanted to act like a grown woman.” I shook my head as I remembered their faces. “That had been my first kiss and that bastard stole it from me in the cruelest way possible.”

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

“After that, he tried to contact me again. Every now and then I’d see him hanging around my school. He’d approach my friends and ask them to pass messages on to me. It was terrifying and I couldn’t tell anyone because no one believed me.” My voice dropped to almost a whisper as I said the last sentence.

“Lina and Alex stayed together for a few more months until, according to her, he confessed that he couldn't be with her anymore because he was in love with me. He told her that every day he stayed with her felt like he was being unfaithful to me. That I'd somehow cast some kind of spell on him—that he couldn't stop thinking about me, didn't care what anyone else thought anymore, and was willing to fight for us to be together.”

I lowered my legs and turned to look directly at Kimi.

“I’d like to believe any reasonable person would’ve turned against him… but my family did the exact opposite. Instead, for them that only confirmed everything they already believed about me.”

“My grandmother came to my house and slapped me across the face. Right there, in front of everyone, she said God had revealed to her that I was the instrument the Devil would use to destroy our family. That Satan had clothed me in the beauty of the serpent so I could lead others into temptation… so I could become a stumbling block, luring men away from the righteous path.”

“That sounds like psychosis,” Kimi muttered, letting out a disbelieving scoff.

“It probably was,” I admitted with a nod. “But you can imagine what hearing something like that does to the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl. After that, my mother and my sister took everyone else’s side too. My dad was the only sane one, but even for him it became impossible to deal with the rejection his daughter was facing. So he sent me to a boarding school in Switzerland. That was the only way he found to protect me from Alex’s harassment and from the rejection and abuse of his own family.”

I looked back at the landscape, mentally preparing myself for the next part.

“A few months after all of that, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. It was aggressive. He died six months later.” My eyes slowly filled with tears. “To this day, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. Nothing else has ever come close.”

I paused for a moment.

“The day of his funeral, my grandmother stood in front of everyone and said my father had died from the shame of having a daughter like me.”

The tears slipped down my cheeks, but I quickly wiped them away. I looked at him with a tired smile.

“After hearing all of that… I think you can understand why you and I can’t be together.”

“Your family is horrible.” Kimi’s expression was unlike anything I’d seen before. It wasn’t pity, it was compassion. “They made you carry the weight of something you were the victim of. I can't tell you what I would've done if I'd been in your shoes, because you survived the only way you knew how. And I'm not going to sit here and tell you that being with me will magically heal everything, because it won't. I know what happened to you left scars that run deep. I know your family changed the way you see yourself. But what I don't understand is why that means you can't be with me.”

“What don’t you understand? You know Angelina likes you, don’t you? If my family finds out there’s something between us…” I shook my head at the mere thought. “I don’t even know what they’d be capable of.”

“The fact that Angelina likes me shouldn’t mean anything. This isn’t about her seeing me first and suddenly me belonging to her. That’s not how people work, Y/N.”

“In my family, it is. And going against them would be terrible for me.” I tried to make him understand, but he remained stubbornly firm.

“I don’t give a fuck about your family.” Kimi reached for my hands and held them gently. “If things ever reach the point of no return… you can come with me.”

For a second, I couldn’t find my voice. I couldn’t believe I’d actually heard those words.

“Kimi… it’s not as simple as you’re making it sound. We just met.” I slipped my hands from his and looked anywhere but at his face.

“Y/N, look at me.” He gently turned my face back toward him. “I can’t tell you this will be worth it, because that’s something only you can decide. I’m just asking you to give me a chance.”

“Kimi…” His name escaped my lips as little more than a whisper.

“Give me that chance. We don’t have to tell the world right away. We can wait until you’re eighteen and you’re no longer dependent on your family. When that day comes, if you still think what we have is worth fighting for, we’ll figure it out together. One step at a time.”

I looked at him for several long seconds. His warm eyes searched mine almost pleadingly. They were so beautiful and made me so weak.

Finally, I let out a long breath.

“Okay.” I nodded. “Let’s try.”

Kimi let out a deep sigh of relief, and a smile spread across his face.

He kissed my cheek.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He kissed my cheek again. “I swear I’ll do everything I can to make you happy.”

Despite all the wounds I carried, not for a single second did I doubt that he meant every word.

(…)

The next day, I returned to Switzerland and my life at boarding school, while Kimi headed to Brackley to take care of a few commitments before the season began.

From the very beginning, we stayed in touch.

Over the following weeks, we texted constantly and spent hours on FaceTime. Whenever I came across a video that reminded me of him, I’d send it to him, and he’d do the same.

A few days before leaving for the Australian Grand Prix, which marked the start of the season, he came to visit me in Switzerland.

I had to perform all sorts of acrobatics and come up with every excuse imaginable to sneak out during the week without anyone at the boarding school suspecting a thing.

Kimi took me around the little villages that surrounded the lake. We wandered through cobblestone streets where time seemed to move a little slower, stopped at tiny cafés to try their chocolate, and ended up sharing a carton of strawberries by the water as we watched boats glide peacefully across the lake.

Later, he drove us to a vineyard stretching across the mountainside. From there, we could see the snow-covered Alps reflected in the water below. We stood there in silence for several minutes, taking in the view, discovering that sometimes the right company made words unnecessary.

At one point, Kimi started taking candid pictures of me. The moment I realized what he was doing, I scolded him for it, but all he did was laugh.

“They’re for the memories,” he’d say, refusing to delete them.

Later, we got lost wandering through the streets of another nearby village. We stepped into a secondhand bookstore where he pretended to be interested in books written in French just so he could make me laugh by attempting to pronounce the titles with an absolutely terrible accent.

Before heading back, we sat on a bench overlooking the lake, arguing with complete conviction that neither of us was ever going to change the other’s mind about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Time always seemed to move too fast whenever I was with him. So I found myself constantly finding excuses to delay saying goodbye for just a few more minutes.

Like neither of us wanted to admit that, sooner or later, I’d have to go back to boarding school, and he’d have to start preparing for Australia.

When he finally dropped me off at the entrance, neither of us made any move to say goodbye right away.

We simply stood there, looking at each other.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said with a confidence that made it sound more like a promise than a farewell.

I smiled.

“I hope so.”

I watched him drive away down the tree-lined road until his car disappeared from sight.

Only then did I walk back inside the boarding school.

The months went by, and without even realizing it, I had started to associate the word home with Kimi.

When two races were canceled in a row, Kimi invited me to spend a few days with him and his family. At first, I wasn’t sure. But if I truly wanted a future with him, I had to start getting used to being around the people who mattered most to him.

I was incredibly nervous at first, but I quickly discovered a family dynamic that was calm, loving, and nothing like my own.

Marco welcomed me with open arms, genuinely happy to see me with Kimi. His mother and little sister were just as kind. They kept dragging me along on little girls’ outings, and after a while I found myself looking forward to them.

That year passed so quickly that before I knew it, the first days of August had arrived.

Along with my graduation.

Only my mother came. I had asked her to be there more out of obligation than genuine desire.

After the ceremony, we went out for dinner, and she gave me a beautiful watch as a graduation present.

The following day, Kimi took me to Portugal as his graduation gift to me.

I had to convince my mother it was a girls’ trip so she’d sign the travel authorization.

Just like every other time I spent with Kimi, it was wonderful. We walked for hours, ate far too much, and enjoyed every second of it.

We also took countless pictures to remember the trip by.

When it was over, I returned to Switzerland to start organizing what my life would look like after graduation.

I’d told my mother that before enrolling in university, I wanted to take a preparatory course so I’d have a better idea of what my future degree would actually be like before diving into it.

That was part of the reason.

But it wasn’t the only one.

The first was that I had no intention of moving back in with the rest of my family.

They were just as unbearable as ever, and I refused to let them make my life miserable only months before I finally gained my freedom.

The second reason, was Kimi.

According to the plans we’d made together, once I turned eighteen, I’d move to San Marino and live with him.

I’d thought about it carefully. For a long time and in the end, I’d made my decision.

By then, we were officially a couple.

No one knew. For the time being, it was better that way. Kimi was having an incredible season, and we wanted to keep the focus exactly where it belonged.

My first few weeks back in Switzerland were fairly uneventful. Not much had changed about my routine. The only difference was that I was temporarily living with a friend.

It was Saturday.

Kimi was in Zandvoort, getting ready for the following day’s race.

We had just hung up after spending nearly an hour on the phone. That’s why I was surprised when I saw a message from him only a few minutes later.

When I opened it, I expected a funny video or a random picture. Instead, I found a text that immediately made my stomach drop.

KIMI ❤️: Please don’t look at social media right now.

Kimi should’ve said anything but that. He should’ve known that telling me not to do something was the fastest way to make me do exactly that.

I opened Twitter. It was the quickest way to find out what was happening in the world.

Sure enough It was the very first post on my feed.

@boxboxdaily Kimi and his alleged girlfriend 👀

Below the caption were four photos. Two of them showed the two of us together and the other two were candid pictures of me, completely unaware they were being taken.

My heart stopped for a moment. My hand flew to my mouth as a sound that could only be described as pure shock escaped me.

These weren’t pictures taken by a stranger on the street. They were photos Kimi had taken himself.

Private photos.

Which somehow made everything even worse.

How on earth had anyone gotten hold of them?

ME: Why are there pictures of us all over the internet? Aren’t those the ones you took?

KIMI ❤️: Yeah. They’re photos I posted on my private Instagram account. I have no idea how they got out. I’m guessing someone who follows me leaked them.

I sat down on the couch, trying to process what was happening.

Then I made the mistake of reading the comments. Every single one was worse than the last.

That familiar pressure began tightening in my chest again. I closed Twitter and started pacing around my room instead.

The moment my family found out I was completely screwed.

KIMI ❤️: I’m so sorry. I’m going to do everything I can to fix this. My dad and the team are already working on it. Please don’t read anything else online. I don’t want other people’s ignorance getting to you.

To be honest the comments didn’t scare me nearly as much as my family’s reaction did.

That night, I fell asleep with anxiety settling into every cell of my body.

And I had every reason to feel that way. Because the first thing I saw when I woke up the next morning was a message from my mother and a missed call from my grandmother.

MOM: Call me as soon as you wake up. I can’t believe you’re doing this again.

With trembling hands, I decided to call her and get it over with once and for all.

She answered before the second ring.

“So it was true.” She didn’t even bother to say hello.

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the window.

“Hello to you too.”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s all this that’s going around on the internet?”

“Mom, it’s not what it looks like.” I let out a sigh.

“Oh, really? Because the pictures seem pretty clear to me.”

“They weren’t published by the press. They were private photos.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I stayed silent for a few seconds.

“Kimi posted them on a private Instagram account. Someone leaked them.”

“So you are dating him?”

I lowered my head.

“We’ve been seeing each other.”

“And it never crossed your mind—not even for a second—to think about everything this was going to cause?”

“I’m sorry…” The words slipped out almost automatically.

Like apologizing had become my first instinct, even when I wasn’t sure I’d done anything wrong.

“‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix anything, Y/N. Do you have any idea what kind of phone call I just got from your grandmother? She’s furious. The whole family is talking about this.”

“I figured.”

“I warned you that I didn’t want to go through something like this again.”

I tightened my grip on the phone.

“I know.”

“Then explain to me why you always end up doing the exact opposite.”

“Always?” I frowned.

“Yes. Always. You always find a way to get yourself into trouble.”

I felt something inside me crack. Something I’d been holding together for years.

“Get myself into trouble?”

“Don’t start.”

“No, Mom. Answer me. When exactly have I gotten myself into trouble?”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No. I want you to say it.”

Her breathing grew heavier.

“Your cousin…”

A dry laugh escaped me. Of course, we always ended up there.

“That happened four years ago.”

“That doesn’t change—”

“What doesn’t it change?” I cut in. “That I was thirteen?” My voice trembled.

Not with fear.

With anger.

“That a boy kissed me against my will, stalked me afterward, and somehow I was the one who ended up paying the price?”

“Y/N…”

“No.” This time, I was the one who interrupted her. “I’ve spent years listening to this family talk about me as if I’d done something unforgivable.”

I felt a knot tighten in my throat.

“And do you know what the worst part was?”

She didn’t answer.

“You never defended me.”