#{protege}

PART 1

SUMMARY-

Esme, a rising F2 rookie, struggles under the strict control of her father Luis, hiding exhaustion and bruises. Max Verstappen notices, quietly watching over her while Checo and Yuki try to bring her into the team. Tension builds as Max grows determined to protect her, whether she admits needing help or not.

WARNING: IDK shit about F1 or 2. I just did a quick google search and went from there.

WARNING: CHILD ABUSE!!!

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The hum of engines reverberated through the Red Bull garage like a living pulse, vibrating off the concrete walls and settling deep into the chests of every mechanic, engineer, and driver present. Screens flickered, pit boards glowed with telemetry data, and the air smelled of burned rubber and gasoline. A private test day, no press, no leaks. Only those who were supposed to know... and those who didn't yet.

Max Verstappen stood with arms folded, his eyes narrowing on the big screen overhead. Checo Pérez leaned against the pit wall beside him, sipping an espresso someone had slipped into his hand. Neither had been told who the "mystery driver" was. Christian Horner had only smirked when asked. Backup driver, someone new, someone special.

"Whoever it is," Checo muttered in Spanish under his breath, "they've got a hell of a set of balls to take your car out, Max."

Max didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the monitor as the RB19 roared to life on track, biting into the first corner with a ferocity that made even him shift on his feet. Smooth, clean lines, not a hint of hesitation. Whoever was behind the wheel wasn't just competent—they were brilliant.

"Look at that entry speed," one of the engineers whispered, almost reverent. "No one attacks Turn 7 like that except—" He stopped himself before finishing the comparison.

Checo glanced at Max, half-grinning, half-surprised. "You seeing this?"

"I'm seeing it," Max said flatly, though his tone betrayed the slightest ripple of unease.

Lap after lap, the car carved through the circuit like it was dancing—precise, fearless, almost uncanny. The mechanics clustered closer to the monitors. Even Adrian Newey, usually detached, had set down his sketches to watch.

Then came the final lap. The timing screen lit up purple: sector one, sector two. The garage grew tense, silent except for the radio chatter. As the RB19 stormed down the straight, Max's own lap record from earlier in the month was flashing red—on the brink of being broken.

The car crossed the line.

The pit wall erupted. Cheers, whistles, even a few claps on backs. The stopwatch confirmed it: a new record. By two tenths.

Max's jaw tightened. Checo let out a low whistle. "Well, hermano... whoever that is, they're not here to mess around."

The car rolled back into the garage, tires screeching slightly as it came to a perfect stop in its box. Steam curled from the brakes, the smell of heat and rubber filling the air. The cockpit opened.

A figure climbed out—shorter than either Max or Checo expected, the Red Bull fire suit hiding any details. The visor was still down, obscuring the driver's face. They removed their gloves first, then the helmet, tucking it under one arm.

Max's eyes narrowed. Checo blinked, then grinned.

The driver wasn't some young hotshot they had half-expected. It was a girl.

Her hair, dark and slightly damp with sweat, clung to her temples. She looked younger than anyone had the right to be in that seat. Her eyes flicked nervously between them before she stepped forward, sticking out a gloved hand.

"Esme," she said, voice soft but steady.

Max froze. Checo took the handshake first, still blinking. "Esme?" He repeated the name, almost as if trying to process it. He looked over at Max, whose lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

From the shadows at the edge of the garage, a man stepped forward. His presence was sharp, commanding, the kind that drew attention whether you wanted it or not. Luis Castro. Older, broad-shouldered, his gaze hawkish. He moved before Esme could speak again.

"My daughter," Luis said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder that looked more like a grip. "She is fifteen. Red Bull has taken interest in her for F2. She will be training with them. And with Yuki Tsunoda."

Esme nodded quickly, almost reflexively, though her eyes flickered to the floor. She didn't add a word.

Christian Horner stepped forward then, clapping his hands together with that familiar salesman's smile. "Gentlemen, meet our ace. We've been keeping her under wraps, but today's run proves it. She's the future, mark my words. Once she's of age, the goal is clear: Formula One."

The garage buzzed again, mechanics whispering, glancing between the drivers, the girl, and her father.

Checo forced a smile, though the shock hadn't left his face. "You're telling me this—this niña just broke Max's lap record?"

"She didn't 'just break it,'" Adrian Newey muttered without looking away from the data stream. "She demolished it."

Luis Castro's grip on his daughter tightened imperceptibly. "She is focused. She will not be distracted. Everything goes through me. Questions, interviews, arrangements—you speak to me. Not her."

Esme's lips pressed together, and she nodded once more, obediently.

Max's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, like he wanted to say something but chose silence instead.

Christian, ignoring the tension, patted Esme lightly on the shoulder. "She'll be shadowing you both in training, observing, learning. And in F2, she and Yuki will be teammates. It's a new era, gentlemen. Red Bull's secret weapon."

The mechanics cheered halfheartedly. Checo shifted on his feet, still processing. Max remained silent, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the girl whose lap time had just toppled his.

Esme met his gaze for the briefest moment. Then her father's hand tightened again, and she looked away.

Red Bull Racing's headquarters buzzed like a hive. Engineers strode past with clipboards, mechanics hunched over dismantled car parts, and the scent of oil and rubber lingered in the air. Every corner hummed with innovation—wind tunnels, simulation rooms, and walls plastered with championship photos.

Esme walked silently, her helmet now tucked under her arm, her fire suit zipped halfway down. She was smaller than the towering men around her, her footsteps light on the concrete floors. Her father, Luis Castro, walked ahead in conversation with Christian Horner, his voice low, firm, commanding.

Checo and Max followed just behind, exchanging the occasional look but keeping their thoughts to themselves. For all their years in racing, neither had expected to see a fifteen-year-old girl walk out of that car and set a record.

Christian's voice carried easily in the hallway. "Esme has three months before the season starts. Plenty of time to work on acclimation, conditioning, and simulator hours. In a week, she'll meet Yuki and start preparing for her F2 seat."

Luis nodded, though his posture suggested he wasn't simply agreeing—he was dictating. "She is disciplined. She will give you no problems. But everything goes through me."

Esme trailed just behind them, directly in front of Max and Checo. Her eyes flickered curiously to the walls, catching glimpses of trophies, helmets, and framed photos of victories past. For a heartbeat, her lips curved upward as though she wanted to smile. But the shadow of her father loomed, and she quickly schooled her face back into neutrality.

Checo noticed. Max noticed.

The group moved past the simulator room, where an engineer lifted a hand in greeting, and down toward the trophy hall. Christian slowed, gesturing at the shelves gleaming with silver and gold. "This is the legacy you're stepping into, Esme. In three months' time, you'll have the chance to begin carving your own."

Esme only nodded. Her voice stayed quiet, almost swallowed by the sounds of the factory.

Finally, they reached the main lobby again. Luis placed a hand on Christian's shoulder, pulling him slightly aside to murmur a few more words. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he caught Esme's wrist and tugged her toward him. His body blocked her from the others' view.

Max tilted his head, watching closely. Checo frowned.

Luis bent low, whispering something sharp and fast into his daughter's ear. She nodded quickly, eyes down, hands tightening on the helmet she carried. Only when Luis seemed satisfied did he release her, giving her a firm pat on the back as though she were merely another piece of property being checked off a list.

"I'll leave her with you," Luis said smoothly, returning to Christian. "She knows her place."

And with that, he was gone.

For a moment, the silence was awkward. Esme stood a few paces back from the group, the tension still written in the way her shoulders hunched slightly forward. Then, forcing herself, she glanced at Max and Checo and offered the smallest smile—hesitant, like it cost her effort to summon it.

Checo's face softened. He stepped toward her, returning the smile warmly. "Bienvenida, Esme," he said gently, reaching out a hand in greeting.

The motion was harmless, friendly—but Max caught the flicker. Esme flinched ever so slightly before masking it, forcing herself to meet Checo's hand halfway.

Max's eyes sharpened. He said nothing, but the image burned itself into his mind.

Esme straightened, clutching her helmet tighter against her chest, her smile staying fixed even though her eyes betrayed something else. Something unspoken.

Checo gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, choosing to ignore the flicker. "Don't worry," he told her, tone light. "You're with family here."

Max stayed quiet, his gaze on her longer than necessary, as though he was already piecing together what no one else dared to say out loud.

Her room was smaller than she expected, but clean and quiet. A narrow bed pressed against the wall, a desk by the window overlooking the factory courtyard, and a wardrobe for her fire suits. Red Bull colors everywhere—blue, yellow, red, stitched into the bedding and painted across the walls.

Esme dropped her luggage just inside the door and collapsed backward onto the bed without even unpacking. The mattress felt too soft after weeks of travel, but she didn't care. For a while, she just stared up at the ceiling, hands resting flat on her stomach, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of exhaustion.

Her long sleeves were stifling in the warmth of the room, but she didn't push them up. She never did. Even here, even now. Her father's words still rang in her ears: You keep yourself presentable. No questions. No excuses.

When the silence pressed too heavily on her chest, she pushed herself up and tied her hair back, slipping out into the hallway. She walked lightly, avoiding the busier corridors, wandering like a shadow through the Red Bull headquarters.

It was evening now, the building humming with a more subdued energy. Most of the engineers had gone home, but the place never truly slept. The glow of computer monitors lit the offices. The low hum of machines whispered from the testing bays.

She wore sweats and a long-sleeved top, baggy enough to hide the outlines of her body, and her footsteps were nearly silent on the polished floor. She let herself breathe for the first time all day, her eyes drinking in the sight of everything around her—the team logos, the championship plaques, the simulators she had only ever read about.

When she reached the simulator wing, she stopped short.

Through the glass wall of one of the rooms, Max Verstappen sat in the driver's seat of the simulator rig, helmet off but fully focused. The giant curved screen wrapped around him showed the track in blinding detail. His hands moved with lightning precision on the steering wheel, every twitch controlled, every apex calculated. The hum of hydraulics made the rig lurch and tilt with each maneuver, as though he were truly on track.

Esme pressed her palm lightly against the glass, careful not to let it make a sound.

For nearly twenty minutes, she stood there silently, studying him. She took in the braking points, the angle of his wheel corrections, the way he feathered the throttle in high-speed corners. Her mind mapped the rhythm, storing it away. She whispered the turns under her breath, lips forming the names as though reciting a prayer.

Max's focus never wavered. To him, she was invisible—just another shadow in the building.

When the run ended, he leaned back in the seat, sweat darkening his shirt at the collar. He tugged off his gloves, tossed them aside, and bent over the console to study the lap data. Esme lingered only a moment longer, imprinting the picture of him in her mind: relentless, precise, merciless with himself.

Then she turned and slipped back down the hall before he could notice her, her long sleeves brushing against her wrists as though reminding her what she could never let anyone see.

Back in her room, she shut the door quietly and sat on the edge of the bed. Her heart was racing, but not from fear this time. From possibility.

She would remember everything she had seen.

And when her time came, she would be ready.

The long table was set in one of the hospitality suites overlooking the factory courtyard, the kind usually reserved for sponsors or race-week briefings. Tonight, though, it was just the inner circle: Christian, a few engineers, Max, Checo, and Esme. The lights glowed soft and golden, bouncing off glasses of water and plates of pasta and grilled chicken.

It wasn't formal, but for Esme it felt like walking onto a stage. She sat a little stiffly between Checo and one of the junior engineers, hands folded neatly in her lap until the food came. She wore another long-sleeved shirt, baggy and neutral-colored, sleeves tugged low over her wrists.

Checo, relaxed as always, leaned toward her with an easy grin. He was trying to make her comfortable—that much was obvious. Between bites, he turned slightly in his chair and asked in his warm Guadalajara accent,

"¿Cuándo es tu cumpleaños?"

Esme blinked, fork pausing midway to her plate. She stared at him like she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.

Checo tilted his head, smile faltering slightly. "Oh—perdón. I thought—are you not Mexican?"

For a moment, Esme was frozen. Then, slowly, she smiled. A small, startled thing at first, but real. "Sí," she said, her voice soft but clearer than usual. "Soy mexicana. Solo que... no pensé que quisiera saber de mí."

Checo's grin returned full force. He leaned back in his chair, pleased. "Pues claro que sí. Somos compañeros ahora, ¿no?"

Esme's cheeks warmed. She lowered her gaze to her plate, twirling her fork, before answering, "El treinta y uno de octubre."

Checo laughed. "Halloween, entonces. You'll have to bring candy to the garage."

Across the table, Max had been silent, as he usually was in large groups. But now he looked at her, head slightly tilted. His blue eyes met hers.

"Dus... je spreekt ook Nederlands?" he asked, voice measured, curious.

Esme's lips parted, surprise flickering across her face. Then she nodded once, gathering courage. "Ja," she said quietly, her accent not perfect but fluid. "Ik leer snel."

Max leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. "Je spreekt heel goed. Niet veel fouten." His tone was unexpectedly gentle, almost approving.

Esme's cheeks colored again. She ducked her head, murmuring, "Ik heb een fotografisch geheugen... het is makkelijk voor mij om talen te leren."

Christian raised his brows at that, but stayed out of the conversation.

Checo whistled low, switching back to Spanish. "Con eso, vas a poner en vergüenza a todos nosotros."

Esme laughed softly—really laughed this time, the sound small but genuine. The knot in her shoulders loosened just slightly. She switched between Spanish and Dutch effortlessly as the three of them spoke more, Checo teasing, Max listening and occasionally chiming in with a dry comment.

By the end of the meal, she was leaning back in her chair, less rigid than before, sipping the last of her water while Christian wrapped up talk about training schedules.

When the dinner broke up, Checo clapped her lightly on the shoulder, and Max gave her a small nod of acknowledgment before heading out.

Esme lingered a moment, gathering her things, the warmth of the conversation still glowing faintly in her chest. For once, she didn't feel like a ghost haunting the edges of the team.

She felt—if only for an hour—like she belonged.

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Esme Castro

God damn Harvey loves that kid. They're friends, and they act allll casual about it, but as soon as one or the other is in trouble they lose their shit. Harvey snapped at Scottie because he found out about Mike's job offer. He nearly backed down from a fight in a case. Because? his golden retriever of an associate, his protégé, had decided to leave. Leave being his associate, leave the firm, leave being a lawyer; Leave Him.

Co-dependent? Y e s, because the proof is RIGHT THERE; the fact that they react like this to something happening to the other, and yet appear as one otherwise. Because they've become such a team to each other, "like family", no one notices while they're on track. Why would they? It's natural.

The sky is blue. The grass is green. Donna knows everything - and Harvey Specter & Mike Ross are a team. The Team.

And in contrast, the second anything between them is off kilt, it is as obvious as could be.

So, what I'm saying is this. There may not be a label fitting enough to describe what they are to each other, what they are together - but they are Something, and they are Everything.

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