#ap9

After the race (she wins, you place third), you find yourself walking over to her. The words tumble out before you can stop them. 

"Good race. That overtake on turn seven was brilliant."

She looks up from packing her gear, surprised. "Thanks. Your defensive line through the chicane was solid too."

And just like that, you're talking. Really talking. About racing lines and tire strategy and the way the track felt different in sector two. The conversation flows so naturally that your respective teams have to come find you both an hour later.

"I'm Y/N," you say as you're being dragged away.

"Abbi," she replies, and her smile is small but genuine.

The thing about Abbi is that she's everything you're not, and somehow that makes perfect sense. Where you're loud and animated, gesticulating wildly as you explain your race strategy to anyone who'll listen, Abbi is quiet and thoughtful, absorbing every word. Where you wear your emotions on your sleeve—celebrating wins with tears of joy, sulking dramatically after poor performances—Abbi is steady, composed, the eye of whatever storm is swirling around the paddock. 

You started traveling to races together when possible, your parents coordinating schedules. The first time you shared a hotel room—two separate beds, of course—you both lay awake talking until dawn about everything and nothing. Racing lines and favorite movies, dreams of Formula 1 and fears about the future.

"I'm glad we're friends," you whispered in the dark.

"Me too," came her soft reply.

But even then, there were moments that felt like something more. The way she'd instinctively reach for your hand when you were nervous before a race. How her fingers would trace patterns on your lower back when you were upset about a poor result. The protective way she'd position herself between you and overly aggressive drivers in the paddock.

"You and Abbi have gotten really close recently," your driving coach observed one weekend. 

You didn't know what to do with that information, so you filed it away with all the other little moments that made your heart skip.

British Formula 4 changed everything. Not just because of the increased competition or the step up in machinery, but because you and Abbi were now direct competitors in the same championship.

"Best friends and rivals," you joked once during free practice, but there was truth in it.

On track, you pushed each other to be better. Off track, you were inseparable. A package deal—where one went, the other followed.

Sharing a hotel room become a tradition born out of necessity and budget constraints. Two beds, standard issue, but it takes exactly one night for you to realize you hate sleeping alone in unfamiliar places. Abbi, ever practical, suggests pushing the beds together.

"More space," she says simply, though you catch the way her cheeks flush slightly.

You're both seventeen when the casual touches evolved into something more deliberate. Abbi's hand finding yours during team briefings. Her fingers tracing absent patterns on your lower back when you're bent over data sheets. The way she unconsciously draws circles on your hip with her thumb when you're lying side by side, discussing the day's practice session.

"You're tactile," you tease her one evening, though you're secretly glad for it. You've always been the extrovert, the one who seeks connection, but Abbi's quiet attention feels like coming home.

She doesn't deny it. "Only with you."

Your first kiss happened after Silverstone, your best qualifying result in F4. P3 on the grid, and you're buzzing with excitement, unable to sit still in your shared hotel room. Abbi watches you pace, her dark eyes tracking your movement with fond amusement.

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet," she says.

"I can't help it! Did you see that last sector? I've never felt the car that balanced through Copse, and the way I managed to hook up sector three—"

"Come here," Abbi interrupts softly, patting the space beside her on the bed.

You flop down next to her, still vibrating with energy. "I'm just so—"

"I know," she says, and then her hand is on your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. "You were incredible out there."

The kiss is gentle, tentative, nothing like the dramatic first kisses you'd imagined. It's soft and warm and tastes like the mint tea Abbi always drinks before bed. When you pull apart, her forehead rests against yours.

"Was that okay?" she whispers.

You answer by kissing her again.

The teasing starts almost immediately. Your race engineers exchange knowing looks when you and Abbi show up to the paddock holding hands. Other drivers make jokes about your "friendship" with air quotes that make you both blush furiously.

"Just friends don't look at each other like that," your teammate observes with a grin.

"Like what?" you ask, though you know exactly what he means.

"Like you're the only two people in the world."

Neither of you deny it, but you don't confirm it either. The space between friendship and something more feels too precious to define, too fragile to examine too closely.

The W Series is a revelation. Racing against an all-female field, you and Abbi push each other to new heights. You're the emotional one, crying with frustration after mechanical failures, whooping with joy after good results. Abbi remains your constant, the calm center of your racing world.

"She's good for you," your trainer mentions one day, watching as Abbi systematically goes through your data, pointing out areas for improvement. "Grounds you."

"And I'm good for her," you reply, noting how Abbi's laugh comes easier now, how she's less afraid to take risks on track when she knows you're watching.

F1 Academy was the biggest stage yet, and the stakes felt higher than ever. You and Abbi were both in competitive cars, both hungry for wins, both aware that this could be the stepping stone to everything you'd dreamed of.

The media attention was intense, and questions about your relationship became more frequent and more pointed.

"There are rumors about you and Abbi," a journalist said during a press conference. "Care to comment?"

"Abbi and I are very close friends," you replied smoothly. "We've been racing together for years. She's an incredible driver and an even better person."

But privately, the questions were getting harder to deflect. Especially when moments like your first F1 Academy win made it impossible to hide how you felt about each other.

You'd fought hard for that victory, battling through the field from P5 on the grid. When you crossed the finish line, the emotion was overwhelming—years of work, of sacrifice, of believing in a dream that sometimes felt impossible.

As you climbed out of the car, still shaking with adrenaline and disbelief, you saw Abbi running toward you from the P2 position. She'd finished second, but she looked happier about your win than she ever had about her own.

When she reached you, she didn't hesitate—she wrapped her arms around you and lifted you clean off the ground, spinning you around as you laughed through happy tears.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispered in your ear, her voice thick with emotion. "So fucking proud."

Your helmets knocked together as she set you down, and for a moment, with the visors reflecting each other and the crowd cheering around you, it felt like the most intimate moment you'd ever shared.

"I couldn't have done it without you," you said, your voice barely audible over the noise.

"Yes, you could have. You're incredible."

Later, in the press conference, when they asked about the embrace, you both gave the same answer: "We're best friends. We support each other."

But that night, alone in your hotel room, you finally said the words that had been building for years.

"I love you," you whispered in the dark.

"I love you too," she replied without hesitation. "I have for a long time."

GB3 is supposed to be the next step, another rung on the ladder toward your dreams. But somewhere between the media interviews and the sponsor meetings, you realize the questions have changed.

"Are you and Abbi Pulling in a relationship?" a journalist asks during a press conference.

You stumble over the answer, heat rising in your cheeks. "We're... we're very close friends. We've been racing together for years."

But the question haunts you. What are you and Abbi? You've kissed, you share beds, you know each other's bodies better than your own. You've held her hand through it all, she's talked you through your worst crashes. You've celebrated each other's victories and mourned each other's defeats.

That night, lying in your pushed-together beds after a particularly grueling race day, you finally ask.

"What are we, Abbi?"

She's quiet for so long you think she might have fallen asleep. Then her fingers find yours in the darkness.

"I don't know," she admits. "But I know I love you. I know I've loved you since we were thirteen and you came over to tell me about my overtake. I know I love how you make me laugh, how you see the world in colors I never noticed before."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I love you too. I've loved you for so long I can't remember when it started."

"So what does that make us?" she asks.

"More than friends," you say, and it feels like the most honest thing you've ever said. "Whatever that means."

You've known Abbi all your life—through karting, F4, the W Series, F1 Academy, and now GB3. You've held her hand, slept in the same bed, been there for each other through every triumph and failure. But this, this quiet moment of recognition, of finally naming what you've both known for years, feels like the beginning of something new.

Abbi was always the first to celebrate your wins, you were always the proudest of hers. She's your constant—dependable, true to her word, and patient. She's never let you down.

"You know what I love most about you?" you murmur into the darkness.

"What?"

"You’ve never let me down."

Her laugh is soft, content. Then kiss right on the crown of your head.

Outside, the circuit is quiet, but inside this room, at this moment, with your beds pushed together, everything feels infinite. You've found your person, your partner, your complement. And tomorrow, you'll race again, side by side, just like you always have.