Old man caught slurping juices.

~ from hand scribbles series (tell me an oddly specific situation/state of mind and I'll rec/write a fic about it)

"Hey, be careful! Wouldn’t want you tripping over more air!"

situation : "trying to be nonchalant and mysterious in front of ur crush and tripping on air and falling face down"

Her.

Three letters—the signature of both a blessing and a curse for Ollie Bearman.

Maybe it wasn’t that dramatic from his point of view. After all, the Brit was one of the sweetest and most easygoing guys on the grid, and his relationship with that girl felt like the most natural thing in the world. But without even realizing it, when a distant switch flicked in his head—one he never even thought existed—she became his biggest problem.

They had been through everything together. Ever since they met, it was clear they completed each other perfectly, in their shared similarities and their many differences, bringing a lighthearted atmosphere wherever they went. Whether it was grabbing a questionable kebab from the little spot near the school where he had studied after training with Thomas, or heading off for a weekend getaway together—sometimes with Kimi, or the friends they had in common.

And the best part? There was never any need to impress each other. No last-minute outfit upgrades, no spraying on the most expensive cologne, no planning vacations in luxury resorts or dining in Michelin-starred restaurants. Because all they needed was their bond—that invisible thread that tied them together, woven through sweet smiles and effortless laughter.

But that switch had flipped in Ollie’s head, and from the moment it did, he couldn’t ignore the voice reminding him that he had fallen for her. That he wanted only her by his side.

And that was a massive problem.

Because when you’ve known the simplicity of friendship—the unspoken words, the inside jokes that make you laugh in a crowd of a million—you also know that most people who fall for their best friend, especially one they spend so much time with, feel like it’s the end of the world.

In a way, it was the end of the world for the Brit. He stopped texting her as freely as before, second-guessing every word at least a thousand times. His laughter turned nervous when she was around. He found himself trying to impress her at every chance—only to earn the sharp, teasing remarks that were so characteristic of her.

He felt the pressure.

Whether it was about friendship, life goals, or simply the championship he was competing in.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he needed to prove himself—not just to the world, but to her. And if that meant playing it extra cool, then so be it.

"You’ve been awfully quiet," she said, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and a small bag of M&Ms tucked in one of them as they walked along the row of team tents.

"Me?" Ollie furrowed his brows, rolling the family pass Hitech GP had given him between his long fingers as they waited for his little brother’s British F4 race at Brands Hatch.

"You have. Which is weird, because you never shut up," she teased.

"Maybe I’m just focused."

She looked up at him, her gaze meeting his deep brown eyes. He was much taller than her.

The wind had tousled her hair, which still looked impossibly soft despite being tied back in a small bun. She tucked her chin deeper into her scarf, shielding herself from the crisp autumn air that made spectators in England’s racing season prone to sore throats.

"Or maybe you’re just stressing."

"About what would I be?" he asked, wetting his lips, his thick accent making her nose scrunch up in that way she always did when he spoke.

"I don’t know, maybe the championship," she said with a shrug. "Hadjar, for example."

"Isack? What has he got to do with me?"

"I’m just assuming, it’s cool," she relented, shrugging again as the wind picked up. Mechanics rushed to secure the team tents as the cars rolled in from qualifying, and the first drivers jumped out for a quick debrief before the afternoon race.

"So what’s your pre-race ritual these days? Aside from stressing," she asked with a playful grin, her eyes flickering toward the rising stars of the sport—the same eyes that had led him straight into the most dangerous trap of all.

"Oh, you know, just the usual. A little stretching, mental prep… getting in the zone."

She frowned slightly.

Was he really just making small talk? Missing her playful cue entirely? And what was that tone?

"Mental prep." "Getting in the zone."

"Mmm. And the ‘zone’ is working for you?" she teased, confused by his behavior.

"Clearly," the driver answered with a fake, cocky grin just as, in the distance, Thomas and Leo Robinson approached, helmets in hand, coming to say hi.

And then it happened.

The great curse that bore the name of that girl—with her sweet smile, her youthful eyes, and the carefree spirit of someone who lived life as if nothing was too big to weigh her down.

Ollie’s foot caught on absolutely nothing.

No cracks. No cables. No loose pavement. Nothing. Just pure, unfiltered betrayal.

And so, his six-foot-something frame lurched forward, as if shoved by an invisible outfielder standing on the sidelines, watching his demise with a chest full of satisfaction.

Anyone else, sensing an imminent fall, would have thrown out their hands, relying on reflexes developed after too many childhood tumbles.

But not him.

He thought he had it.

He didn’t.

"Oh my…"

It was happening both too fast and unbearably slow, and she had to bite her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. The thud of his body hitting the asphalt was so loud that a few mechanics turned around to check if whoever had fallen was still in one piece.

"…Is ‘tripping over air’ part of the ritual?" she asked as Thomas walked up, giving her a playful nudge on the shoulder.

"Yes. It’s for balance," the younger Bearman quipped, watching his brother—who had fully surrendered to fate—lie face-down on the ground, one cheek pressed against the cold pavement. A lifeless sprawl, as if he were the tragic victim of an unsolvable crime.

He knew.

He had just eaten pavement in front of the entire paddock. And, worst of all, in front of her.

"Mmm. Seems very effective," she grinned, offering him a hand.

Ollie refused.

As if the last shred of dignity he had left begged him to get up on his own, brushing the dust from his knees with great determination.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, a smug grin plastered on her young face, and he knew—he knew—that she would never let him live this down.

"Maybe that’s why you lost traction in the last race. Should’ve tripped in the garage before quali—" Thomas smirked, setting his helmet down on a cart in their team’s tent while Leo sipped from his water bottle.

"You are literally the worst person I know."

As the boys kept talking, she walked a few steps behind them, hiding her laughter in the warmth of her scarf while a painfully embarrassed Ollie scrambled to come up with an excuse for what had just happened.

As if she didn’t already know.

As if she couldn’t see that it was just a dumb, desperate attempt to prove he was on the level of those fighting for a championship, the ones who passed their driving tests on the first try, the ones who could always be there for the people they loved.

He had nothing less than them.

And she knew it.

Just like he did.

Just like they both knew that, sooner or later, for one reason or another, that switch would become something more than a curse.

And it would finally become what they both truly wanted—something that didn’t need to impress or prove itself.

"Fuck."

Thomas and Ollie turned, just in time to see her stumble, struggling to keep her balance with wide eyes—realizing, too late, that the invisible outfielder wasn’t done messing with them.

"Hey, be careful! Wouldn’t want you tripping over more air!" Ollie taunted.

She flipped him off in response.

Published in 1993, it was titled "Jaguar à travers les ages" (Jaguar through the ages). Covering over 50 years of Jags from 1936 to 1991.