#dr3 x reader

username007 : mans is acting like he is auditioning for the bachelor and not being asked about his return to f1

username90 : max in the background laughing and yelling at daniel to focus had me crying 🤭 maxiel is backkkkk

username50 : lowkey if daniel looked at me like that, i would most definitely forget every question too

username77 : this man literally just came back to f1 to flirt with yn

username008 : oh the producers love this. i just know they are eating it up

username45 : you can literally hear the crew laughing when he says “unfinished business and you” 😭😭😭

username90 : she is so shy and cute and daniel is so…himself. it’s literally sunshine and chaos in human form

username012 : i’ve watched so many of yn’s interviews and she has never been speechless or giggled like that. i’m obsessed.

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yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, lando, maxverstappen1 and 2,100,000 others.

yourusername : drive to survive is live, f1 is back and so am i;)

tagged : danielricciardo

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view 125,000 other comments.

lando : hot laps???? without lando????

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i’ve done like the last 3 with you and i feared for my life each time 🤧

liked by lando

↳ lando : oh and daniel is any safer????

↳ danielricciardo : safer and hotter

liked by lando and yourusername

↳ username000 : omg we’re getting a yn daniel hot laps

f1 : the grid missed you 😍

liked by yourusername

redbullracing : so thrilled to have you as the first guest of the season! ❤️💙

liked by yourusername

lilymhe : you’re so beautiful 🤏🏻 i missed you!!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : missed you more angel

netflix : you were the real main character this season 😉

liked by yourusername

username005 : no way she ended the dump with a picture of her and daniel

↳ username008 : i love them your honor

maxverstappen1 : i’ve requested to only do interviews with you this season. prepare to be sick of me

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : could never be sick of super max

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ lando : you just gotta hope daniel doesn’t get to her first

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and danielricciardo

alexandrasaintmleux : pretty angel💕

liked by yourusername

danielricciardo : i made it in the first instagram post of the season…im honored

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : see…all that flirting got you somewhere 🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by danielricciardo

↳ danielricciardo : i will not stop until the entire post is dedicated to me 🥸

liked by yourusername

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You’ve been doing this long enough to know how to keep your composure. You’ve interviewed World Champions, rookies, engineers, even a few egos too big to fit in the paddock gates — but Daniel Ricciardo? He’s in his own category.

The Netflix crew is setting up the lights in the Red Bull hospitality suite, the air buzzing with that familiar pre-season energy — rumbling in the background, crew members laughing, the smell of espresso and tire rubber mixing in the air. You’re reviewing your notes on the tablet, the question list neat and color-coded as always.

You’ve done post-race interviews with Daniel before, moments here and there — but this is the your first time for Drive to Survive and his first interview since his return. His comeback is the headline.

You hear the laughter first. That unmistakable, bright sound that cuts through everything else.

Then he walks in. Sunglasses hooked on his shirt, smile wider than ever, curls a little messier than you remember. The room seems to lighten just because he’s in it — or maybe that’s just what he does.

“Hey, stranger,” he grins, walking straight toward you like he’s greeting an old friend. “You’re still making everyone nervous with your presence and serious questions?”

You glance up from your tablet, trying not to laugh. “You say that like I have a reputation.”

“Oh, you do.” He nods seriously, grabbing a bottle of water. “Half the grid’s terrified you’ll make them cry on camera.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Tell that to Lando after you made him talk about pressure last year. Poor kid’s still recovering.”

You can’t help the small smile that escapes. “I’m sure he’s fine. Ready?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes crinkling. “Born ready.”

The crew gives the all-clear. Cameras roll. The red light blinks on. You sit across from him, notebook on your lap, mic clipped to your blouse, and suddenly the quiet hum of the set fades away. It’s just him and you.

“Daniel, welcome back. It’s been a long journey for you — how does it feel to return to Red Bull?”

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider it, but the smirk on his face is pure mischief. “Honestly? Feels like coming home. Familiar faces, familiar colors…” His gaze flickers to you. “…and a familiar interviewer. So, really, couldn’t be happier.”

You blink, already feeling your professionalism slipping. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“Not sweet, just true.” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “I saw your name on the call sheet this morning and thought — ‘Oh yeah, today’s gonna be a good day.’”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not a quote we can use in the edit.”

“Why not? I’m giving the people what they want.”

“What they want,” you tease, “or what you want?”

He grins like you’ve walked right into it. “Both. You’ve seen Twitter — they love when we do interviews. I’m just here to keep the fans happy.”

Your cheeks warm, and you look down at your notes quickly, desperate to redirect. “Okay, so, after your time away—”

“Don’t pretend you’re not smiling,” he interrupts, leaning just far enough that you can see the dimple in his cheek.

“I’m trying to be professional.”

“Ah, see, that’s your first mistake.”

You look back up at him, fighting another laugh. “And what’s the right way, then?”

He shrugs lightly, the picture of easy confidence. “Just talk to me. Like we’re having coffee. You can even ask me about my love life if you want.”

“Daniel.”

He chuckles, hands raised in mock defense. “Okay, okay. Back to racing. But for the record—” His voice lowers just slightly, playful. “—you make this job way too easy.”

You can hear one of the producers stifling a laugh off-camera.

“Anyway,” you say firmly, trying to move things along. “After your year away, what’s motivating you most this season?”

He exhales, pretending to think, though there’s that glimmer in his eyes again — the one that means he’s about to say something you’ll never live down.

“Unfinished business,” he says.

Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “And maybe you.”

You choke on a laugh before you can help it. “You’re impossible.”

He beams. “And yet, you’re still sitting here with me.”

“Because it’s my job.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, pretending to believe you. “Let’s just say you’re doing it very well.”

By the time the interview wraps, your cheeks hurt from smiling.The crew starts packing up equipment, and Daniel’s still sitting there, elbows on his knees, just watching you with that soft grin — less teasing now, more genuine.

“You’re good at this, you know,” he says quietly once the cameras are off.

You tilt your head. “Flirting or interviews?”

He laughs — that bright, full sound again. “Both, apparently.”

You stand, shaking your head. “You’re going to get me in trouble with the Netflix editors.”

“Worth it,” he says easily. “They’ll cut the boring bits anyway. Might as well make good television.”

You’re halfway to the door when he calls after you, voice light but warm:

“Hey — it’s really nice seeing you again.”

You pause, turning back. He’s standing now, hands in his pockets, smile a little softer.

“You too, Daniel.”

He grins, nodding once before heading toward the garage. “Don’t be a stranger. I plan on giving a lot of interviews this year.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin on your face doesn’t fade even after he’s gone — and when you glance at your reflection in the glass, your cheeks are still pink.

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The second time you sit down with Daniel Ricciardo, you swear you’re ready. You’ve prepped harder, you’ve practiced deflecting, you’ve told yourself ten different times that this time you’ll stay focused — because the last interview went viral for all the wrong reasons (depending who you ask).

The clip has been circulating everywhere: your laugh, his smirk— sent fans spiraling. You told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. Not today.

But the moment he walks in — wearing his Red Bull polo half unbuttoned, curls still damp from the morning heat, smile bright enough to make the lighting crew curse — you already know you’re in trouble.

“Back for round two?” he asks, dropping into the chair across from you with a grin that could melt titanium.

“More like part two,” you reply evenly, checking your mic connection. “We’re digging a little deeper today.”

He raises a brow. “Deeper, huh? That sounds serious.”

“It is. Try to keep up.”

He laughs, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees again. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

You give him a pointed look. “That’s what you said last time.”

He grins. “Yeah, but then you smiled at me, so really, that’s on you.”

You groan under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

You turn toward the producer and give the thumbs-up for rolling. The red light flickers on. Showtime.

You start with something safe.

“So Daniel, now that you’ve had a few weeks back with Red Bull, how are you feeling in the car? Has the adjustment been what you expected?”

He hums, pretending to think, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “It’s been… good. Really good. The car’s quick, the team’s solid, and I feel like I’m finding my rhythm again.”

You nod, jotting something on your notepad. “Has there been any challenge, mentally, returning after that time away?”

He looks at you for a moment — and for once, doesn’t immediately joke. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “You doubt yourself, you know? When you step away, there’s that voice that asks if you’ve lost your edge, if the sport’s moved on without you. But then you get back in the car, and it’s like…” He gestures vaguely, smiling softly. “Like you remember why you fell in love with it in the first place.”

You catch the honesty in his voice and feel yourself soften too.

“That’s really beautifully said,” you tell him.

“Thanks.” His grin returns — gentler this time. “See? I can do serious too.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, love.”

You roll your eyes, even as a small laugh escapes you. “There it is. I knew it wouldn’t last.”

He chuckles lowly. “What? I was doing so well!”

“Three minutes,” you tease. “That’s your record.”

“Alright, so what’s next? Deep emotional reflection or another chance to redeem myself?”

“Let’s try reflection,” you say firmly. “This one’s for the Netflix editors, not your dating reel.”

He laughs so hard he nearly drops his water bottle. “My dating reel? You think I need help with that?”

“I think you need to stop giving them material.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, leaning closer again, his tone soft and teasing. “You don’t like it when I flirt?”

“Daniel—”

“Because you’re smiling right now.”

You press your lips together, trying to fight it, but the corner of your mouth betrays you.

He catches it immediately. “Knew it.”

You shake your head, laughing now. “You’re so difficult.”

“And yet, here you are interviewing me again. Some might call that destiny.”

“Some might call that my job.”

“Same thing,” he says with a wink.

The sound engineer coughs to hide his laugh, and you take that as your cue to wrap this up before it gets worse.

After the cameras cut, the air in the room softens. The crew starts packing up, leaving the two of you sitting there surrounded by cables and half-empty water bottles.

Daniel stretches lazily, then looks at you with that softer version of his smile — the one that isn’t for the cameras. “You’re really good at this, you know. You actually make people think.”

You raise a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He shrugs lightly. “You make me talk about stuff I don’t usually say out loud but you don’t push.”

That catches you off guard — how quietly sincere he sounds. The flirting always felt like his natural language, but this? This is different.

You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest. “Well… I’m glad. You’re easy to talk to.”

He beams. “See? That’s teamwork.”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.”

For a moment, there’s just a comfortable silence between you — the hum of equipment being packed up, the muffled sound of mechanics in the next room, the faint scent of rubber and coffee lingering in the air.

Then Daniel stands, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt. “Guess I should let you get back to being a professional before I ruin your reputation entirely.”

You laugh softly. “Bit late for that.”

He tilts his head, a glint of playfulness back in his eyes. “Then I might as well finish the job.”

Before you can ask what he means, he steps closer — just enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand brushes your elbow, gentle and unhurried, and then he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. Barely there. But it leaves your entire face burning.

You blink up at him, stunned. “Daniel.”

He grins, dimples deep, eyes shining. “Relax, love. Just a friendly Australian goodbye.”

You laugh — breathless, flustered, but unable to stop smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing toward the door, still grinning. “But you like me anyway.”

He gives a little wave before disappearing down the hall, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and the ghost of his kiss still warm against your cheek.

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If someone had told you a year ago that Netflix and Formula 1 would team up to throw you in a car with Daniel Ricciardo behind the wheel, you would’ve laughed and said, “I value my life too much for that.”

But here you are — standing beside a gleaming Red Bull-branded sports car, the track shimmering in the midday heat, and Daniel grinning like the devil in sunglasses.

The crew is buzzing around, cameras everywhere. You can already hear the sound bites being written in their heads — “The chemistry between Daniel and the beloved presenter hits new speeds.” You swear one of the producers winked at you.

And Daniel? He’s thriving.

He’s been teasing you since the moment you arrived.

“So, you trust me with your life?” he asks, leaning against the car, arms crossed and grin wide.

“I trust Red Bull’s safety standards,” you reply sweetly, clipping your mic onto your pink jumpsuit.

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “Right in the heart. Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll drive nice and easy. Promise.”

“That’s what every driver says right before scaring their passenger half to death.”

He chuckles. “I’m not every driver.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you — fluttering just a little too fast when he tosses you that boyish smile.

They start filming the intro — wide shots, drone shots, sound checks. The crew is eating up the energy between you.

“Alright,” you say, turning to camera, mic in hand. “I’ve done plenty of interviews with Daniel Ricciardo, but today, they have decided to make things… interesting.”

Daniel leans into frame, grinning. “She means dangerous.”

“I mean terrifying.”

“Same thing,” he laughs.

You glance at him, mock-serious. “I have to interview him while he’s driving. Which, for anyone who’s ever been in a car with Daniel Ricciardo, sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Correction,” he says smoothly, “sounds like a fun idea.”

The crew waves you toward the car, and Daniel immediately straightens up, ready to play gentleman. He opens the passenger door for you with a flourish and a little bow.

“Your chariot awaits, milady.”

You can’t help laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” he says proudly. “Hop in.”

You climb in — awkwardly at first, trying not to trip or hit your head. He laughs under his breath and reaches across to help, steadying you with one hand on your arm.

“Easy there, superstar. We can’t have F1’s favorite presenter concussed.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

“Not taking any chances.” He reaches for your harness next, pulling the belts into place with a precision that’s second nature. “Gotta make sure you’re safe.”

The way he says it — soft, sincere — makes your chest tighten just a little.

“Comfortable?” he asks, giving the strap one final tug.

“As I’ll ever be,” you tease, but your voice is quieter now.

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Helmet time.”

He grabs it for you, lifting it carefully and holding it steady while you pull it on. When the chin strap slips, he reaches out, fixing it himself, his fingers brushing your jaw for just a moment.

“There,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “Perfect.”

You exhale slowly, willing yourself not to melt. The camera catches all of it.

“Alright,” Daniel says, climbing in beside you and fastening his own belts. “We’re gonna start slow, yeah?”

“Define slow.”

He glances over, eyes sparkling. “You’ll see.”

The car roars to life, the sound vibrating through your chest. You barely have time to prepare before he pulls onto the circuit — and instantly, you’re pressed back into your seat.

“Daniel!”

He laughs, pure mischief. “You said you trusted me!”

“I did not say that!”

The car dives into the first corner with impossible smoothness. You’re clutching the grab handle with one hand, cue cards in the other, trying to remember how to speak while Daniel looks like he’s on a Sunday drive.

“So!” he says, voice raised over the engine. “You had questions for me, right?”

You try to glare but end up laughing instead. “How am I supposed to interview you like this?”

“Adaptability, love. That’s what makes a great journalist.”

“Fine!” you yell over the noise. “How does it feel to be back on the grid?”

“Like this!” he shouts back, throwing the car into another corner. You shriek, he laughs — full, bright, and completely unbothered.

The crew is howling through their headsets. You can barely breathe for laughing, your heart racing with adrenaline and something softer you refuse to name. After a few laps, he slows down slightly — enough that you can actually hear each other again.

“Still alive?” he teases.

“Barely.”

“You’re a natural. You didn’t even scream that much.”

“That much?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing over, grin softening. “You did great.”

You laugh breathlessly, shaking your head. “You’re insane, Ricciardo.”

He looks at you for a moment — really looks — and his smile shifts, turning gentler. “You’re fun to make smile, you know that?”

Your breath catches.

The car slows to a smooth stop near the pit wall, engine idling low. The crew rushes over, but Daniel waves them off for a second, turning toward you instead.

He unclips his harness, then leans over to unfasten yours, hands steady and careful. “Got it,” he murmurs, undoing the last buckle. “See? Full service experience.”

You’re laughing again — soft, breathless. “I should’ve known you’d make this into a show.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“I didn’t say that,” you admit quietly.

He pauses, still close, his hand resting just beside your seat. The world outside the car is noisy — cameras, crew, laughter — but in here, it’s quiet. Warm.

His smile softens again, dimples deep, eyes kind. “You did great, you know. You’re brave for trusting me with this.”

You tilt your head, smiling back. “You made it easy.”

He grins. “Careful, you’ll make me blush.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed under your helmet. “I think you like it when I do.”

“Guilty,” he murmurs.

Someone outside knocks on the roof, breaking the spell.

“You two lovebirds done in there?” one of the producers yells, half-joking.

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

He climbs out first, then circles around to open your door. When you step out, he offers his hand automatically — steadying you like it’s instinct.

You pull off your helmet, hair a mess, face flushed, still grinning.

The camera catches it: you laughing breathlessly while Daniel stands beside you, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes on you like he’s already forgotten there’s an entire crew watching.

“Still trust me?” he asks.

You meet his eyes — soft, golden, impossibly fond. “Against my better judgment, yeah.”

He laughs, that warm sound that’s starting to feel like your favorite thing. “Guess that means I did my job.”

And as you both stand there, wind tangling your hair and cameras flashing from every direction, it feels like something has shifted — something sweet and quiet is blooming under the surface.

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The paddock is rumbling— a heartbeat of engines, color, and tension humming beneath the surface. You’ve been to countless races before, but this one feels different.

Red Bull invited you personally — not just as a presenter, but as an exclusive partner for the season’s opening weekend. The footage from the Hot Laps had gone viral: tens of millions of views, fan edits, compilations, and captions like “just date already” flooding every platform.

Daniel Ricciardo and you had become the internet’s newest obsession — the banter, the chemistry, the chaos. And now? You’re officially embedded with the team.

You smooth the Red Bull lanyard around your neck as you walk into the garage. Mechanics are moving in rhythm, engineers calling out data, fans cheering from the stands above. The smell of fuel, the hum of the engines, the thrum of adrenaline — it’s all there.

And then you hear it. That laugh. It cuts through the noise like a melody you know by heart.

You turn — and there he is. Daniel Ricciardo. Suit half-zipped, helmet under one arm, curls escaping his balaclava, grin already too bright for anyone else’s good. He spots you instantly, like he felt you arrive.

And the second your eyes meet, his entire face lights up.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, walking over. “Look who Red Bull’s spoiled rotten.”

You laugh, meeting him halfway. “Hey, I’m just here to do my job.”

“Yeah, sure,” he teases, stepping closer. “You just happened to pick the best garage in the paddock. Total coincidence.”

“Completely. Had nothing to do with the driver who begged for me to be assigned here.”

He puts a hand to his chest, pretending to be scandalized. “Begged? I’d never—”

“Daniel.”

He grins, busted. “Alright, maybe I strongly suggested it. But Max did too.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Whatever you say.”

“But you’re here,” he says, voice softer now. “That’s what matters.”

The moment lingers — quiet, for just a heartbeat. Around you, the garage is a blur of movement, but neither of you are paying attention to anything else.

You finally speak, voice barely above the noise. “You ready for this?”

He exhales, the edge of nervous excitement flashing across his face. “Yeah. Feels good, you know? Being back. I just…” He trails off, then looks at you again, eyes warm. “I wanna make it count.”

You smile, genuinely. “You will.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “You’ve got this. Go remind them why you belong here.”

For a moment, he just looks at you — something like gratitude flickering in his eyes. Then, quietly, he says, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause I only believe it when you say it.”

Before you can reply, his race engineer calls out, “Ricciardo, two minutes!”

He gives you one last grin, tugging his gloves on. “See you after the race, yeah?”

“Only if you bring the champagne,” you shoot back.

He winks. “You got it, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he’s gone — climbing into the car, helmet on, engine roaring to life.

You stay in the garage as the lights go out. Max is in his element, Daniel right behind him, the team a storm of focus and precision. You can barely breathe during the last few laps — Daniel’s holding P3, fighting off a charging Mercedes, holding steady.

And when he crosses the line — P3. Podium.

You don’t even realize you’re cheering until you see him coasting back into the pit lane, grinning so hard it hurts. The crew erupts around you, everyone clapping him on the back, helmets knocking together in celebration.

The cameras catch it all — and when he climbs out of the car, the first person he looks for isn’t his race engineer, isn’t Max, isn’t even Laurent.

It’s you.

You’re standing at the edge of the garage, headset around your neck, mic in hand — and he walks straight toward you, helmet still in hand, face flushed and eyes sparkling.

You laugh as he approaches, breathless with excitement. “P3, Ricciardo! First race back and already on the podium!”

“Not bad, huh?” he says, pulling off his balaclava. “Guess I still remember how to drive.”

“Barely,” you tease, and he laughs — that loud, familiar sound that fills the space around you.

You’re supposed to wait for the official post-race interviews, but the camera crew has already turned toward you both. Someone behind the scenes whispers, “Let it roll.”

So you do.

You lift your mic, smile wide. “Alright, Daniel Ricciardo, P3 in the first race of the season. Talk us through it — how are you feeling right now?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? Like a kid again. Like all that hard work finally paid off. The car felt great, the team’s been amazing, and—” He looks at you then, grin softening. “—you showing up might’ve been good luck.”

You laugh, blushing despite yourself. “I’ll take credit for that.”

“Oh, I’m giving you full credit,” he says. “You told me to go remind them why I belong here, right? So I did.”

“That’s all you,” you say, smiling, but he shakes his head.

“Nah. That’s you believing in me. I just followed through.”

The crowd behind the barriers is going feral. You can hear fans screaming, waving banners, phones out.

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, grin widening, “but I’m also feeling pretty brave right now.”

You tilt your head, confused — and that’s when he does it.

He steps a little closer, voice still into your mic, smile nothing short of lethal.

“So, how about we test that good luck again?” he says. “Go out with me tonight?”

Your jaw drops. “Daniel!”

He laughs — full, carefree, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m serious!”

“You just asked me out on live TV!”

He grins, utterly delighted. “Yeah, but at least now you can’t say no.”

The crowd loses it. The Red Bull crew is howling. Cameras are zoomed all the way in, capturing your stunned expression and his shit-eating grin.

You cover your face for a second, laughing so hard your shoulders shake. When you finally look back up at him, you can’t even hide your smile.

“You are impossible, Ricciardo.”

He leans closer, voice dropping — soft enough that only you and the mic catch it. “Yeah, but you like me that way.”

You can’t help it — you laugh again, shaking your head. “Fine. One date.”

He sends a wink to the camera. “That’s the real victory today.”

The crew behind you cheers even louder than they did for the podium. Someone yells, “THAT’S OUR BOY!” and the fans are chanting both your names now, like it’s some sort of movie ending.

You turn back to the camera, cheeks flushed, heart racing. “Well, there you have it. Daniel Ricciardo — P3 on track, P1 in confidence.”

He laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the camera pans out. “Best post-race interview of my life.”

“You say that to all the interviewers?”

He grins, leaning in just enough to make you forget the cameras again. “Only you.”

And as the world watches, the two of you walk off together toward the podium celebrations — your laughter mixing with the sound of champagne and cheering — and for the first time in a long time, Daniel Ricciardo looks like the happiest man on Earth.

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The evening sun sinks low, the golden light melting into violet and rose across your hotel room. You stand by the window, curling an earring into place, your heart thudding a little faster than usual. You’ve been on camera for years — in front of legends, surrounded by chaos — but somehow, tonight feels like the most nerve-racking moment of them all.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

downstairs. don’t rush — but also i’m dying to see you

You laugh quietly, glancing at yourself one last time in the mirror. The blush of excitement on your cheeks is impossible to hide, but you decide you don’t want to.

When you step out of the elevator, the lobby is soft and quiet, golden lighting glinting off marble floors. And there he is.

Daniel Ricciardo — standing by the doors, hands tucked behind his back, curls tamed just enough, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth the second he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then he grins — that grin that’s lit up entire paddocks — and takes a step toward you.

“Wow,” he says softly. “You actually made me forget how to speak for a second.”

You roll your eyes, already smiling. “You promised to be on your best behavior tonight.”

“I’m trying,” he insists, lifting something from behind his back — a small bouquet of flowers, bright and colorful, tied with a simple blue ribbon. “These might help my case?”

You blink in surprise, touched. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs, pretending nonchalance. “You said yes on live TV. I figured I owed you at least that.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “They’re beautiful.”

He steps closer, the faintest trace of cologne and engine oil clinging to him — that unmistakable mix of Daniel and the track. He brushes a kiss against your cheek, just long enough to make your heart trip over itself.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drives himself — of course he does — in a car that gleams under the streetlights. The ride is quiet in the best way, windows down, city air warm against your face. Every so often, he glances over at you, a soft grin pulling at his lips like he can’t help it.

“Still can’t believe you said yes,” he says at one red light, tapping the steering wheel.

“You left me no choice,” you tease.

He laughs, low and happy. “Fair. Still… feels good hearing it again.”

The restaurant is tucked away near the harbor, candlelit tables set beneath strings of fairy lights. The hostess knows him by name and leads you to a quiet corner table with a view of the water.

Everything about the evening feels easy. He’s all warmth — asking about your favorite travel stories, teasing you gently about the chaos of filming, making you laugh so much you have to hide your face behind your hands more than once. You talk for hours — about childhood, about racing, about how surreal it all feels sometimes. He listens, really listens, his eyes soft and steady on you the entire time.

At one point, when the waiter brings dessert, he leans his elbows on the table and tilts his head.

“You know,” he says, voice low and genuine now, “I’ve liked you for a while.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“Every time you interviewed me. Even before Netflix decided to turn this into a subplot.” He grins, a little shyly. “Didn’t think you’d ever notice.”

You laugh softly. “I noticed. I just thought you were like that with everyone.”

“I’m not.” He smiles again, eyes crinkling. “Just you.”

Something in the way he says it makes your heart stutter.

After dinner, he drives you back to your hotel. The streets are quiet now, and when he parks, neither of you moves for a moment. The air hums between you — that same quiet pull that’s been growing all season, now tangible in the small space of the car.

He turns to you. “I had a really good time tonight.”

You smile, fingers brushing the ends of your dress on your lap. “Me too. You’re… kind of impossible not to like, Ricciardo.”

His grin softens into something more tender. “That sounds close to a compliment.”

“It might be.”

For a beat, you both just look at each other — the dim city lights flickering across his face, his thumb tracing idle circles on the steering wheel. Then he reaches across the console, hesitating just long enough for you to nod.

His hand finds yours, warm and careful.

“Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod again.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek — the same spot he touched earlier, only this time he lingers. You turn your head before he can pull back, catching his lips in a quick, shy kiss that steals both your breaths.

When you pull away, he’s smiling that dizzy, heart-full smile that only Daniel Ricciardo can manage.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You are relentless.”

“Yeah,” he says, still grinning. “And you’re smiling. So I’m winning.”

You shake your head, still holding his hand. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

“Goodnight, superstar.”

You step out of the car, flowers in one arm, still glowing. And when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s still there — elbow on the window, chin in hand, grinning like the world’s happiest fool.

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The Shanghai paddock hums with its usual Thursday chaos — cameras rolling, drivers milling around, the smell of fresh rubber and espresso clinging to the air. It’s media day: the one time before a race weekend when everyone’s relaxed enough to joke, gossip, and tease.

And you, as usual, are in the middle of it all.

You’re standing in front of the McLaren backdrop, microphone in hand, finishing up an interview with Lando Norris. He’s been making you laugh for ten straight minutes — all wild gestures and sarcastic stories about his simulator training — and the cameras are eating it up.

You’ve gotten good at keeping your cool on camera, but lately, that’s been… harder.

Because while you’re nodding along to Lando’s story about accidentally hitting a bird on the straight, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t have to check it to know who it is — Daniel’s name flashes through your mind before you even glance down.

He’s been texting you nonstop since your date — sending photos of random things that remind him of you, little voice notes from airports, and, of course, the bouquet of flowers that showed up at your hotel two days ago. You’d smiled for an hour straight after that.

Now, you’re doing your best to keep your head clear, to stay professional — but as Lando continues speaking, something shifts in the crowd behind the cameras.

There’s a commotion — laughter, voices calling out, a few photographers suddenly perking up. You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Daniel Ricciardo, walking down the paddock lane in full Red Bull uniform, sunglasses perched on his nose, curls bouncing, grin lethal. He’s clearly just finished his own press session, still holding a bottle of water, relaxed and glowing in the afternoon light.

But the second he spots you, he changes course.

“Uh oh,” Lando says, catching your glance. “Who are you looking—oh, of course.”

You follow his gaze just in time to see Daniel veer directly toward you.

“Daniel,” you start, a laugh already building in your voice, “don’t you dare—”

He does.

“Sorry, sorry,” he interrupts, striding right in between you and Lando, tossing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’s known you forever. “Just making sure everything’s running smoothly here. You good, YN?”

You blink up at him, biting back a smile. “We’re in the middle of an interview.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says, grinning. “Just thought I’d, uh, offer my expertise. Norris can’t be trusted to tell a story straight.”

Lando scoffs, hands on his hips. “Excuse me? I was doing perfectly fine before you decided to make this about you.”

Daniel laughs. “Mate, everything’s about me. You should know that by now.”

The crew is laughing. Even the cameraman’s shoulders are shaking.

You sigh, giving in, your cheeks warm. “Okay, fine. Since you’ve hijacked my interview, maybe we can ask you a question, too.”

Daniel smirks. “Fire away, gorgeous.”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “He did not just call you that on camera—”

You glare at Daniel, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “Alright, Ricciardo,” you say, slipping back into your professional tone even as your voice trembles with amusement, “how’s it feel to be back on the podium and back in the paddock every week?”

He leans closer, still grinning, pretending to think. “Oh, you know. Pretty great. The podium’s nice, but I think I enjoyed the post-race interview a bit more.”

Lando groans, covering his face. “You two are unreal.”

You try not to laugh, lifting the mic higher. “So, are you feeling confident for this weekend?”

“Confident? Always,” Daniel says. “Though, I do need some motivation.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You tilt your head, smiling cautiously. “And what kind of motivation are we talking about?”

He gives you that lopsided, reckless grin — the one that’s been living rent-free in your head since the first interview. “Well,” he says, pausing just long enough to make everyone lean in, “I was thinking… if I get another podium this weekend, maybe I earn another date?”

The crowd erupts. Lando doubles over laughing. The camera crew immediately zooms in on your face — wide eyes, flushed cheeks, caught perfectly between shock and delight.

“Daniel!” you hiss, whispering but not low enough for the mic to miss it.

He just shrugs, smug as ever. “What? Seems like fair incentive.”

You shake your head, trying to stay composed. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t just ask you out on camera again?” He grins. “I think we’ve established that I can.”

Lando’s wheezing beside you. “You’re gonna get Red Bull’s entire social team fired up again, mate.”

“That’s the goal,” Daniel says cheerfully. Then, turning back to you: “So? Deal?”

You cross your arms, trying to hide your smile. “If — and only if — you get another podium.”

His grin widens. “Oh, I love a challenge.”

“Good,” you say, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing. “Now can I get back to my actual interview?”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. Don’t let me interrupt. Norris, continue talking about… what were you even talking about?”

“Your ego, probably,” Lando mutters.

Daniel winks at you. “Catch you later, sweetheart.”

And then, as if he hasn’t just caused a full-scale social media explosion, he strolls off down the paddock — waving casually to the crew as the mics pick up Lando’s laughing disbelief.

You’re still staring after him, shaking your head when Lando leans toward your mic again.

“So…” he says, grin wide and teasing. “Second date, huh?”

You roll your eyes, trying to contain your smile. “Back to you, Lando.”

But your cheeks are pink, and your heart’s doing that stupid fluttering thing again.

Because you know — and everyone knows — that if Daniel Ricciardo gets another podium this weekend, you’re in serious trouble.

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It’s late — the Shanghai skyline glitters like a scattered galaxy, and the two of you are walking side by side, trying to blend into the small crowd that fills the riverfront promenade. Daniel’s wearing a cap pulled low and a hoodie, hands in his pockets, but there’s still something about him — that aura, that warmth — that makes people turn their heads.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop smiling. You’ve been teasing him about his podium all evening, replaying how he’d given you that cheeky grin on the cooldown lap camera when he pointed straight at the crew and said, “Tell YN I’ll see her tonight.”

“Still can’t believe you said that on international television,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as the two of you stroll beneath the soft glow of lantern lights.

Daniel grins, all teeth and sunshine. “What can I say? Manifestation works, sweetheart.”

“Manifestation?” you echo, raising a brow. “I think it’s called shameless flirting.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich, and it bubbles out of you too before you can stop it. “You didn’t seem to mind it when I asked if another podium meant another date,” he teases.

You look up at him, fighting the grin threatening to break free. “That’s because it was cute,” you admit softly. “And maybe a little bold.”

“Bold’s kind of my thing.” He leans a bit closer as you stop at the water’s edge. The reflection of neon lights ripples across the dark surface, and there’s a quiet moment — one of those that hums with all the words neither of you need to say.

You turn to face him fully, your hand brushing against his. “So, what does a guy do when his manifestation works?”

Daniel tilts his head, his voice dropping just slightly. “Takes the girl on another date… and tries not to mess it up.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but your cheeks are warm. “So far, you’re doing alright.”

He smiles, that slow, soft Daniel Ricciardo smile — the one that makes your heart skip like a missed beat. “Good. Because I was hoping for that.”

The rest of the night is light and easy. He buys you street food from a vendor, even though you insist you’re not hungry — only for you to end up stealing half his skewer. He makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and at one point, he drapes his arm over your shoulders while you’re walking, casual and comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And when you reach your hotel, neither of you seems ready to let go.

You linger in the hallway, both of you laughing softly about something ridiculous he said — and then there’s that silence again. The one that always feels like it’s building toward something inevitable.

You meet his eyes, heart fluttering. “You don’t have to rush off,” you say quietly. “If you want to stay for a bit.”

Daniel blinks, caught off guard for a moment — then that smile creeps in, soft and fond. “Yeah?”

You nod, trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah.”

He steps inside, toeing off his shoes by the door, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. He takes his hoodie off, leaving just a plain black tee that somehow makes him look even better. You sit on the bed, pulling your legs up, watching as he sits beside you.

“I can’t believe you actually let me stay,” he says with a grin, voice soft now, like the night’s taken the edge off his usual energy.

You shrug. “You earned it.”

He laughs — quietly this time — and then reaches over, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is so gentle that your breath catches.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “you make it really hard to focus on racing.”

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Good thing you’re doing both pretty well.”

He laughs again, but this time it fades into something softer. Then, almost instinctively, you both lean in. The kiss isn’t rushed or hungry — it’s slow, sweet, and filled with the kind of warmth that seeps right into your bones. When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his.

“I’m really glad you’re back,” you whisper.

“So am I,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your jaw. “If this is part of the package.”

You laugh, curling into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. He pulls you closer, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his hand tracing lazy circles along your back.

The city outside hums quietly, the faint glow of the skyline painting streaks of blue and gold across the curtains.

Neither of you talk much after that. You fall asleep tangled up together — his hand still in your hair, your leg draped over his, the scent of him — sandalwood and champagne and something unmistakably Daniel — filling the quiet.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like a story for the cameras or a headline waiting to happen.

It’s just the two of you. Warm. Weightless. Right.

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a week later…japan

You wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a freight train.Your throat is sandpaper, your nose is completely useless, and your voice — when you try to croak out a “hello?” to room service — comes out like a dying frog. The sunlight spilling through the curtains feels far too bright, and even your bones ache.

You groan and flop back into bed, clutching the blanket like it might save you. You’d felt it coming the night before — a tickle in your throat during the flight to Japan, a sniffle you brushed off as jet lag. But now, it’s undeniable: you’re sick. Horribly sick.

With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and type a quick message to the crew and your boss :

hey guys, I’m super sick today. won’t make media day :( please let RB know I’ll catch them later this week!

You drop your phone onto the nightstand and pull the covers up to your chin, trying to go back to sleep. Your body feels heavy, hot, and shivery all at once.

But a few hours later — maybe three, maybe four — a soft knock pulls you out of your feverish half-sleep.

You groan, sitting up and sniffling pathetically. “Who—who is it?” you call, voice barely audible.

There’s silence for a second. Then—

“Room service. With extra charm.”

You blink, frowning at the voice. That voice. That lilt.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle to the door, blanket still wrapped around you like a cocoon. When you open it, you nearly drop your jaw.

Daniel Ricciardo stands there, grinning sheepishly, holding two grocery bags and a bouquet of flowers so bright they make the entire hallway glow.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Heard you called in sick.”

You blink, still groggy. “Daniel,” you rasp, “what are you— why aren’t you at media day?”

He shrugs, stepping inside like he’s done it a thousand times before. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You follow him with your eyes as he sets the bags down on the small hotel table, humming like he owns the place. “What do you mean you didn’t feel like it?” you ask, confused.

He glances over his shoulder at you, grin softening. “Didn’t want to answer anything that didn’t come from you.”

Your brain short-circuits. “You— you what?”

He just shrugs again, casual as ever. “Told them I wasn’t doing any press until you were back. They looked pretty confused, to be honest.”

“Daniel,” you croak, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, “you can’t just skip media day because I’m sick.”

“Too late,” he says cheerfully, unpacking his haul. “Now sit down before you fall down.”

You sigh, but the corners of your mouth tug upward despite yourself. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders and sit on the edge of the bed, watching him with dazed amusement.

He pulls out a small pharmacy’s worth of supplies — tissues, cough drops, electrolyte packets, two bottles of water, even a little thermometer. Then he takes out a bag of soup from a local restaurant, still warm, and sets it all out neatly.

“I didn’t know what kind of soup you like, so I got miso and chicken noodle,” he says, focused as ever. “And tea. Lots of tea.”

Your heart twists. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He looks up at you and grins, that signature lopsided one that makes his eyes sparkle. “I wanted to. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die before I win another race.”

You laugh — or try to, but it turns into a cough. He’s beside you instantly, rubbing your back, murmuring a soft “easy, easy” until you stop.

When you finally catch your breath, you look up at him. “You’re way too nice to me,” you mumble.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just fair. You take care of everyone in that paddock. Figured someone should return the favor.”

He pours the tea, checking the temperature before handing it to you. His touch lingers on your fingers for a second longer than necessary — just enough to make your stomach flutter even through the haze of your fever.

The next few hours blur into something strangely cozy. Daniel insists on keeping you hydrated and fed, tucking your blanket around your shoulders every time you shift. He sits beside you, scrolling through random YouTube videos and showing you clips just to make you laugh — and every time you giggle, he looks so proud of himself it’s ridiculous.

At one point, you’re half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder, and he whispers, “See? Told you skipping media day was worth it.”

You hum tiredly. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, brushing a thumb over your hand, “but I’m the good kind.”

You fall asleep like that — his arm draped loosely around you, your hand still tangled in his.

When you wake up a couple hours later, the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the AC and Daniel’s slow breathing beside you. He’s dozed off sitting upright, your blanket pulled halfway over his lap, hair a mess, a small smile still lingering on his lips.

You watch him for a moment, warmth flooding through your chest despite the fever. He looks peaceful. Safe. Yours.

When you finally whisper, “Hey,” he stirs, blinking sleepily.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “Feeling any better?”

You nod weakly. “A bit. Thanks to you.”

He smiles, and that alone feels like medicine.

“Good,” he says softly, brushing his hand over your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere until you’re completely better.”

You laugh quietly, nestling back into his shoulder. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Maybe,” he hums, pulling the blanket up around you both. “But I like terrible ideas if they involve you.”

And for the first time that day, your chest doesn’t ache — it just feels full. Full of something you’d been waiting for.

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Saturday comes wrapped in sunshine and the comforting hum of the paddock coming back to life. The noise of engines, chatter, laughter, and radios filters through the air like background music — the familiar rhythm you’ve missed all week. You’re back in your element.

You’re dressed in your white blouse and slim black trousers, hair pulled into a neat half-updo that does not betray the fact that you spent most of the last few days buried under blankets and tissues. There’s still a little rasp to your voice, but you can talk again, you can move without dizziness, and you feel human — mostly.

As soon as you step into the Red Bull hospitality, Daniel spots you. He’s leaning against a counter with a coffee cup in hand, chatting with one of the engineers, but his eyes snap to you the second you walk in. That megawatt grin spreads across his face, slow and bright, and he sets his cup down before you can even say a word.

“Well, well,” he says as he walks toward you, his voice full of that playful warmth that always makes you melt. “Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living.”

You laugh softly. “I missed one media day, Ricciardo.”

He tuts, pretending to be scandalized. “One too many if you ask me.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I cannot with you.”

“Yeah, but you still deal with me.”

Before you can even roll your eyes, he presses a bottle of water into your hand, the label already half-peeled from where his thumb must’ve worried at it earlier. “You’ve been talking non-stop for the last hour,” he says matter-of-factly. “Drink.”

You blink at him, amused. “You’ve been watching me?”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “Obviously.” His voice dips just a little, teasing but soft. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t burn yourself out again.”

It’s ridiculous how much that makes your heart flutter.

You take the bottle, raising an eyebrow. “And that somebody is you?”

“Who else?” he grins. “Max? He’d hand you an energy drink and call it a vitamin.”

You can’t argue with that. You take a sip just to appease him, and he looks far too pleased with himself.

Throughout the day, you flit between teams for your pre-quali interviews, mic in hand, producer in your ear, the entire paddock swirling with the usual Saturday energy. And somehow — always — Daniel is there.

When you’re chatting with Ollie, Daniel walks by, tapping two fingers against the water bottle sitting on your nearby stool, mouthing, drink.

When you’re sitting on the pit wall during a segment, he casually leaves a pack of honey lozenges beside your notebook.

And between interviews, you catch him watching you from across the garage — not in an overbearing way, but in that quiet, fond, protective way that makes you feel seen.

You catch him mid-stare once, and he immediately points to his earpiece and mouths working, as if that somehow explains him looking at you like you hung the moon.

By the time qualifying rolls around, your energy’s fading a little — not terrible, but you’re starting to feel that dull fatigue settle behind your eyes. You’re standing near the pit lane, going through your notes, when you hear him again.

“Hey, superstar.”

You turn to find Daniel, helmet in one hand, other hand clutching a small packet of sliced fruit from the catering table.

He waves it at you. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Eat something.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really committed to this whole personal caretaker role, huh?”

He shrugs, his grin softening. “Gotta earn my invite back to your hotel room somehow.”

You blush instantly, eyes wide, but he just laughs, reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Relax, angel,” he teases, voice dropping a touch, “I just meant for soup and tea duty.”

Sure. Of course he did.

You take the fruit from him anyway, fingers brushing his — and you swear you can feel his pulse jump at the contact.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He smiles at you like you’ve just given him a trophy. “Anytime.”

After quali ends — P4 for him, and he looks absolutely thrilled — you catch him for the post-session interview. He’s flushed from the car, sweat gleaming at his temples, eyes sparkling.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” you start, trying to sound professional even as your cheeks heat. “P4 today, strong showing from you and the team — tell me how that felt.”

He takes a breath, glancing up at you with that crooked smirk that should be illegal. “Felt good. Real good. Especially having my favorite interviewer back in the paddock to see it.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You know, some might say you perform better when I’m around.”

“Oh, I’d definitely say that,” he grins. “You’re good luck.”

You shake your head, microphone trembling slightly from how hard you’re trying not to giggle. “I think that’s enough credit to last me the weekend.”

“Nah,” he says, still grinning as he looks at you like you’re the only person there, “need you back in the garage to win the race.”

The camera crew snickers. You bite your lip, eyes darting to your producer off-screen, who’s absolutely eating it up.

When the interview wraps, Daniel steps a little closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mic won’t catch it.

“Seriously,” he says softly, eyes lingering on you, “it’s good to see you back. You okay?”

You nod, voice gentle. “I am now.”

He gives your hand a quick squeeze — just for a second, just enough to make your chest flutter — and then jogs off toward the garage, waving over his shoulder.

As he disappears into the crowd, your producer’s voice crackles through your earpiece.

“Please tell me you’re aware the internet is going to explode again.”

You sigh, smiling helplessly, eyes still on where Daniel disappeared. “Yeah,” you whisper, “I’m very aware.”

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You wake to the gentle hum of the hotel AC, sunlight stretching lazily across the sheets, and the steady rhythm of Daniel’s breathing beside you.

For a second, you just lie there, eyes half open, heart full. His arm is slung over your waist, his face buried into your pillow, curls an adorable mess. His warmth seeps into you like sunlight through glass — steady, grounding, real.

You tilt your head slightly and watch him — the scruff on his jaw, the faint twitch of his lips like he’s smiling even in his sleep. He looks peaceful. For once, not the chaotic, grinning showman of the paddock, not the Daniel the cameras crave — just your Daniel.

You trace your fingers gently over the tattoos on his arm, feeling him stir under your touch.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper, smiling softly. “Big day.”

He groans dramatically, rolling onto his back. “Yeah, yeah. No pressure or anything.”

You laugh quietly, leaning up on your elbow. “You’ve done this hundreds of times.”

He cracks one eye open, grinning. “Yeah, but this is the first time my good luck charm’s here from start to finish.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re the one doing the driving, Ricciardo.”

“Maybe,” he hums, eyes softening as he looks at you, “but you’re the reason I actually want to.”

And before you can respond — before your heart can even settle from that — he leans in and presses a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world quiet, that says everything without words.

By the time you make it to the paddock, the world is already spinning in high gear — media buzzing, fans shouting, team radios crackling. You’re back in the Red Bull garage, headset in place, tablet in hand, but you can feel Daniel’s energy even before you see him.

He finds you instantly, like there’s a magnet between you.

“You ready?” you ask as he walks over in his race suit, helmet under his arm, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

“Always,” he grins. Then, leaning in just slightly, he adds, “You gonna be watching from the same spot?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile, and he nods, satisfied.

As he heads out to the grid, he glances back once — gives you that wink that makes your knees weak — before climbing into the car.

The race is chaos. Fast, tense, brilliant chaos. Max and Charles duel, Lando snatches fastest laps, strategy calls come in rapid-fire bursts. And through it all, Daniel drives like a man reborn.

You’re standing at the front of the garage, fingers gripping your lanyard, heart hammering as the final laps tick down.

“Come on, Danny,” you whisper under your breath. “You’ve got this.”

When the checkered flag waves and his name flashes across the monitor — P1 — Ricciardo — the entire garage erupts. Cheers, shouting, clapping — a tidal wave of joy. Engineers are hugging, mechanics are pounding the walls, and you can’t stop smiling.

Because he did it. He won.

The cameras are everywhere when he returns. He jumps out of the car, helmet off, face split into that impossibly bright grin — and before anyone else can get to him, he spots you.

You barely have a second to react before he’s jogging toward you, eyes shining.

“Daniel—” you start, but the words die in your throat when he scoops you up, laughing, spinning you in a full circle as the crowd around you cheers.

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, but you’re laughing too — pure, unfiltered joy bursting out of you. When he sets you down, he doesn’t hesitate.

He cups your face in both hands, tilts his head, and kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the garage, with cameras flashing, fans screaming, crew members whistling — Daniel Ricciardo kisses you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

It’s soft at first, then smiling, then just him.

When he finally pulls back, his grin is dizzying.

“This,” he says, still a little breathless, voice carrying over the noise, “is me making us official.”

You blink up at him, stunned, cheeks flushed, and laugh — the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “You’re insane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re stuck with me now.”

The team starts chanting his name, someone throws confetti from god-knows-where, and Max strolls by shaking his head, muttering, “Finally,” under his breath before pulling Daniel into a brief hug.

The rest of the day blurs into celebration — podium champagne, interviews you barely remember, Daniel looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. And later, at the afterparty, it’s quieter. Just you, him, and the glow of fairy lights in a rooftop bar overlooking the city.

He keeps a hand on your thigh the entire time, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.

“So,” you tease, leaning toward him, “official, huh?”

He grins. “Official-official.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “And what does that mean exactly?”

He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear. “Means next time I win, you’re on the podium with me.”

You laugh, swatting his arm, but he just pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest.

“Thank you,” he says softly after a moment. “For being here. For… all of it.”

You look up at him, heart swelling. “Always.”

And when he kisses you again — slow, sweet, sure — it feels like the whole world is clapping along.

Because this isn’t just his comeback. It’s yours. And somehow, in the middle of all the noise and glitter and chaos of Formula 1, you’ve found each other.

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danielricciardo

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danielricciardo : best thing about returning to f1? her.

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HE HADN’T EVEN PLANNED ON COMING. A quiet night, a couple of beers, maybe FIFA with Max, that was all he wanted. But Daniel had texted last minute, and he’d been bored, so he’d driven over, expecting the usual: some shit-talking, some background music and laughter echoing through Daniel’s apartment like always.

What he doesn’t expect is you.

He doesn’t even notice at first when he lets himself in, greeted by the sound of a match playing faintly down the hall. The place looks half-dead—one lamp on, two empty bottles on the coffee table. Then he hears the door click open down the hallway, and soft footsteps padding against hardwood.

And there you are.

He almost chokes on his own fucking tongue when you come around the corner.

He’s only ever seen you in interviews—Daniel’s little actor girlfriend—on red carpets, in movies. Perfect, polished, distant. And now you’re right there, barefoot, hair messy and sleep-heavy, in a white tank that strains over your tits and a pair of shorts so short they don’t deserve the name. He catches himself staring at the length of your legs, the curve of your waist, the fact that you clearly aren’t wearing a bra. Your nipples press against thin cotton, obvious even in dim light.

“Oh—” Your voice is soft, husky with sleep. Or—Lando doesn’t want to entertain the thought, his eyes flicking to the bedroom not so subtly. “Lando, right? Didn’t know you were coming.”

Lando blinks, suddenly aware that he’s just standing there like a fucking idiot. “Uh. Yeah. Daniel said—uh—come by.”

You give a little nod, a lazy smile tugging at your mouth like you aren’t embarrassed in the slightest to be dressed like this in front of a stranger. 

“You want a drink?” you ask casually, like you belong here.

And maybe you do, Lando thinks. The rumours aren’t exactly subtle. He’s heard the gossip about you and Daniel, the wilder shit about him apparently sharing you with Max—he’d laughed it off before, but now, well now he’s just fucking jealous.

Daniel comes out of the bedroom a second later, a grin plastered across his face, shirt hanging open like he’d just thrown it on. His hair is wet at the ends, damp curling against his neck. Jesus Christ.

“Good to see you, mate,” Daniel says, clapping a hand on his shoulder like nothing about this situation is weird. He slings an arm around your waist without even looking, casual as anything, and you lean in without hesitation, your hip slotting against him like muscle memory.

“Yeah,” Lando mutters, swallowing down the sour burn in his throat.

“Didn’t know we had company,” you say, leaning against the counter. 

Daniel laughs, easy. “Last-minute invite. You don’t mind, do ya?”

You shrug. You don't look at Daniel. Don’t stop looking at Lando.

“Nah,” you say, and it sounds like a dare.

Lando swallows hard.

Daniel notices. Of course he does. His grin sharpens, his fingers curling more firmly against your thigh. “Did I not tell you she was around?” Daniel says, smug as fuck. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Slipped his mind, my ass. He knew. He wanted this.

꩜

Lando can’t stop looking, even though it feels wrong. You’re all in the lounge room now, the TV still playing reruns of some football game. Daniel’s placed you in his lap—the bastard—and you lean into him, casual, unaware of how much skin you’re showing. Or maybe you are aware. Your arm drapes behind Daniel’s shoulders, Daniel’s hand sliding up to your waist, thumb brushing your hip bone. Too close. Too intimate.

And Daniel knows exactly what Lando’s thinking, because he laughs. “You’re quiet, mate. Cat got your tongue?”

Lando’s eyes flick to your lips, then away, ashamed. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t see this. He shouldn’t want this so badly.

But his mind won’t stop replaying it: the rumors, the imagined scenes, the thought of you bent over Daniel’s bed just a few feet away. Your hair tangled in Daniel’s fist. Your moans muffled against the pillow. And now—fuck, he’s sitting here on Daniel’s couch, starting to chub up against the seam of his sweats, and he knows what Daniel’s trying to do.

“Drink?” Daniel offers you, casual. You take it, sipping from his bottle as Lando watches the way your mouth wraps around the rim, the way your throat works, the way Daniel pulls you closer to his chest like it’s his right.

You set the bottle down, shifting slightly. Your shorts ride higher. Lando’s eyes dart there, can’t help it. Smooth thighs. A hint of fabric stretched across your pussy. For a second he swears he can see the curve of your lips through the fabric.

Daniel chuckles low. He’s watching Lando watch you. “Careful, mate. You’ll stare a hole right through her.”

Heat floods Lando’s cheeks. You tilt your head at him, curious, not offended. Maybe even amused. You don't move away.

He forces a laugh, forces his eyes back to his drink. But every nerve in his body is screaming. He keeps his eyes on the screen, jaw tight, heart pounding. He can see it in his periphery—Daniel shifting slightly, his fingers trailing up your thigh. You don’t move, don't protest. Don’t even look at him. Just keep your gaze on the movie, lashes low, mouth soft and smug like you know.

And then Daniel grabs a blanket beside him, draping it over his and your lap. His hand disappears under the blanket. Fuck.

Lando’s pulse goes insane. He stares at the game, trying to pretend he isn’t aware of every fucking thing happening two feet away. The blanket lifts the tiniest bit, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of Daniel’s wrist flexing, slow, deliberate.

Your breathing changes before anything else. Barely a difference, but he hears it—the faint hitch when Daniel’s fingers must slip lower. You shift under the pretense of stretching your legs out, but Lando’s not stupid, he hears the barest sound of fabric sliding against skin as you shuffle. He can hear the sound of your shorts and panties drop to the floor. Jesus fucking Christ.

The game drones on, commentators yelling from the screen, but all Lando can hear is your soft, controlled inhale when Daniel’s fingers must graze your pussy. He didn’t dare look, but his brain filled in the blanks anyway: Daniel’s fingers sliding between your legs, rubbing your clit.

Then it happens. A soft sound. Barely audible. A tiny whimper pressed behind your lips like you can’t help it. Lando almost loses his fucking mind.

Your eyes stay on the screen, lashes low, but they flutter when Daniel’s hand disappears under the blanket entirely.

Lando can’t breathe. Through his peripheral vision he sees the rise of your chest, faster now; the way Daniel is so fucking casual, like he’s done this a thousand times, like this is nothing. And maybe it was. Maybe to them, this was just—fun. Something to laugh about later. He can feel his own cock swelling, shame crawling up his throat as he sits there, pathetic, hearing Daniel finger you right next to him; the quietest squelch of fingers; the tiniest sounds you made.

You sneak a glance at Lando then, quick and desperate. Like you want to make sure he hadn’t noticed. Like you don’t realise how fucking obvious it is, Daniel’s hand moving slow between your legs under the blanket.

Daniel's smirk deepens. His thumb must have pressed harder, because you gasp softly and cover it with a cough.

Lando's fists clench against his knees. Heat prickling his face at the voyeuristic dirtiness of it all, how he can’t stop imagining how soaked you must be—he doesn’t have to—he can hear it, how Daniel's fingers must feel inside you, how you’d taste on his tongue.

When he risks a glance, just a flicker of his eyes, he sees your head tipped back onto Daniel’s shoulder, lips parted now, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over like you're watching the TV but not really. 

You let out another tiny sound, softer this time, and Lando feels it like a punch straight to his dick.

But then Daniel looks at him. Holds his gaze for the first time all night, smirk curling sharp at the edges, eyes glittering with something cruel.

“You can watch, mate,” Daniel says softly, like it’s a joke. You jerk, eyes snapping wide, lips parting in a silent what the fuck.

Lando freezes.

Your cheeks flush instantly, anger flaring in your eyes, but something else too—something hotter, messier, shame tangled up with it.

“Daniel,” you hiss under your breath, voice breaking on the second syllable. Your hand shoots up to grab his wrist under the blanket, but he only shifts, slipping his fingers deeper until you have to choke down a gasp.

Daniel's smirk widens. “See? She likes it.”

Your glare could kill him, and you shove at his chest with your free hand, but you don’t get up. Don’t throw the blanket off. Don’t storm away. You just sit there, trembling, thighs squeezing tighter around Daniel's hidden hand.

Lando's proper hard now, his whole body too hot, trapped in place. He hates himself for how badly he wants to see. To know exactly where Daniel's fingers are, how deep, how wet.

Daniel leans a little closer to you, murmuring something too low for Lando to catch. You duck your chin, whispering back, but your hips betrayed you—the tiniest roll, like you couldn’t help it.

And then Daniel looks at Lando again. Not even subtle. Proud. Like he’s showing you off.

His hand must be working faster now, because your breath hitches hard, pretty tits rising and falling faster under your flimsy top as you pant. 

“Look at her, Lando," Daniel murmurs, eyes still locked on him. “Prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, huh?”

You slap his chest again, furious, but a soft, broken sound escapes your throat at the same time—half whine, half moan. Your face goes crimson, eyes squeezing shut like you can will it all away.

Lando’s cock strains painfully against his sweats, humiliatingly obvious if he dared to shift. He wants to bolt. He wants to stay forever.

Your eyes flick open suddenly, landing on Lando’s. Wide, panicked, humiliated… and something else. Something hotter. You bite your lip hard, shake your head a fraction, as if begging him not to see, not to remember you like this.

But he always will.

And Daniel knows. 

“Tight little cunt clenching already, and I’ve barely started.” he says conversationally, and you make a sound of protest, burying your face in his neck.

“Danny,” you whisper, voice sharp and panicked, but making no effort to get off his lap. “Stop.”

Daniel tilts his head toward you, smug as ever. “Ohh? But you like it,” he coos, almost sing-song. "Don't you, sweetheart?”

You turn your face deeper into his neck, mortified, whispering a broken, “shut up.”

Lando nearly comes from that alone.

Daniel grinned wider, eyes cutting back to him. “Go on, mate. See for yourself.”

Then, deliberate as hell, he pulls the blanket back just enough. Enough for Lando to see Daniel's hand between your thighs, rubbing the prettiest cunt he’s ever seen. 

Daniel laughs under his breath, low and triumphant. “Told you. Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

And Lando sits there, shaking, cock straining painfully against his zipper, drowning in humiliation and desire so tangled he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Come on, sunshine,” Daniel murmurs against your ear, pitched just low enough for Lando to catch. “Don’t act shy now. He already knows.”

Your cheeks burn red, eyes snapping to Lando for half a second, fury and humiliation tangled up in your gaze. But your lips part, breath catching as Daniel's thumb probably circles your clit.

Daniel leans back into the couch, looking at Lando like this was some kind of fucking game. “Mate,” he says casually, “you’ve never seen a girl melt like this before, huh?”

You’re wrecked, trying so hard not to give it away. Your nails dig into Daniel’s forearm, like you can hold yourself back if you just grip hard enough. But your eyes betray you—glossy, threatening to roll back. Lando can hear every tiny sound: the slick, obscene wetness muffled by the blanket, your shallow panting, the little whimpers that slip out when Daniel crooks his fingers just right.

Daniel eats it up. He tilts his head, smirk plastered across his face, whispering filth against your ear—but loud enough for Lando to catch every word.

“Look at you. Trying so hard to stay quiet. You’re soaking my hand, sweetheart. Can feel you fluttering already.”

You squirm, eyes downcast, but your body betrays you, hips rolling up against his hand, chasing it. You want it. Need it.

Lando’s cock aches. His throat is bone dry, and he can’t even pretend to look away anymore. His eyes are glued to the way you writhe, to the strained muscles in your neck, to the fabric clinging to your nipples, hard and peaked. Imagines what you’d sound like if you weren't muffling yourself.

“Fuck—” you gasp, then bite it back, slapping a hand over your own mouth.

Daniel laughs. "Don't hide it. Let him hear.”

You shake your head violently, eyes squeezed shut, but your hips lift imperceptibly, rocking against Daniel's hand before you catch yourself.

“Lift up for me, baby,” Daniel coaxes, voice sticky-sweet now. “That's it. Ride it a little.”

“No—” you hiss, muffled behind your palm.

But your body obeys.

“Christ,” Daniel groans, eyes flicking to Lando. “She's dripping, mate. You hear that?”

And Lando can. The wet squelch of your pussy every time you grind down onto Daniel's fingers. 

Your eyes find his again—wide, teary, furious. Don’t look. But Lando can’t stop.

“That’s it,” Daniel murmured, coaxing, cruel. “Show him how pretty you come.”

“Daniel—” you whine, half an objection, half a plea.

Lando's cock jerks, precum dampening his boxers. He’s dizzy with it, ashamed, burning alive from the inside out.

You come like that—thighs shaking, hips rolling helplessly, mouth open in a silent cry. Daniel holds you through it, grinning like a bastard, his fingers still working until you collapse against him, trembling and panting, cheeks wet with tears you hadn’t realized had spilled.

Daniel leans back on the couch, fingers still buried in you while his grin widens. He catches Lando's eyes and tilts his head, smug as hell.

“You wanna join in, mate?” he says casually, like he’s offering him a drink. “She’s got enough for both of us.”

It’s a joke. Lando knows it’s a joke—Daniel’s laughing under his breath, eyes sparkling with that cruel mischief. But then you whimper.

What the fuck.

Just a tiny sound. Barely more than a squeak. But your whole body squirms at the suggestion. Lando sees it, feels it in the pit of his stomach. The way your thighs press together, barely concealed by the blanket anymore. Daniel stills, eyes widening for just a split second as realization hits. Then his smirk spreads wider, darker.

“Well, fuck me,” he murmurs against your temple, mockingly soft. “You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You shake your head furiously, but it’s useless. Your body’s given you away. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, cheeks burning scarlet, and you can’t stop clenching around his fingers at the thought.

Lando feels like his brain is short-circuiting. His cock is painfully hard, straining against denim, and his chest is tight with something between rage, lust, and pure fucking hunger. He doesn’t know if he wants to grab you and take what’s being offered—or if he wants to smash Daniel’s smug face in for daring to expose it. 

The image is already burned into his skull—you on your knees, lips slick around Daniel’s cock while Lando fists your hair and slides into you from behind. You’d moan through it, he just knows. You’d beg for more. You’d—

Lando realises he hasn’t replied. “I—fuck, no, I—”

“Don't bullshit,” Daniel drawls. “You saying you don’t want her? Fucking rude if you ask me.”

Lando gapes, his mind conflicted between being a decent man and yanking you from Daniel’s hands and fucking you into the couch.

“You’re allowed to want her, mate. Who wouldn’t?” Daniel smirks. “Max did too, that’s for sure.” 

This fucker. Daniel drags his fingers out just enough for the wet sound to echo under the blanket, then pushes them back in deliberately. You shudder, nails sinking into his arm. “Look at her, Lando. She’s so turned on she doesn’t know if she’s angry or begging. Isn't that right?”

Your cheeks are on fire, trying to twist away, but Daniel's grip is iron.

Daniel tosses the blanket aside completely, revealing the perfect view of how his fingers are still glistening wet from inside your cunt, lazily circling your clit like he’s winding you up just to prove how easy you are. You’re twitching against him, thighs trembling, little gasps breaking out of you every time he presses down. Daniel pushes your tank over your tits, baring them. He slaps them, lets them bounce from the impact. Lando can’t look away.

Daniel smirks at him, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “Mate, you see how messy she is? I can’t keep up.” He pushes two fingers deep again, slow, obscene, and your whole body arches. “She’s making a bloody puddle, look.”

You whimper, trying to hide your face, but Daniel tips your chin back toward Lando, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You want him, don’t you? Your pussy clenched just at the thought.”

You try to look away in protest, but you’re grinding down against his hand, slick gushing with every thrust of his fingers. He pulls his fingers free, strings of slick catching in the TV light as he gets off the couch to kneel at your legs, positioning you to spread your thighs apart, baring you completely. Daniel laughs low, and then he says it:

“Go on, don’t make the lady beg. Clean her up.”

Don’t. Don’t you fucking—

Lando moves before he even thinks about it. He slides off his seat, kneeling between your thighs, and Daniel spreads them wide for him, obscene and easy. You make a shocked little gasp, but when Lando settles his mouth over you, your hips buck up into him.

Lando licks slow, deliberate, dragging his tongue through your soaked folds, tasting. It’s messy, raw, hot. He holds your thighs down, forces you to stay open, and hums against your clit until you cry out.

Daniel laughs. “That what you wanted, sweetheart?”

You try to shake your head, but Daniel shoves his fingers into your mouth instead. “Shh. Bite down and suck. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Your lips seal around him, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes from humiliation, and Daniel presses his fingers down harder on your tongue. Deeper. You gag.

Lando’s eating you like he’s been starving for it, but the same smug current runs through him—pulling back to spit on your cunt, to drag his tongue flat and broad over your folds before focusing sharp on your clit, the way you twitch every time he sucks it into his mouth. He doesn’t give you mercy, doesn’t soften when you whine or try to jerk away. 

Daniel unzips his jeans lazily, pulls his cock free, already hard, flushed and wet at the tip. 

“Open up, sweetheart. Let him see how pretty you take it.”

You obey, lips parting, and Daniel slides into your mouth slow, savoring the way your eyes flutter closed. The head bulges against your lips, jaw stretching wide.

Lando watches, groaning low as he tongues your clit, the obscene sight of Daniel’s cock pushing between your lips while you bucks into his mouth. His cock strains against his sweats, aching, but the power of it—having you spread open under him, tasting you, watching you gag around Daniel—has him dizzy.

“Mm, fuck. There we go, baby—goddamn,” Daniel sighs, hand fisting in your hair. “See, Norris? She’s built for this.”

You choke, throat convulsing, but Daniel just holds you there, smirking down at you while Lando works you open below.

And Lando doesn’t stop. He’s eating you like he wants to prove something—tongue curling inside you, dragging out every shudder, biting lightly on your clit until you’re gasping and moaning around Daniel’s cock. His chin’s slick with you, saliva dripping down, but he keeps going.

Daniel pulls out just long enough to slap his cock wet against your cheek, smearing spit and precum across your face. “Messy little thing. Look at you, drooling on both of us. You’re pathetic.”

Lando looks up from between your thighs, lips shiny, eyes dark, cocky like he can’t believe he’s tongue-fucking Daniel’s girl. “She’s dripping all over my face, mate. Can’t keep it in. She wants it bad.” His tongue dives back in, fucking into your cunt, sloppy, loud, messy.

“Course she does. Always gets like this when she knows someone’s watching. Got like this with Max too, huh?” Daniel chuckles, rolling his hips, making you choke and sputter, spit trailing down your chin. “Little cock-drunk slut loves being passed around—maybe I should let the whole grid have a go at you.”

You moan so prettily at his words, shaking your head like you’re denying it—but your throat swallows around him instinctively, hips rutting against Lando’s tongue, desperate. You’re lost, drunk on humiliation and pleasure. Your whole body is trembling, twitching, caught between the two of them. 

Lando pulls back for air, chin shiny, fingers working inside you while his eyes meet Daniel’s over your writhing body. He smirks, cruel, his voice edged with that same superiority Daniel’s been wielding all night.

“She’s gonna come just like this? With your cock down her throat.”

Daniel groans, low and dirty, watching you gag around him, spit bubbling over your lips. “She better. Or she doesn’t get to.” He slaps your cheek lightly with his free hand, then rubs his knuckle over the blooming pink like it’s comfort. “Hear that, sweetheart? You come now, or you don’t come at all.”

And you do.

Your whole body seizes, thighs shaking against Lando’s shoulders, cunt clamping hard around his fingers. The orgasm rips through you, muffled around Daniel’s cock, eyes rolling back as slick gushes messily onto Lando’s tongue and fingers.

Daniel grunts, his hips snapping harder into you. You hum—pleased, sated from your orgasm, all previous shame seemingly gone. Daniel’s cock jerks deep in your throat, cum flooding your mouth in hot, thick spurts. You swallow desperately, gagging on the sheer amount, but don't pull away. Lando watches a little dribble down your chin, which you wiped off with your finger, sucking it clean like candy. 

For a split second, Lando mourns how good your cunt would have felt around him, but judging by the way you’ve collapsed into Daniel’s arms, he figures he’ll have to make do with a wank once he’s alone.

Daniel smirks, wipes his cock along your cheek, leaving it shiny. “Fuck me, Norris,” he drawls, voice dark and smug. “We should’ve done this sooner.”

Lando just licks his slick-coated fingers clean, eyes locked on your wrecked face, and grins.

"Don't look so worried, kid," Daniel had grinned, his teeth blindingly white in the desert sun. "I’ve decided you’re a Ricciardo now. It’s in the fine print of your contract. Welcome to the family."

It didn't take long for the paddock to realize that the two of you weren't just joking. The dynamic was instant and chaotic.

During a particularly grueling media session after a tough qualifying, a reporter asked a back-to-back series of questions that had you stumbling. Suddenly, Daniel appeared behind you, leaning into your microphone.

"Sorry, she can’t answer that. Her brain is currently fried from all the G-forces. Also, she’s grounded for forgetting to text me back yesterday."

"I'm twenty-one, Daniel. You can't ground a teammate from a different team."

"Watch me. Brotherly authority triumphs over FIA regulations, Y/N. Move it along, Pete!"

You were trying to take a pre-race nap in your driver room when the door flew open without a knock. You didn't even have to open your eyes to know who it was.

"Sister! I require snacks and your professional opinion on my helmet design," Daniel announced, flopping onto the small sofa and kicking his shoes off.

"Daniel, go away. I have a race in two hours," you groaned into your pillow.

"Exactly! Energy management! I’m managing your energy by making sure you aren't bored," he countered, already peeling an orange he’d definitely stolen from your team's catering. "Now, do we like the neon pink or the extra neon pink?"

Despite the constant teasing and the way he’d pull your cap down over your eyes every time he passed you in the paddock, Daniel was the first person at your garage after your first points finish.

He didn't care about the cameras or the "driver rivalry" narrative. He pushed through the mechanics, grabbed you in a massive bear hug, and lifted you off the ground.

"That’s my sister!" he shouted to anyone who would listen. "Did you see that overtake into Turn 4? Pure Ricciardo DNA right there!"

Later that night, when the adrenaline had faded and you were feeling the weight of the season's pressure, he sat with you on the steps of the motorhome. He wasn't the "Honey Badger" then—just Dan.

"You're doing great, Y/N," he said softly, bumping his shoulder against yours. "Seriously. If it ever gets too loud, or the pressure feels like it’s squashing you, you come find me. I don't care if I'm in a meeting or in the middle of a debrief. Big brothers don't let their sisters drown."

You leaned your head on his shoulder, finally feeling like you belonged in this world of 200mph cars. "Thanks, Dan. Even if you are the most annoying person on the grid."

"Hey!" he laughed, nudging you. "That's Honorary Most Annoying Person to you."

By the time the European leg of the season rolled around, it was official.

"Copy, Y/N. Daniel is behind you on the hards, he's your brother, so he says he's not going to dive-bomb you... but he's smiling, so be careful."

You’d be walking toward the garage and hear a distant, "EY! SIS!" and you’d instinctively raise a hand in a wave without even looking back.

It wasn't just a PR stunt; it was the support system you needed. He taught you how to handle the vultures, how to save your tires, and most importantly, how to never take the circus too seriously.

You were the rookie driver everyone was watching, but to Daniel, you were just the kid sister he had to look out for—mostly to make sure you didn't trip over your own feet while walking to the podium.

The "Ricciardo Adoption" didn't just stay within the paddock walls; it bled into the summer break and onto social media, where fans started referring to you as the "Ricciardo Duo" more often than your actual team names.

By the time the circus arrived in Spa, the sibling energy had reached critical levels.

It started when a video went viral of you laughing with another driver—let’s say, a certain charming Spaniard—near the hospitality units. That afternoon, Daniel was waiting for you in your garage, leaning against your spare front wing with a very serious expression.

"I saw the footage, Y/N. The hair-flip? The laughing at his jokes? Unacceptable behavior."

"Dan, he was telling me about his golf game. It was barely a conversation."

"As your self-appointed older brother, I have to vet all potential suitors. Currently, he’s at a 'No' because his neck is too thick. It’s intimidating. I need someone more... scrawny. Like a Lando. Or a pole."

"You’re literally insane. Get out of my garage before my engineers make you leave."

"I’m staying until you admit he’s a 'No'. I’m protecting the family brand!"

Humor was the baseline, but the "soft" side of the adoption came through when things went wrong. During a rainy practice session in Zandvoort, you lost the rear and went nose-first into the barriers. It wasn't a massive hit, but it was your first real crunch in an F1 car.

By the time you got back to the paddock, shaken and frustrated with yourself, Daniel was already standing outside your motorhome. He didn't say a word; he just held out a bag of your favorite gummy bears and waited.

"I'm fine, Dan," you muttered, looking at the ground. "I just feel like an idiot."

"Standard procedure for a rookie," he said, his voice unusually quiet and steady. He hooked an arm around your neck, pulling you into a half-hug. "If you don't bin it at least once, you aren't trying hard enough. Plus, look on the bright side—I’ve binned it in way more expensive ways than that. You’re still an amateur at crashing compared to me."

He stayed with you through your debrief, sitting in the corner of the room and making ridiculous faces at you every time you started to look too stressed, until you finally cracked a smile.

For the final race of the season, Daniel surprised you. Usually, drivers swap helmets with rivals they respect. Daniel marched into your room with his bright, chaotic helmet held out like a trophy.

"Alright, Sis. This is a big moment. The legend himself is offering you his lid."

You laughed, pulling your own helmet out of its bag. "I’m honored, truly. But you know this means you have to display mine in your house, right?"

"Front and center," he promised, his grin softening into something genuinely proud. He pulled a marker out and scribbled on the visor of the helmet he was giving you: "TO THE BEST LIL SIS IN F1. TRY NOT TO BE FASTER THAN ME NEXT YEAR."

You wrote on yours: "TO MY ANNOYING BIG BROTHER. THANKS FOR NOT LETTING ME QUIT."

Post-season, while other drivers headed to Ibiza or Dubai, you found yourself at a quiet dinner in Monaco with Daniel and a few of his closest friends. At one point, the waiter asked how you two were related, seeing the constant bickering and the similar way you both used your hands when you talked.

"She's my sister," Daniel said immediately, no hint of a joke in his voice. "Found her in a paddock, decided she didn't have enough chaos in her life, and kept her."

You rolled your eyes, reaching over to steal a fry off his plate. "He's the brother I never wanted, but I guess I'm stuck with him now for the tax benefits."

"Hey! Don't talk about your elders like that," he laughed, but he didn't pull the plate away. In fact, he pushed the whole basket of fries toward you. "Eat up, kid. You've got a long career ahead of you, and I’ve gotta make sure you’re fed for it."

In the high-pressure, lonely world of Formula 1, you hadn't just found a mentor—you’d found a home.

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The paddock on a Friday always had its particular rhythm. As the drivers, engineers and mechanics were preparing for free practice, there were photographers darting around and fans trying to catch a glimpse through the barricades. For Daniel, it was all familiar noise, part of the pulse of the sport. But what settled his shoulders every time was knowing that his wife was there.

They had been married for just over a year now, and though they still joked about the chaos of planning a wedding during the season, the band of gold wrapped around his finger felt like second nature. Sometimes when he tugged his gloves off after FP1, he would twist the ring one, glance across the garage, and catch her eye - their little ritual of reassurance. 

Today had been no different. She sat off to the side of the Red Bull hospitality area, a book half-open on her lap. She wasn’t really reading, not when there was so much going on around her, but Daniel liked that she still tried. He’d teased her earlier about it– “Bet you haven't gotten past page three yet, have you babe?” –and she laughed, batting his hand away when he leaned down to kiss her temple.

Everything felt good and normal. Which was why when her hand trembled slightly against the page, she almost dismissed it.

But Daniel didn’t.

He was walking back towards her, helmet still tucked under one arm, when his gaze dropped to the way her fingers twitched against the book spine. His grin faltered, eyes narrowing the way they did when he caught the smallest change. Even after all this time seizure-free. He still noticed.

“Hey baby.” he said softly when he reached her, tone light enough not to draw attention, being careful to make sure only she heard. “You okay? Need some water?”

She blinked up at him, trying for a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I think so. Just a bit–” She searched for the right word, but the sensation was strange and off-kilter. Like there was a hum just beneath her skin. She hadn’t felt it in months.

Daniel crouched down, bringing himself to her level. To anyone else, it looked like a casual, affectionate gesture. But she knew him too well - the way his hand hovered just shy of hers, not touching yet, waiting for permission.

“Dizzy?” He prompted gently. 

“Maybe.” She hated the edge of uncertainty in her own voice. 

His hand slid over hers then. “Alright. Let’s go inside yeah? It’s quieter in there.”

He didn’t rush her or make a scene. Instead, he stood, easing her book closed with one hand, the other guiding her up with the subtle kind of care that never made her feel fragile.

The two of them slipped into the private area being the garage, the sounds of the paddock muffled by the door shutting behind them. Daniel kept his arm looped loosely around her waist, his body angled just enough to shield her from curious eyes should anyone pass.

The quiet of the private room should have been grounding, but the humming beneath her skin only grew sharper and louder. Daniel settled her onto the low couch tucked into the corner, kneeling in front of her again, his helmet forgotten on the table.

“You’re alright,” he muttered, his thumb brushing the back of her hand in slow, steady circles. “We’re together. Just breathe for me.”

She tried. She wanted to reassure him and to insist that it was nothing, but the words caught halfway in her throat. The edges of the room blurred, lights feeling too bright even in the dimness, and she squeezed his fingers with the little control she still had.

Daniel’s chest tightened at the familiar sign. He knew that look - the distant focus, the small tremor rolling through her shoulders. It had been so long since he’d seen it, but his body remembered before his mind caught up.

“Okay, baby. It’s happening,” he whispered, voice low and certain. His other hand slid behind her back, easing her gently onto her side. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Her breath stuttered once, then the seizure took hold. Daniel stayed right there, steady and unmoving, speaking soft reassurances to her as he placed a cushion underneath her head. His palm hovered near her temple, careful not to restrain her, but to protect her from the edge of the couch. 

Time seemed to slow down inside the room as Daniel counted the seconds in his head, monitoring how long the seizure lasted as her body continued to shake.

When the worst of it passed, her muscles finally eased and her body grew heavy against the cushions, Daniel exhaled for the first time. He pulled the throw blanket from the armsrest, tucking it gently around her, his hand lingering at her shoulder until her breathing found its rhythm again.

“Hey, sunshine,” he whispered when her lashes fluttered faintly, though she was still too far under to properly answer. “You scared me, but you’re okay. I promise - you’re okay.”

His own pulse was still racing, a cocktail of fear and fierce relief, but his voice never wavered. He kissed her temple once before moving back to give her a bit of space.   

He kept one arm on her, ensuring that she didn’t fall off of the couch in her still dazed state, as he got his phone out with his other hand. He quickly dialled the number and put the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, it’s Daniel. I need medical in the Red Bull lounge - my wife’s had a seizure.”

It didn’t take long. Within minutes, the team’s doctor and a medic were slipping inside, their movements brisk but quiet and respectful of the privacy Daniel fought to maintain. He shifted enough to give them room but he never let go of her hand.

“She hasn’t had one in months,” Daniel explained quickly, his words tumbling faster than he meant. “We thought things were under control. It just hit out of nowhere.”

The medic’s tone was calm and practiced. “It happens, Daniel. Stress, exhaustion, sometimes there’s no clear trigger at all. The important thing is she’s stable now.”

Daniel nodded, throat tight, as he let them check her vitals, a blood pressure cuff wrapping around her arm, an oximeter on her finger to check her heartrate. Through it all, she was awake but breathing soft and shallow.

“Let her rest,” the doctor advised. “She’ll be drowsy for a while, a little disorientated. But she’s through the worst of it.”

When they left, assuring him they’d be close if needed, Daniel finally sagged back against the couch, still grasping her hand. 

It wasn’t too long after that she became more alert, she was still confused but when she registered his arm across her, she automatically leaned into it. 

“Dan?” her voice was scratchy and thin.

“Right here, baby.” He shifted closer immediately at the sound of her voice, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead. “Take it slow. You’ve just been through it.”

Her brows knitted together when she noticed the lack of his usual humour. “I had one, didn't I?”

He pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Yeah. You did. First one in a long time.” He tried for a smile, gentle but a little shaky. “Scared the hell out of me, if I’m honest.”

Guilt flickered in her tired eyes, her mouth forming the words before she could stop them. “I’m sorry.”

Daniel shook his head instantly, tightening his arm around her. “No. Don’t be sorry. You don’t ever need to apologise for this. It’s not your fault. It’s just part of what we live with.”

Her lip trembled as she heard him say ‘we’, and she leaned into his chest. He held her like he always did, wrapping her up in his arms tenderly but with obvious strength. 

“You’re still my girl,” Daniel whispered into her hair. “Ring and all. Nothing changes that.”

© rosietoesf1 — please do not repost, translate, or copy without permission ♡

You are seventeen in PyeongChang and the world is made of glass and light.

Everything sparkles. The snow. The medals. The cameras. The way people say your name like it already belongs in history.

You win gold in the halfpipe by half a point and a smile. You send your second jump so hard it feels like flying, and when you look up at the scoreboard and see the American favorite drop beneath you, something feral and electric roars in your chest. You throw your hands in the air like you meant to do it the whole time. Like you weren’t shaking at the top of the pipe.

Seventeen. Wide-eyed. Untouchable.

You’re drunk on it. On being the little sister who just outdid expectations. On being young and hot and wrapped in green and gold. On the way reporters ask about what having Scotty James as an older brother is like and you get to grin and say, “Yeah, he’s alright, I guess.” On, for the first time in your life, being a little bit bigger than his shadow.

You’re drunk on champagne, too. Enough that your cheeks are warm and your laugh is louder than usual and you lean into conversations instead of hovering at the edge of them. Enough that the hotel room one of Scotty’s mates has taken over feels like the center of the universe.

There are athletes sprawled across the carpet, medals clinking against beer bottles. A few minor celebs from home. Girlfriends. Someone has music blasting from a bluetooth. The air smells like sweat and body spray and victory.

And Daniel is there.

He’s twenty-eight. Already in Formula One. Already famous in a way that feels different from yours- global and glossy and fast. But here, tonight, he’s just Danny. Scotty’s mate. The one who flew in because he wouldn’t miss a front row seat to Olympic energy for the world.

He’s tall in the doorway, grinning like you personally did something for him. He pulls you into a hug that lifts you half off the floor.

“You bloody legend,” he says into your hair.

You glow.

He’s funny all night. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, listening when you pause the telly and ramble about your runs like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. Passing you a drink. Teasing Scotty. Ruffling your hair when you get dramatic. He looks at you when you talk.

Seventeen-year-old you mistakes that for something enormous.

By midnight the adrenaline is crashing hard. Your body is wrecked. You’ve competed. You’ve done press. You’ve celebrated. Your limbs feel syrupy and heavy. Daniel stands and stretches. “I’m calling it,” he says. “Early flight tomorrow.”

You blink at him, suddenly aware of how tired you are too. “Yeah,” you say, pushing yourself upright. “Me too. Scotty, when are we going back to the village?”

Scotty groans. “Soft. I don’t want to leave yet, it’s just gettin’ fun, yeah?”

You shove him. “I hucked it, ‘m tired.”

Daniel laughs. “She’s earned some rest.” There’s a quick, easy decision made between the two of them. You don’t even clock the logistics. Daniel’s room is on the same floor. Close, but quieter. “She can crash on my couch,” he says. “You can come get her when you’re done being a menace.”

Scotty doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, sweet. Look after her.”

“I always do.” There’s no tension in it. No suspicion. Scotty trusts him implicitly. He trusts him with you.

You feel important walking down the hallway beside Daniel. Special. Like you’ve been chosen for something.

The suite is dim and quiet, a soft contrast to the chaos you just left. Daniel flicks on a lamp. Kicks off his shoes. “Alright, champ,” he says gently. “Let’s get you horizontal.” He pulls a blanket from the back of the couch. Hands it to you. And something in you- seventeen and stupid and blazing with gold-medal confidence- decides this is the moment.

Of course he wants you. Of course he does. You’re an Olympic champion. You’re glowing. You’re young and fearless and the world just bent for you. He’s been laughing at your jokes all night. He’s been looking at you. You step closer instead of sitting down. “Danny,” you say, soft and conspiratorial. He turns toward you, still smiling.

You step into him like you’ve done it a hundred times before- like you’re a woman and not a seventeen-year-old girl vibrating with champagne and victory. Like someone with experience, not someone who lost their virginity eight months ago in the back of a van during the X-games qualifiers. You rise onto your toes, fingers curling instinctively into the front of his shirt, and press your mouth toward his.

For half a second you think you’ve done something bold and brilliant.

Then he freezes. Not in desire. Not in surprise. In horror.

He steps back immediately. Like you’re hot to the touch. “Hey,” he says sharply- not angry, just alarmed. “Whoa. Hey.”

You blink up at him, confused. Embarrassment creeping in slow and syrupy.

He’s already moving away from you. “No,” he says, softer now. Firm. “No, no, no.”

You’ve never seen him look like this. Not laughing. Not easy. His jaw tight. His eyes wide and very, very clear. He steps back again, putting deliberate distance between you like he’s afraid proximity itself is a mistake. He runs a hand through his hair, looking past you, toward the door, like he needs an adult.

Like he needs Scotty.

And before you can even piece together what’s happening, he turns and leaves the suite. Just… leaves. That’s it. No lecture. No explanation. No softness. The door clicks shut behind him and the quiet is instant and suffocating.

You stand there for a second, stunned. Did he just- Did he just walk away from you? Your face burns. Your chest tightens. A mix of humiliation and confusion and teenage fury.

You are an Olympic champion. You just beat the Americans, the Nordic girls, the fucking world. You are not someone who gets rejected. You yank open the door and follow him into the hallway.

You lunge for the door. The hallway outside is quiet and carpeted and far too bright. You can hear the faint thrum of music two doors down- the party still going, laughter spilling through the cracks.

You make it halfway down the hall before the door swings open. Scotty storms out first. Danny is behind him, but he isn’t storming. He’s composed. His expression tight. Controlled. Watching. Scotty looks like he might actually kill someone. You, probably.

He sees you and his face shifts from confusion to fury in a single breath. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He crosses the distance in three long strides and grabs you by the back of your coat- not gentle, not violent, just decisive. Fingers bunching fabric at your collar. He turns you and starts marching you down the hallway.

“Scotty- ” you try.

“Shut up.”

The words slice. He doesn’t look at Danny again. Doesn’t need to. Whatever was said in that party room was enough. “I told Mum and Dad you weren’t ready for this,” he goes on, voice low but shaking with anger. “I told them you’re still a kid.”

You yank against his grip. “I’m not a kid- ”

“You’re seventeen,” he snaps. “You won a gold medal and you think that makes you grown?” People at the far end of the hall glance up. He doesn’t care. “You’re drunk,” he says, jaw tight. “You’re young and dumb and acting like a real fucking dick.”

The words land harder than any fall you’ve ever taken.

You twist around enough to see Daniel still standing by the open door two rooms down. He hasn’t followed. He hasn’t intervened. He’s just watching- arms folded, face calm but serious. Not angry at you. Not ashamed.

Just… steady. Like he did the only thing he could. Scotty presses the elevator button with more force than necessary. The doors open almost immediately. He pushes you inside.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says, voice lower now but no less fierce. “You don’t get to throw yourself at my mates because you think you’re hot shit.”

Your cheeks burn. Your eyes sting. Not from tears- you refuse that- but from humiliation so sharp it feels physical.

“I wasn’t throwing myself- ”

“You were,” he cuts in. “And he’s twenty-eight. What the actual fuck were you thinking?”

You cross your arms automatically, defensive, chin lifting in a way that feels bold until it feels very small. “I wasn’t- ”

“You were hitting on him.” The words crack like a whip. “You tried to kiss him. Want to explain that, you fucking genius?”

You swallow. “He was being nice to me.”

“He is nice,” Scotty snaps. “That’s the point. He’s a good bloke.” The elevator jerks as it starts descending. The mirrored walls reflect the two of you- gold medal, green and gold jacket, Scotty’s jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

“He’s eleven fucking years older than you!” Scotty continues, pacing the tiny space like a caged animal. “He’s one of my best mates. He’s also extremely fucking famous. He parties with models,” Scotty goes on, voice rising now. “With money. With beautiful, grown women who are important. Not minors. Not you.”

“Can you just be seventeen?” he demands. “Can you just fucking be seventeen? Have fun with your mates. Eat crap food. Get a crush on someone your own age.” You keep staring at your reflection in the mirrored wall. Messy hair. Smudged mascara. Gold medal glinting against your collarbone. Olympic champion.

You feel neither powerful nor untouchable now.

Just young. And very, very stupid. So, for a few weeks after PyeongChang, you keep your head down. You train. You mind your business. You FaceTime Mum. You avoid eye contact with Scotty longer than necessary and pretend you’re not waiting for him to bring it up again.

He doesn’t. Not really. He’s cooler with you for a bit. Protective in a way that feels less brotherly and more parental. Invites you to less afters. He makes sure you go home earlier than everyone else when you do. He watches you like you’re a loose screw he hasn’t tightened yet.

You hate it. But you understand it. You smooth things over by turning his words back on yourself. Being less young. Less stupid. Growing up.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just quietly. You learn how to hold your liquor. You learn when to leave a room. You learn that attention is not the same thing as invitation. You learn that being young and talented and glowing does not make you untouchable.

The memory of that night doesn’t vanish. It just shrinks. It becomes a story. A pub story.

By nineteen, you can feel it coming before he even starts. You’ll be out after a comp- boards stacked by the wall, hands wrapped around beers, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins- and Scotty will glance at you with that grin.

“Remember that one time-” You lunge across the table every single time.

You try to choke him. You threaten to pour his drink in his lap. You hiss, “I will actually murder you,” through gritted teeth while his mates laugh.

He finds it hysterical. You find it mortifying. But the sting fades. It becomes part of your mythology. Part of being the kid sister who won gold too early and thought she was older than she was.

In the years between seventeen and twenty-one, you grow into yourself the hard way- by earning it. Staying competent next to Scotty is not casual. It’s war. He is relentless. He is precise. He is already one of the best in the world. If you want to ride with him without looking like a tagalong, you have to push.

So you push.

You start throwing tricks no other woman is throwing. Not because you’re trying to prove something to men, but because you’re training with them. Because the gap between women’s and men’s classes is real, and if you can hang in his sessions, the women’s field starts to look different.

Smaller.

You take harder slams. You sit in the snow longer after crashes, staring up at the sky until the stars clear from your vision. You learn how to get up and do it again. You learn how to override fear with muscle memory.

You pick up big air because the adrenaline is addictive. Because there’s something obscene and beautiful about hurling yourself into open sky with nothing but rotation and instinct to guide you. You dabble in cross because why not. Because the chaos of it- elbows, ice spray, unpredictable lines- sharpens something in you that halfpipe can’t.

You start to look less like a prodigy and more like a professional. The childish edges sand down, and the time you head into Beijing at twenty-one, you are not wide-eyed anymore.

You are sharper. Harder. Smarter. And this games feels colder than PyeongChang ever did. Not the air- you’re practically acclimated to below freezing by now- but you. You qualified in halfpipe and slopestyle without breaking a sweat, your name essentially penciled in years ago. There was never a question of if you would compete, so long as you didn’t kill yourself on accident before the Games.

Your boyfriend thought there wasn’t a question for him either. Until there was.

He didn’t qualify. And December turned into something ugly and sour and humiliating in a way that had nothing to do with snowboarding. You didn’t see it coming- the way resentment would bloom in him like mold. The way every congratulation you received would become something he swallowed like poison.

By Christmas, you were single. By January, you were angry. By February, you were in China with your pick of events and a free pass to go boy-shopping in the village as you pleased.

Danny comes for halfpipe finals again.

Thirty-two now. Older. Broader somehow. A little weathered in the way men who’ve lived in the public eye get. He flew in to watch Scotty’s halfpipe and soak up the Olympics like he always does- like it’s some communal fire he’s drawn to. Someone like Danny doesn’t just not come to something as magnetic as the Olympics- not when he’s got a front row pass with the men’s snowboarding competitor.

You see him in the hotel lobby the first night and your stomach does a small, involuntary flip.

Not attraction. Shame. It’s stupid that it still makes you self-conscious. Four years have passed. You’ve grown up. You’ve dated. You’ve competed in world finals. You’ve held press conferences without flinching. But that seventeen-year-old girl still lives somewhere under your skin, forever a fuck-up.

Dinner is loud and crowded and full of Australians. You, Scotty, Danny, and a few of Scotty’s boys who seem to materialize at every Winter Games no matter the country. The table is long. Beers are already sweating against coasters.

You choose your seat carefully. Not next to him. Not across from him. Diagonal and two down. Safe. You are hyperaware of yourself. Of your posture. Of where your eyes land. You laugh when appropriate. You contribute to conversations that have nothing to do with him.

You will not be teased tonight. Most of these boys know the story. Scotty’s story. The “remember that one time” story. You can feel it hovering like a shared inside joke. 

So you are disciplined.

When Danny asks how training has been, you answer in the broadest strokes possible.

“Fine,” you say. You don’t elaborate. You don’t mention the new variation you’ve been dialing in on your final hit. You don’t mention how your amplitude has been consistently almost a meter higher than your training average in 2018. You don’t mention that you feel better than you did four years ago.

You give him nothing. No funny stories from the athlete village. No breakdown of which rookie looks nervous. No quiet confession about your dream to put a new number on the board.

You are polite. Measured. Contained.

He starts conversations with you a few times anyway. Asks if you’re worried about Chloe (very). Asks about your Christmas holiday (bad.) There is no awkwardness in him. No hesitation. No trace of that hotel hallway.

If anything, he treats you like an equal. That almost makes it worse.

You keep your answers short. You can feel Scotty watching the dynamic with peripheral amusement. You refuse to give him anything to latch onto.

And then the restaurant door opens and she walks in. You don’t know her name yet, but you know immediately who she is for. She’s beautiful.

Not intimidating in a loud way. Just… composed. Long coat. Glossy hair. The kind of face that probably photographs well even in bad lighting. She scans the room and her eyes land on Danny with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs there.

He stands automatically. There’s a flicker of recognition around the table- the boys clock it instantly. A few grins. A few subtle elbow nudges. She leans down to kiss his cheek. He smiles in a way that’s warmer than the one he’s been giving the rest of you.

And suddenly everything clicks.  Relief hits you first. Oh. Good. Good. He’s taken.

The pressure you didn’t even realize you were holding drains out of your shoulders. The boys won’t tease you if he’s clearly with someone. There’s nothing to imply. No joke to make. No tension to manufacture.

You can breathe easier now. You study her more openly once she’s seated beside him. She laughs at something Scotty says. She rests her hand lightly on Danny’s forearm like it’s instinctive.

She is beautiful. And unbidden, a memory resurfaces- Scotty in that elevator, jabbing a finger into your shoulder.

He parties with models. With beautiful women. Not minors. Seventeen-year-old you didn’t hear the “minors” part. She heard “not like you.”

You shift in your seat. You are not seventeen anymore. You know that. You know what he meant now. You understand the context. The legality. The reality. But some small, stupid, buried piece of you compares anyway.

You’re an Olympic athlete twice over. You can throw tricks most women won’t even attempt. You can stand on top of a halfpipe with half of the developed world watching and not flinch. And still, across a dinner table in Beijing, you feel briefly and irrationally lesser next to a woman who looks like she stepped out of a campaign shoot.

You hate that feeling. You take a sip of your drink to swallow it down. Then you look back to Scotty and start asking about wax temperatures.

Safe. Professional. Unteasable. Heidi laughs at something Danny whispers to her, and you find that you don’t mind the sound at all. It makes things simpler. Cleaner.

You tuck into your dinner and think about your plan for the finals. There is a plan. You always have a plan.

It lives in the notes app on your phone and in the back of your mind and in the rhythm of your body when you close your eyes at night. A list of tricks. A sequence. An ideal run that, on paper, should win. Clean amplitude. Technical variation. Enough difficulty to outpace the field without doing anything reckless. It should you at the top for technicals, even if you wobble a bit. You’ll add a little something more for your second, if you need to.

You have drilled it for months. It isn’t insane. It’s just better than what’s out there so far.

You drop in for your first finals run with the kind of focus that feels almost peaceful. The pipe walls are immaculate- cold and fast and unforgiving. The air burns your lungs.

You don’t think. You execute. Your board leaves the lip and your body follows instinctively. Every grab is locked. Every rotation is crisp. You can feel the amplitude- the way you’re climbing above the coping with space to spare.

When you land your final hit, you know. Not hope. Know. You ride it out clean, knees soft, shoulders squared. No hand drag. No wobble. The roar of the crowd swells around you as you glide to a stop.

You look up at the scoreboard, chest heaving. Your name jumps to the top. You don’t scream. You don’t pump your fists. You just exhale. Safe. Controlled. Leading. You sit on the sidewall with your helmet still on, watching the rest of the field drop in. You know Chloe is coming. You always know when she’s coming.

She doesn’t play safe. She drops in on her second run with that familiar, lethal confidence. You can see it even from the bottom, the way she sets her line a little different. A little deeper.

First hit- massive. Second- higher. Then she starts stacking them. Three 1080s in a row. Stalefish. Clean. Fast. No hesitation between takeoffs. A 900 tail grab at the end that’s so precise it looks casual. She’s linking rotations like she’s got nothing to lose.

The crowd loses its mind. You feel something sharp and electric in your chest. Competition. Her score flashes up. She goes to the top. You nod to yourself once. Good. Good. This is what you came for.

You pull your helmet down tighter and walk back to the start gate. Your coaches are talking, but you’re only half listening. You know what you’re about to do before they say it.

There are things you’ve been working on with Scotty that you haven’t needed to use yet. Things no woman has attempted at the Olympics. Riskier.

But not reckless. Tricks you’ve been hitting right behind Scotty for the last year. You visualize it once, twice. The switch entry. The rotation. The blind landing. You drop in. The pipe feels steeper now. Faster. The stakes heavier in your legs.

First hit clean. Second clean. You keep the structure of your original run- you don’t abandon the plan. You just replace one piece. Instead of the smaller trick on your fourth hit, you set your edge differently. Switch. Backside.

You commit.

The cork comes around faster than the videos ever show. The world tilts and inverts and snaps back upright. Switch backside 1080 cork: your brother’s signature switch backside, twisted into something that’s yours.

For a split second mid-air, you know no woman has ever done this here. You spot the landing. You stomp it. Hard. The impact shoots up through your knees but you ride it out clean, heart hammering in your throat.

The rest of the run flows out of you like muscle memory. When you cross the finish, you rip your helmet off before you even look at the board. You are grinning. Not because of the score. Because of the feeling. You know what you just did. The scoreboard updates.

You’re back on top.

The sound in the pipe is deafening now. You can barely hear your own breath. Adrenaline floods your bloodstream so fast it feels like you might lift off again without a board. You jog toward the team, laughing- actually laughing- because you can feel it in your bones.

You have more. There is more in you. You’ve been training 1260s. You’ve been training 1440s. You’ve been flirting with numbers that don’t exist yet in the women’s Olympic record books.

Game-changing numbers. You can do it. You know you can. Standing there at the bottom of the halfpipe, lungs burning, legs buzzing, you feel something dangerous and intoxicating settle into your chest.

You don’t just want to win. You want to push the ceiling higher. You want to hit a number no woman has ever hit on this stage.

And for the first time all day, the safe plan feels small. You will medal. It’s happening. But as you are carted up again, it doesn’t feel good enough. Hell, gold doesn’t feel good enough. Not yet. You’re vibrating with it. Not nervous. Not scared.

Electric.

You should be calm.

You should be strategic.

Your coach is in your ear, voice steady, practical. “We don’t need to do anything stupid. Clean run. Keep it tidy, add a little zha where you can. You’re ahead.”

You nod like you’re listening. But your blood is roaring. It isn’t about the medal anymore. Not really. You already have one. You already know what that feels like.

This is about the number. The next number. You bounce on your toes at the start gate, board clicking against the packed snow. You can feel it sitting inside you. The 1260. The 1440. The ceiling that hasn’t been touched yet. “I’ve got more,” you mutter.

He grabs your arm lightly. “Play small ball. Be clean. No heroics.”

“I’m doing it,” you say, breath coming fast. “I’m doing it.” You’re already sliding forward.

“Hey—”

The start gate drops. The world narrows to white walls and gravity.

You drop in hard, carving deep to build speed. First hit- big and clean, a controlled opener to set the rhythm. Second hit- you feel the pop, the snap of your core, the board coming around exactly how you’ve drilled it a thousand times.

Switch backside 1080, the second you get enough speed. Easy. You land it centered, knees absorbing impact, no chatter. And now. Here it comes. You set your edge higher, deeper. You can feel the extra speed in your base. Your lungs are burning but you don’t care.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you breathe under your helmet. You launch.

The 1260 unspools in the air like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment. Rotation after rotation after rotation- you’re counting without thinking. The pipe walls blur into a tunnel of white and sky.

You spot the landing. You stomp it.

Clean. Centered. No speed lost. Holy shit. Holy shit. The sound that rips out of the crowd is feral and enormous and you feel it in your bones. You just did that. You just put a 1260 into the women’s Olympic final like it belongs there.

You’re grinning mid-ride, adrenaline detonating behind your eyes. You have it and more.

And that’s when you make the smallest, most dangerous mistake. You think about it. Just for a fraction of a second, you think about the magnitude of what you just did.

The next hit comes up faster than you expect. Too fast. You are still riding the high of the stomp when the lip is already there. Your brain lags half a beat.

Your body doesn’t. Muscle memory commits before your conscious mind catches up. You rocket upward into the sky again. Backside 1080 cork. You are high. Too high. Or maybe just slightly off-axis. You can’t tell. The rotation starts and something feels wrong immediately. Not catastrophic. Just… off.

Your shoulders open a hair too soon. The lip rushes toward you. There is no time to bail. No time to adjust. You come down short.

And you smash into the lip of the pipe.

It’s not a clean fall. It’s a collision. There’s a sickening crunch- board, bone, something- and then you’re sliding. Skidding. Tumbling the twenty-two feet down the wall toward the flat bottom. Your helmet slams against hardpack. Your shoulder takes the brunt of it. Your ribs slam. Your hip scrapes. Snow packs into your jacket as you slide.

You don’t black out. You almost wish you did. You finally come to a stop on your side at the bottom. Silence, for a heartbeat. Then the crowd noise warps into something else.

You try to inhale. Nothing. Your lungs seize. You can’t fucking breathe.

Panic detonates in your chest. You suck in again and it’s like your ribs refuse to expand. Like something inside you has folded in on itself. Your whole right side is on fire. Your shoulder is screaming- sharp, white-hot, radiating down your arm. Your leg throbs in heavy pulses. Your hip feels like it’s been sanded raw.

You try to roll and a bolt of pain lances through your ribs so violently you see stars.

You gasp and it comes out as a strangled wheeze. Air won’t come.

You’re aware of hands suddenly around you. Officials. Medics. Someone shouting your name. You blink up at the sky through their faces, dazed, snow melting against your cheek.

You did the 1260. The thought floats absurdly through the haze.

And then pain crashes back in and your body curls instinctively around it. 

Two broken ribs. A shoulder that had to be shoved back into place while you bit down on a rolled towel and refused to scream. A torn meniscus and a partial ACL, all on the same side, like your body decided if it was going to fail, it would fail spectacularly.

You’re out. No slopestyle. No redemption run. No second chance to prove that you are every bit the monster you were four years ago. That you’re stronger, hungrier, older, wiser.

Bronze. That’s what the scoreboard ended up on after they carted you out.

Bronze.

It gleams on the coffee table now, mocking you. A medal you would have been ecstatic about at seventeen. A medal most people would bleed for.

It feels like an insult.

Scotty was decent enough to get you out of the village dorms. No roommate. No thin walls and athlete chatter and the smell of cafeteria trays. Just a hotel suite with a couch you’ve essentially claimed as your battlefield.

You’re cocooned in ice packs from collarbone to ankle on your right side. Your ribs are wrapped tight enough that breathing feels like fighting with barbed wire. Your knee is elevated, swollen, ugly. Your shoulder throbs in a deep, nauseating pulse even after they popped it back in.

Scotty is trying, you’ll give him that. He hovers in the mornings, despite his own rides to worry about. He adjusts pillows. He makes sure you take your meds.

But he is still Scotty. Still social. Still magnetic. Still incapable of not turning any room into a gathering place.

There’s been a parade through this suite for two days straight. Teammates. Coaches. Some random Aussie who “just wanted to say good on ya.” They bring flowers. They bring snacks you can’t eat because your ribs hurt too much to sit upright properly.

They clap you gently on the shoulder you didn’t dislocate and jostle the one you did. They talk too loud. They say “at least you got a medal” like that’s supposed to soothe the fire under your skin.

You nod demurely, smile until your jaw aches. The moment the door closes after the latest round of condolences, you let your head fall back against the couch and close your eyes.

You are so tired of being gracious. You are in pain. You are angry. The 1260 replays in your head on loop- the stomp, the roar, the split second of invincibility where everything had gone right before it all went wrong. You would rather have fallen on the 1260 and never landed it at all. At least have gone out attempting something incredible rather then stomp it and fall on a trick that you could do in your sleep.

The room is quiet now. Finally. No laughter bleeding in from the kitchenette. No voices. No clink of bottles. Just the hum of the heater and the faint traffic noise outside. You drift somewhere between awake and asleep, ice numbing your skin, ribs aching in dull waves.

The door clicks. You crack one eye open automatically, already bracing for another sympathetic face. It’s Daniel.

He steps inside carefully, closing the door behind him without a word. For a second you just stare at him, brain slow to process. “Scotty’s not here,” you say immediately, voice rough from disuse and pain. “You just missed him.”

You close your eye again like that settles it. Like that ends the interaction. He doesn’t leave. You hear the soft thud of the door closing, the quiet shuffle of his shoes on carpet, and then the faint creak of the armchair across from the couch as he lowers himself into it.

You keep your eyes closed. If Scotty isn’t here, there’s no reason for him to be.

“Yeah,” he says after a second, like he’s just catching up to your statement. “I know.”

You open your eyes again, slower this time. He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He looks… normal. Not solemn. Not overly sympathetic. Just there. “Just popping in,” he adds. You stare at him. Popping in. You are wrapped in ice and tape and rage, and he’s popping in. 

You close your eyes again. The ice is starting to numb your hip. Your ribs ache with every shallow inhale. You shift a fraction and regret it immediately.

Danny is not good at silence. The quiet stretches for maybe five seconds before he clears his throat. You can almost feel him wrestling with it. “So,” he starts, overly casual. “How’re you holding up?”

“Fine.” Do you look fucking fine? You’re not fine. You can’t take a full breath without wincing. Your knee throbs in time with your pulse. But you are not about to unpack that.

“Yeah?” he says gently. “Docs optimistic?”

“Mhm.” Another pause. You can sense him studying the bronze medal on the table. The ice packs. The way your right side is elevated and rigid.

“That 1260 was massive,” he offers. “Whole place lost its mind.”

You swallow. “It was fine.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Fine? It was insane.” 

You don’t respond. He rubs the back of his neck, recalibrating. “So, uh,” he tries again, lighter, “you’ve got the bronze. Not bad. That’s still—”

You cut him off with a look sharp enough to slice.

He stops. The silence comes back, thicker this time. You close your eyes again. Your ribs pulse. Your knee throbs. You can feel him still sitting there. Still existing in your space. Finally, your patience snaps. “Why are you here?” you ask, not raising your voice, but letting the irritation bleed cleanly through.

He blinks. “I just—”

“Scotty’s not here,” you repeat, more pointed this time. “And I’m not exactly entertaining.”

He shifts back in the chair, surprised by the edge in your tone. “I wasn’t expecting you to entertain.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “Then what are you doing in my room?”

The words hang there. You don’t soften them. You don’t cushion them. Pain has stripped you down to something raw and blunt. He studies you for a moment, like he’s deciding how much to say.

Then he exhales. “Alright,” he says quietly. “Heidi and I had a bit of a spat.” You don’t react. “So I’m giving her a little space to cool off. Figured I’d come by here for a bit.” He shrugs slightly, an attempt at casual that doesn’t quite land.

You stare at him. That’s it? That’s the reason? You expected something…smaller. Or bigger. You don’t even know. Instead, he’s essentially killing time. “Right,” you say after a second.

He waits. You look back at the ceiling. “That’s good of you.”

Your tone is flat. Not unkind. Not sympathetic. Just uninterested. He studies your profile, probably expecting a follow-up question. A curious tilt of the head. Something. He gets nothing. You genuinely do not give a fuck what’s going on in his personal life right now.

Your ribs hurt. Your season is over. Your bronze feels like a consolation prize for almost rewriting history.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint seam where two panels meet. The heater hums softly. Somewhere outside, traffic whispers past on wet pavement. Your right side feels like it you’ve been run over by a truck: swollen, stiff, wrapped, iced. Every shallow breath reminds you that your ribs are broken in more than one place. The ache is constant now, less sharp than it was on the slope, but deeper. Thicker.

Danny sits across from you, not fidgeting anymore. Not filling the space. Just present.

You don’t care about Heidi. You really don’t. Whatever he and Heidi are fighting about is none of your business. You have zero emotional investment in his maybe-relationship. Less than zero. You are bruised and medicated and trying not to breathe too deeply.

And yet. Something itches. A tiny, unwelcome thought. What could they possibly be fighting about here? At the Olympics. On what is essentially a glorified holiday for him- front row seats, good company, national pride.

You picture dinner. Someone half-laughing, half-bragging. “Remember that one time in PyeongChang—” You can practically hear Scotty’s voice. You can imagine the way the table leaned in. The way your name might have been said with fond mockery. You hate that it still exists like that. A little anecdote. A punchline.

You shift slightly against the couch cushions and immediately regret it. A flash of pain arcs along your ribs and down into your hip. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

He notices anyway. “You good?” he asks quietly.

“Fine,” you say, because that’s easier than explaining that breathing feels like trying to inflate a cracked balloon. Silence stretches again. It isn’t hostile. It isn’t warm either. It’s just… there.

God, you can’t stop thinking about it. You let your eyes drift toward him without fully turning your head. “So,” you say eventually, keeping your tone light enough that it almost sounds disinterested, “what kind of spat?”

He hesitates for half a second. It’s small, but you catch it. “Just… stuff,” he replies.

You almost laugh at that. “Stuff,” you echo, the word dry.

He exhales through his nose, a faint, rueful sound. Not quite a laugh. “She heard a story she didn’t love,” he says after a moment. “That’s all.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He doesn’t have to. Your stomach tightens anyway.

Ah. There it is. You stare back up at the ceiling. A story she didn’t love. Of course she didn’t. What girlfriend would?

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck despite the ice covering half your body. You close your eyes briefly and let out a careful breath, measured and shallow so it doesn’t hurt too badly. The awkwardness that settles after that isn’t sharp. It’s just layered. A weird, unwanted history you never fully addressed, now brushing against the present in an uninvited way.

You clear your throat and instantly regret it. Pain flares along your ribs, hot and mean. You wince and wait for it to subside. He looks up immediately. You keep your gaze fixed somewhere just past him, at the wall. It’s easier that way. “It was stupid,” you say plainly. “Back then. I was stupid.” 

You pause, not because you’re searching for drama, but because you want to get it right.  “Sorry. About… all that. Thanks for not being a cunt.” There’s no tremble in your voice. No embarrassment in your posture. It isn’t an emotional confession. It’s more like closing a file. Tidying something up that’s been left open too long.

He doesn’t rush to answer.

He leans back slightly in the chair, studying you with an expression that isn’t judgmental, isn’t amused- just thoughtful. “You were seventeen,” he says quietly.

You shrug with your left shoulder, the only one that cooperates. “Still.”

He shakes his head once, slow. “Everyone was young once,” he replies. “Everyone did something dumb once.” There’s no condescension in it. No self-importance. “I don’t hold it against you,” he continues. “Not even a little.”

You glance at him then, properly. He means it. There’s no residue in his tone. No lingering discomfort. No secret ego boost tucked under the surface. Just a statement of fact. “I did what I was supposed to do,” he adds. “That’s it. Nothing heroic. Just the right thing.”

You nod slowly. Something in your chest- something that’s been tight for years without you fully realizing it- loosens by a fraction. The story feels smaller now. Less radioactive. Less defining. You look back at the ceiling.

“Right,” you say softly. The room grows quiet again, but this time it isn’t awkward. It’s settled. And somewhere in that settling, you realize you are so fucking tired. So you close your eyes. 

And the next time to open them, it’s like Danny wasn’t there at all. 

Read Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

________________________________________________________ Hi!!! I lied to you, this is part 1 of a 2 part series. It was super nice to write for Danny, a great change of pace. Sorry if it feels a little off, my pacing had to be a lot faster than with RESET, and while I am fairly familiar with SB, and did a fair amount of research, I didn't have the same amount of time to become a field expert in it like I did with RESET.