#f1 driver reader

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears as you stumbled into the luxurious hotel suite, the door clicking shut behind you. The 2024 McLaren Constructor's Championship win had been a whirlwind—champagne showers on the podium, endless toasts at the after-party, bodies pressed close in the dim club lights.

Oscar, your silent, commanding boyfriend, wrapped an arm around your waist, his touch firm and possessive. Lando Norris, the playful one of your poly trio, giggled as he kicked off his shoes, already tugging at his shirt. You three had been together for years, a perfect balance, love woven through every shared glance and stolen kiss.

The suite was a haze of dim lighting and scattered clothes from earlier rushes. The king-sized bed dominated the room, sheets crisp and inviting. You slipped away to the bathroom, heart racing with anticipation. Tonight wasn't ending with the party. You'd planned this surprise for weeks.

Emerging, the black lace lingerie hugging your curves. The top was sheer, your breasts straining against the fabric embroidered with '81' in bold stitching—Oscar's number. The bottoms dipped low, '4' glinting on the hip in shimmering thread for Lando. Thigh-high stockings completed the look, garters snapping taut.

Oscar's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He didn't speak, but his gaze raked over you like a promise. Lando's mouth fell open, a whine escaping. "Fuck, baby," he breathed, stepping closer, hands hovering. "You look... that's our numbers. On you. All for us."

You smirked, sauntering forward, hips swaying. "Champions deserve a proper celebration. Thought I'd wear your victories." Oscar pushed off the wall, closing the distance in two strides. His hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up. No words, just a deep, claiming kiss that left you breathless. Lando pressed against your back, lips brushing your neck. "Gonna make you feel like a winner too," he murmured, fingers tracing the '4' on your hip.

Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy. Oscar stripped methodically, his lean, muscled body revealed—broad shoulders, defined abs from endless training. Lando was quicker, shirt yanked over his head, pants shoved down to free his hardening cock. You dropped to your knees between them, the carpet soft under you. Oscar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding you toward Lando first. "Suck him," Oscar commanded, voice low and gravelly, the words sending heat pooling between your thighs.

You wrapped your lips around Lando's cock, tongue swirling the tip, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. He groaned, hips bucking slightly as you took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Oscar knelt behind you, hands spreading your ass cheeks. His fingers hooked into your lingerie bottoms, ripping them aside with a sharp tug. Cool air hit your exposed pussy and ass, then his mouth followed—tongue flat and insistent, licking a stripe.

Lando's fingers gripped your hair, fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts. "God, your mouth... so wet, so good." You moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder. Oscar's tongue delved into your pussy, lapping at your folds, then switched to your ass, circling the tight ring with deliberate pressure. He prepped you slowly, one finger pressing in alongside his tongue, stretching you open. The dual assault had you dripping, thighs slick.

They switched. Oscar pulled you off Lando, his cock thick and veined, nudging your lips. You sucked him eagerly, hand pumping the base while Lando took his place behind. His fingers joined Oscar's remnants, two sliding into your pussy, curling to hit that spot. "You're soaked," Lando panted, free hand spanking your ass lightly. "Gonna fuck this pretty cunt while you blow Osc." Oscar thrust deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his silence amplifying the wet sounds filling the room.

Lando aligned his cock and slammed in, filling your pussy in one stroke. You cried out around Oscar, the stretch burning sweet. He set a rhythm, pulling out as Oscar pushed in. Your body rocked between them, mouth full, pussy clenching. Spit dripped down your chin as you gagged on Oscar, Lando's balls slapping your clit with each drive.

"Take it," Oscar grunted, finally breaking his quiet. "Our good girl, stuffed at both ends." Lando whimpered, pace faltering. "She's squeezing me... fuck, gonna cum if she keeps—" You pulled off Oscar with a pop, gasping. "Not yet. More."

They eased you up, bodies slick with sweat. Oscar lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed while Lando followed, stroking himself. But you weren't done surprising them. "Wait," you said, pushing Oscar onto his back. Straddling his face reverse, you lowered your pussy onto his mouth. He gripped your thighs, tongue plunging in without hesitation. Lando climbed up, positioning between Oscar's legs, his face inches from yours.

"Both of you," you demanded, grinding down. Lando dove in, tongue flicking your clit while Oscar sucked your folds from below. Their mouths worked in tandem—Lando's eager laps contrasting Oscar's firm sucks. Tongues tangled over your sensitive nub, one dipping into your entrance as the other circled. You arched, hands fisting the sheets, moans spilling free. "Yes... eat me out together. Make me cum."

Lando hummed against you, the vibration shooting sparks up your spine. Oscar's stubble scraped your inner thighs, adding friction. They alternated, Lando tonguing your ass now while Oscar focused on your pussy, fingers joining to scissor inside. The pressure built fast, your hips bucking wildly. "Close... don't stop." They didn't, mouths relentless until you shattered, slick flooding their tongues. You rode the waves, grinding through the orgasm, their faces glistening when you finally collapsed forward.

Panting, you slid off, but the night pressed on. Oscar sat up, eyes locked on you. "Prep time," he said simply, pulling you onto his lap facing him. His cock teased your entrance, but he held back, fingers slick with lube from the nightstand—always prepared. He worked two into your ass, scissoring gently, then three, stretching you wide. Lando watched, hand on his cock, biting his lip. "Look at her take it. So ready for us both."

Satisfied, Oscar nodded to Lando. They stood, sandwiching you between their bodies. Oscar's hands under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Lando pressed against your front, cock nudging your pussy. "Gonna fill you up," he whispered, sliding in slow. The fullness made you gasp, walls fluttering. Oscar followed, tip breaching your ass, inching deeper. The double stretch burned, then bloomed into pleasure as they bottomed out.

They found their rhythm—Oscar thrusting up steady and deep, Lando pulling back as Oscar pushed in, then switching. Cocks dragging against thin walls, rubbing through you. "Fuck, I feel you," Lando groaned, forehead to yours. "His cock in your ass, mine in your pussy." You clung to them, nails digging into shoulders, the suspension heightening every slide. Sweat-slick skin slapped, your breasts bouncing with each opposing thrust.

"Harder," you begged, head lolling. Oscar obliged, pace unyielding, silent grunts escaping. Lando matched, whimpering. "You're so tight... gonna make me explode." The friction built, their cocks pulsing inside you. You clenched, chasing release, until it hit—orgasm ripping through, pussy and ass spasming around them. They held you through it, thrusts slowing as you trembled.

Gently, they lowered you to the bed. Lando lay back first, cock still hard, pulling you onto his chest on your back. Your head rested on his shoulder, legs spread wide. He guided his dick to your ass, pushing up slow. The angle let him fill you completely, tip pressing deep. "Ride me backward," he murmured, hands on your hips.

Oscar knelt between your legs, eyes dark with hunger. He stroked his cock, then aligned with your pussy, sinking in with a groan. The double penetration, bodies stacked. Oscar on top, thrusting down forceful, Lando bucking up from below. Their cocks moved independently—Oscar's powerful drives contrasting Lando's eager snaps.

Dirty talk flowed like the champagne earlier. "Feel that?" Oscar rasped, voice breaking silence. "Both of us buried inside you." You moaned, arching into him. "Yes... fuck me like you own me." Lando nipped your ear. "You're dripping down my balls. Love sharing you with Osc. His cock rubbing mine through you—fuck, it's too much."

Oscar's hand snaked between you, thumb circling your clit. "Cum with us. Squeeze our cocks." Lando's fingers joined, pinching your nipples. The pressure coiled tight, thrusts syncing now—deep, grinding rolls. "Gonna fill you," Lando panted. "Breed your ass while he takes your pussy." Oscar's breath hitched. "Together. Now."

You shattered first, walls clamping down, milking them. They followed—Lando spilling hot into your ass with a cry, Oscar pulsing ropes into your pussy seconds later. Cum leaked as they kept pumping, riding out the highs until spent. You all collapsed in a tangle, breaths mingling, bodies marked by the night's fervor.

After catching breath, Lando's hand wandered again, fingers dipping into the mess between your legs. "Round two?" he teased. Oscar's silent nod sealed it. You grinned, pulling them close.

⭒

The afterglow faded into renewed hunger. You rolled off Lando, cum trickling from both holes, but the ache for more pulsed strong. Oscar pulled you to the edge of the bed, standing as he positioned you on all fours. "Again," he said, voice commanding. Lando scrambled up, kneeling in front. The pattern repeated, but slower this time, savoring.

Your mouth enveloped Lando's cock, licking clean with broad strokes. He threaded fingers through your hair, guiding gently. "Suck it good, love. Clean me up." Behind, Oscar's hands parted your cheeks, tongue lapping the cum from your pussy, then ass. His cock followed, sliding into your pussy first, thick length stretching the slick heat.

He fucked you deliberate, each thrust pulling whimpers from your throat around Lando. He leaned back, moaning. "Her mouth... vibrating on me. Osc, you're pounding her so hard." Oscar's pace quickened, hips snapping, balls heavy against your clit. You hollowed cheeks, taking Lando deeper, gagging as Oscar hit deep.

Switching holes, Oscar pulled out, slick with your juices, and pressed into your ass. The glide was easier now, lube and cum aiding. He bottomed out, groaning low. Lando thrust into your mouth, matching the rhythm. "Double stuffed again. Our perfect girl."

You came first, body shaking, but they held off, drawing it out. Pulling away, they flipped you onto your back. Lando straddled your chest, cock between your breasts, tit-fucking while you licked the tip. Oscar spread your legs wide, diving in with his mouth—tongue fucking your pussy, fingers in your ass.

"Taste us on her," Lando said, voice breathy. Oscar hummed affirmation, the sound sending you over. Then, both mouths returned—Lando shifting down to join, tongues dueling over your clit, one in pussy, one in ass. Fingers everywhere, stretching, rubbing. You bucked, cumming hard, squirting lightly on their faces.

Lifting you once more, they sandwiched again. This time, Lando in your ass from behind, Oscar in pussy from front. Opposing thrusts, cocks grinding. "Feel that friction?" Oscar murmured. "Us sliding together inside you." You nodded, lost in sensation. "Yes... fuck. Don't stop."

They carried you like that, bouncing you on their lengths. Walls shook with your cries. To the bed—Oscar lay down, you on your stomach atop him, his cock in your pussy. Lando mounted from behind, entering your ass. The prone position deepened everything, bodies flush.

Thrusts alternated—Oscar up as Lando pulled back. Dirty words spilled. "Tighten up," Lando begged. "Milk my cock." You did, clenching. Oscar's hands pinned your wrists. "Ours. All night." The build was slow, teasing, until synced. "Cum," Oscar ordered. You obeyed, and they flooded you, hot spurts mixing.

Hours blurred—more oral, you riding one while sucking the other, doubles in every combo. By dawn, exhausted, sated, you curled between them, lingerie torn, bodies marked.

⭒

Morning light filtered through curtains, but sleep evaded. Your body hummed, sore in the best ways. Lando stirred first, hand sliding between your thighs, fingers circling your swollen clit. "One more?" he whispered. Oscar's arm tightened around you, cock hardening against your ass.

You nodded, rolling to face Lando. His mouth claimed yours, tongue deep, while Oscar spooned behind, cock nudging your entrance. He pushed into your pussy slow, filling the tender heat. Lando's fingers worked your ass, prepping quick. Then he aligned, sliding in beside Oscar—no, wait, double in pussy this time, stretching impossibly.

"Mhmm not gonna fit," you gasped. But they did, cocks side by side, rubbing. Thrusts shallow, careful. "So full... gonna split me." Lando kissed your neck. "You can take it. Our trophy." Oscar's hand rubbed your back, silent support. The friction was electric, tips kissing your cervix.

They built pace, one in as the other out. You came quick, walls fluttering around both. They followed, cum overflowing, dripping down.

Shower next—water cascading, hands soaping. You dropped to knees, alternating blowjobs, water mixing with saliva. Lando came down your throat, Oscar on your breasts. Back to bed, lazy 69 with Lando while Oscar fucked your ass.

Endless rounds, positions blending—reverse cowgirl on Oscar, Lando in mouth; doggy with doubles; standing lifts. Dirty talk constant: "Cum for us, baby."

The championship win was sweet, but this—your love, raw and shared—was the real victory.

Everyone always said there was a thin line between love and hate. Frankly, you find it to be sexist bullshit, rolling your eyes everytime some interviewer or your friends or trainer would make some sly comment about so what’s going on between you and Max, with a suggestive wiggle of their eyebrows. Nothing, just him trying to run me off the track repeatedly and giving me 4 bruised ribs in Singapore when he clipped me illegally, you say with an annoyed tone. You know that if you were a man, and not the first female driver in decades in F1, you wouldn’t be getting randomly shippedwith all the drivers. And for gods sake, Verstappen off all people was the most laughable idea. The man was either being a violent menace on the track or an immature twelve year old off it, you think vehemently. You two had stayed well out of each others way in your Haas seat last year, with you leading the mid pack in the suboptimal car but Max remaining well out of reach at the front of the pack. But this year, you’d earned yourself a Ferrari seat and were ecstatic to finally be able to compete for a WDC.

That was, until you and Max Verstappen suddenly started to keep getting caught in each others crosshairs. What started as polite indifference between two coworkers blew up into a PR frenzy, with you and Max completing for the top step in the podium every race weekend. He thought you a reckless driver, getting lucky in a rocket ship this year and trying to sink her claws into something she can’t handle. You thought him over arrogant, a man who couldn’t handle losing to a girl, his fragile ego unable to handle losing a 4th WDC to a Ferrari driver who was only in her second F1 season.

And then, two months out from the end of the season, everything changed between you and Max. On a night out in Monaco with your friends, celebrating being home from triple headers, you’d had the unfortunate experience of being cornered by some drunk, sexist creep who thought he was entitled to touch you. He’d been stronger than you expected, pinning you in a dark alleyway and you just when you starting to freak out, Max of all people practically threw the guy off you. He’d angrily spat at the drunk to pick on someone his own size or he’d break his jaw next time, before leading you to his car with a gentle hand. Normally, you found Max’s far larger frame to be annoying, another way for him to intimidate you when he glared downwards. But that night you couldn’t help but be grateful for the muscular, tall man and his attentive blue eyes as you willingly follow him with wide, doe eyes.

The ride home had been silent, you nervously clutching the large sleeves of the hoodie Max had given you from his backseat. And when you’d thanked him for his help, saying you appreciate him looking out for you even though he hated you, he looked at you with genuine surprise. I don’t hate you, he’d said. Well, I suppose we have had our differences on the track. You snickered at this, muttering that’s one way of putting it. Max chuckled, making you peer at him curiously as you’d never heard him do that in your presence. He was actually very handsome, you noted, without an angry scowl on his face or that Redbull helmet covering him. Then you tell your tipsy brain to shut up because where the hell had that thought suddenly come from?!

But really, I think you’re a pretty amazing girl off the track, Max continued. It must be hard being the only female driver, but you always have something good to say to the dumb interview questions you get. And I’m not going to stand by and let any woman be felt up by some creep. Even if it’s the Princess of Ferrari, he adds with a smirk. You rolled your eyes at this, stepping out of his car as you reach your apartment. And when you offer him his hoodie back, he tells you to keep it. You can use it to stay warm at the next race - it’s Brazil, very rainy. Did I mention I’m called the rainmaster, incidentally? You burst out laughing at his lack of subtlety, and he smiles at having distracted you, making the scared look in your pretty doe eyes from earlier disappear. Fuck off, Verstappen, you giggle, and for once your words have no real bite.

By the time your second F1 season is over, and you’re receiving your trophy for the world championship at the Prizegiving Gala, the first female to do so, you and Max Verstappen have became good friends. Maybe something more, from all the time you’ve started spending together off the track gaming, playing padel, and going out drinking. You were far too afraid to ever say something to him, knowing the media response to the first female driver dating a fellow driver would be absolutely brutal. Besides, you had no idea if Max remotely felt the same way about you - his type seemed to be pretty models, not aggressive drivers who spent half her time plotting his downfall.

You’re surprised when he finds you at the after party, late into the night, where everyone is too plastered to note that the fallen Redbull champion is taking the winning Ferrari Princess to a private level on the yacht. If you think I’m going to apologise for breaking your winning streak, you can try again, you announce dramatically as you grin at him, 5 drinks in and pink lips loosened, letting him know you were jesting. Wouldn’t have it any other way, Princess, Max hums, coming to stand so close to you that your heart rate quickens when you feel warmth radiating from the taller, muscular driver. Besides, I’ll be taking the cup next year, anyways. Enjoy the high while you can, he says in his Dutch accent, all cocky.

You let out an outraged gasp at this, forgetting how close you two already are as you step towards him, accusing hand pressed against his firm chest. But before you can say anything, Max’s gorgeous blue eyes drop down to where your manicured nails are touching his pecs. And then he looks down further, to where your plush tits have pressed up against his abs, your cute red corset minidress pushing your cleavage up temptingly. There’s no mistaking the dark desire that swirls in his intense gaze as he looks back into your wide doe eyes. And then he’s leaning in, finally, you think, and then your brain wakes up and you remember who’s in front of you. We can’t, Max, you say breathlessly, dazed by how attractive he looks when turned on. Why not, the Dutchman demands, cocky as usual. You don’t want this, Princess? His large hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face upwards when you try to look away. Your breath hitched from the contact, and you’re sure he can feel how fast your carotid pulse is beating. It’s-it’s not that I don’t want to, you say with a blush, making a pleased smirk appear on Max’s lips. But I’m the only female driver on the grid, the public would tear me apart if they found out I hooked up with another driver on the grid-

Fuck what anyone else thinks, Max says passionately, the familiar spark of defiance in his eyes. I know the fallout from something like this would be much harder for you as a woman than me, and I waited till after the championship fight finished. No one can contest you didn’t win the cup with your own sheer skill. But now that it’s finished, I can’t hold back anymore. Your jaw drops from Max’s heated confession, never having guessed the handsome blonde would reciprocate your buried romantic feelings. And I don’t mean some one night stand or summer fling, he continued boldly. I want to be your boyfriend, I want you all to myself properly.

You must have had too many G&Ts, you hear yourself say distantly, cause you’re not even a little bit cute and shy like you normally are off the track, Verstappen. He smiles gently, knowing you were using humour to deflect from the swirling emotions within you. Maybe, he murmurs, bending down to rest his forehead against yours. Or maybe you look so fucking gorgeous in this red dress I knew I couldn’t hide how I feel anymore. When he feels your hand graze his chest, pulling him just a bit closer, he knows what you want. Pressing the gentlest of kisses to your glossed lips, he pulls back to make sure you still wanted more.

But he didn’t need to have any doubts, because you’re staring up at him sultrily, desire having darkened your own wide, doe eyes. This time you’re pulling him back onto your lips, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders so that there’s not even a millimetre of space between you too. He groans against you as the months of tension come to a head, the two of you languidly exploring each others’ mouths with your tongues.

Even if you’d woken up the next morning regretting your decision, there was no way you could turn down Max’s offer of a relationship. Because even if you had still hated him, the sex that night on the yacht has been so incredibly mind blowing, by far the best orgasm you had ever experienced, that you knew you’d never meet anyone who could fuck you so perfectly again. So you hesitantly said yes, let’s try this for real, Max over a late hungover brunch the next morning. The rest had been history - the two of you had spent the last 7 months in a secret relationship, not wanting the chaos of the media to ruin your relationship before it could even start properly. Max has proven time and time again you’d made the right decision saying yes, being the perfect boyfriend, dedicated to all your needs and wants, spoiling you endlessly and making you laugh whenever you had a bad day.

Sometimes things were hard, of course. Like when you two had tensions during a race, your private relationship doing nothing to dampen the competitive spirit you both shared. But you’d both make up after, whether it be with a long debrief and strategy talk on how to avoid an incident next time - or your personal favourite, some angry make up sex. Like you’d suspected, Max was an absolute sex god and you two enjoyed a very healthy sex life, exploring each others kinky preferences. So when you’d have to be away from each other for long periods, busy with planning and meetings at your separate team bases, your boyfriend came up with a solution once the nudes and phone sex didn’t quite hit the same.

Filming yourselves during sex seemed like a certain recipe for disaster, given how famous the two of you are and the consequences of anything got leaked. But the temptation was too great as weeks drag on without the touch of your boyfriend - so you agreed, just this once, to try it out.

Well, that had certainly been the plan. But the video had been so so nice to watch again and again anytime your pussy ached for Max that you can’t resist making more. And then last month when your teams had finally given the okay for an official announcement on your relationship, and the media response had overall been surprisingly positive, you two get too comfortable and Max accidentally sent the video over DM to you, instead of the encrypted chat you normally use.

And that was when shit hit the fan.

No, Max, go away, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone ever again! The blonde Dutchman sighs he leans his head against the closed bathroom door with a worried expression on his face. You’ve locked yourself in his Monaco penthouse’s bathroom for the past 4 hours, not coming out despite how much he’s pleaded. Please, schatje, he tries again. I know it’s bad, but we’ll get through it together. Twitter had already banned any links of the video and both your PR teams are doing damage control and so many of the grid drivers and journalists were calling out the website that had leaked the tape. Please, I just want to see you, you can’t be locked in there forever and reading all the stuff online alone.

When you don’t reply, only sniffling through the door, he sighs again and slides down the door, making himself comfortable. A few minutes later he hears the door unlock and your red, crying face peeking through. Oh, schatje, he croons soothingly as you drop down into his arms and bury your face in his thick neck. He rubs soothing circles along your back as you sniffle that Everyone’s saying such horrible things, Maxie. How am I going to face going on the paddock ever again?

He reassures you firmly that you two would go hand in hand, united on the paddock with your heads held high, because you’ve done nothing wrong. He’d been doing the media game a lot longer than you and knew this scandal, like everything else, would get blown over with time. After your quiet sobs settle with his comforting words and tight hug, you pull back to look at him and apologise for shutting yourself away and not checking in on him. It’s your leaked tape too, you say anxiously. How are you feeling about it, baby?

He eases your concern again, telling you honestly that in the grand scheme of things, although it was a little mortifying he’s had worse in the media. Besides, it’s gonna be satisfying to crush whichever little fucker leaked the vid, he says vehemently. Any anyone who’s saying any bullshit sexist comments about you sleeping your way into F1 or anything is getting hit with a defamation lawsuit from legal, he declares, making your heart swell from his protectiveness. You still aren’t convinced, though. Are you sure, Max? I remember in that particular video, you can’t see much of my body but there’s definitely a lot of shots of your…

Dick? Your boyfriend finishes with a deadpan expression, That’s fine. Besides, I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. You know the hashtag Verstappen’s third leg is trending on Twitter now? You giggle at his nonchalance, making Max smile at seeing you cheered up. You’ve finally having processed what happened enough to maybe see a bit of humour in it. True, I suppose it could have been worse, you muse. The Las Vegas video could have been the leaked one. Imagine how batshit the fans would have gotten if they saw the handcuffs were for you, not me. Max laughs genuinely, blue eyes looking fondly at your mischievous expression. The familiar Ferrari fire he adored was back in your own pretty doe eyes.

Or worse, the Barcelona one, you tease as you lead him to the kitchen to start making dinner. Scrolling through hundreds of posts and spiralling was calorie consuming work. I think Twitter would have shut down if they found out Max Verstappen likes being called daddy in the bedroom.

Your boyfriend’s face goes adorably pink as he stammers at your unexpected roast. Hey-hey now, schat, that was just one time okay? You’d just accidentally said it and it caught me off guard-

You grin playfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek because he looked too cute to resist. Sure, baby, so off guard you lasted 5 seconds after that. His face goes even pinker, reaching the tips of his ears now as he shyly looks away. For all his fierceness on the track, you loved how sweet the Dutch Lion was off it. Giggling, you put him out of his misery by handing him a knife and tell him to get to work chopping the tomatoes. You knew no matter what came your way, you would be fine with Max by your side.

—————————————————————————

you made a face, "no offense, charles. but it would feel like doing it with my brother." being teammates meant you two knew too much about one another. you worked well as teammates and rivals because you were more like siblings. while you appreciated the offer, you felt it was weird.

charles asked, relaxed in his seat, "why are you doing this anyway? isn't there a million ways for you to have a child."

you shrugged, "i want to be a mom, i don't know. leave my seat behind to another woman and let her make all the history. i'm honestly tired. i've reached the peak and now." you sighed, "i want something else. i've got enough money to retire and let my future child retire before they're born." you crossed your arms, "i don't want to be doing this shit until i'm forty and just degrade in the skills department. end on a high note." while it was not an insult to other driver's on the grid. you felt bad that they never got to really be parents due to the schedules.

"so you need to seduce a driver to make that happen."

you nodded, out of the corner of your eye you spotted the driver you had your eye on. while you eyed the man crossing your path, your voice got softer, "and i think i know just the driver."

charles looked over to the direction you were looking at. he noticed who was walking by and he looked back to you, shoulders dropped, "max. you're going to seduce and have a child with max?"

you looked back to charles and shrugged, "why not? what's not to like?" max wasn't a perfect man, sometimes you wondered about the mechanics of his brain. but, you knew your child with him would lay waste to the track in the future.

"i can name a few. do you want them alphabetically or severity of it?" charles asked.

you gave him a look, "it wouldn't be hard to get him to sleep with me. you, me and the rest of the garage has seen how he looks at me. i mean who else do i have to choose from? either they're too old, they're rookies, or they have girlfriends. and i'm not getting a heel in the eye because i'm trying to have a baby."

charles rubbed the bridge of his nose, "i think you just like him."

you tensed up for a moment, "no. this is all just simple. scheming... nothing more. i don't expect to trap him with a child. he is free to live his life after i'm done with him."

charles found it hard to believe. not on your end, but max's. he had heard at sickeningly lengths about how max felt for you. it was probably the most eloquent the driver had ever been. if you got pregnant by him, he'd be getting a ring the next day. he sighed once more, "then have fun with the wold champion. i'd say to be safe, but i think being unsafe is the whole point of this."

you gave the once over of max in the near distance and smiled, "don't worry charles, you'll get all the details in the morning." which earned a groan from your teammate.

-

it started over a bottle of wine and ended in the motor home of red bull. you and max had gotten frisky over the evening. you wondered if anyone was selling the photos of you two in the back of the restaurant to tmz or some other trashy outlet. you had shared two bottles of wine over dinner. the benefit of being as wealthy as you were, you could throw the cash onto the table and giggle as you stumble out of your place.

you knew someone had a photo of max kissing you at the table to 'taste' the sauce that came with your meal. as if he couldn't take some from the plate.

but back in the motor home, you had dropped your purse by the door. in the dark of the place, you two were starting to get undressed. heels kicked to the wall, your bracelets set on the coffee table. your dress was on the floor by the bed, your bra over the lamp by the bed and your panties on the bed.

"i'm on top." you said as you kissed max's lips. he tasted like wine and fine dining. he tasted and smelled expensive. in all fairness he could be worth more than a micro nation. he was not an easy man to buy, but the currency of sex was in high demand. max wanted you, and you knew that because he got on his back without much argument.

you were both naked on the bed. the faint lights gleamed through the large windows as you rubbed up against max with no other lighting. you could see his face against the shadows of the night. his blue eyes were like gems and they pulled you in. whoever he ended up with would be very lucky.

but tonight you needed him. he was an important piece in your plan. you rubbed against him and with a little help, you sank down onto his cock. while cowgirl wasn't the best position to try and get pregnant, but it ensured that your plan would work. any position is a working one.

"you're beautiful."

"i know." you said as you rubbed yourself against him. you braced your hands on his strong chest. he was a handsome man, he was good at what he did and he was a winner. you knew anyone would be lucky to have him, but tonight was the perfect partner. you knew a child with him would be perfect.

you continued to rub up against him. the roll of your hips were methodical. this wasn't the first time you slept with a man. you moaned when max groped your breasts, massaged the flesh between those bear paws he called hands. soon you sank on his cock and shuddered, feeling the heat raise in your belly.

this was a mission, no time to get attached. you were both tipsy from the alcohol and the driver under you were more handsy than ever. you try not to feel the emotions that came with it. the feeling of being attached to someone you were having sex with. you batted charles' assumptions about your feelings for max out of your mind as you rode the dutch driver.

you were determined to get pregnant tonight. you measured it all down to a t, all you needed was for max not to get whiskey dick. you curved your back to get closer to him, your lips met his as you moved up and down. his cock was snug in your, but it went in almost perfect. the blunt head hit against the furthest parts of you. your heart hammered in your chest as you moved your hips.

you pushed hair out of your face before your braced your hands on his chest once more. he was very toned, you almost wanted to joke about what happened to his slightly kinder chocolate addiction. but that was neither here nor there.

"you feel so good." he grunted, "why haven't we done this before? fuck." he panted, he could feel the heat in his cheeks as you rode him. he had been with others before but being under you was a pleasure no money could buy. you were really good at it, knowing exactly how to make him feel good.

"good things take time." you panted, part of you wondered what would happen if you covered his mouth. you didn't need the dirty talk, this was a mission. if you wanted a casual friends with benefits, you'd try something online or another in the paddock. fucking max was a certainly that you'd get pregnant. it didn't have to be intimate or soft. it was a means to an end, and you'd get there no matter what.

the sounds of your fucking filled the room as you continued to move against him. you raked your nails down his chest, catching his nipples which made him moan. he was cute on his back, letting you take over. you wondered how deep his affection for you went.

you didn't want the emotional baggage of it all. tonight you were both drunk and having sex in the motor homes. it would be a one night stand before you two finished out the season. you could feel the heat across your back as you stared at him.

his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open as he panted heavily. there was heat in his face and you felt something tug in your chest. he was beautiful, you hated to admit it. but max verstappen was a pretty boy.

he was already blissed out, his noises forced you by the movement of your hips. you licked your lips and without thinking, you left a mark on his collarbone. it was stupid, but it excited your further.

you continued to move against him. your breasts bounced with each move of your hips. you felt moans in the back of your throat and a hum in your soul. pleasure was close and it wasn't long before you really worked yourself onto his cock and finished.

the tightness around his cock made max's back arch a little bit. he could feel the heat in the back of his head. his heart pounded as he watched you continue to ride his cock. he panted heavily and soon climaxed as well. you made sure to get everything you could out. you kissed him once more before you stopped. when you pulled away you got off of his waist and laid down on the bed.

"wow." he said out of breath.

you didn't want to talk. instead you turned your head to kiss him on the lips to keep him quiet. there was no time for mushy romantic bedroom talk. you needed him to fall asleep before you could leave.

you tried to count down the seconds, placing kisses across his heated face. you reminded yourself that there would be some lucky enough to keep him for life.

when you pulled away from his lips after one last kiss, he curled up beside you and right then fell asleep. you stayed awake, when the heat cooled in your body. you hoped your mission was a success. the lust and the alcohol still made its rounds in your body. but you were lucid enough to find your clothes in the dark and slip out of the motor home before morning.

you'd never bring up the event to max, only briefly mentioning it to charles. you'd drive harder after that, in the end you'd secure a world championship. as you kissed the trophy and your country's national anthem played, you were already pregnant with your child.

-

your retirement was a shock to max. you could've easily decorated your home with many trophies over the next few years. but at the end of the 2024 season, you bowed out. you thanked fans and told them that it was a new chapter in your life. and then like that you fell off the face of the earth over the off-season.

max tried to find ways to contact you. where did you go? what happened? why leave at the height of it all? the more he thought about it, the more questions were raised in his head. he asked around the paddock, even going as far as to ask charles where you went. the other drive shrugged and told him that you moved back to your home country with a "little extra luggage". there were no social media posts. nothing. it nagged in the back of his brain for what felt like a lifetime. what happened to ferrari's princess?

it wasn't until almost three years later, max had claimed another world championship. it felt like these days he was riding high. he was still the best. but as he walked into the paddock to train for the upcoming season, he stopped in his tracks. he felt like he was splashed with cold water.

there you were, three years older with a glow to you. you were laughing with charles and lewis, you looked different but in a good way. you were in overalls and a ferrari shirt underneath. you were more curvy than you were when you were driving. and while you were still beautiful like the sun, pulling max in. what made his stomach drop was who was in your arms.

a young boy, with big curious eyes and round cheeks. he held onto you tightly, his small fists in the fabric of your shirt. he seemed curious about the track, but not scared of how big it all felt. while max would've assumed that you got married and had a child as a lot of people did. but that's not what had happened.

max knew right away at the first glance of your son. looking at him was like looking at max's childhood photos. even in features that matched your own, your son carried a lot of max in him. the itch in his brain after you fell off the earth all those years ago came back, this was where you went. the boy looked like him and if he was right about the boy's age then dates lined up. there was no question. max verstappen was your son's father. and when you noticed him staring. you simply smiled and gave him a wink, shifting the boy in your arms and pointing at the me. when your son smiled, max felt something in his gut. looking at you, holding your (his) son, made max feel like he was home. and all those feelings he had been carrying poured back into his head and heart. the same emotions that allowed you to bed him. <3

The empty bottle slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. For a moment, you simply stared at it.

The world around you seemed to blur at the edges as your brain struggled to process what you were seeing. The bottle rolled slightly across the concrete floor before coming to a stop beneath the workbench. Empty. Completely empty.

A sick feeling settled in your stomach.

Slowly, you crouched down and grabbed it again, shaking it once. Then twice. Then a third time. The rattling sound you had relied on for years never came. Not a single tablet remained.

"No..." The word escaped before you could stop it.

Your pulse immediately quickened. The garage suddenly felt too warm, the air thick and suffocating in a way it hadn't been moments before. Around you, mechanics hurried through final preparations, engineers discussed strategy, and cameras moved through the paddock searching for last-minute footage. Everything continued exactly as it should have.

Except your entire world had just tilted on its axis.

You unscrewed the cap anyway, as though somehow the pills would magically appear if you looked hard enough. The empty container mocked you. A wave of heat rolled through your body, stronger than any you'd experienced during the past few weeks, and you instinctively gripped the edge of the workbench.

Not now. Please. You squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to take a slow breath. This couldn't be happening. Not before the race. Not after everything.

For weeks, you had convinced yourself you still had time. Even when the symptoms returned. Even when the suppressants stopped working as effectively as they once had. Even when Oscar had looked at you with growing concern. You had ignored every warning sign because acknowledging them meant accepting a reality you weren't ready to face.

Now that reality was standing directly in front of you.

The radio clipped to your shirt crackled to life. "Y/N, ten minutes until we head to the grid."

Your eyes flew open. Ten minutes. A bitter laugh nearly escaped you.

Of course your first heat would choose race day.

Not during the off-season. Not during simulator training. Not while you were sitting safely inside your apartment surrounded by half-built furniture and Charles arguing with instruction manuals.

No. The universe had apparently decided to save the disaster for the one day that mattered most.

Another wave of warmth swept through your body. This one was harder to ignore.

Your fingers immediately reached for the scent blockers in your bag. You sprayed your wrists. Your neck. The collar of your race suit. Then you sprayed again for good measure. The artificial scent stung your nose, momentarily overwhelming everything else.

Momentarily. Because the relief lasted only seconds before the heat returned. Panic clawed its way into your chest.

You were so focused on keeping yourself together that you didn't immediately notice someone approaching.

A familiar scent reached you first. Fresh grass. Ocean air. Omega. Your entire body froze.

Slowly, you lifted your head. Oscar had stopped several feet away.

The easygoing smile he usually carried around the paddock was gone. His eyes flickered from your face to the empty bottle still clutched in your hand. Then they narrowed slightly as understanding settled over him.

The realization was almost immediate.

"Oh." The single syllable left his mouth quietly. Not confused. Not surprised. Just resigned.

His gaze remained fixed on the bottle for another second before returning to your face.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

You looked away immediately. The concern in his voice hurt more than you expected.

"Don't." The word came out softer than intended. Almost a plea.

Oscar ignored it. His jaw tightened as he stepped closer, lowering his voice enough to ensure nobody else could overhear.

"It's happening."

The words weren't phrased as a question, but there was still something uncertain in them. A tiny sliver of hope that maybe he was wrong.

You wished he was. Your fingers tightened around the bottle.

"Oscar..." You didn't know what else to say. Because admitting it aloud would make it real.

The Australian watched you carefully. Every attempt you'd made over the past few weeks to hide your worsening symptoms had apparently been far less successful than you'd thought.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

A humorless laugh escaped you. "As if I know." Frustration immediately flared in your chest. At the situation. At yourself. At the fact that your body had chosen now of all times to betray you. "I don't know, okay?"

Your voice cracked slightly. You hated that. Hated how scared you sounded.

Oscar's expression softened instantly. Not with pity. Never pity. Just concern. Which somehow felt worse.

His eyes dropped briefly to the empty suppressant bottle before returning to your face. Everything seemed to click into place for him. The headaches. The exhaustion. The moments you'd brushed him off. The reason you had looked increasingly miserable throughout the weekend.

"Tell me you aren't planning to race." Silence filled the space between you. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because the answer was obvious.

Oscar closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face. Slowly. Painfully. Like he was trying to physically process what you were implying. "Oh my God." The words were muffled behind his palm.

When he looked at you again, there was genuine disbelief written across his face. "You cannot seriously be considering it."

The frustration that had been simmering beneath your panic finally erupted. You straightened immediately, forcing your shoulders back.

"I'm racing."

The declaration sounded stronger than you felt. You clung to it anyway. Oscar stared at you, then laughed. Not because he found anything funny but because he genuinely couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No."

"I'm racing."

"No." His response came harder this time. The calm demeanor he'd maintained throughout the conversation finally cracking. "You are not getting into that car." Your jaw clenched.

Anger was easier than fear. Much easier. "So what?" you shot back. "You want me to withdraw?"

The question hung between you. Oscar didn't answer immediately.

That hesitation told you everything.

A bitter laugh escaped you. "After twenty years?" Your voice trembled despite your best efforts. You hated that too. "I've spent my entire life fighting to get here."

Memories flashed through your mind. Karting championships. Early mornings. Long flights. Missed birthdays. Sacrifices. Years of proving people wrong. Years of proving that you belonged. Your throat tightened painfully. "I can't walk away now."

Oscar's expression softened again. This time there was sadness in it. Because unlike most people, he understood exactly what those words meant.

"I know." His voice had become quieter. Gentler. "I know exactly how hard you've worked." That almost made it worse. Because if anyone understood what this sport demanded, it was him. Which meant if Oscar thought this was a bad idea... maybe it really was.

The thought terrified you. So you buried it. Deep. And reached for the only thing that had gotten you this far. Stubbornness.

"I'm racing."

This time the words came out quieter. Not defiant. Desperate. As though you were trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Oscar noticed. Of course he did. His shoulders sagged slightly. The fight draining from him. Not because he agreed but because he knew you well enough to realize you had already made your decision. And nothing he said would change it.

The walk to the grid felt longer than usual.

Maybe it was because every step sent another wave of heat through your body. Maybe it was because Oscar's words refused to leave your head. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in your career, you couldn't completely trust yourself behind the wheel.

Whatever the reason, the familiar pre-race routine felt strangely distant. Normally, race day brought a sense of calm.

The nerves disappeared the moment your helmet went on. The noise faded. The pressure faded. Everything narrowed until only the track remained.

Today was different. Today, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't silence the awareness simmering beneath your skin.

As you climbed into the cockpit, your race engineer began running through the usual procedures. Tyre temperatures. Starting sequence reminders. Strategy windows. The words flowed through your headset in a familiar rhythm, one you had heard hundreds of times before.

You absorbed every instruction automatically. Responded automatically. Functioned automatically.

Because if you stopped moving, stopped focusing, stopped pretending... You weren't entirely sure you'd be able to keep yourself together.

The halo above your head cast a shadow across your visor as mechanics completed their final checks. Beyond them, grandstands stretched toward the horizon. Thousands of spectators filled the circuit. Cameras tracked every movement.

None of them knew. The thought should have comforted you. Instead, it only made the fear worse. Because they didn't know now. But what about later?

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The heat pulsed again. Stronger. Closer. You swallowed hard.

Not now. Please. Just give me two hours. That's all I need. Two hours. Then you could deal with the consequences.

The formation lap began. Instinct immediately took over. For the first time all morning, relief swept through you. The car felt good. Predictable. Familiar.

The engine vibrated beneath you like an old friend. This, at least, hadn't changed. This still made sense.

By the time the cars lined up on the grid again, your heartbeat had finally settled.

Maybe Oscar was wrong. The thought arrived quietly. Dangerously. Maybe you could do this. Maybe the adrenaline would carry you through. Maybe the heat wouldn't be as bad as everyone feared.

The five red lights illuminated above the circuit.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Then darkness. The field exploded forward. Everything else disappeared. For a while, racing was enough.

The opening laps demanded your complete attention. Every braking zone required precision. Every overtake required calculation. Every corner required commitment.

There wasn't room for fear. There wasn't room for panic. There wasn't even room for Max. Only the race.

And somehow, against all logic, you began settling into a rhythm. The car came alive beneath you.

The moment the five red lights went out, instinct took over.

For a few glorious laps, everything else disappeared. The panic. The heat. The fear that had been clawing at your chest since discovering the empty suppressant bottle. All of it faded beneath the familiar demands of racing.

You launched cleanly off the line, immediately tucking into the slipstream ahead as the field charged toward Turn 1. Twenty cars compressed into a space far too small for twenty cars, every driver fighting for position before the race had barely begun.

This was where you belonged. Not worrying about heats. Not worrying about biology. Not worrying about fate. Just racing.

The car felt planted beneath you as you navigated the opening corners. Tyre temperatures came in quickly. Front grip felt strong. The balance was exactly where you'd wanted it after the setup changes made overnight.

By Lap 5, you had settled into rhythm. The familiar kind. The one that always made everything else disappear.

Sector times flashed across your steering wheel. Delta targets. Battery deployment. Tyre management. Things that made sense. Things you could control.

You found yourself tucked behind George Russell, hovering just within DRS range while carefully managing your energy deployment. The gap fluctuated between seven and nine tenths. Close enough to attack. Far enough to protect your tyres from excessive dirty air.

Your engineer sounded pleased over the radio. "Pace is looking strong. Russell ahead is starting to struggle in Sector 3."

A smile tugged at your lips. Finally. Something normal. "Copy."

You adjusted your differential settings heading into the next sequence of corners.

The car rotated beautifully. The Aston Martin came alive beneath you. For the first time all day, something close to confidence returned.

Maybe Oscar had overreacted. The thought slipped in quietly. Dangerously. Maybe you could actually do this. Maybe the adrenaline would carry you through. Maybe...

A scent hit you. Your breath caught. The sudden sensory overload nearly made you miss your braking point. Not by much. Only a meter. Maybe two. Small enough that nobody watching would notice. Large enough that you noticed. And that was worse.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel. The car ahead. Russell. Alpha. The realization settled heavily in your stomach. The heat wasn't simply affecting your body anymore. It was affecting the way you processed the world around you. You forced your attention back toward the track.

One hundred meter board. Brake. Downshift. Turn in. Apex. Throttle. Simple.

The sequence repeated itself over and over inside your head. A desperate attempt to drown out everything else.

For several laps, it worked. At least well enough. You remained competitive. Consistent. Fast. The timing screens showed no obvious drop-off.

To everyone else, nothing appeared wrong. Unfortunately, Formula One drivers noticed details. Especially drivers who spent their entire lives looking for weaknesses.

During a battle through the midfield, another car drew alongside exiting Turn 2. The two of you ran side-by-side for several corners before you finally held position. The move itself was clean. Professional. Textbook.

Yet when the driver dropped behind, confusion lingered. Something felt strange. Not enough to identify. Not enough to understand. Just enough to notice. You weren't aware of it. But you weren't the only one fighting distractions.

Several cars behind, Max found himself staring at the timing screens more often than usual. Something wasn't right. The lap times looked acceptable. Strong, even. Yet every few laps, small inconsistencies appeared. Tiny corrections. Minor mistakes. Moments that didn't belong. Most people would've ignored them. Max couldn't.

Not after spending weeks paying far more attention to you than he'd ever intended. The realization unsettled him. Because the mistakes themselves weren't the problem. The problem was that they didn't look like you. You were aggressive. Calculated. Precise. The driver he was watching now seemed distracted. As though part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

Back inside the cockpit, the race became harder. Every lap demanded more effort than the one before. The heat lingering beneath your skin had become impossible to ignore. Your race suit suddenly felt too restrictive. The cockpit too warm. The air too thin. You found yourself adjusting your grip on the wheel more frequently. Trying to relieve tension that never truly disappeared.

Another wave of warmth swept through your body. Stronger. Longer. You clenched your jaw. Focus. The braking markers blurred slightly. You blinked hard. The track remained clear. The racing line remained clear. Yet something felt off. Like your brain was suddenly working twice as hard to process information that should have come naturally.

The radio crackled. "Everything okay, Y/N?"

Alarm immediately shot through your chest. Had it become that obvious?

"I'm fine." The answer arrived too quickly. Too rehearsed. You knew it. Your engineer knew it too. A brief pause followed.

Then: "Copy." The hesitation in his voice lingered long after the transmission ended.

By Lap 18, the pit window had opened. Cars ahead began diving into the pits. Undercut attempts started appearing across the timing screens. Strategy calculations updated in real time. 

Normally, this was the part of racing you loved most. The mental chess match. The constant calculations. The balancing act between pace and tyre life. Today it felt exhausting.

Your engineer continued feeding information. "Russell pits this lap."

"Copy."

"Target plus two on entry."

"Copy."

"Push now. We need two strong laps."

You swallowed. Another wave of heat rolled through you. The effort required to simply remain focused was becoming overwhelming. Still, you pushed.

Because that was what racers did.

You pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

Even as your vision blurred for a fraction of a second. Even as the scents around you became harder to ignore. Even as your headache evolved from an annoyance into something sharp and relentless.

The car wasn't the problem. The tyres weren't the problem. The strategy wasn't the problem.

You were. And for the first time all race, the realization genuinely frightened you.

Because no amount of talent could fix this. No amount of preparation could fix this. No amount of determination could stop what was happening. 

And with every passing lap, the heat was getting worse. Not better. Worse. The terrifying part wasn't that you were struggling. The terrifying part was that sooner or later, someone else was going to notice.

By the time the first round of pit stops cycled through, you had dropped into survival mode.

The race itself hadn't completely fallen apart yet. On paper, things still looked respectable. The strategy remained intact. The car had decent pace. You were still fighting inside the points.

If anyone glanced at the timing screens, they would see a normal race unfolding. Only you knew how much effort it was taking to keep it that way.

Every lap felt heavier than the one before. Every braking zone demanded more concentration. Every radio message required you to repeat the information in your head before it properly registered.

The heat wasn't arriving all at once. It was creeping forward. Patient. Relentless. Like a tide you hadn't noticed rising until the water was already around your ankles.

You exited Turn 14 and immediately checked the steering wheel display.

Gap ahead: 1.2 seconds.

Gap behind: 0.8.

Close enough to attack. Close enough to be attacked. The worst possible scenario.

Normally, this was exactly the kind of race you enjoyed. The strategic battles. The constant calculations. Knowing when to save tyres and when to push. Watching gaps rise and fall by tenths. Instead, every piece of information felt like it was fighting for space inside your head.

The radio crackled. "Driver behind has significantly better battery. Expect an attack on the next lap."

You pressed the radio button. "Copy." Your voice sounded steady. You weren't.

As the lap continued, another car appeared in your mirrors. The gap dropped. Eight tenths. Six. Five. DRS.

The rear wing on the car behind opened. You immediately moved to defend. Instinct took over before fear could. Inside line. Late apex. Force him the long way around. Simple. The move worked. The position remained yours.

But as the other car pulled alongside through the next sequence of corners, another wave of scent hit you. Your stomach twisted. It wasn't overwhelming. Not yet. But it was enough. Enough to distract. Enough to pull your attention away from the thousands of calculations happening every second inside the cockpit. Enough to make your hands tighten around the steering wheel.

The car drifted slightly wider than intended on corner exit. Barely noticeable. Still enough that the driver behind nearly got alongside. You recovered immediately.

The position remained yours.

But your heart wouldn't stop pounding. The mistakes were getting bigger. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But bigger. And you knew it. The worst part was that your body seemed determined to make sure you noticed every single one.

A few laps later, another radio message came through. This time from your race engineer. The hesitation in his voice immediately caught your attention. "Y/N, everything okay in there?"

You stared at the apex approaching ahead. Focused on the kerb; on the braking marker. Focused on literally anything except the question. "I'm fine."

The lie came automatically. A pause followed. Long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then: "Copy."

You knew he didn't believe you. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one. Across the paddock, several engineers had already started noticing small inconsistencies.

Nothing alarming. Nothing dramatic. Just unusual. A missed apex here. A slower corner exit there. Tiny mistakes that rarely appeared in your driving. The type of things casual viewers would never notice. Formula One teams noticed everything.

Back on track, however, you were becoming increasingly aware of another problem. The scents were getting stronger. Not just individual drivers anymore. Everyone.

Every Alpha around you. Every close battle. Every nearby garage during pit stops. Every interaction. The scent blockers were failing. Slowly. Painfully. Inevitably. The realization settled heavily in your chest.

You had spent years preparing for races. Years studying telemetry. Years learning how to extract every possible tenth from a Formula One car. None of that had prepared you for this.

The next pit stop came and went in a blur. Hard tyres. Clean stop. Back into traffic. The team executed everything perfectly which only made your frustration worse. Because the car was good. The strategy was good. The team was good. The only thing failing was you. The thought hit harder than any physical symptom. You hated it immediately.

By Lap 38, the race had become a defensive battle. A train of cars stretched across the circuit. Each separated by barely a second. One mistake would cost positions. Maybe more. You knew that. Everyone knew that. The pressure was constant. Relentless.

You exited the final corner and immediately came under attack from behind. The pursuing car had DRS. More battery. Better straight-line speed. You moved to defend. The move itself wasn't unusual. Drivers did it every weekend.

The problem was that your focus fractured at exactly the wrong moment. A scent. A headache. A pulse of heat. Just one second. One single second. The car behind closed faster than expected. You reacted slightly later than normal. Not enough to avoid the move. Enough to complicate it.

The two cars entered the corner side-by-side. Wheel-to-wheel. You left space. The other driver left space. Everything should have been fine. 

Then came the smallest misjudgment. A tiny correction. Barely a twitch of the steering wheel. The front wing of your car behind clipped the rear tyre ahead. The contact was light. Nothing dramatic. No massive crash. No trip into the barriers. Just a sharp jolt through the chassis and the sickening sound of carbon fiber breaking.

Your stomach dropped. "No." The word escaped immediately. The steering felt different. Lighter. Wrong. The car ahead continued. You didn't.

The radio erupted. "Front wing damage. Front wing damage."

You already knew. You could feel it. The balance had disappeared. Understeer flooded the next corner. The car refused to rotate. The race was over. Not officially. But effectively. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles hurt.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Not you. Not the engineer. Not anyone.

Then: "Box, box."

Your eyes burned. Not because of the damage. Not because of the lost points. Because you knew. You knew exactly why it happened. The contact wasn't the result of aggression. Or poor racecraft. Or bad luck. It happened because for one second, one stupid second... You weren't fully focused. And that terrified you.

The drive back to the pits felt endless. The front wing scraped occasionally against the track surface. The damaged car resisted every corner.

Your race engineer continued talking. Explaining options. Discussing strategy. Searching for salvageable results. You barely heard any of it. Because the only thing echoing inside your head was the same thought. Oscar was right. The realization hurt more than the crash. 

By the time you pulled into the Aston Martin garage, the heat felt unbearable. The cockpit suddenly seemed impossibly small. The air impossibly thin.

You shut the engine off and sat motionless for several seconds. Nobody rushed you. Nobody questioned you. The mechanics simply waited. The way they always did. Professional. Patient. Supportive. The kindness nearly broke you.

Because they didn't know.

They were looking at damaged carbon fiber. You were looking at the first piece of evidence that your biggest fear had been right all along.

The heat wasn't threatening your career anymore. It had already started taking it.

The moment you climbed out of the car, you knew you weren't going to survive the rest of the day on stubbornness alone.

The front wing damage had effectively ended your race. The team could repair the car, send you back out, and salvage whatever positions remained, but everyone in the garage knew the truth. The points were gone. The result was gone. The race you'd spent all weekend preparing for had unraveled in a matter of seconds.

Yet somehow, the disappointment wasn't the thing suffocating you.

It should have been.

Under any other circumstance, you would've been furious. You would've been replaying every corner in your head, analyzing every decision, searching for the exact moment things went wrong. You would've already been preparing yourself for the debrief, arguing with engineers over strategy calls, obsessing over telemetry.

Instead, all you could think about was the heat.

It sat beneath your skin like a living thing. Every passing minute made it harder to ignore. Harder to suppress. Harder to pretend that everything was still under control.

The walk back through the paddock felt unreal.

Voices blurred together into meaningless noise. Cameras flashed somewhere in the distance. Team personnel moved around you with the same efficiency they always carried on race weekends. Life continued exactly as it should have.

You felt detached from all of it.

Your race engineer was speaking beside you. Something about the incident being unfortunate. Something about reviewing the footage later. Something about how these things happened when cars were racing wheel-to-wheel.

You nodded automatically.

Because arguing would require energy you didn't have. And because deep down, you knew he was wrong. The contact hadn't happened because of aggressive racing. It hadn't happened because the other driver had squeezed you. It happened because you'd hesitated.

Because for one moment... one stupid, pathetic moment... your concentration had fractured. The realization sat heavily in your chest.

You had spent years fearing that being an Omega would eventually affect your career. Today, it finally had. The thought made your stomach turn.

"Y/N." The familiar voice cut through the noise surrounding you. You looked up and immediately found Charles weaving through the crowd toward you.

Relief hit so suddenly it almost caught you off guard. Not because Charles could solve any of this. Not because he had answers. But because Charles represented something simple. Something normal. Something untouched by the complicated mess your life had become.

Over the past several weeks, he'd become one of the few people around whom you didn't feel like you were constantly fighting. Fighting expectations. Fighting instincts. Fighting yourself.

For a brief moment, confusion crossed his face. Then he got a proper look at you. The confusion vanished immediately. Concern replaced it.

You watched his expression shift as his gaze traveled over your face. The flushed skin. The exhaustion. The tension sitting visibly in your shoulders. The way your hands trembled despite your attempts to hide it.

Charles had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions. The worry was obvious. "You look awful."

Under normal circumstances, the comment would've earned a sarcastic response. Maybe an insult. Maybe a joke about Ferrari's mirrors being broken. 

Today, all you managed was a weak huff of laughter. "Thank you."

The attempt at humor fell flat. Charles didn't smile. That alone told you how serious he thought the situation was.

His gaze lingered for another second before something in his expression shifted. A slight furrow appeared between his brows. Not confusion exactly. More like realization.

Your stomach dropped. He'd noticed something. Maybe not enough to identify it. Maybe not enough to fully understand. But enough. Enough that his attention sharpened. Enough that concern deepened into something closer to alarm.

To his credit, he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Didn't force you into a conversation you clearly didn't want to have.

Instead, he glanced over your shoulder and visibly grimaced.

Following his gaze, you immediately spotted several reporters making their way toward the garage.

The sight nearly made you feel sick. Questions. Interviews. Cameras. Absolutely not. Charles seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.

Without another word, he stepped beside you and subtly redirected your path away from the growing media crowd.

"Come on." His tone was gentle but firm. The kind of tone people used when they'd already decided the argument for you. "We're leaving."

For once, you didn't protest. You simply followed.

The walk through the paddock passed in a blur. Charles talked the entire time, filling the silence with complaints about strategy, complaints about Ferrari, and more complaints about Ferrari strategy. Under normal circumstances, you would've teased him for sounding like a broken record.

Today, you understood exactly what he was doing. He was trying to keep your mind occupied. Trying to give you something normal to focus on. The realization made your chest ache.

Eventually, he guided you into an unused hospitality room tucked away from the main paddock. The second the door clicked shut behind you, silence settled over the space.

For the first time all day, you weren't surrounded by people. The relief was immediate. So immediate it was terrifying. Your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

Charles noticed instantly. "Hey."

Concern sharpened his voice as he instinctively reached toward you. You stepped back before he could touch you. The reaction wasn't logical. You knew that. But everything inside you felt wrong.

The heat had transformed every sensation into something overwhelming. Your skin felt too sensitive. The room felt too warm. Your pulse refused to slow down.

Charles froze. Not offended. Just worried. Again, he didn't push.

Instead, he quietly grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby counter and placed it within reach. The simple gesture nearly broke whatever composure you had left.

"I'll give you a minute." Panic flared immediately.

"No." The response came far too quickly. Far too desperately. Charles paused.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then something in his expression softened.

The realization that you genuinely didn't want to be left alone settled across his features.

"I know." His voice was quieter now. Gentler. "And I'm still going to make sure you're okay."

Your throat tightened painfully. Because he clearly knew something was wrong. He just respected you enough not to force the truth out of you.

After another moment, Charles nodded toward the door.

"I'm going to find someone." The panic returned immediately.

"Charles—"

"You don't have to explain anything." His interruption wasn't harsh. If anything, it sounded reassuring. Like he was trying to tell you that whatever was happening, he wasn't going to judge you for it. The kindness nearly undid you.

A few moments later, the door closed behind him. Silence returned. You sank into the nearest chair and buried your face in your hands.

Everything hurt. The crash. The heat. The fear. The crushing realization that your worst nightmare had become reality.

You didn't know how much time passed before the door opened again. Thirty seconds. A minute. Maybe more. You barely noticed. What you did notice was the scent. Your entire body reacted before your brain could. The realization hit instantly.

Max.

Of course it was Max. You looked up and found him standing just inside the doorway. For a moment, neither of you moved. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it had a few seconds ago. The air felt heavier. Warmer. Every instinct you had spent weeks suppressing became painfully aware of his presence.

You hated it. Hated how immediate the reaction was. Hated how your body seemed determined to betray you at every possible opportunity. Most of all, you hated the look on his face. Because Max understood immediately.

The moment his eyes landed on you, whatever uncertainty remained vanished. The avoidance. The symptoms. The panic. The crash. The rooftop conversation. Everything clicked into place. And somehow, seeing that realization in his eyes hurt more than the race itself.

"Don't." Your voice cracked around the word. You looked away immediately. Unable to endure the concern already appearing on his face. Because concern meant he knew.

And if he knew... then everything you'd spent years trying to avoid was finally catching up to you.

Next part: Part 10

The crash didn’t end in screaming agony or dramatics like most thought, it had ended with silence.

You hadn’t raced since, the rehab had ended up taking months, with the doctors saying you were lucky you’d only shattered your wrist and not your spine considering the amount of bruising you had. Haas had sent you flowers, started working on press releases immediately, and gave you a contract release form buried under one too many thank you’s and “we’re so sorry, praying for your recovery” to make you actually appreciate any of it.

You had been just twenty-two years old at the time. You had come seventh place in Spain and your best result yet as you dragged your lifeless car as far as you could with what you could manage. You were the only woman in Formula One, barely into your early twenties, and clawing your way into points like your life depended on it, having a fire in your eyes, something to prove.

Then Monza happened.

Now, three years later at twenty-five, San Diego was the only place that didn’t make you feel like you were being haunted by memories you couldn’t run far enough from. You’d grown up here, before karting and the Formula Series had turned you into a never ending headline. 

You’d missed it while being gone for so much of your teenage years. You missed the gentle sea breeze that would cover your skin in a soft chill even on the warmest of San Diego nights. You missed hearing the aviator jets as you were lulled to sleep in your bed at night, the sound of crashing waves and the jets enough to knock you out instantly as a kid. You missed San Diego, and you missed who you used to be when you once lived here.

So here you were, barefoot in the sand as you stared out at the ocean, your hoodie sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the scar across your wrist and forearm that you didn’t bother hiding anymore.

You were trying your best to distance yourself from what you had lost, trying to focus intently on the way the seagulls were flying over squawking at anyone in sight, or the way that the water reflected the beautiful sunset happening in front of your eyes. But your wrist ached like it always did when the temperature dropped and you heard a loud engine backfire in the distance, giving you an instant reminder of everything you had lost all at once.

You needed something to pull you out of your own head, just something to distract you and make you forget about the last three years of your life, if even just for a moment. That’s when you heard music drifting from the beachside bar behind you. You heard loud joyous laughter, loud music, and the sound of Glasses clinking every so often. 

You turned toward it, brushing sand from your ankles and pulling your hood down. Just one drink, you told yourself. Just something to take the edge off for a minute. You didn’t know it yet, but that bar was about to change everything.

You walked into the bar and slid onto a barstool and quickly ordered a drink, quickly brushing excess sand off your calves with a soft groan at how the sand still tried to stick to you. And that’s when you heard a voice beside you, it was low, polite, and a little shy. Something you weren’t used to hearing much these days.

“You, uh, Come from the beach?” 

You turned your head and blinked, looking up at the man next to you. He was tall, blonde, and had wire rimmed glasses that sat just a little crooked on him. You also noticed he had the kindest looking baby blue eyes you’d ever seen. He wore a flight suit, the name tag reading Floyd. Something between the soft look in his eyes and the way he wore his quiet smile made your shoulders unclench from the tense state they always seem to be permanently locked in. “What gave me away?” you asked.

He chuckled quietly, lifting his drink. “Well, the sand spilling off of you may have given me a bit of a hint.” And you laughed, for what felt like the first time in weeks.

“I’m Bob” he said, offering his hand. You hesitated slightly, so used to people asking you for things immediately, or asking you wildly inappropriate questions. But for some reason, this felt different. So after hesitating just a beat longer, you took his hand and smiled up at him, saying a soft  “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

The evening changed. You didn’t tell him your last name that night, still carrying fear with you everywhere you went. But instead you just talked, you talked about anything and everything. About what types of music you both like, about books you’re reading. He didn’t ask what you did, and he didn’t seem to care when you didn’t mention it at all throughout the evening. When he walked you to your car later, his hand brushing lightly against yours, as he insisted on opening your car door even if you were going to drive it home, you knew something had shifted.

Now, a few months later, you were nervous, something that you really hadn’t felt in years.

It was quite absurd when you considered the fact that you had driven 200 mph into corners with half an inch of space between you and the wall and hadn’t even blinked, deeming it second nature. You’d skidded through the rain at Monza and survived after hitting a barrier so hard that your wrist would never be the same and your career would be over. You went through Formula One as the only woman on the grid and had to learn how to deal with horrific interviewers, awkward questions and things that would make anyone shiver.

But meeting you boyfriends team? That's where you drew the line, that was absolutely terrifying to you.

The team was loud, close enough to be considered family, and extremely chaotic. Yet, they welcomed you at The Hard Deck like you were already one of their own, like you were family.

Phoenix had shot you a smile and whispered into your ear that “Bob’s one of the good ones, I'd keep him if I were you.” which made you giggle and automatically like the girl, feeling much more confident than when you walked in. While Rooster gave you a casual nod before tipping back his beer and grabbing the pool-stick from Fanboy. Hangman, however, leaned in with that trademark smirk of his and immediately asked you “So what do you do?”

“I used to drive, but I’ve always loved photography, so I'm pursuing that for now.” you said simply, not wanting to dive into your entire career story right now, not when the night had been going so good and you had been in such a good mood. “What, racing or something?” Hangman had teased, clearly not expecting you to say yes. You nodded, swallowing the strange twist of emotion in your chest that came into your throat and left a painful hitch. “Yeah. Something kinda like that.” 

You didn’t elaborate much further, your shoulder’s hunching slightly inwards, and Bob, your sweet, caring, ever observant boyfriend caught that immediately as his hand reached under the table to wrap around yours, giving it a firm squeeze and rubbing his thumb gently over yours without saying a word. You knew at this moment that you truly loved Bob Floyd. And he deserved to know about the other part of your life that you’ve kept so tightly hidden to yourself for the last few years, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to try to bring it up and talk about it, all the memories and emotions flooding back as you do.

A few weeks had passed since you had met the team, and you knew that you wanted Bob to meet your family. You wanted your family to meet the man who treated you like gold, massaged your wrist out for you when it started aching on bad days, the man who opens every door for you and hugs you like you’re all he ever needs. You decided it was finally time.

You invited him to dinner with your parents at their house, your nerves through the roof as you imagined how this would all go down.

 Bob had come straight from the base, his shirt half tucked into his jeans, and a bouquet of grocery store flowers in hand as he hugged your mom, and shook your dad’s hand, introducing himself before giving you a gentle kiss. Your mom had practically swooned at the sight, asking him all sorts of questions about his job, how he became an aviator, and all the questions about how you two met. Bob had just laughed and smiled that shy smile of his that makes your heart skip a beat and answered all your moms questions intently, not brushing over anything or making her feel like she asked a stupid question when it came to the mechanics of being a WSO. 

Your dad had grilled him with narrowed eyes, asking every question in the book that he could think of, and saying the normal "What are your intentions with my daughter?” before breaking into a grin halfway through dinner as he saw the way Bob interacted with your mom and the way he never let his hand falter from yours, seeing the way Bob constantly would give a nod to you as if to ask if you were okay. After that, Bob was met with a big “Welcome to the family, Son.” and a clap on the back as everyone gathered their dishes.

But then, then the part you’ve been dreading since the moment this evening happened.

Bob had gone to the bathroom, walking down the hallway you know has every photo, memory and award hung up gracing the wall. He came back five minutes later looking stunned.

 You followed his gaze to the hallway wall he was still glancing at, his eyes taking in every photo and memory. Dozens of framed photos lined the wall. Every race win since you were in karting, every podium you’ve ever had while being in the Formula Series, every photos of you each season with your team. There was one of you at eleven years old, it was your parents' favorite photo. It captured you grinning widely as you were in your tiny karting suit, holding your first ever trophy above your head. 

Others littered the wall, like one from when you were in Formula 3, your helmet under one arm and your racing suit smeared with grease and champagne as you smiled big at your team principal. Then one of you during your Formula 2 days, it was you on the podium, your smile so wide you felt like you were reliving the memory just by looking at it. And then, well then there was the photo that you never wanted to look at again. The photo that you had worked so hard to get to the point of being able to take, a photo that your parent’s cherished and you grimaced at. It was you in the Haas garage, arm slung around your engineer as you laughed just before your first ever F1 debut, the whole garage smiling at the fact that they had a women driver, and she was about to debut, not in a practice session, not in pre-season testing, no, she going to debut on track in a race.

Your body deflates slightly and Bob notices, walking away from the years worth of memories and gently wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he leads you back to the living room, where the rest of your family is waiting, eager to hear more about you two together. 

Soon you bid your family goodbye, and start heading back to your car, Bob’s hand firmly placed on your back grounding you despite the anxiety you feel about the inevitable questions he’s going to have.

Bob opens your car door, softly helping you in, before gently pressing a kiss to your forehead before closing your door and heading around to the drivers side, opening the door and getting in himself, and starting the car. 

As he pulls away from your parent’s house his hand finds yours, giving it a firm squeeze and softly saying “I’ve got questions Baby, I would love to know why my girlfriend is such a badass and hid it from me all this time. But, I can tell this is a sensitive topic for you and if you don’t want to talk about it yet then we aren’t going too. This is something I want you to tell me in your own time, Hun.”

Your eyes instantly well with tears, because Bob, your amazing boyfriend who has been nothing but thoughtful and caring to you since you met him just saw the hidden part of your life, the one you hide with a mask, and isn’t pushing you like others, isn’t drilling you with questions about what the rest of the drivers where like, asking what your crash felt like. Bob’s just there, holding you hand firmly, and letting you process how you need too. 

It’s at this moment that you decide to tell him, not because you feel the pressure too, but because you trust that he will accept every part of you. You know Bob, and he’s not going to compare you now, to the you that you once were. You know Bob doesn’t care about how many trophies you’ve won, how many podiums you’ve made, the people you’ve met, Bob just cares about you, and not because you were once a formula one driver, but because you're his girlfriend.  His girlfriend who tries to make him lunches when you stay over at his apartment, the one who always litters his face with kisses after a long day to make him smile. 

You know Bob wants you, all of you. As the car pulls into his apartment, and you guys go in, you tell him everything. 

How you started karting when you were six after a friend’s birthday party made you wanna keep doing it. How you rocked a barbie pink helmet at eight years old and never let anyone tell you different, how the boys never took you seriously in karting until you started winning big events, which made you only more determined to keep doing it. 

How as you got older and older you knew that this was what you wanted to do in life. How you fought your way through F3 and F2 as a teen, fighting to let everyone know that a girl could beat the best of the best, always giving interviews with grace even when you wished you would’ve punched some of them for the questions they’d ask you. You told him how you sobbed in your moms arms when you got the F1 call up saying you were going to be racing for Haas. You told him how everyone said a girl couldn’t make it, that you'd get cut from your seat within just a few races, and how your first finish in the points felt like spitting in their face, telling everyone who ever doubted you just because you were a woman to get fucked.

And then? Then you told him about the crash, about how when you turned that corner and felt the grip go and your car begin sliding, you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop the physics of what was going to happen. You told him about the sound of your car crumpling and how it’s something that’ll never leave your memories, and how after you crashed all you heard was ringing and then silence.

You told him the way you’ll never forget the smell of the burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and then you told him about the way your wrist shattered against the wheel as it got stuck, breaking your wrist and multiple fingers to the point where you needed five different surgeries to correct the nerve damage that had been created.

You told him about the pain when you woke up in the hospital after managing to climb in the ambulance before promptly passing out. You told him the pain of waking up and knowing you’d never race again, as you saw the state of your body and hands, knowing you were going to have to completely relearn how to use your right wrist, how to write, how to hold things, all of that was going to have to be completely redone.

Bob didn’t once interrupt you, ask you questions to go more in depth, he just listened. His presence calming, and his gaze on you firm with concern and love. “I miss it. so much” you said, your eyes on the ceiling as you lean back against the couch the tension in your body fading to something softer, something sadder. “That feeling, It was like flying. When I was in those cars nothing else mattered to me but the line I was going to take. Always trying to push the limit, go a bit further than the person before, take a risk and see the payoff from it.”

He doesn’t speak, he just keeps his hand warm on your thigh, gently squeezing it to let you know he was there when he could tell you were getting emotional. 

“I just. I really don’t like talking about it because I hate sounding bitter. I can see the way people pity me and look at me like I'm wasted potential, like they’re always wondering what could’ve been if I had continued, yet never acknowledging what I did do. I see those races on TV, or playing at the bar and it just guts me, because that should’ve been me, that was me, and now it’s all a faded away memory that I keep locked close to my chest.” You admitted softly

He finally turned toward you, his eyes full of quiet awe and something that looked like admiration. “You’re not bitter Baby, you’re brave, you changed the game darling. You became what little girls looked up to. You made it possible for someone else to believe they could do it too. Sure, you may have not ended the way you wanted, but what you’ve done can’t be erased”

You blinked hard, trying to fight the tears trying to escape your eyes, but failing as they began to wall. “And yeah” he continued, his thumb brushing away a stray tear on your cheek “Maybe your wrist doesn’t work the way it used to, but that doesn’t take away a single thing you’ve done. You’re still you, and I love every version of you because I want all of you, not just the girl who once raced, and not just the girl who I get to curl up with everything. I want you baby, all of you.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned into him burying your face in his chest, while he held you on that couch while you fell apart in his arms, and not once did he make you feel bad for it.

Later that night, you're wrapped in his sheets and lying against his chest, your thoughts beginning to spiral again. “You okay?” Bob whispered, his voice raspy from exhaustion. 

You hesitated before humming a gentle “Just thinkin.” He pressed a kiss to your temple and softly asked “You ever think about driving again? Just for fun?” You tilted your head up a bit confused “What? Like sim racing?”

“No,” he said, a smirk quirking up in the corner of his mouth despite his tired eyes “Like go karting, the real kind. Maybe’ we take the team sometime. You know Hangman’s too competitive not to talk trash everyone. I’d pay to see my badass of a girl leave him in the dust.”

You snorted, a smile finally growing on your lips as you shake your head softly.

 “Oh come on baby, It’d be so much fun. You would get to be in your element again without all the stress, and I'd get to watch my girl absolutely destroy everyone's egos.” Bob say’s trying his best to convince you.

You laughed loudly, the real laughs that Bob always manages to pull out of you even when you think it’s impossible. You curled closer to him, burying yourself further into his hold, relishing in the way his arms gently squeezed you closer to him. “Thanks, Bobby” you whispered quietly.

 “For what?” He asks softly, peering down at you through tired eyes. You smile, meeting his gentle gaze and softly say “For making me feel like I still have a purpose, like I haven’t reached my full potential yet.”

The paddock buzzes with race day tension. Mechanics rush past with tires stacked shoulder-high, engineers juggle data on tablets, and camera crews swarm like bees. The scent of gasoline and espresso clings to the air, warm with late-summer Italian sun. You barely notice the commotion anymore.

You're used to the glances. The stares. You're the only woman on the grid, the first in years. They don’t mean harm, most of them, but the weight of proving yourself has never really gone away. It’s carved into your pre-race rituals. The cold splash of water on your face, the mental visualization, the deep breath before pulling your race suit over your fireproofs.

“Y/N,” your race engineer’s voice crackles in your earpiece, breaking your focus. “Garage in ten. We’re running checks on the floor. Your left side looked off in FP3.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and turn toward the Alpine hospitality suite to grab your bottle and gloves. That’s when you catch a flicker of ginger hair and sunglasses across the walkway. Someone tall, lean, relaxed in a way no one else is right now. Not a driver.

It’s Jannik Sinner.

You’ve seen his face before on TV, sports magazines, that tennis documentary Netflix pushed on you mid-flight. You don’t follow tennis religiously, but you know him. Italian golden boy. Calm. Sharp. Unapologetically good. And apparently, a massive Formula 1 fan. You’ve heard he’s been to a few races before, he even met some of the boys from Red Bull last year.

Right now, he’s talking to Oscar Piastri, who’s leaned casually against the McLaren garage wall, helmet tucked under one arm. They’re laughing about something, Jannik’s hand briefly clapping Oscar on the shoulder.

You march over, not because of Jannik, but because Oscar still owes you answers about that mess in qualifying yesterday.

You stop just in front of them, planting your hands on your hips. “Piastri,” you say, not looking at Jannik. “You got a minute?”

Oscar gives you that signature dry smirk. “Didn’t expect the Alpine missile this early.”

You roll your eyes. “You blocked me in sector two. Again.”

Before Oscar can respond with something cheeky, Jannik clears his throat lightly. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You finally meet his eyes. Your throat goes dry, and you don't know why.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “You’re the tennis guy.”

He laughs softly, polite. “That’s one way to put it. I’ve seen you race. Big fan.”

There’s no condescension in his tone. No posturing. Just a simple truth. For some reason, it disarms you more than any media-trained compliment ever has.

Oscar glances between you two, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. Now you’ve got Sinner rooting for Alpine.”

“Just this once,” Jannik says, grinning. “You two were brilliant in Spa. That overtake into Eau Rouge…”

He trails off, mimicking your steering motion with his hands.

You arch a brow, an amused smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t think tennis players watched F1 that closely.”

“Oh, I grew up watching. Used to pretend I was Alonso when I was a kid. Built my own track with soda cans in the backyard.” He chuckles, then pauses, shifting slightly. “You’ve got a shot today, right?”

You shrug. “If I survive Turn 1.”

“I’ll be watching,” he says, his voice a little quieter now.

Oscar nudges him. “She’s the real deal, mate. Don’t blink or you’ll miss her on the straight.”

You nod toward the garages. “I need to check in before the formation lap. But thanks for watching.”

You don’t say “nice to meet you.” You don’t shake his hand. The moment is small but electric, like the seconds before lights out. You only nod amd smile at him in appreciation before turning your back.

And as you walk away, you feel his eyes still on you.

———

Your heart is pounding so loud you can feel it in your neck.

Last lap.

The engine screams in your ears, and sweat drips down your temple beneath the helmet. You’re gripping the wheel so tight your knuckles are white. Your engineer’s voice crackles into your headset, calm but sharp.

“Last lap. You’re still holding second. Verstappen's only half a second ahead. You’ve got this.”

"Copy." You murmur.

The crowd is a blur; flags, flares, noise, just streaks of color around the circuit. You shift your focus back to the car ahead. Slipstreaming. Right behind. Just one chance.

You take a deep breath and throw the car down the inside at Turn 1. It’s risky. Brave. Clean.

You pull ahead, and before you know it, you're leading the race.

Your engineer screams in your ear: “Yes! You’re leading! Bring it home!”

You fly through the final few corners, barely blinking, barely breathing. This is what you trained for. This is everything.

As you come out of the final bend, the straight opens up before you—and then, just ahead, a figure waves the black and white checkered flag, signaling the race is over.

It’s Jannik.

He’s standing tall on the stand, waving the flag with a wide grin, hair a little messy from the wind, sunglasses forgotten in his hand. You don’t even know if he sees your car or recognizes that it’s you, but the moment feels electric.

You cross the finish line.

Winner.

You scream into the helmet. "LET'S GO! P1 BABY!" You roar in happiness, in disbelief.

“GREAT PACE! YOU DID IT!” your engineer roars. “P1! That’s a win! Take a slow lap, bring it in. You were unbelievable!”

The victory lap is a blur. Fans are on their feet. Your crew leans over the fences, cheering. You give a wave, still breathless. You can't stop cheering through the radio, turning the car into parc fermé.

By the time you pull into parc fermé, the spot where the top cars park post-race, you barely register the noise around you. You turn the engine off. The world goes quiet.

You climb onto your car, standing tall, fists pumping in the air. The crowd roars in response. You don’t take the helmet off yet. You just let the noise soak in, hands over your head. You jump off of the car, and head straight for your team. The noise is deafening, their happy cheers and chants as they celebrate this legendary win.

You did it.

———

Later, after the national anthem, after the champagne is sprayed and your race suit is soaked and sticky with victory and celebration, you make your way down the steps of the podium. You run your fingers through your hair. Hair stuck to your forehead, and wipe the sweat away with the back of your glove.

Jannik is waiting just off to the side, now wearing a pass around his neck and a smile that’s hard to miss.

“That was insane,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched a lot of races, but that finish-”

“You saw it?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“I waved the flag, remember? I had the best seat in the house.”

You chuckle, looking up at him. “You looked good up there.”

He gives you a modest shrug, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You were kind of busy winning a race.”

You let the smile linger before tipping your head slightly.

“You coming to the afterparty?”

His brows lift slightly, as if surprised. “I didn’t think I was invited.”

You glance at him sideways, playful. “Well, consider this your invitation.”

There’s a beat. A pause in the chaos, the media, the photographers yelling for one last shot, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, sweaty and sunlit and still riding the high of the day.

He smiles and his eyes crinkle and you think you just might faint.

Liked mercedesamgf1, danielricciardo, murphy-lnchild and 2,618,910 others

Audifomrula1: congratulations to our Royal couple, our lovely driver yn ln won her first World championship with us this year, making it her fourth while her husband, cillian murphy, had his movie premiere starring in a, yet another, Christopher Nolan film.

username: while her husband 😂😂

username: she's barbie and he's just ken vibes

username: SIR, PUT THAT TONGUE BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM!!

username: the hair, the neckline, the gloves... yn please step on me

username: yn looks like a princess

Susiewolff: congratulations to both of you!

Sebastianvettel: very happy for you both!! You deserve it

username: susie and seb commenting even tho neither of yn nor cillian have instagram is such a wholesome thing

username: this entire friend group gives me life

Susiewolff has added to her story

Caption: back to our vacation house with our favorite people

Tagged: @.sebastianvettel