#f1 reader insert

Charles stood across from her in the tiny Monaco flat they used to call “theirs,” eyes hollow and voice eerily steady as he said the words she hadn’t seen coming.

“I don’t think we’re meant to do this anymore.”

It was quiet. No yelling, no accusations. Just that awful, painful calm, the kind that made her want to scream.

Y/N blinked, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

“I mean…” Charles sighed and looked down at the floor like it held answers. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. About us. About how we always seem to miss each other. Maybe it’s the timing. Or maybe it’s just who we are.”

She took a step forward. “Charles, we’ve been doing long distance for two years. Through back-to-back seasons. Through two team changes. And now—” Her throat caught. “Now that we’re finally going to be in the same place—”

He shook his head before she could finish. “That’s the thing. I don’t think being in the same place will fix what we couldn’t make work apart.”

She stared at him, stunned silent.

She didn’t tell him.

Couldn’t.

Not when he looked like that—like he’d already left.

So instead of pulling out the envelope, instead of saying “I just signed with Ferrari,” instead of telling him that next season they’d be side-by-side in red, she just stood there and let him walk out the door.

Let him walk away from her. From them.

--------

Charles was halfway through his morning espresso when he saw it.

It was a headline. On his phone. In all caps. With her name.

“Y/N Y/L/N SIGNS WITH FERRARI FOR 2025 SEASON”

He blinked, then blinked again.

No. No, that had to be wrong. A leak. A rumor. A fake.

He clicked the article.

There was a picture, her in the Ferrari garage, shaking hands with Fred Vasseur, the faintest of smiles on her face. She looked radiant. Calm. Like she belonged there.

And suddenly, it all clicked.

The way she hesitated that night. The way her eyes shimmered like they wanted to say something. The bag she clutched a little too tightly. The silence that fell between “I don’t think we’re meant to do this” and the door closing behind him.

She hadn’t told him.

And now, she didn’t have to.

The entire world already knew.

-----------

Charles hadn’t meant to break her. He’d only wanted to protect himself.

But now, staring at her face on his screen, Ferrari logo above her name, the team’s official welcome post already past a million likes—he felt like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.

She had signed with Ferrari.

She had signed to be his teammate.

And she hadn’t told him.

His espresso sat forgotten, going cold. He rubbed his jaw, then his temple, then grabbed his phone and pressed call.

It rang twice before his mother answered.

“Charles?” her voice was sleepy but warm. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” he said, blunt. Then ran a hand down his face. “I mean… yes. I’m fine. It’s not urgent. I just…” He sighed. “I need to talk to someone who isn’t paid to agree with me.”

She chuckled lightly, waking up fast now. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“She signed with Ferrari,” he said finally.

There was a pause. “Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“No,” he murmured. “I broke up with her before she told me. She was going to. I think. I—” he swallowed. “I think she was about to when I… when I ended it.”

“Oh, Charles.”

His chest clenched. “What the hell do I do now?”

His mother was quiet for a long moment before she said gently, “You do your job. You show up. You treat her with respect. And if there’s something still left between you… you don’t run from it this time.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. “I don’t even know if she’ll talk to me.”

“Then listen,” she said. “That’s where you start.”

---------

The conference room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras. PR people. Team principals. Engineers. Two seats up front with name placards.

Leclerc Y/L/N

Charles arrived early. Hair perfect, suit sharp, pretending to scroll through briefing notes while every part of him tensed like a wire ready to snap.

She walked in exactly five minutes late.

Poised. Confident. Dressed in Ferrari red like she was born in it.

And she didn’t look at him.

Not once.

Not even when she sat down right beside him.

The murmurs in the room shifted. Charles caught the whispers.

“Weren’t they—?” “Thought they were dating…” “Guess not anymore.” “Yikes.”

He kept his face unreadable. Professional. Cold, even.

But inside, it was chaos.

They hadn’t spoken in over two months. Not a single text. Not a single call.

And now she was here. Acting like they were strangers.

The press conference began. Someone asked about their dynamic. About working together.

Y/N smiled, polished and polite. “Charles and I have known each other for years. I’m excited to be working alongside him.”

He forced a nod. “The car comes first. We’re both here to win.”

After, when the cameras clicked off, she turned to him finally.

Not warm. Not cold. Just… distant.

“Hi,” she said. “Guess we’re doing this.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then offered a weak, “Hi.”

She nodded once and turned away again, already talking to an engineer.

Just like that.

Like nothing had ever happened between them.

-------

Barcelona. Bahrain. Silverstone. The preseason carousel began.

And with every media day, every team photo, every launch party—they had to stand next to each other. Smile for the cameras. Sit through interviews that always ended with the same question:

“What’s it like being exes and teammates?”

She always deflected gracefully. Charles wanted to punch something every time.

But the worst was the paddock.

When the paddock learned they weren’t together anymore, it spread like wildfire.

Whispers. Pit wall gossip. Old friends turning sympathetic.

And Y/N… she just kept going. Kept performing. Kept posting her sim sessions and race suit fittings like nothing had ever shattered her.

The worst part?

She looked happy.

Or at least better at pretending than he was.

---------

maybe it was a jealousy thing, you and max were closer in age. he was currently a superstar, there was a pull to him that no one else on the grid could deny. the flying dutchman, mad max, whatever else they wanted to call him.

so maybe it was a little overboard with what toto did after the race in your hotel room. he watched your legs kick out as his large hand laid another slap across your ass cheeks.

he kept you pinned to his lap by resting his other forearm on the center of your shoulders. he groped your ass a little rougher than normal and said, "i'm only doing this because you need to learn how to behave, rules are rules, and you need to follow them. i don't need you running off with some pretty boy, schatzi. you're mine, remember?"

you whimpered a little bit, "i wasn't going to run off with him. i'd never, honey. i love you too much."

he palmed your bruised cheek, he sighed, "drivers nowadays only think about one thing, my love. they'd eat you up and spit you out." he landed another smack across your cheek, "you're safer with me. someone who actually knows how to be with a woman. you need a man, not a boy."

you whimpered, "i know, toto. i know that, that's why i only want to be with you. max was just telling me a funny story and i lost track of time! i'm sorry!" then yelped when he brought his hand down once more.

toto really couldn't be mad at you for too long, even with envy nipping at his heels. it wasn't like you were naked on top of his car and letting him fuck you. or worse, wearing the red bull logo across those pretty tits.

but verstappen would never see you naked, not while toto still haunts the earth. no, no, that was for his eyes only as he admired your backside across his lap. your poor cheeks were going to be purple come the plane ride back home.

he dragged a finger across your slit, and said, "you'd never let another man touch you, right? you're not going to whore yourself out to the paddock, right? i need to hear it say it." he said as he sank two fingers into you.

you squirmed, but didn't get far. toto was bigger and stronger than you, you nodded and toto sank a third finger in which made your breath get caught in your throat.

"what was that, schatzi?" he asked, "i need you to use your words. can you use your words for me, or if your little brain not working?" it was so patronizing. but it made you hot all over.

his words melted in your brain and spread along the neurons that connected your head together. it was like spreading warm honey. you panted, "no one else, i promise. i promise no one else. i don't want leclerc or verstappen or norris." you were almost in tears. the stimulation left your core shaken.

toto made a pleased noise, his erection in his slacks pressed hard against you. he gave his fingers a few more pumps before he took them out and said, "then i never want you alone with any other driver that isn't on my team. alright? i know russell and hamilton, i don't trust the likes of verstappen. horner doesn't keep his boys in check." maybe it was because max had declined any and all offers to come to mercedes.

you nodded, "i'll be good."

toto chuckled and pushed hair out of your face. there was a bit more affection in his tone as he said, "good girl. that's what i like to hear. you're so good for me."

you squirmed a little, but were soon moved with ease as toto got you on your hands and knees with your bruised ass in the air. you looked divine, like the apple of temptation right before his eyes.

he took off his shirt, and you wiggled your behind at him. he leaned over and grabbed one of your cheeks which made you arch your back further. when he pulled away, he took his belt off. eventually he was naked and on the bed behind you.

he rubbed your hip with his nimble fingers as he loomed over you like a comforting shadow. he loved feeling this close to you, "you're beautiful." he said, "the most beautiful thing on the paddock. more beautiful than the girls that those boys bring around. more than the cars and the champagne, all of it." he kissed the back of your shoulder, such a tender moment considering only moments earlier he was bruising your ass.

"please, toto." you moaned as you felt his blunt cock head up against your slick pussy. you held onto the pillow under your head tightly.

he chuckled and rubbed his cock up against your entrance, "so pretty." he said, "but, you know that. you know how beautiful i think you are." he sank his cock into you and you moaned deep into the covers.

you felt the heat thump in your chest as you took his entire length. quite an impressive feat for someone of your size. but, you were beyond all else, toto's good girl.

he placed both of his hands on your hips and really moved against you. he watched how your body moved with every hard thrust. oh, you were beautiful. angelic, you were beyond amazing and you made toto's body feel flushed.

you whimpered, "i love you, toto. i don't want anyone else. none of them can compare to you." you bent your back to looked up at him. the sight made him shudder as he continued to move against you. fucking you into the hotel room bed.

the bed wasn't like the one back home, but it was a soft surface for him to thrust up into you. toto loved fucking you, he loved the feeling of your wet cunt around his painfully hard cock.

he'd joke and tell you that your pussy was the fountain of youth. it kept him young as he bullied the blunt tip up against your gummy soft cervix.

you rubbed your face up against the pillows and shuddered, "please, honey. ah! shit, you feel so good." you whimpered.

toto tensed up for a moment at your sweet words. he might be a jealous, possessive old bastard, but he loved you. he loved you so deeply, you were his pulse that kept him going everyday.

he kissed at your back as he continued to move against you. you felt like a dream. he continued to go as deep as he could go, his hands held onto your hips as he bullied his cock into you.

the entire thing left your core dripping,

he knew you from every angle, every inch of your being. he knew exactly how to make you scream. so it wasn't hard that you were so close to finishing.

and he didn't let up. he continued to press against you, his cock buried inside of you. his heart was in his throat, even if there was a twinge of pain in his hip. (maybe he wasn't as much of a young stallion as he thought he was).

"so beautiful." he purred, "do you like that, schatzi, when i fuck you the way you deserve?"

you let out a small moan in response and it made toto feel hot all over. god, you were perfect.

"please!" you came loudly, clinging onto the bed under you. you panted heavily into the pillows. orgasm claws through you and made you feel heated all over. only he could make you feel that good. he was right, those little boys on the grid could never do what he did.

how he could pull every orgasm out of you, how he had you wrapped around his fingers like a cute garden snake. he loved you so, which was why he had to make sure those idiot drivers didn't hurt you. only toto knew that he could take such good care of you.

"toto." you whimpered.

he gave it a few more hard thrusts before he leaned over you and finished inside of you. he had you pressed into the bed with your hips angled with his cock.

you whimpered and felt the after waves of the intense orgasm. your body was achy but in a great way. even though your cheeks were to be bruised come morning. you knew that toto would kiss away any and all pain. just as he always did.

he laid out beside you on the bed and got those long arms around you. he made you feel so small when he spooned you from behind. you could feel his cum up against your inner thigh.

between soft pants you said, "no one can take you from me, honey." you pressed your face against his chest. your fingers grazed across his chest hair.

he chuckled, "good. that's what i like to hear." he curled around you and placed kisses on your face. he said, "a woman like you needs a man. not a boy."

you giggled and looked at him, "and you're more than man enough for me. plus, i don't think that any of them could compete in the downstairs department." you covered your face at your words.

It's ten minutes from the end of your shift and you’re looking forward to your caramel drizzle Frappuccino from the corner shop when the buzzer over the Emergency Room doors starts blaring. Your chest heaves with a deep sigh and you readjust the clipboards in your arm as you head to the nurses station. 

“What do we have?” You ask the intern at the desk in the center of the room. It’s only their second day and they look at you like a deer in the headlights. 

“Car accident, single car-one driver,” their voice shakes as they deliver the report. You drop the charts on the counter and grab your stethoscope.

“I've got it, don’t worry.” You say, your voice confident with your two years of experience working in the hospital. You’ve seen a lot, and you’re more than capable of dealing with whatever comes your way. 

Until you see who is laying on the stretcher coming through the double-doors. It’s literally Max Verstappen. You've been watching F1 since you were a kid, and you know more about him than you have a right to… considering he’s about to be your patient. 

“Heya Doc,” the emergency medical technician starts to sound off. Reading off Mr. Verstappen’s vitals, his history, but before he can continue he gets interrupted. 

“I'm fine, I already told you. There’s really no need for all of this.” Max is insistent as they transfer him from the stretcher to the hospital bed, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s wearing a neck brace and he’s littered with bruises and cuts. 

You grab your scissors from a tray that a nurse brings to your side. “You were in an accident Mr. Verstappen, we’re just going to make sure you’re ok.” 

This isn’t your first car accident patient and you know that people in accidents can’t always tell what’s best for them. That's what the doctor is for. 

“How’d you know my name without looking at my chart?” Max asks, his eyes are blue like your favorite blanket back in your apartment. You start thinking he might be ok after all if he’s picking up that detail. Or, at least there’s no head injury. But you’re still going to order a CT scan. 

You cut his shirt open, revealing a toned torso covered in blooming bruises. Purple and blue darken the center of yellowing splotches. His chest rises and falls easily and you count his breaths. “From F1,” you say simply, keeping trained on your tasks. 

It takes you a few minutes, running through your mental checklist. Making sure you’re taking good care of the world’s number one driver. 

“I hope you’re a red bull fan.” he jokes, lightly. laughing at his own joke and then cringing when it causes pain to ripple through his muscles. 

“Actually, no.” You reply, just to be contrary. He’s not going to know any better. He doesn’t know that you’ve been a life-long red bull girl, going to the races with your family when you were younger. 

“Ah, Ferrari then,” he mutters, but it seems good natured. 

“You’re nearly set Mr. Verstappen—”

“Call me Max,” he interrupts.

“Ok Max, I’ve ordered you some IV fluids and a CT scan. They’ll take you to imaging and then I'll talk to you again when you get back.” 

“What can I call you?” 

“You can call me doctor.” You answer with a cheeky wink and watch his confusion turn into a playful smirk. He’s more handsome than on television or your computer screen, even with a neck brace on and mottled with bruises. 

The ER is busy and you continue seeing patients, solving complicated problems, and saving lives. But you watch for the radiology report for Max and you see the moment it pops up in his chart. His C-spine is clear, no trauma, no major injuries. He has a slight concussion though and you frown as you make some notes. 

You pull the curtain aside as you return to his bedside. “The CT scan is showing no neck injury, so I can get this collar off for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, exhaling a warm breath against the side of your neck as you carefully remove the brace. “Doctor.” 

You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but his voice is low and rough and you can see his eyes sparkling when yours snap up to meet his. They’re so blue, and you’re lost for a moment. having to shake yourself out from under his spell as you straighten up and adjust your coat. you clear your throat and tuck your hair back over your shoulder. 

“You do have a concussion though. So you’ll need to be kept here overnight for observation.” 

“No, I can’t do that. I want to be discharged.” 

“Mr. Verstappen… Max, that’s not advisable. You really need to stay so we can monitor you. It’s important.” 

“I’ve been away from home for weeks for f1. all i want to do is go home.” 

You are about to protest further when Max reaches out and grabs your wrist. you freeze on the spot as his thumb traces over the soft skin of your inner wrist. 

“I will hire a doctor to check up on me. In my home.” 

“You’re my patient,” you say. You’re hoping your voice sounds stern and instead it’s light and unsure. “I should be the one to check in on you.” 

“Can you do that, if you’re working here?” His question seems genuine enough, and he hasn’t released your wrist, and you haven’t asked him to. 

It’s not appropriate, but you look around and there’s no nurses. Nobody to find out and get you in trouble.

“If you’ll stay for a few more hours, let me get your paperwork done and discharge you. My shift will be done, and I can take you home.” 

“I like that idea,” he smiles and finally lets go of you. Settling back against his pillows as his eyes drift close.

“Oh! It’s a picture of you in a car with a guy.” The reporter said eagerly and shoved the phone your way. You briefly looked at the camera, an unimpressed look on your face, before turning back to the phone and squinting again.

You paused for a minute and drew back, your face still scrunched up, and exhaled.

“Nahhhhhh.” The drew out word left your mouth.

The reporter’s head tilted and they frowned.

“But it is! It’s you in Seoul after the Japanese Grand Prix!” He continued, looking very determined. You plastered a confused expression on your face.

“I’ve never been to Seoul before.” His face dropped and he turned back to his phone, as though trying to rationalize what he was hearing.

“Have you just taken a picture of… two random people in a car? To me it honestly doesn’t even look like anything cause it’s so zoomed in but to each their own.” You finished your words with a shrug.

“No, my source told me that that was 100% you! They said they saw you get in the car at the airport.” He continued on, undeterred by your flat disregard.

“I hate to say it, your contact’s wrong. I’ve never even set foot in the country.” You shrugged before turning to your PR manager who was gesturing for you to leave, with rather forceful movements. That was to clue you in that you were in trouble. With her personally or with the boss man, you didn’t know.

“Lovely to see you again, though.” You smiled and held your hand over. The interviewer tentatively took it and you exchanged good-byes before you turned around and left to go onto more interviews. The glance you exchanged with your PR manager told you that you were lucky you had not been caught out on your multiple lies and you heaved a sigh of relief to yourself.

Being the only female driver in a heavily male dominated sport was incredibly stressful. Add to that the eyes of reporters trying to find you doing anything remotely weird to spin it into a scandal and you had a lot of things to worry about. Especially since you had just started a relationship with a highly coveted Kpop singer which you were determined to keep under wraps.

You both had a bet running with each other. The first person to reveal the relationship would lose. There was no consequence but your pride, something which both of you had a bit too much of.

And so, a game was born. It simultaneously made you more careful of revealing your relationship while also making it a fun game.

This also meant that you had to start constantly lying to reporters to get out of tricky situations. Surely nothing bad could ever come from this.

2016: 

“How does it feel to be a key contender for the championship?” Asked a reporter, directing it to, of course, Lewis Hamilton, who was sat beside Daniel in a panel of drivers. You were sat on the other side of Daniel, the small desk in front of you reaching for miles on either side.

As Lewis gave the carbon copy response that he had given to every interviewer so far, Daniel leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“I’m surprised they haven’t called him out on that yet.” He then reached for his plastic water bottle and took a sip. You considered this for a second before leaning to his side and answered, not turning your face from the crowd of reporters.

“I’m surprised they haven’t called you out on your disgusting trim.” He jolted forward at this unprompted attack on his hair and the choking sound he emanated drew attention from all in the room, all watching him with curious eyes as he tried to regain his breath.

“You alright mate?” Lewis asked, one of his eyebrows arching.

“Y-yeah I’m fine.” Daniel replied, waving his hand, eager to have attention off of his spluttering. It took a while but eventually all the cameras were aimed back at Lewis, so Daniel took the opportunity to elbow you hard in the side, your reaction being to topple off your chair dramatically. Usually one for the dramatics, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Daniel want the cameras off him so much. 

Hidden behind a small desk, you could only hear the questioning tones calling out your name and see Daniel’s slightly panicked face urging you to get up and back on your chair. With one single hand, you reached for the desk and slowly pulled yourself up.

You released a deep breath as you hauled yourself into your seat and turned to face the crowd of reporters who were looking at you. With a grand hand gesture, you motioned for them to continue with their interviews and turned slightly to Daniel with a smile. He shot you back an exasperated glance before your name was called from the crowd of reporters. You looked towards the reporter and he began speaking.

“So, as you’re the only female on the grid I feel the need to ask, if you could date any of the drivers, who would it be?” The eager face he had contrasted with your entirely unimpressed face. You could hear Daniel begin to start speaking and you could feel the defensive energy emanating from the rest of the drivers on the panel, but before any of them could interrupt with scathing criticism about the misogyny that permeated the question, you replied to the reporter.

“Literally none of them, I’d rather die.” Your response was met with general silence before Daniel started laughing as usual.

“Really? You wouldn’t fancy any of them?” The reporter asked, almost in disbelief.

“No!” You said almost equally in disbelief.

“I’m fine with what I have at home!” You added on after a second.

“Are you saying you’re in a relationship???” The reporter was on the edge of his seat, others shoving their microphones and cameras trying to get a good shot. You dramatically pondered that for a second before replying.

“I wouldn’t say that, I just have other things at home.” You said that and then leaned back, shrugged, and didn’t say anything else into the mic even at the reporters continual uproar as they took in the implications of that statement.

You, luckily, were able to avoid the increasingly weird questions by just not answering and smiling. You weren’t as lucky to miss the smirks thrown your way by the other drivers.

2017:

“It doesn’t count!” You said in disbelief, aiming it at the microphone of your phone.

“Mmm I’d say it counts.” Kyungsoo replied back teasingly, his voice echoing into your AirPods. 

“You can’t go back on your word!! You said it was fine last year!” You were sitting at a table in your company's hospitality, having a conversation with Kyungsoo on the phone, blissfully unaware of the interviews going on outside the building which had a clear view into the small area. 

“Yeah but it’s been two years, one of us has to call it quits soon.” Your face contorted before Kyungsoo quickly amended his statement.

“The bet! The bet! Sorry, that came out the wrong way.” 

You just shook your head, a small smile growing on your lips.

“You bastard, you had me a little worried.” He scoffed in response. He had been speaking quietly into the phone as he was hiding in a closet in the SM building, taking a break from practice to talk to you. A true charmer.

“As if.” He replied shortly, a loud scuffling heard on his side.

“One second.” He said, as a banging sound came through into your headphones.

“Come on Hyung! Get off the phone and come back before someone else finds you!” Kai’s voice could be heard through the door. A pause before the banging started again.

“Also tell her I said hello!” You giggled at the younger man’s words and Kyungsoo’s sigh in response.

“I’ll call you after the race, do your best, I love you.” Kyungsoo muttered into his phone before shouting back to Kai something about respect and to shut up. It just made you laugh more.

“I love you too, practice well and I’ll call you soon.” You finally said in response after the yelling died down.

“Bye.” He said before quickly tacking on another “love you” and then he hung up.

After he hung up you just stared at your screen for a second with a smile you would 100% not call radiant on your face. It was quickly wiped off when your PR manager popped up out of nowhere and started talking about interviews, causing you to switch to English as you stood up and followed him.

However, the interview still captured your little moment and the conversation preluding it. You knew this because, when you went back to your phone after the race, Baekhyun had sent you a picture of your smile through the tinted glass with a smirking emoji as well as a picture of Kyungsoo on the floor in the closet in the dark talking to you on the phone, not to mention the hounding you got at the next press conference.

2018:

You knew it was risky to do a live in your own apartment, especially since you were in a completely different country than where you were claiming you were.

But your PR team wanted you to do it, and you couldn’t exactly tell them no, even if you were currently lying to them about your circumstances. You were a bit worried that something unexplainable might happen like the South Korean national anthem suddenly blaring but what you weren’t worried about was the person who you were living with coming back and interrupting your live.

Kyungsoo was at practice and, while you were ok with him skipping it to talk to you on the phone, you didn’t want him to skip it now, as you had been promised a few days without any interruption if he went to every practice. So he was at practice and you were fulfilling all your expected PR duties for the next couple of days, which included the live.

Regardless of your hesitations, you set up your phone on your coffee table facing the entrance to your home and sat on the couch before turning on the live. Immediately people joined, flooding the chat and making your phone vibrate.

“Uhhh hello everyone.” You awkwardly greeted as you tried to think of things to say. Kyungsoo would be fantastic at this, you couldn’t help but think, always having to do live’s with his members.

“How’s everyone’s days been?” You settled on and watched the responses roll into the chat. You noticed a few drivers had joined your live and even a few of the boys from F2 and F3 were watching, which you thought was pretty nice of them considering it was mainly you rambling for around 30 minutes.

Your manager wanted you to do an hour minimum for the live and the time seemed to stretch for years, you continuously making small talk and occasionally replying to comments. You even snuck in a few jokes for the other drivers before, around the 55 minute mark, a sound came from your end.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you wondered where the noise was coming from, looking around the apartment. Quickly standing up, you looked around the apartment, making a lighthearted joke about ghosts as you nervously tried to find the origin of the sound.

You realised that sound was the wrong key being put in the lock as soon as you registered the sound of the correct key being put in.

As Kyungsoo opened the door, you made the biggest leap you think you have ever made. It would’ve had to have been around 4 meters surely. Somehow you had leapt onto the coffee table, knocking your phone down. Kyungsoo was staring at you weirdly as you violently gestured at him to shush. He raised an eyebrow.

“Are you ok?” He asked, his deep voice sounding as lovely as ever. You took a second, contemplating your options in this circumstance before coming to a logical conclusion.

You started to scream.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!” Kyungsoo’s face shifted to one of confusion as yours was full of desperation.

“YOU CRAZY PSYCHO! GET OUT!!” You continued to yell in perfect English, a contrast from his peaceful question, and gestured for Kyungsoo to close the door, which he did, albeit very confused.

As soon as he closed the door, you maneuvered yourself so that you weren’t facing him and quickly picked up your phone from underneath you.

“Oh my god, what just happened.” You said, showing the camera your roof. You picked up the phone and started fidgeting with it.

“‘Are you ok?’ Yeah I’m fine, I just gotta figure out how to change the locks. I’ll uh.. I’ll get back to you guys. See you later.” You said absentmindedly, as you ended the live.

You paused for a second, sat back on your heels, and sighed, staring up at the roof. The sound of footfalls reached your ears and you didn’t react when Kyungsoo placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m not losing this bet.” You mumbled, staring at the ground. An incredulous laugh left him at that as he reached his hand further and brought your face to look at him. A smile that there was no other way to describe but goofy was spread across his face.

“You’re still thinking of that?” He asked and you nodded.

“I take our bet very seriously.” You said before he slightly shook his head, gave you a kiss on the forehead, and moved towards the kitchen.

You picked yourself up and moved to the dining table as he started work in the kitchen. And, as he made a delicious dinner that you both enjoyed, you started to field off your PR team asking who was in your house and ignoring the comments wondering why the guy was speaking Korean in the middle of England.

2019: 

It was approximately ten minutes before you had to be in the car and ready to go, and you were half-way there. You had your fireproofs and race suit on and you were being herded towards your car by a crowd of engineers. Strategies and specifics were being directed at you and you could only nod and act as though you were absorbing what they were saying.

Even after four years on the job some people felt they just couldn’t rely on you. Honestly, they should just let you do your thing, you knew what you were doing. 

No! God, ever since Kyungsoo had joined the military you’d been irritable and quick to anger on the track. Your poor engineers were trying their best to get through to you, likely because they wanted to keep their jobs, but you’d been incredibly closed off since after you got back from the honeymoon. 

Oh yeah, you got married. During a break and right before Kyungsoo was scheduled to start his enlistment, you got married down in a small courthouse with only a few people from either side. You had your family, a few close friends, and a few drivers while Kyungsoo had his family, a few close friends, and the whole of EXO.

It was very emotional and intimate, but that was how you’d describe your relationship so you were very happy with it. You were also extremely happy with the week get-away in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand that followed after, a week of people not recognising both you, farmers markets, and sheep. Lot’s of sheep.

But ever since he’d flown off to do his duty to his country (and shaved his head, no one should look that good with a shaved head) and you’d flown to your next race, you’d been incredibly… angry.

You didn’t know if it had to do with not seeing Kyungsoo for the better part of two years or having that split immediately after the wedding, but what you did know was that it was affecting your racing so you had to snap out of it.

Being dragged back to the present you quickly hopped in the car and performed all of your checks on the steering wheel and adjusted things while people flitted around outside the car, adjusting things and making sure the car was in proper state.

After a quick radio check, the call to start up for the formation lap (you were in P11 after a pretty dodgy qualifying) was relayed and all around you could hear car’s engines coming to life. You glanced at your engineers and snapped down your visor at their nod, starting the car.

Before you pressed the throttle something quickly came to mind. You rapidly gestured for one of your engineers to come close to you, incredibly conscious of all the cars revving around you. The poor engineer almost sprinted to you as you started to fiddle with the zip of your racesuit, the gloves you were wearing prohibiting you from unzipping it.

The engineer's face was comically concerned and he slowly reached forwards before you looked up and grabbed his outreached hand. His face immediately went to one of shock as you made his hand grab the zip and unzip the front part of the suit.

Choosing to ignore the cameras capturing this interaction you continued unzipping it till it lay around your collarbones, hoping the cameras don’t catch any of your naked shoulders. The engineer's face then relaxed as he saw the necklace around your neck and he quickly reached in, almost leaning over the car, to move your necklace around your neck till the latch was in front of him.

He cautiously unlatched the necklace before zipping up your race suit. You immediately relaxed as the pressure around your neck was relieved. Before he could retreat back to the crowd of engineers, you grabbed the hand that wasn’t holding your necklace and slapped it appreciatively with your other hand.

He retreated as you powered up the car and started to move it forwards, letting all the cars that needed to go before go before you started to move. 

Your team radio started up as you were leaving the pit lane.

“You all had us very confused there.” Your race engineer said as you started your cruise around the track. 

“Yeah, sorry I completely forgot about it. But I thought it was better to take it off.” You said, pressing down on the throttle. 

“He better not lose that though. I want that back at the end of the race.” You subtly threatened, suddenly thinking of the rings that were attached to the necklace. You hoped that maybe the cameras hadn’t seen your wedding and engagement rings but you knew there was no chance they hadn’t not captured it. Oh well.

“I don’t know if you’ll get it back by the end of the race.” Your engineer said, her tone almost sarcastic. 

“What’s that mean?” You asked, letting the car cruise.

“You’ll probably be killed by your PR team first.” She said bluntly. So bluntly it made you laugh. 

“I’ve got a race to focus on.” You reminded her, leaving out the part that you had a race to think of an excuse as to why you have two rings attached to a necklace around your neck.

And you did think of an excuse, wearing the necklace proudly during post-race interviews and saying it was a family heirloom that had been passed on to you by your grandma whenever you were questioned about it.

The moment still went viral though, people questioning the relationship between you and the engineer. It went viral enough to that you had to suffer through teasing by Daniel and his accomplice Max Verstappen (you didn’t know how the kid knew you were married but you suspected it had something to do with an annoying Australian) not to mention the shit being talked in the EXO group chat you were in.

I mean seriously, all of those guys are millionaires, does Chen have nothing else to do with his time than bully the wife of his bandmate?

2020: (sorry Alex)

Somehow you got signed to RedBull on a year contract. Not to say you weren’t grateful for the opportunity but you were definitely a bit confused. But anyway, you let bygones be bygones and now you had a 22 year-old dutch nuisance under your wing.

He was a great kid but god, was he traumatized. You were convinced he’d never seen a healthy family dynamic, so you were more than happy to let him see how you and Kyungsoo functioned. Or at least how you functioned when he was not in the military.

You kind of felt like a life coach for the kid, telling him when he was being taken advantage of or when he should continue with something. You’d been woken up plenty of times in the middle of the night by him drunkenly whining into the phone about wanting to go “home”, something neither of you commented on when he woke up on your couch the next day.

So, safe to say, you’d practically adopted a child without the permission of your husband.

This extended to on the track as well, you’d gotten into a few mild disagreements with Jos Verstappen after his cruel comments which often involved you looking at him angrily and him shit-talking you in interviews about you being a woman. You’d often have to refrain from saying that you’d always be more of a man than him, but alas, you didn’t want to get kicked from your seat.

You knew that Max was extremely appreciative of your dynamic, even commenting on it a few times during interviews, saying that he was very happy to have you as a teammate. After that interview you almost felt like you and his lover, Daniel, were able to give him some sort of an idea of what a normal family relationship should look like.

This sentiment was definitely reinforced when a loud knocking on your Monaco apartment door happened in the early afternoon. It was a weekend with no race, so you were soaking in relaxation. You were having a nice bubble bath after having read for the whole morning, so you were hesitant to hop out of the bath. 

The knocking persisted however, and with a sigh, you got out of the bath and wrapped a bathrobe around you before loudly yelling you’d be a minute. You tugged on some sweats which weren’t yours and put your hair in a towel before eventually making your way to the door. 

You might’ve taken more than a minute, but it didn’t matter when you opened the door and were greeted with the image of Max Verstappen on his knees, face pressed into the expensive hallway carpet. What a sight to see, the prodigy and most highly anticipated driver of his time, lying face-first on the floor.

“What the fuck?” You asked, immediately crouching down to his level after a quick glance to see that none of your neighbors had left their apartments to check on the banging (pretentious, self-concerned people). 

You rolled him over, your confusion doubling as you took in the remorseful look etched across the young man's face, almost tripling as you took in the barely concealed tears in his eyes. Your heart ached though and you pulled him up so that he was sitting on his knees.

“I’m so sorry.” He muttered as your face contorted in confusion. What had happened? “Come inside Max.” You said quietly, helping him up from his spot on the floor and leading him inside, locking the door after you both. Leading him to the couch, you left him after putting the throw blanket over his shoulders, and went to make both of you a tea.

You noticed your phone constantly vibrating on your kitchen counter and quickly chucked it on do not disturb, not checking the notifications because you were more concerned with your teary teammate. 

After grabbing the teas you made your way to the couch, setting them down on coasters on the coffee table, before sitting on the edge of the ‘L’ piece of the couch, so you were facing Max. You grabbed his hand from his lap where he had been nervously picking at his nail beds.

“What’s wrong Max?” You asked calmly, bringing his hand to your lap to stop him from hurting himself. He looked up at you, a few tears having rolled down his cheeks. 

Whatever had happened had fucked him up. You didn’t think it was a fight with his dad, he’d sadly become pretty unresponsive to those. You briefly considered him losing his seat but shook that off, he was doing exceptionally well. 

Maybe you’d lost your seat and he was sent to deliver the news. That would make more sense, especially as your phone was blowing up. You hadn’t been performing very well, but you didn’t think they’d drop you from your seat midway through the season, especially during a season as turbulent as this one.

It was the only reason that made sense though, so you prepared yourself for the news that you would be unemployed. Maybe you’d go back to F2 or maybe IndyCar? Or you could just move to South Korea and live there permanently, letting Kyungsoo fulfill his passion for acting and singing while you did a few kart races to occasionally quench your thirst for adrenaline. 

That actually didn’t sound too bad, though you’d definitely have to discuss it with Kyungsoo when he got back from enlistment, which meant around 5 months of unemployment. But hey, you had the money and so did Kyungsoo.

Max snapped you from your thoughts of the future by clearing his throat.

“You don’t know?” He asked, curiously glancing up at you. You furrowed your eyebrows.

“No…” You said, conveying your confusion. “Should I?” 

“Have you checked your phone recently?” Yep, you were definitely getting fired. You should probably start packing now. Maybe Daniel could get his seat back? You shook your head in response to his quiet question.

“I’ve just been reading all morning.” Max nodded, a small ‘ah’ leaving his mouth as he stared at the floor. He reached for his tea, his hand leaving your lap. You narrowed your eyes at that, following his movements as he sipped, a gasp immediately leaving his throat as he burnt it.

You immediately cussed and sprung up from your couch to grab a glass of cold water, running back to the couch and giving it to Max, watching as he gulped down the glass. When he finished he turned back to you and thanked you, before pausing for a second and bursting into another round of tears. You placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re really freaking me out Max. Can you please tell me what’s wrong?” You asked gently, trying to make him catch your eye.

“Promise you won't hate me?” His small voice asked and you internally crumpled at his vulnerable question. Honestly you never thought you’d end up gentle-parenting a teammate like he was a child of yours, especially since you were only like 5 years older than him, but here you were, caring for him like family.

“Yes, I won’t hate you Max.” You repeated as he finally caught your eye. He took a deep breath before starting to speak.

“I was doing an interview for the press and they started asking questions about other drivers and my relationship to them. They then asked about you and I said that I’m really close to you and etcetera.” Ok, seems pretty normal so far. At least you weren’t getting fired, hopefully.

“And they asked if I see you more as a mother figure or a romantic interest.” He said before quickly turning his eyes away. This confused you before you clued in.

“Oh Max.” You said quietly and he turned back to you. “I’m flattered you feel that way but I am married and I am loyal-”

“No, no, no!” He said, louder than he’d ever spoken in the time since he was on the floor. His cheeks had turned bright red as he looked in your eyes.

“No, I didn’t say that I saw you romantically!” He quickly amended and you breathed a sigh of relief, smiling.

“Ok, that’s good! I didn’t want our friendship to be awkward.” You said, looking at him for a response. He just grimaced and averted his gaze. You gestured for him to go on confusedly and he began speaking again.

“And I said more like a mother-figure.” A statement which made you feel positive things you don’t want to address. “Then I may have accidentally said that, even though I haven’t met him, I see your husband as more of a father-figure as well.” He quickly rushed the last part out and you sat, stunned. 

The room went silent while you processed what he told you. Fuuuuckkk. How much trouble were you going to be in? I mean the team knew, but this wasn’t something you could pass off as your grandmother's rings. This was undeniable proof that you had a husband. God press days were going to suck after this unless you could somehow make an excuse.

As time went on he seemed to collapse in on himself, the energy quickly switching to something you didn’t like.

“To be honest I thought you were going to tell me I’d lost my seat.” You said and Max’s head snapped up. “What?” He asked, disbelieving.

“Yeah I know, crazy.” You laughed, dragging out the last word, trying to establish a more relaxed aura in the room.

“No, why haven’t you kicked me out yet?” It was at times like this you really wanted to punch Jos Verstappen in the face. You made an over exaggerated confused face, hoping the fact that that had never gone through your mind was on display in your face.

“Max, why would I do that?” You asked, your voice very quickly becoming soothing.

“Why aren’t you mad at me? You’ve spent years hiding this! You should be yelling at me!” He said, standing up. You tried, in vain, to get him to sit down by gently calling him, but he started pacing.

“I’ve just ruined your chances at revealing this yourself, at ever having another peaceful day in your marriage, and all you can do is make a joke?!” He almost started yelling, clenching his fists. You got fed-up and yelled his name, calling his attention to you.

“You’re in my house as my guest. You will not tell me what to do or how to handle situations. Sit your ass down.” You yelled, your voice incredibly commanding. He followed your instructions and sat smally in front of you.

“Max. It was eventually going to come out. I don’t mind. I’d much rather it come off handedly from you than maliciously leaked by a random instagram page.” You said and he looked up, almost looking close to tears. You frowned before bringing the boy up into a hug. You stayed like that for a few minutes before you had to ask a question.

“You didn’t reveal who he was though, no?” You asked, still in the hug. You felt Max shake his head and you silently fistpumped behind his back. It wasn’t your fault, so it technically didn’t count and you hadn’t lost the bet.

You were right, by the way, press days were soon filled with questions about your mystery husband instead of your racing. But it was fine, you were somehow able to twist it as though you’d made a joke about having a husband and Max took it seriously.

Phew.

2021: (sorry latifi)

“And so today you will be reacting to fan edits of yourselves!” The lady behind the camera finished, prompting you and George to look at eachother. It was early in the season and, even though you’d raced together for a few years, you weren’t exactly close, being that before pre-season meetings, you hadn’t ever talked. At all.

This meant he didn’t know much about your personal life or the whole ‘husband’ thing. Which was fine, you’d tell him in your own time, when you felt your friendship was strong enough. He seemed to be a great kid, though you were determined to not adopt another grown child, especially after the look you got from Kyungsoo when you mentioned the fact you may have ‘accidentally’ had Christmas with Max Verstappen.

But hey, they had finally met during February and it was almost like a Dad saying that his daughter can’t adopt a cat while simultaneously cuddling with the cat. Kyungsoo, against his better judgment, had instantly attached to Max and now you were battling for the position of being his favourite driver. Which you were totally not bitter about (you said your favourite EXO member was Sehun in retaliation and he changed your mind very quickly).

Back to the present, the people behind the camera placed a tablet on the table in front of you. It was open on the photo gallery and you could already see some very flattering videos saved to the device.

“You wanna go first?” You asked, and George nodded before picking up the tablet and scrolling through the photo library. He closed his eyes and landed on one. Loud music immediately began playing from the device, you think ‘London Boy’ by Taylor Swift, and you both watched in varying states of horror as photos and clips of him flashed on the screen.

As the video ended you both accidentally made eye-contact. Now, as an almost 28 year old woman, the simple gesture of looking into your teammate's stricken eyes should not have made burst out laughing as hard as you did. But, god, George’s eyes were expressive. In fairness he also did laugh, though he probably was confused as to why you were laughing so much.

After you caught your breath you could only utter out,

“Your face...” Before peeling back into giggles again. He started laughing again as well before putting the tablet down. In doing so, he accidentally swiped the tablet and the Backstreet Boys started playing, an edit of the 2019 rookies playing as the video.

This chain event caused you to start gasping, the sheer ridiculousness of the videos catching up to you. George only took one look at the tears forming in your eyes before he was also wheezing out harsh breaths from laughing.

It took around 2 minutes for you to look at each other without laughing and, for you both to be able to pick up the tablet without giggling, it took another minute or so. You eventually began scrolling through the tablet, laughing at some and ‘aww’-ing at some of the sad ones. 

Eventually a video came up with the background music to ‘Give it to me’ by Sistar, an edit of you that was hot but had you gasping at the lyrics.

“What?” George looked over to you, curious as to why there was another noise that came out of your mouth than laughing or a strained ‘why?’.

“The audacity!” You said, as the music continued playing.

“What..?” George asked, more confused than previously.

“Do you want to know the lyrics they’ve just edited me to?” You asked, looking over at him, your voice pretending to be offended.

“What?” He said, his tone changing again to have a sort of goading lilt.

“Will I even get married before I turn thirty.” You said with an air of finality, turning to glare at the camera, your jaw dramatically hung open. George gasped mockingly.

“How dare they!” He said sarcastically and you nodded eagerly.

“I know right!” You responded beginning a stereotypical mean girl impression. “How dare they!” After that little fiasco, you both kept scrolling and laughing (a notable example of this being when an edit of George crying came up, him pushing your shoulders as you continued to laugh). 

Eventually the video was being wrapped up and George was preparing to do a sort of sign off when he paused and turned to you.

“I know we aren’t incredibly close…” He started and you prepared for a multitude of questions. You didn’t know him well enough to predict what he might say, so you went over your predisposed answers to questions in your head.

You knew he wouldn’t ask anything uncomfortable, like about your relationship status, or anything really weird, like how many socks do you wash at once. But that left a gaping probability for mildly-weird or mildly-uncomfortable questions. You hoped he wouldn’t ask that, but you were still prepared to be asked if you threw out your receipts or kept them.

“But I didn’t know you knew Korean. How did you learn?” 

Oh. Fuck.

You did not have an answer for that. How the fuck did you not have an answer for that? You definitely should have had an answer for that. Oh wait, you didn’t have an answer because you promised yourself not to tell anyone that you could speak Korean so that you didn’t get that question!

The real, close-friends answer was that Kyungsoo had taught you over a range of years and that you’d taken courses so that you’d be able to talk to his friends and family. However you didn’t have a PR approved answer because you’d never thought that you’d need one. Time to put your problem solving skills to the test. 

“Uhhhhh…” You said, staring confusedly at George, aware of the seconds that had passed while you were internally monologuing. You hoped your expression didn’t convey the level of gob-smacked that you felt but you think it did because George’s face contorted to be one of worry.

“If that’s a sensitive topic or something you don’t have to answer!” He quickly said as though he was trying to fix the situation. You’d later learn the George thought before your video that you were kind of ‘fucking terrifying’ (his words) and that he was scared he’d screwed up by asking you this and one of his ‘hero’s’ (his words) wouldn’t ever want to talk to him again. 

“Nah, nah. It’s ok.” You waved him off, desperately trying to think of something. Oh! You knew exactly what to say.

“Basically I just have this really good friend who is Korean and I asked him to teach me for fun.” You said simply, before realising that wasn’t good enough considering your reaction.

“I was trying to hide how good I’ve gotten to try and surprise him but I guess it’s ok.” You said, a small smile on your face. George relaxed from his tense state and nodded, a small smile playing onto his lips as well.

“Ah that’s cool. Sorry to spoil the surprise.” You waved him off again and he continued the video’s outro.

Another good save, you really oughta be hired to problem-solve. And by problem-solving you mean lying to the media. And George. Poor George. 

2022: (yeah the timelines don’t match, don’t call me out pls)

A loud banging sounded against your hotel door. You groaned, dropping the book onto your chest from where you held it up. Glancing angrily at the door, you rolled out of bed and stomped over to the entrance. You ripped open the door and prepared to start reaming the person on the other side before letting out a high-pitched scream.

You were in Japan for the Suzuka GP. You always didn’t like the Japanese GP because, even though you were incredibly close to Kyungsoo, your schedules never lined up so you could never see him. 

That fact really grinded your gears, but it’s what you get when you try to schedule something with SM Entertainment. A decisive ‘No.’ What a great company. To be honest, was Willaims really any better?

No. No they weren’t. That mere fact infuriated you enough to make you scream. However, it wasn’t the reason you were currently screaming. That was because, standing in your doorway in the middle of the team hotel, was Kai. 

You hadn’t seen him in a few months, you both had busy schedules, so the man appearing on your doorstep was miraculous. You didn’t think of why he was there, or how he got there. You just threw your arms around him and gave him a hug.

“Oh my god!” You screamed, before immediately regretting it and quickly pulling him into your hotel room before someone came out of their rooms and wondered why he was in front of yours.

“Hi!” He said, laughing as he let himself be pushed into your room despite the fact he could pick you up and throw you.

“What are you doing here?” You asked changing your pulling into a hug, squeezing the younger man as though he was your child. You had a serious problem with that, treating men almost your age as children. But Kai was more of a brother than a child, to be quite frank. That distinction just meant that he really really bugged you.

“I have a concert tomorrow and I thought I might just stop in.” He said, a smile on his face. “Though it is only me, sorry.”

“That’s ok!” You said, still in disbelief one of your closest friends was on your doorstep.

“Does Kyungsoo know?” Kai smirked in response to your question. That was answer enough in itself and you slapped Kai on the shoulder.

“You should’ve told him! He might’ve come.” Kai gasped in mock offense.

“What am I not good enough? Would you really prefer your husband that much?” He continued in mock offense and you dead-panned him. He just laughed in response.

“I did have to tell the company I was coming though, and they asked me to film a TikTok with you.” He quickly rushed out and you groaned, staring at the sky. What was up with all of these people wanting you to do TikTok’s?! You had all of your team's PR people constantly chasing you with a camera and now you had Kai asking for a video.

“Fine.” You ground out and Kai grinned, purposely ignoring your annoyance.

“Fantastic!” He said and quickly whipped out his phone, launching into his plans of what to film. Your only artistic input was that he had to cool it on the filters or else you wouldn’t film. 

The video started with the familiar sound of Peaches by Kai and a hand knocking on your hotel door, you opening the door curiously. As the chorus sounded, you recorded Kai dancing in your doorway, incredibly aware of the chance of any of your colleagues walking into the hallway and wondering what the fuck was going on.

The video continued after the chorus, Kai recording you slamming the door in his face with a confused expression. The video then ended with a still image of the both of you doing a heart together with your hands and you let Kai go rampant on the filters, hearts and sparkles flying around on the screen. 

When you watched it back, Kai waiting at your side eagerly to see your reaction, you did your best to hide the laughing fit you had in reaction to the monstrosity. You couldn’t quite hide the gasps that were leaving you though and Kai frowned.

“It’s perfect. I love it.” You said, through your giggles and he smiled.

“I know. It’s fantastic.” You only nodded because you couldn’t trust yourself to talk, a small whine escaping through your lips at the struggle of not laughing.

“Do you want to see the caption?” He asked and you violently nodded your head. 

“Please.” 

“P15 but still P1 EXO-L.” He read out and you just hung your jaw open. “You bastard!” You laughed out. 

“I put it in Korean as well.” Your only response was to hit him, hard, while still laughing and shaking your head.

“Should we run it by your PR team before posting?” Kai asked, taking a serious note. You looked to him and sucked in air through your teeth.

“Nahhhh.” You replied and he shrugged, and clicked post.

“I should probably tell Kyungsoo you were here before he finds out through the internet.” You said, reaching for your phone. Kai nodded vehemently.

One phone call later, an angry Kyungsoo and an apologetic Kai later, the TikTok was making its rounds and your phone was blowing up, your poor PR agent about to have a heart attack.

On that delightful note Kai left your hotel room, farewelled with a minute long hug and a well-wish for his concert, and you were left to phone your PR agent who just screamed into the phone for 10 seconds before actually speaking.

Of course, during the press releases for the rest of the season, you talked about how much of an EXO-L you were and how close of a friend you were to Kai. This didn’t come without dating rumours but, due to one poorly angled camera shot of your disgusted face when a reporter suggested dating to your face, that was shut down pretty quickly. 

Still no one had shipped you with the other EXO members though, so you weren’t even close to losing the bet. (Though you had been asked which EXO member was your favourite, which you responded to with a smirk.)

2023:

It was a good race, you finishing P4 which was a huge improvement since last season. Your team was on top of the moon as were you, smiling from ear to ear. You were currently in the press area, getting asked questions left and right about the car and your performance.

You were adequately responding to each question, sometimes looking questioningly your PR agent when you weren’t sure how to respond. A loud crash sounded through the area that drew the attention of most in the area as a reporters chair fell to the ground. They had jumped up at something on their phone and, like everyone else in the pen, you were wondering what had them so fired up.

Then their eyes darted up and made eye-contact with you. Your internal monologue quickly changed from questioning to a repeated loop of ‘Oh no. Oh no.’ as they advanced your way, moving like a predator stalks their prey. They thrusted their phone under your nose, the shitty little mic attached to it capturing every breath you took and the many cameras in the area capturing your wide eyes.

The reporter addressed you by name before starting to speak.

“Do you know of a man by the name Doh Kyungsoo?” They asked and your world cracked. What on earth had happened? How did they know? All you knew was that it was time for the one acting class your mum had made you take to try and sway you from racing to come to full effect.

“I think he’s from that band Kai’s in, yeah?” You responded after a second of fake pondering. The reporter's eyes narrowed like a hawk.

“You wouldn’t say you were close? Not close enough to get married perhaps?” The reporter asked, clearly trying to stir the pot. Oh my god, was this a prank? How the fuck did they know? How were you supposed to play this off? Would this jeopardize your career?

“Uhhm no…?” You said, incredulously, fixing them a scandalized stare. They sarcastically nodded.

“Oh really? Then what’s this?” They said and shoved their phone closer to your face till you saw a picture of you and Kyungsoo on your wedding day. How did they get this? Had one of your small circle leaked something?

You tried not to let the bewilderment you felt show on your face.

“I’m sorry? Are you trying to pass this off as real? It’s obviously photoshopped! I’m so tired of people trying to fabricate a story of me dating every person I’ve interacted with!” You finally snapped, letting a few years of pent up tension out in this moment. The reporter only continued to smirk.

“Oh really!” They said and you wanted to punch them and their snooty little face. To try and display this, your face fell into one of contempt.

“Is that why this image was posted to Doh Kyungsoo’s official instagram account with the caption ‘Sorry for making you lie to the press for eight years!’?” 

They got you there, dam.

Your jaw dropped open, the corners of your mouth rising at the pure hilarity of this situation.

“Excuse me?” You asked, grabbing the phone off the reporter and tapping back onto the post. They were right, Kyungsoo had posted to his official instagram that exact post. It was a carousel post with pictures taken of when you’d lied to the press about him, from the initial lying about being in Seoul to a picture of your ringed necklace to a picture of you smirking after being asked which EXO member was your favourite.

You couldn’t help but release a laugh, your hand traveling to cover your open mouth. Why did he post this? 

Wait.

This meant you won the bet. Your head shot up to stare at a camera.

“I won the bet.” You said quietly. The reporter snatched their phone back and stared at you confused. 

“What?” They asked and you whipped your head to them, a large smile spreading across your face.

“I won the bet!” You said eagerly, reaching out to grab their shoulders and rock them back and forth.

“I won the bet!!” You ignored how they shook you off, turning to your PR Agent instead and grabbing them and lifting them up. They hurriedly tapped your back as you lifted them, as though signaling you to drop them, but you ignored that and started spinning them around. 

“I actually can’t believe it, oh my god!” You snapped out of it and dropped your PR Agent, immediately running out of the media pen and back to your driver room, pulling your necklace out of your racesuit and pulling your rings off, placing them back on their correct fingers.

You quickly packed everything up, ignoring the ringing of your phone as your team tried to get you to go to more press conferences and briefings, and you got out of there, on the first plane to Seoul you could book.

When you arrived, after a long plane trip filled with excitement and pictures being taken of you, decked out in your team's merchandise as you sat buzzing in your seat, your phone was completely blowing up, messages from everyone in your contact list and more. You turned it off (you’d deal with it later) after calling an uber to your apartment.

You were jittery the whole ride, hoping that, despite the time of night, Kyungsoo was still awake. When you arrived outside your apartment building, you felt all the tension in your body ease, and you looked up to see the light on in your window. You smiled and took your suitcase handle in hand and ventured into the building, greeting the old lady at the desk.

Riding the lift up to your apartment nearly had you pacing and you almost ran down the hallway towards your door, quickly knocking. You felt the reverberations in the floorboards as Kyungsoo walked over to the door and a sense of euphoria filled you at the familiarity.

The door was barely open before you launched yourself at Kyungsoo, his heavenly laughter filled your ears as he caught you. You quickly found yourself in a kiss before pulling back and peppering kisses all over his face, finding his giggles more lovely than his singing.

You both pulled back just to look in eachothers eyes and you smiled simultaneously. 

“I love you.” You muttered, the happiness from the day finally catching up to you.

“I love you too.” He whispered, tilting his head before going in for another kiss. 

“You know.” He began later that night, when you were just lying in bed cuddling together. You turned your head from its position on his chest to look at him, his eyes remaining on the roof.

“I think I won in the end.” You immediately reared your head back, prepared to object at the sheer wrongness of his answer. He anticipated this though and dropped his hand from where it was combing through your hair to your mouth. He also dropped his head as to make eye contact.

“You stuck by me through everything. Even though you had to lie almost every day and had to listen to millions of rumours about me with other people, you still stayed with me. You learned a whole other language just to know people who knew me. Nothing I will ever say will ever put into perspective how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. The way you’ve loved me will be comparable to nothing other than how much I’ve loved you.” His heartfelt speech made your head vibrate and a few tears left your eyes at his words, him kissing each one away. 

You whined deep in the back of your throat and he released a laugh at your response. 

“You could’ve just said ‘I love you’.” You said quietly.

“That’s true too.” He said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Ferrari’s media team knew a goldmine when they saw one.

Two top-tier drivers. Former lovers. Now teammates.

It wasn’t just a headline—it was content. It was clicks. It was drama wrapped in designer race suits.

“From lovers to rivals: Leclerc and Y/L/N gear up for 2025.” “Scuderia's Spiciest Season Yet: Can Ferrari's new duo keep it professional?” “Breakups and Burnouts: How tension off track might fuel fire on it.”

Charles wanted to strangle someone every time he saw one of those headlines. But the PR team only leaned in harder.

The official campaign slogan?

"Two hearts. One team. One goal."

It made him sick.

They paired them for every promo shoot. Every sponsorship feature. Every “day in the life” segment.

You would smile like it meant nothing. Laugh politely when the hosts made jabs about “familiarity.” Maintain a neutral distance.

Meanwhile, Charles was unraveling.

They wouldn’t even let you use separate PR handlers.

“Unity,” they said. “Cohesion,” they insisted. “It sells,” they didn’t say—but didn’t have to.

One day, they were forced to film a bit where they stood back-to-back, arms crossed, smirking.

Charles hadn’t realized how intimate standing back-to-back could feel until you shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his just barely, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

You didn’t react. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t meant everything once.

------

Australia

Melbourne was warm. Too warm for a black polo, but the Ferrari dress code didn’t care about comfort.

Charles adjusted his collar and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping into the media room.

Youwas already there.

Of course you was.

Hair pulled back. Aviators on. Red polo perfectly tucked. Smiling as you leaned over a table to sign posters for the fan zone.

He hated how effortlessly cool you looked. How unbothered.

The moment the press spotted you together, the room buzzed.

Click click click. Leclerc. Y/L/N. Ferrari’s power pairing. Exes on the grid. Tension or teamwork?

Charles forced a smile as you were called forward.

“Let’s get a joint shot for the socials,” the team rep chirped.

You stood next to him, closer than you’d been since that night in Monaco.

“Hi,” you said under your breath, not looking at him.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Click.

Click.

“Closer,” someone said.

Charles didn’t move. You didn’t either.

More clicks.

“Tell us,” a reporter grinned, “what’s it like sharing a garage with someone you used to share—”

You cut in, voice honey-sweet but razor sharp. “We share a team, not a past. And the only thing we’re focused on is winning.”

That shut them up. But the damage was done.

The soundbite was already being clipped, posted, quoted.

Back in the Ferrari hospitality tent, Charles found you alone by the espresso machine.

“I hate this,” he said quietly.

You turned, eyebrow raised. “The coffee?”

“This circus,” he gestured to the media tent. “The narrative. Us being—this.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have walked away.”

It wasn’t cruel. Just honest.

And it landed like a gut punch.

Before he could say anything else, the comms manager appeared.

“You two are up next for the Sky Sports segment. Smile, yeah?”

You walked off without another word.

Charles followed, knowing that for the next ten minutes, they’d have to pretend it didn’t still hurt.

------

The garage smelled like burnt rubber and nerves.

It always did on Saturdays, but this time it wasn’t just the usual pre-quali tension. It was you, three meters away, head bowed as a race engineer adjusted your headset, lips moving into the comms.

Charles wasn’t looking.

Except he was.

He always was.

“P2 and P3 look tight this weekend,” Fred Vasseur said, walking in with his clipboard. “If we want front row, we’ll need clean laps and clean heads.”

He looked directly at both of you when he said it.

Neither responded.

-

Q1 went smooth. Q2 went tense. Q3… was war.

Charles radioed in first. “Tell her not to back me into dirty air.”

His engineer’s voice crackled. “You’re two seconds behind her. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, and last week I was ‘fine’ and I hit traffic.”

“We’ll relay it.”

A beat later: “She says tell him to stay out of her mirrors and focus on his own damn lap.”

Charles snorted inside his helmet. “Copy.”

-

Back in the garage post-Q3, the timing screens lit up.

P2 – Y/L/N P3 – Leclerc

Silence.

A few claps. A few murmured congratulations.

You walked past him to grab a towel. “Nice lap.”

He grabbed his own. “Yeah. Yours was better.”

“Guess I still know how to deliver under pressure.”

There it was.

He turned, a bit too fast. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You looked at him finally. Really looked.

Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat. Eyes fierce.

“You tell me, Charles.”

-

They finished P4 and P5.

Missed the podium by a few seconds.

Not a bad result, but not what Ferrari needed. Not what they needed.

The debrief room was cold, sterile. Screens flickered with sector data, lap comparisons, tire degradation stats.

Fred stood at the front, running through post-race notes.

Charles sat across from you.

You hadn’t spoken since the grid.

“Turn 11. Charles, you lost time on Lap 39. What happened?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to you. “Dirty air. Wasn’t willing to risk taking her out.”

Your jaw tightened. “I gave space.”

He laughed under his breath. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Fred cut in quickly. “Let’s keep it constructive.”

Silence again.

Until you spoke, clear and direct. “We need a cleaner release strategy. And if he wants space, tell him to earn it next time.”

Charles’s head snapped up.

Fred sighed.

“Got it,” the strategist muttered. “We’ll review.”

The debrief ended five minutes later.

Charles stood.

So did you.

Your eyes met again, tired, sharp, something dangerously close to familiar.

But you walked out first.

Again.

-----

Bahrain

The room was packed.

Media day in Bahrain always felt intense, but this year? It was a feeding frenzy.

Two Ferrari drivers. One very public breakup.

The FIA insisted you sit together. "Transparency," they said.

Charles on the far left. You beside him. Lando, Carlos, and Oscar completed the row—but all eyes were on red.

“So,” a reporter grinned. “Ferrari’s newest pairing—how’s the vibe in the garage? Awkward breakfasts? Shared playlists?”

Lando laughed into his mic. “They sit further apart than the hard and soft compounds.”

You smiled politely. “It’s been professional. We’re both here to drive, not to relive 2023.”

Charles nodded. “We communicate what we need to. That’s what matters.”

A second reporter jumped in. “Y/N, any lingering tension after qualifying in front of Charles last week?”

Your eyes flicked to Charles, then back to the mic. “Only the competitive kind.”

Someone in the back raised a hand. “What’s your biggest strength as a driver?”

“Focus,” yousaid quickly.

“Control,” Charles added.

Lando snorted. “That didn’t age well.”

Y/N cracked a small smile. “Didn’t know you were a relationship therapist now, Norris.”

Charles almost laughed.

Almost.

-

After the panel, they filed out in silence.

Until Charles caught up to you near the paddock entrance.

“You handled that well,” he said quietly.

You kept walking. “Didn’t stab anyone with a mic, so I’d say yes.”

He glanced at you. “Look, I know we’re not… whatever we were. But if you ever want to talk—really talk—”

“I’ll let you know,” you replied, then turned into the Ferrari hospitality tent.

But your steps slowed just slightly, like part of you wanted to look back.

Charles didn’t follow.

Not yet.

-----

The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting the Bahrain circuit in an artificial glow. The air was dry. The engines roared.

Ferrari lined up P3 and P4. Charles ahead. Y/N behind.

“Smooth launch,” the engineer said. “Respect the plan. Strategy window opens Lap 11.”

You both confirm over radio.

And for the first ten laps, it was calm.

Until the tire degradation started to hit.

“Box, box,” said your race engineer.

You dove into the pits first, fresh mediums. Charles stayed out, covering the undercut.

Lap 12, he came in. Rejoining nose to tail.

Lap 16. The chaos began.

You had better grip. Charles was still defending.

The paddock held its breath as you launched down the inside into Turn 4.

Too late. Too hot. Too close.

“Whoa! Y/N just dove on Leclerc—”

“Contact?”

“Nearly!”

Charles had seconds to react, jerking the wheel just enough to give you space without going off.

You held the line. You didn’t touch. Barely.

Over team radio, silence.

Then Charles’s voice: “Tell her next time, commit or back off. No half-measures.”

One lap later: “Tell him thank you for not wrecking us both.”

Ferrari pit wall didn’t breathe again until Lap 57.

Crossing the line in P4 and Charles P5.

Clean. Barely.

But something had changed.

-----

The debrief room was tense.

Fred stood at the front with his tablet. “Let’s talk about Lap 16.”

Neither spoke.

Fred looked at you. “Too aggressive.”

He looked at Charles. “Too stubborn.”

“I gave her space,” Charles said flatly.

“Barely,” you muttered.

Fred exhaled. “Look, I don’t care what happened last year. Right now, we need points. Not pride.”

More silence.

Until Charles glanced at you. “That move… it was good.”

You blinked. “You sure? I thought I nearly ruined your race.”

“You didn’t. I adjusted. Trusted you would finish it clean.”

Tilting your head. “You trusted me?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t want to. But I did.”

Something soft flickering inside.

Fred cleared his throat. “Great. Now bottle that energy for Saudi.”

-----

Saudi Arabia

Jeddah at night was pure adrenaline.

Fast. Narrow. Dangerous.

You had qualified P5, Charles in P3. Both knew this track didn’t forgive mistakes. But neither expected what happened on Lap 22.

Yellow flag. Then red.

Oscar Piastri had gone into the wall. Marshals flooded the track. Everyone filed into the pit lane.

And just like that, the race paused mid-chaos.

Yanking your helmet off, pacing near your car.

Charles was sitting on the halo of his own, elbows on knees, gloves still on.

Fred walked over with the strategy lead. “We’re flipping it. You two are going hard tire to the end. But we need to control the restart.”

With a raised a brow. “As in… team orders?”

“No,” Fred said. “As in teamwork. You box first. Charles follows. You go aggressive. Charles defends.”

Charles finally spoke. “That’s risky.”

Fred stared at you both. “Only if you don’t trust each other.”

A pause.

Charles looked at you. “You okay with that?”

You held his gaze. “Can you handle being rear guard?”

His mouth twitched. “Can you handle being first out?”

You smirked. “Try and keep up, Leclerc.”

They fist-bumped. Small. Wordless.

But it meant something.

-

Race restart. Lap 25.

You launched. Clean getaway. Charles slotted in behind you perfectly.

The next 15 laps were chaos.

McLarens attacking. Mercedes on alternate strategy. George on softs, trying to divebomb.

But Charles covered you like a shield. Blocked every move. Clean. Aggressive. Masterful.

And when you crossed the line P2, Charles P3—it felt like more than just a podium.

It felt like healing.

----

The media pen was buzzing.

Carlos was talking to Sky Sports. Lando had already thrown his cap into the crowd.

You slipped into the corner of the garage, helmet still in hand, flushed cheeks cooling off under the LED lights.

Charles found you there. Silent, soft-footed, holding two water bottles.

He passed you one without a word.

You took it. “Thanks.”

He sat beside you, not too close. Just enough.

“You raced beautifully,” he said after a beat.

You looked at him. “You covered for me. Better than anyone else could’ve.”

He smiled. “We were a good team today.”

You tilted your head. “Today?”

He met your eyes, quiet. “Let’s start with today.”

For once, you didn’t push.

Just nodded, capped your water, and whispered, “Okay.”

----

Japan

Charles hated qualifying at Suzuka.

He used to love it. The rhythm. The corners. The history. But today, nothing clicked.

His rear snapped loose in Sector 1 twice. Oversteer in the Esses. Lock-up into Degner 2.

Q2: Eliminated. P11.

He didn’t even wait for the interview. Just pulled off his helmet and stormed into the back of the Ferrari garage.

You managed P3. But you didn’t celebrate.

You saw him disappear, saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he didn’t even speak to his engineer.

So you followed.

You found him in the corner, still suited, gloves off, jaw clenched.

-

“You don’t have to say anything,” he mutters without looking up.

But you step closer anyway.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” you say gently. “I’m here because I’ve had days like this too.”

His head turns, but his eyes don’t meet yours yet. “It was the car. It was me. It was—everything.”

You sit beside him, close but not touching.

“Look at me,” you say.

He does. Slowly. Hesitantly.

“You’re not done. This was just Q2. You still have tomorrow. We’re a team, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then quietly: “We are now.”

You nod once. “Then let me help. Whatever you need.”

He exhales, like something in him unclenches for the first time all day.

“I’ll need a miracle start.”

You smirk. “Good thing I’m not using mine.”

He laughs, just barely.

But it’s real.

--

Charles made up four places in the first ten laps.

Another two by Lap 38.

Finished P5. You held onto P4 despite tire drop-off and a late push from Hamilton.

Not their strongest weekend. But they walked away with points.

In the post-race cooldown room, you nudged his elbow lightly.

“You still think you needed a miracle?”

Charles gave a tired grin. “Might’ve had one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From who?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t have to.

------

It started as a joke.

Some Sky Sports producer thought it would be hilarious: "Charles and Y/N, do a mock argument for a TikTok—act like you're squabbling over setup or who's the favorite child at Ferrari.”

You both agreed. Begrudgingly.

They set up two chairs. One mic. A ridiculous prompt: “Pretend you’re in a team meeting and the other person won’t stop interrupting.”

The cameras rolled.

-

You fold your arms and cock your head at him. “If you’d actually listen to the data for once—”

He cuts you off. “If you didn’t divebomb every corner like it owes you money—”

“Oh please,” you laugh, playing it up. “Just admit you hate being second best.”

“Only to Verstappen,” he fires back smoothly.

The crew laughs.

You don’t.

Not really.

You lean in slightly, voice lower now. “That supposed to be a dig?”

He doesn’t break character—but something shifts in his eyes.

“You tell me,” he says. Still smiling. But not really.

You glance at the producer. “You got what you needed?”

“Yeah, that was gold.”

You stand. Walk off.

He follows, slower.

Outside the garage, just far enough from the cameras, you spin on your heel.

“What the hell was that?”

He shrugs. “It was a joke.”

“No, that was you throwing a jab while we’re still smiling for the world.”

He frowns, crosses his arms. “You said play it up.”

“I didn’t say twist the knife.”

Silence.

You hate this part. The stillness after anger. The too-honest parts neither of you mean to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”

You don’t talk the rest of the night.

But the next morning, there’s coffee on your table with your name scribbled on the cup.

And one word underneath it.

“Sorry.”

-

The race was messy.

Two safety cars. A virtual. DRS trains for half the grid. But somehow, you both came out of it ahead.

P3 for him. P4 for you.

Twenty-seven points for Ferrari.

In the hospitality tent after media rounds, you find him standing at the espresso bar, towel around his neck, half-buttoned race suit still clinging to his waist.

He turns when he hears your footsteps.

“You always drink coffee after a race?” you ask, grabbing a water.

He grins. “It’s tradition.”

“You qualified tenth and still made the podium. That deserves something stronger.”

He lifts his cup. “Double shot.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “WDC standings?”

He shrugs. “I’m third. You’re fourth. Two points between us.”

You raise your brows. “Still can’t believe I let you overcut me.”

“Let?” he repeats.

“I was being generous.”

He smirks. “Call it generosity when I’m leading after Austria.”

“You wish.”

Lando walks by and hears the tail end.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, dramatic. “Just snog already. The tension is exhausting.”

Carlos snorts behind him. “They’ve been like this for months.”

You and Charles glance at each other. Then look away.

You sip your water. He drinks his espresso.

Neither of you says what you're thinking.

But it's loud in the silence.

----

Miami

Miami was madness.

Neon everything. Celebs everywhere. Race suits clinging in the humidity. Cameras flashing like it was the Met Gala instead of a Grand Prix.

You’d qualified P4, Charles in P6 after a rough Q3. Grid penalties had bumped you both up a row.

Ferrari was flying under the radar. No drama this week. Just quiet consistency.

But the paddock? Loud.

“You know there’s a TikTok calling us ‘the parents of the grid’?” you ask, sliding into your seat for the drivers’ parade.

Charles adjusts his cap, smirks. “We’re barely speaking some weeks.”

You grin. “Exactly. Divorced parents.”

“Who share custody of Fred.”

You laugh, full and real, and it makes him pause for half a second. Just watch you.

“I like when you do that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Laugh like you don’t hate me.”

“I never hated you.”

He nods slowly. “I know. I just made it easy to pretend.”

The truck jolts forward. You look ahead again.

But your smile doesn’t fade.

-

The race was brutal.

Hot track temps. Double-stacked pit stop. A late safety car.

Y/N crossed the line P2 after a perfectly timed overtake on Checo. Charles held off George for P4. Nearly lost it on the final lap.

Back in the paddock, the post-race buzz is everywhere.

Champagne. Sunglasses. Music thumping somewhere from a sponsor tent.

Carlos walks over holding two beers. Tosses one to you, hands the other to Charles.

“To the newlyweds,” he jokes. “Still pretending you don’t like each other. Cute.”

You clink bottles with Charles without even thinking. “We’re just co-parenting Ferrari, remember?”

Charles grins. “The healthiest toxic duo on the grid.”

Lando, passing by, yells, “Divorced but still sleeping together vibes!”

You almost choke on your beer.

Charles? Just smirks and takes a sip.

----

They barely talked in Imola. Just strategy meetings and quiet nods between corners. No drama. No fireworks. Just a solid P3 for Charles, P5 for Y/N. Business as usual.

But Monaco?

Monaco was different.

The tension in the air was tighter. The roads narrower. The stakes—personal.

It wasn’t just another race for Charles. It was his race. His home. His curse.

Everyone knew it.

-

Race Weekend – Saturday Quali

You watched from the monitors in the Ferrari garage, suited up but still, hands clenched at your sides.

Charles had gone purple in Sector 1.

“Come on,” you murmured under your breath. “Come on, Charles…”

The team radio crackled as he crossed the line.

P1.

Pole position.

He’d done it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

When he came back into the garage, helmet off, jaw tight but eyes bright, you were one of the first to meet him.

“You did it,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting before you can stop it. “Finally.”

He grins—really grins—and for once, doesn’t guard it.

“I did.”

You nod. “Go win the damn thing.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and says quietly, “I’ll try. But either way, thanks.”

You shrug, but your heart stumbles.

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s still Monaco.”

--

Sunday – Race Day

He leads from lights to flag.

No technical failure. No strategy blunder. No crash.

Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix.

The grandstands explode. The team jumps the pit wall. Red flags wave in the sea of blue.

He pulls into parc fermé and slams both fists on the halo of the car.

He’s yelling something, words swallowed by noise, but it’s pure release.

You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, tears stinging behind your visor.

-

Later, when he comes back to the garage, hair damp from champagne, cheeks still red from adrenaline, he finds you waiting with a towel in your hand.

“I knew this one meant everything to you,” you say, holding out the towel.

He takes it, breathless. “You cried?”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You definitely cried.”

You glance away. “It’s allergies.”

“Bullshit,” he says, laughing. Then quieter: “Thank you. Again.”

You tilt your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did,” he says. “You believed in me.”

You don’t answer that. You don’t have to.

Because it’s written all over your face.

-

Later That Night – Ferrari Hospitality

The party is in full swing. Champagne, laughter, blurry sponsor reps trying to dance.

You sit off to the side with your engineer, nerves humming low in your gut.

“You ready for Spain?” he asks.

You force a smile. “Sure. First home GP with Ferrari? No pressure.”

“Cameras will love it. Fans too.”

“Yeah. Just hope I don’t crash it into Turn 5 and cry on national TV.”

He laughs, but you don’t.

That’s when Charles walks by. Slows down when he catches the look on your face.

He waits until your engineer steps away, then slides into the seat beside you.

“You nervous?” he asks.

You nod. “Terrified.”

He sips from his drink. “Good. That means you care.”

You let out a breath. “This is the first time I’m going back to Barcelona and not just racing, but representing Ferrari. It’s not just about me anymore.”

He leans back. “You know how many times I’ve tried to win Monaco? How many times I choked on it?”

You nod slowly.

“This year, I stopped racing it for everyone else. I drove it for myself.”

You look at him.

“You should do the same,” he says. “You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just honesty.”

You blink. “What if I mess it up anyway?”

He shrugs. “Then you mess it up. But it’s yours to mess up. You don’t have to earn your seat. You already did.”

You smile. Really smile this time.

“Was that… support?” you tease.

He grins. “Don’t get used to it.”

You clink your plastic cup against his glass bottle.

“To not crashing.”

“To not crashing.”

-----

Barcelona

Barcelona was hot.

Not just the weather, but the noise, the chaos, the sheer pressure of it. The home crowd roared every time Y/N’s face flashed on a screen. Every time she passed pit lane. Every time she stepped into frame beside a red car with her name printed on it.

It was her first Spanish Grand Prix as a Ferrari driver.

And everyone expected magic.

Quali – Saturday

P1: Y/N P2: Charles P3: Lando

You’d nailed it. Sector after sector, perfect lines, clean exit out of Turn 10, a final push in Sector 3 that put you on provisional pole.

Then the radio crackled: “P1, Y/N. That’s P1. You’re on pole.”

The team cheered.

Charles clapped from parc fermé. Genuinely. Unreservedly.

“You good?” he asks later, bumping your shoulder lightly in the garage.

You shake your head. “No. I’m gonna puke.”

He laughs. “That’s how you know you’re about to win.”

You glance sideways. “So you’re rooting for me?”

He leans closer, voice low and calm. “I’ve always rooted for you.”

You freeze just a second too long. But he doesn’t push.

Just walks away, leaving you with your heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach.

Sunday – Race Day

The stands were a blur of red and yellow. Spanish flags waved alongside Ferrari ones. Your name echoed down every straight.

Charles held P2 the entire race. Defended like hell when Checo threatened. Managed tires. Covered DRS zones.

But the focus was on you.

Lap after lap, you pulled ahead. Clean. Precise. Brilliant.

And when you crossed the finish line...

P1. Home race. Home win.

The crowd erupted.

You screamed into your radio. Your engineer cried. The Ferrari garage lost its mind.

And somewhere just behind you, Charles smiled the way only someone truly proud could.

-

The room is ice cold. But your skin is still burning.

You’ve barely sat down when the water bottle is shoved into your hand and the towel lands in your lap.

Charles is the one who passed them to you. He’s standing across the room now, sipping his own water like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just defend for half the race so you could run free.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble, still breathless.

He leans against the wall. “I’m pretty sure the Spanish anthem gave me goosebumps.”

You laugh softly. “My parents were in the grandstand.”

“I saw them on the big screen,” he says. “Your mum looked like she was crying.”

“She probably was,” you reply, squeezing the towel. “She always said if I won in Barcelona, she’d throw a shoe at someone out of joy.”

He chuckles. “Tell her to aim for Zak Brown next time.”

You snort. Then pause. Then say, quieter now, real. “Thanks. For racing clean. For not pushing too hard.”

His gaze softens.

“You earned it,” he says. “I just stayed out of your way.”

You look at him, and for once it doesn’t hurt. It just feels right.

Like you’re finally starting again. Not as what you were, but something new. Something steadier.

The door opens. A staff member calls you both out to the podium room.

He offers you a hand to stand.

You take it without hesitation.

-

In parc fermé, after the cooldown room, after the media, you found each other again.

“I didn’t puke,” you tell him, dazed, half-laughing.

He steps forward, curls messy under his cap, cheeks still pink from the sun and emotion.

“You won.”

“I won.”

His arms open without a word. And you fall into them.

For a second, the noise fades. The cameras disappear. It’s just him. Just you.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, so quiet no one else could hear it.

You squeeze him tighter. “Thank you.”

Then you pull away, wipe your eyes, and grin. “Next up: Austria. You better keep up.”

He smirks. “I’ll try. La Reine rouge.” (The red queen)

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “You’ll get it translated later.”

-----

Austria

Austria was supposed to be serious.

Sprint weekend. Short, brutal track. No room for error.

But somewhere between the mountain air, the pasta night in the Ferrari motorhome, and Charles finally wearing that stupid team polo with one too many buttons undone…

Things started to feel fun again.

-

Driver Dinner – Friday Night

It’s the kind of night that doesn’t feel like work.

The sun’s dipping behind the mountains. The restaurants terrace is strung with soft lights and red napkins folded into fancy shapes none of you can pronounce. Someone from the kitchen is overcooking garlic bread. Carlos is already on his second glass of wine. And you?

You’re trying to act normal.

Trying really hard not to notice how Charles looks across the table with his sleeves pushed up and that laugh that used to be yours echoing across the space like it never stopped.

“So,” Carlos says, swirling his glass like he’s in a telenovela. “Be honest. Which one of you is better at keeping secrets?”

You blink. “Why?”

He gestures between you and Charles with a dramatic flair. “Because there is clearly something going on here, and I refuse to be the last to know.”

You raise a brow. “Carlos.”

He leans forward. “Y/N.”

Across the table, Charles is fighting a smile. “Maybe we just communicate better now.”

Lando chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, like when you told her over radio today to stay off your rear wing?”

You toss a piece of bread at him.

“I was racing,” you say. “It’s called banter. Learn it.”

Carlos winks. “Banter is foreplay.”

You nearly snort water through your nose.

Charles? Doesn’t deny it.

He just shrugs, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been all season.

“And besides,” he adds casually, “If we were secretly back together, you’d think we’d be dumb enough to flirt in front of you lot?”

Silence.

Then Giuliano: “Honestly, yes.”

The entire table erupts.

You laugh so hard you actually slap Charles’s shoulder.

He looks at you with that damn twinkle in his eye.

And for a second.

Just a second,

It feels like it used to. Like before Monaco. Before the silence. Before the pretending.

You’re quiet again by dessert.

Carlos is now deep in a debate with an engineer about which gelato flavor is elite. The others are trading sim rig horror stories.

You sip your drink and feel someone watching you.

When you glance up, Charles is already looking away.

But you caught it.

And that smile you’ve been holding back?

It finally escapes.

-

Sprint – Saturday

Short, sweet, chaotic. Charles finishes P3, you take P5 after getting squeezed wide by Oscar.

But it’s Sunday that really sets the paddock buzzing.

-

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 18. Team radio.

Engineer: “Charles, pace is good. Y/N behind on same strategy.”

Charles: “Tell her to stay off my rear wing. It’s not a date.”

A beat of silence.

Y/N (radio): “Could’ve fooled me, Leclerc. You’re blushing.”

The Ferrari garage loses it.

PR rep facepalms. Fred mutters something about needing holy water.

Post-race: P2 (Charles), P4 (Y/N).

Lando tweets: “Y/N and Charles flirting over radio like it’s Love Island.” Carlos reposts with: “Soft launch confirmed? I need mom and dad back together..."

-

Later That Night – Back at the Hotel

You get a message.

Charles: “Nice overtake today. Also, you’re the one who was blushing.”

You reply: “Shut up. Go to sleep.”

But you smile the entire time you type it.

---

Silverstone

Silverstone was grey. Not raining. Not sunny. Just stuck in that British limbo where the air feels like it might cry at any moment.

You arrived early. Charles didn’t.

And that -that- was unusual.

He was always early. Always first in the sim room. First at track walk. First in the debrief seat with his notebook and highlighter like some overachieving student.

But this weekend, he was quieter.

And you noticed.

-

Thursday – Media Day

The questions were more pointed than usual. You’d placed P1 in FP1. Charles, P6.

You kept getting asked about “momentum,” “confidence,” “beating your teammate.”

He kept getting asked about pressure.

And still, you sat side by side for the press conference.

“You good?” you whisper before it starts.

He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

You nudge his knee under the table. “That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

And that’s when you realize how tired he is.

Not physically. Emotionally.

You nudge again, gentler. “Hey.”

He exhales. “I’m okay. Just… not here yet.”

“Then where are you?”

He doesn’t say it right away.

Then he murmurs, “August. In a quiet place. Without cameras.”

You blink.

“Summer break?” you ask.

He nods.

You pause. “Where?”

“Southern Italy. Friend’s place near the coast.”

Your stomach dips.

“…You’re kidding.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“I-” you bite your lip. “Booked an Airbnb ten minutes from there. Like. Two days ago.”

You stare at each other.

Then he chuckles. “Of course you did.”

“Pure coincidence,” you insist, suddenly hot in your race suit.

“Sure.”

You glare. “I didn’t even know where you were going.”

“I never said you did,” he says, that stupid smug grin appearing.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“Too late,” Carlos says from three seats over.

--

Saturday – Quali Day

It’s wet. Classic Silverstone.

Charles struggles in Q2, nearly bins it at Stowe. You hold pole for a heartbeat before George snatches it in the dying seconds.

You’ll start P2. Charles, P6.

Back in the garage, he rips off his gloves a little too sharply.

You wait.

And then...

“You’re allowed to be frustrated,” you say, stepping in quietly.

“I’m not frustrated,” he mutters.

“Charles.”

He looks up. Wet curls flattened to his forehead, eyes sharp and tired.

You lower your voice. “It’s not a weakness to feel disappointed.”

He laughs, short and bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re hard on yourself,” you say. “I think you punish yourself for things the car can’t even control.”

You step closer.

“And I think I hate seeing you like this.”

That stops him cold.

You watch him swallow hard, jaw clenching like he wants to say something but won’t let himself.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “For… whatever that was.”

“Support,” you say.

“Feels dangerous coming from you.”

You smile. “Only if you let it be.”

-

Sunday – Race Day

The track dried up. The race was electric.

George retired early. You led for half the race. Charles clawed back place after place, hungry like he hadn’t been since Monaco.

Lap 48: You were running P1. He was P3, chasing Lando.

Lap 51: He took P2.

Final lap: Both Ferraris on the podium.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles. P3: Max.

Ferrari drowned in red smoke and champagne.

-

Post-Race – Cooldown Room

“You’re two for two,” he says, walking in still half out of breath.

You blink up at him from the bench. “And you’re creeping up on me in points.”

He tosses you a towel. “Scared?”

“Not of you.”

You grin. He does too.

You take a sip of water. “That thing you said the other day.”

“What thing?”

“About August. About being somewhere quiet.”

He nods.

“You still want that?”

He tilts his head. “You offering company?”

You pretend to think about it.

Then shrug. “Pure coincidence, remember?”

He grins. “Sure.”

----

Hungary

Hungary was a slow burner.

Tight corners. Technical turns. Strategy-focused. No chaos unless the weather invited it.

And the weather?

Was knocking.

The forecast kept flipping. Every five minutes a new update. Cloud cover, yes. Rain? Maybe. Thunder? Possible.

You were P3. Charles, P4. Both cars strong. Steady. Waiting for the right storm.

-

Saturday – Night Before the Race

Dinner was quiet. Everyone focused. No wine this time. No Carlos antics. Just calm.

You sat beside Charles by accident.

Or maybe not.

You didn’t speak much. But your knees brushed under the table.

And this time?

Neither of you moved.

-

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 28.

The rain hit.

Just as soft as it started, it threw the whole race into chaos.

Slippery pit entries. Unplanned stops. Everyone scrambling.

You both pitted perfectly.

And for fifteen laps—you led.

Charles ran P2. Again. Right behind you. Shadowing you. Protecting you.

Team radio stayed mostly silent.

Because neither of you needed words anymore.

Final Result: P1 – Y/N. P2 – Charles. Ferrari 1-2.

Three in a row for you.

And for the first time all season, it felt like you could breathe.

-

Post-Race – The Rain Comes Back

The cooldown room was a blur.

Then the podium.

Then the interviews.

Then the chaos.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

Or at least, you thought you were.

You step outside the back of the hospitality tent, just for a minute. The air is wet. The rain’s light but steady, misting your hair, cooling your face.

You close your eyes.

“You always do this?” a voice says behind you.

You open them. He’s there. Leaning on the wall. Drenched.

You exhale. “Needed a minute.”

He walks over. No umbrella. No jacket. Just him.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “I think I am.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

But he wants to.

You pull in a breath. “Feels like everything’s moving so fast. Like one minute I’m terrified and the next I’m winning. Again. And people keep looking at me like I’ve already become the person I’m supposed to be and I’m just—”

You stop.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to be her all the time,” he says softly.

You blink.

“You can just be you. With me.”

The silence after that stretches. Soft. Real.

Then you say, “You ever think about us?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

Maybe him. Maybe you.

But suddenly, his forehead is pressed to yours, the rain dripping from his lashes, and it’s like the entire world slows down.

No cameras. No team. No finish line.

Just you and him and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you never stopped being something.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes.

“I never stopped.”

And that?

That’s the moment.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

--

Summer Break Begins

The coast of Southern Italy was slow. Lazy waves. Salty air. Golden light. The kind of place where the world paused and no one expected anything from you.

You both booked different villas.

Ten minutes apart.

You told the team it was coincidence. You told yourselves it was, too.

But the second night, you were at his place. And neither of you left much after that.

-

Day 1

The sand is cool beneath your feet as the sun dips low on the horizon. The sky’s turning pink. He’s walking beside you, barefoot, jeans rolled, one hand swinging lazily between you like he wants to reach for you but won’t unless you do.

“I hated seeing you win,” he says, so suddenly you stop.

You look at him.

“Not because you don’t deserve it,” he adds. “But because I wasn’t beside you when you got there. Not really.”

Your throat tightens. “That was your choice.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

You walk in silence for a while.

Then he says, “I missed you. As a person. As my person.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just take his hand.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

-

Day 3

He says he has a plan. You say you don’t do boats. He says you’ll survive.

You show up in a linen dress and sunglasses. He’s already shirtless, smirking.

The water is impossibly blue. The sky cloudless. It’s just the two of you, a bottle of wine, and playlists you didn’t know he still remembered.

He drops anchor somewhere secluded, switches the engine off, and the only sound left is the sea.

You both lie on the sunpad, close but not touching.

Until he shifts.

And suddenly he’s above you, eyes searching yours, hand gently pushing your hair back.

“You’re staring,” you whisper.

“I’m allowed,” he says. “I used to wake up next to you.”

You reach up. Let your fingers graze his jaw.

“What are we doing?” you ask.

He swallows. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.”

When his mouth finds yours—it’s slow. Familiar. Desperate in a quiet way. Like both of you are afraid you’ll vanish again if you rush it.

You don’t sleep with him that day.

But you fall asleep beside him on the boat, curled under a towel, head on his chest.

And when you wake up, his hand is still in yours.

-

Day 5

It’s after dinner. Wine-soaked. Candle-lit. You’re sitting on the terrace of your villa, legs in his lap, playlist humming low in the background.

He hasn’t kissed you yet today.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

But because he needs to say it first.

“I want this,” he says. “You. Us.”

You stop playing with the hem of his sleeve.

“But I want it right,” he adds. “No hiding. No fear. No thinking you’ll disappear again.”

You nod slowly. “I want that too.”

“But not yet?” he guesses.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “Let’s keep this just ours a little longer.”

He leans in. “You’re already mine.”

You pull him into a kiss before you can cry.

And when he carries you inside that night, it’s not hurried. It’s reverent.

You undress each other like unwrapping something fragile.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s not lust. It’s homecoming.

Slow. Deep. Whispered names. Fingers tangled. Lips pressed to shoulders.

You don’t speak much.

You don’t have to.

You’ve already said everything.

-

Day 8

You come back from the beach to find fairy lights strung across your villa’s patio.

A record player spinning something French. A small table set for two.

He walks out from the kitchen barefoot with a dish he clearly didn’t cook.

“Let’s pretend we’re normal for one night,” he says.

You laugh. “We’re not even pretending we’re not dating.”

He grins. “No cameras. No PR. Just you. And me.”

Dinner turns into dancing.

Dancing turns into kissing.

Kissing turns into bodies pressed against the wall, then the bed, then every surface you can reach.

He makes you come twice before the words even leave his mouth.

“I love you.”

It’s breathless. Honest. Like he’s been holding it for months.

You look at him, sweaty, wrecked, completely yours and say it back.

“I love you too.”

---

When the break ends, you pack separate bags.

Fly separate flights.

Walk into the paddock for Race 12 side by side but not touching.

Just friends.

But at night?

You take the long way back to your motorhome.

And sometimes, when you knock?

He’s already opening the door.

------

Netherlands

The sky over Zandvoort is cloudy. The ocean breeze rolls in from the dunes. The grandstands are orange. Loud. Buzzing. Everyone’s talking about Max.

But the paddock?

The paddock is talking about you.

You arrive with sunglasses on, hoodie up, hair slightly wind-swept from the private car ride you didn’t take with Charles. Definitely not. You walked in separately. Your PR manager made sure of it.

But your lips are a little too pink. Your smile a little too soft.

And when Charles walks in ten minutes later with the same sunglasses, same wind-swept hair, and that ridiculous barely-there smirk?

Yeah.

People notice.

“You think they know?” you murmur beside him as you both wait at the Pirelli media wall.

“I think they’ve always known,” he replies. “We just stopped giving them a reason to guess.”

You lean closer. “You remember the rules?”

He recites, low: “No lingering touches. No inside jokes. No heart-eyes.”

You grin. “And?”

He shrugs. “No fucking in the simulator room.”

You elbow him so hard he coughs.

-

Free Practice – FP2

He follows you out of the garage. Your helmets tap as you pass in the pit lane. Subtle. Routine.

Except he looks at you just before you pull away, and the cameras catch it.

Reddit explodes: "That was not a 'just friends' glance."

-

Quali – Saturday

You’re faster. He knows it.

Your engineer radios in, tells you your Sector 2 is purple.

Charles’s voice cracks through your earpiece: “Beautiful lap. Go get pole.”

You do.

And later, when he finds you in the back of the motorhome, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp, he doesn’t touch you. Just smiles.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you say back, even though he didn’t win a thing.

-

Race Day – Sunday

It’s wet. Again. Light drizzle, slick tires.

You start P1. Charles P3.

Lap 28, you're both leading a Ferrari 1-2.

No drama. No fighting. Just clean, perfect coordination.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles.

Three wins in a row. Four total. The championship is no longer a dream...it’s real.

-

Post-Race – Press Room

“So,” a journalist starts, “what’s it like racing alongside your friend Charles Leclerc, week after week?”

You smile.

He smiles.

You glance at him, just for a second too long.

And when you answer-

“He’s… steady,” you say. “He’s where I look when I’m overwhelmed. And when I cross the line first, the only person I want to see waiting is him.”

He turns his head. Slowly.

His eyes are soft.

His voice even softer.

“I feel the same.”

Your PR rep nearly faints.

Back in the motorhome

You shut the door behind you.

His hands are in your hair before you even breathe.

Lips locked. Breathless.

He breaks the kiss to whisper:

“Friends don’t do this.”

You grin against his mouth.

“They do now.”

-----

Monza

Monza isn’t just a race.

It’s home.

Not your home. But his. And by now, it feels like yours, too.

The Tifosi line the track like a sea of worship. Flags wave from balconies. Flares smoke up the sky. Every face wears red.

The pressure? It’s unbearable.

The love? Unmatched.

-

Friday – Media Day

The questions are nonstop.

“Can Ferrari win at home?”

“Can Y/N hold her WDC lead?”

“Can Charles challenge for a win without team drama?”

No one asks about your friendship. Not directly.

But when a Sky Sports reporter jokes that you and Charles are "dangerously in sync lately," Charles just smirks.

You?

You sip your water and smile.

The same smile you gave him this morning in bed.

-

Saturday – Quali

Pole goes to Max. You qualify P2. Charles nails P3.

But the radio moment during Q3?

That’s what stirs the internet.

“Let him know I’m pushing,” you tell the team.

A beat.

Then his voice: “You’re always pushing. That’s what I love about you.”

Silence.

Then a clumsy, “I mean. On track.”

You say nothing.

But you’re laughing inside your helmet.

And so is he.

Reddit is on fire within five minutes.

“That’s what I love about you”? HELLO? TELL ME THEY’RE NOT DATING AGAIN I DARE YOU

-

Sunday – Race Day

It’s chaos. DRS trains. Tire degradation. Early pit stops.

But somehow, it’s still a Ferrari 2-3.

P2: Y/N. P3: Charles.

Max wins. Again.

But the crowd doesn’t care.

Because Ferrari is on the podium.

Because you’re on the podium.

Because when the national anthem plays, and Charles looks at you, not like a teammate, not like an ex, but like everything. The whole world sees it.

-

Post-Race – Parc Fermé

You throw your arms around him before anyone else can.

You don’t kiss him. Not quite.

But your face is so close that the cameraman actually gasps.

His lips brush your cheek. His hands grip your waist. And when you pull back, flushed and breathless, he whispers:

“A couple more races.”

You nod.

“Then we stop pretending.”

-

Garage – 45 minutes later

Carlos finds you both tucked in a back corner.

“You two are so bad at hiding things,” he mutters, peeling a banana.

“We’re not hiding anything,” you say.

Charles nods, deadpan. “We’re just teammates.”

Carlos raises a brow. “Teammates don’t leave lipstick on each other’s necks.”

You slap Charles with a towel.

He just smiles.

-----

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft love you’d forgotten how to feel.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

-

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You spot her before he does.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. One of those PR-model hybrids who floats between teams and beds with the same trained smile.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

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