#formual one

CIELA OCTOBER 2014

The sun was already climbing over Barcelona when we stumbled back to the hotel, golden light spilling across the city. Seven in the morning. We'd been awake for going on twenty-four hours, dancing and laughing and celebrating until our feet ached and our voices went hoarse.

My wife. The word still felt foreign but so so right. Alexia was my wife now.

I watched her from the doorway of the bathroom, this woman I'd known since we were six years old. Fourteen years of growing up together, of falling in love so gradually I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but now she was mine. Legally and officially mine forever.

She was exhausted. I could see it in the slight slump of her shoulders as she stood at the sink. I could see it in the way she moved slowly, like her body was made of lead. Her hair was still pinned up from the ceremony, though several dark strands had escaped to frame her face. She'd already removed her shirt, trading it for a white tank top that clung to the muscles of her back and shoulders. Football had carved her body into something magnificent, and I was never above unashamedly admiring it.

If anything, I was now legally mine to admire.

I should have been exhausted too. We'd partied all night at that little villa on the outskirts of the city, the only celebration we could afford while we chased our dreams. Her with Barcelona's women's team, me grinding through GP2, both of us pouring every euro we had into our futures. The wedding had been small, intimate, just our families and closest friends on that beach near our spot. A place that had always been ours, the very place our official relationship began at fifteen.

I wasn't tired; I wasn’t even close.

Adrenaline was still humming through my veins, mixing with something deeper, hotter. We were married now. We'd made promises in front of everyone we loved, exchanged rings, kissed for the first time with our new titles, but we hadn't been alone together all day.

I wanted her. I wanted her so badly my skin felt too tight.

I slipped off my shoes, my socks, everything except the hotel robe I’d packed. The silk was cool against my bare skin as I tied it loosely at my waist. My heart was pounding as I padded to the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Cece." She clocked me immediately, like she had this ability to know exactly where I was at one point.

Alexia's voice was tired but warm as her eyes met mine in the mirror. She was reaching for her toothbrush, going through the motions of getting ready for bed like this was any other night.

"What?" I kept my voice innocent and light as I pushed off the doorframe and crossed the small space between us.

She watched me in the mirror, her hand stilling on the counter. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I slid my arms around her waist from behind, settling my hands low on her stomach. The tank top was soft under my palms, and beneath it I could feel the warmth of her skin and every single muscular bump that now lived across her stomach.

Her eyes locked with mine in the mirror with a questioning look. "Don't tell me nothing. You've got that look in your eye."

Did I? Probably. I couldn't help the small smile that curved my lips as I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck. Her skin was warm, tasting faintly of salt and the perfume she'd worn for the ceremony. I kissed her again, trailing my lips up her neck, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my mouth.

"Cece ..." Her voice had changed, becoming softer and more breathy.

I found that spot, the one in the crook where her neck met her shoulder, and kissed it deliberately. Her breath hitched. I felt it more than heard it, but I felt the way her body responded to me. The slight arch of her back, the way her head tilted to give me better access.

When I looked up at the mirror, her eyes had fluttered closed, and her lips parted.

"What's under the robe, Cece?" She asked, and it came out as a half mumble half sigh.

"Nothing."

Her eyes opened at that, meeting mine in the mirror with sudden intensity. I watched her process what I'd said, watched the exhaustion in her expression shift into something else entirely. Heat. Want.

She sighed, not from tiredness as she turned around in my arms. I didn't move my hands; instead, I loosened my grip only slightly to let her move, and I just let my hand slide naturally to rest on her arse as she faced me. The tank top had ridden up slightly, and my fingertips brushed the bare skin at her waistband.

I looked up at her and let myself just stare. That face. I'd memorised every detail over fourteen years: the exact shade of her eyes, the placement of every freckle on her face, the way her lips curved when she was trying not to smile, but now this face was mine in a way it had never been before.

I was the only one who got to see her like this. Vulnerable, wanting and completely open to me.

She held my gaze as she reached for the tie of my robe, her fingers working the knot slowly, deliberately. The silk loosened as she pulled the ends apart and then slowly, so slowly, pushed the robe open.

Her eyes dropped as they trailed down my body. I watched her face as she looked at me, watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her breathing quickened.

I was completely naked underneath, and the way she was looking at me made me feel powerful and absolutely beautiful.

"Oh," she breathed. "You weren't lying."

I couldn't help the smirk that spread across my face. "I wasn't."

I reached up and pulled her down to me, pressing her mouth with mine. The kiss started soft, our lips moving together in a familiar dance. My hands slid up her back, feeling the muscles shift under her top, while her hands came up to cup my face, her thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

Yet soft wasn't enough. Not tonight. Not after waiting all day and all night to have her alone.

I deepened the kiss, pressing myself closer to her, and she responded immediately. Her hands moved to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

The kiss turned hungry and demanding. Our tongues slid together as we both tried to get closer and closer, but it was never close enough.

Suddenly she moved, spinning us so now I was the one with my back to the bathroom counter.

The marble was cold against my bare skin, and I gasped into her mouth. She took advantage of it, kissing me harder, her body pressing mine back against the counter. I could feel every inch of her against me. Her thighs between mine, her stomach against mine, her breasts pressed to my chest. I knew every inch of her body, but still nothing was left to my imagination as I could feel every inch of her through that top.

"Having sex on your wedding night is so cliché," she murmured against my lips, but her hands were already sliding down my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

I was breathing hard, my head spinning. "It's a good job it's not our wedding night then, isn't it?"

It was morning. Technically. The logic was flimsy, but I didn't care, and from the way she smiled against my mouth, neither did she.

The kiss turned fierce again, all teeth and tongue and desperate need. She gripped my hips and lifted me easily, all that football training making me weightless in her hands, as she set me on the counter.

The marble was cold against my thighs, but I barely noticed because as she stepped between my legs, pressing close, and oh that angle was perfect.

I wrapped my legs around her waist, pulling her closer as she kissed down my jaw to my neck. Her mouth was hot against my skin, her teeth scraping lightly in a way that made me shiver and everything feel so good. I let my head fall back against the mirror with one hand braced behind me for support and the other buried in her hair.

She kissed down my throat, across my collarbones, and down to my chest. When her fingers brushed over my nipple, it was barely even a touch, which caused my head to drop back further as a moan rippled from my throat. I could feel the smirk against my skin from my reaction, which all caused her to do it again, this time circling slowly, and I bit my lip to keep myself from moaning.

"Don't," she murmured against my skin. "I want to hear you."

So I let her hear me. Let the moan escape as she finally, finally took my nipple in her mouth. Her tongue was hot and wet, circling and flicking while her hand came up to palm my other breast. My grip tightened in her hair, holding her to me as pleasure sparked through my body.

She took her time, switching between my breasts, using her mouth and hands and even her teeth until I was left panting and squirming on the counter, desperate for more. My thighs tightened around her waist, and I could feel how wet I was, could feel the ache building between my legs.

"Ale," I breathed. "Please."

She pulled back, and the loss of her mouth made me whimper. As she pulled back, I finally saw her face again. She was flushed, with swollen lips, her eyes dark with desire and the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

She stepped back, out of the circle of my legs, and I made a sound of protest, but she just kept moving backward, toward the bedroom, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

Her hands went to the hem of her tank top. She pulled it up slowly, so slowly, revealing inch by inch of tanned skin and toned muscle. When she finally pulled it over her head and dropped it to the floor, I couldn't look away. She was perfect. Absolutely perfect, and she was all mine. Forever.

She kept walking backward, kept that burning eye contact, as her hands moved to the button of her pants. Each movement was deliberate and teasing. Button. Zipper. The fabric sliding down her hips, her thighs, pooling at her feet. She stepped out of them, standing in just her underwear now.

The back of her knees hit the bed, and she stopped there, looking and just waiting.

I slid off the counter, my legs slightly unsteady. The robe was still hanging off my shoulders, and I let it fall; let it pool on the bathroom floor as I walked toward her. Naked. Completely bare, and the way she was looking at me made me feel like a goddess.

I didn't stop when I reached her. I kept walking, forcing her to move, to climb onto the bed. She went willingly, crawling backward as I followed, stalking her like prey.

When she was in the centre of the bed, I climbed over her, settling my weight on top of her, my thighs straddling her hips.

For a moment we just looked at each other. Her hands came up to rest on my waist, thumbs stroking small circles on my skin. I could feel her heart pounding beneath my palms where they rested on her chest.

Then I was kissing her again, pouring everything I felt into it. All my love, my desire and my absolute devotion to this woman. She kissed me back just as fiercely, her hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer.

I kissed down her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. My hands explored her body, tracing the lines of every muscle in her arms, her shoulders, her stomach. She was so strong, so beautiful, and she was mine.

I took my time with her breasts, remembering how she'd treated me before; now I was simply returning the favour. Her breathing quickened with small gasps and moans escaping as I sucked and licked and bit gently. With my mouth still kissing her chest, my hand trailed down her stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my touch, down to the waistband of her underwear.

I slipped my hand inside, not touching her yet, just resting it low on her stomach. She made a frustrated sound, and I smirked against her chest.

"Cece," she warned, but she had no power in her voice; instead, it just came out in a breathless sigh.

I moved my hand lower, finally touching her, and she was so wet. That knowledge sent a thrill through me, making my own arousal spike. I circled her clit slowly with barely any pressure, and even that made her gasp and her back arch off the bed.

"Fuck," she breathed.

I kept the pressure light, still teasing her, as I continued kissing down her body. Over her ribs, her stomach. I paused as I reached her stomach; the kissing stopped, and my hand stopped.

Her head shot up at the sudden lack of anything. Those beautiful eyes came to look at me. They weren’t there usually hazel colour; instead, they were focused and dark. Her brow was frowning at me.

Why had I stopped? Why wasn’t I doing anything?

I sent her a proud smirk as I kept my eyes fixed on her. I slowly dipped my head back to her stomach as I licked up her stomach, tracing every indent between her abs. I traced every indent. I kept my eyes solely locked with hers as I moved to the bottom of her stomach and licked and kissed from the bottom of her torso all the way up to her neck before I locked my lips back to hers.

Her hands were in my hair now, not pulling, just holding me. When I pulled away from the kiss, I placed one last quick kiss on her lips before I moved back down, settling between her legs.

I hooked my fingers in her underwear and looked up at her. Her eyes were heavy, and her lips parted with her chest rising and falling rapidly. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

I pulled her underwear down slowly, and she lifted her hips to help me. When she was finally naked beneath me, I took a moment to just look. To appreciate. To memorise this moment, our wedding night, the first day she was my wife. MY WIFE.

I settled between her thighs, slowly kissing up the inside of her leg. Her skin was soft here, so sensitive, and she shivered under my touch. I took my time, kissing and licking and occasionally biting gently, working my way up until I was so close to where she wanted me but not quite there.

"Cece, please," she begged. I loved hearing her beg.

I finally, finally put my mouth on her, licking slowly up until I reached her clit. The second I touched her there, she dropped back down to the bed in pleasure. I could help but be satisfied with how I made her feel as I hummed contentedly against her. The vibration made her hips jerk and her hands tightened in my hair.

I took my time, exploring her with my tongue, doing everything I knew made her gasp, made her moan, made her thighs tremble. I circled her clit slowly, then faster, then slow again. I flattened my tongue and licked broad strokes, then pointed it and flicked rapidly.

Her breathing was coming in short gasps now, half-breaths, half-moans, as I looked up at her. Her head was thrown back against the pillows, her back arched, one hand fisted in my hair and the other gripping the sheets. Her chest was flushed, her nipples hard peaks.

I traced my fingers through her, teasing her, which caused an almost desperate sound to leave her. I pushed one finger inside slowly, and instantly she clenched around me.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, Cece."

I started moving my finger, slow and steady, my mouth still working her clit. When I felt her relax slightly, I took the moment, and I added a second finger. She moaned deep in her throat as I did, her hips rolling to meet me.

I found my rhythm, my fingers curling to hit that spot inside her that I knew made her feel everything, my tongue circling her clit in time with my thrusts. Her moans were getting louder, more desperate, and I could feel her getting close; I could feel her thighs starting to shake.

I added a third finger, stretching her, filling her, and she cried out. Her back arched completely off the bed, her hand pulling my hair almost painfully.

"Cece, I'm … oh God, I'm … "

I didn't let up. I didn't slow down. I kept the same rhythm, the same pressure, working her higher and higher until she finally broke.

She came with a cry, her whole body tensing, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around my fingers. I felt the waves of her orgasm, felt her pulse against my tongue, but I still kept moving, drawing it out until she collapsed back against the bed, trembling.

Only then did I slow down, slowly my movements, easing her through the aftershocks. When she finally went still, I carefully withdrew my fingers and pressed one last soft kiss to her clit before crawling back up her body.

She was breathing hard, her eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on her skin. I settled beside her, propping myself up on one elbow so I could look at her.

"You okay?" I whispered softly, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.

"Umm," was all she managed, and I smiled.

She reached up blindly, her hand finding the back of my neck, as she pulled me down into a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, and I knew she could taste herself on my tongue. The thought alone made me clench with renewed desire.

When we finally broke apart, she opened her eyes and looked at me. Really looked at me, and what I saw in her expression made my heart squeeze in my chest with love, devotion, wonder, and something that felt almost like awe.

We kissed again, but this time it was different. Slower. Gentler, but it was no less passionate; if anything, the tenderness made it more intense. Her lips moved against mine like she was memorising the shape of them, the taste of me. Her hand came up to cup my cheek, her thumb stroking softly across my cheekbone, and I simply melted into her touch.

I could feel her coming back to herself, feel the strength returning to her body. Her other hand slid down my back, tracing the curve of my spine, and I shivered.

We kissed like that for a while, just existing in this perfect bubble where nothing existed except us.

Then she shifted beneath me, her hands moving to my hips, and suddenly she was pulling me up, guiding me towards her, to straddle her waist. I went willingly, settling over her, my thighs bracketing her hips. From this angle I could look down at her, and I could see her flushed face, which I had caused.

She sat up, her core muscles flexing as she moved, and suddenly we were face to face, my arms automatically wrapping around her shoulders for balance. Her hands settled on my waist, warm and sure.

"Come here," she murmured, her voice still rough from pleasure.

I couldn't help the small smile that curved my lips. "I am here."

I leaned in and kissed her gently, my fingers threading through her hair, pushing it back from her face so I could see all of her. Every feature. Every expression. This face that was mine now, that would be mine for the rest of our lives. The thought still made my heart race, made something warm in my chest.

She kissed me back just as gently, her hands sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I sighed into her mouth, pressing myself closer to her, as I felt her smile against my lips.

She lay back down, pulling me with her as she went, so I was draped across her chest. I could still feel her heartbeat against my chest. Her hands stroked up and down my back in long, soothing movements, and I hummed contentedly.

"Sit on me," she said softly, and it took my pleasure-hazed brain a moment to process what she meant by that.

When I did, I pulled back to look at her. "Ale … I'm going to suffocate you if I do that." I tried to keep my voice light, teasing, even though the suggestion had sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. "I just married you. I don't want to kill you."

Her smile was wicked, her eyes dark with renewed desire. "You won't. I promise."

I hesitated for a second, biting my lip. We'd done this before, of course; we'd been together for years, we’d already explored every inch of each other's bodies in every way imaginable, but still whenever she suggested this … it always made me feel shy.

"Cece," she said, her voice dropping lower, more commanding. She knew me too well, and she knew she had me in the palm of her hand, and if she said my name like that, she knew I would just fold like a piece of paper.

I moved slowly, crawling up her body, my thighs trembling slightly. When I was positioned over her chest, I paused, looking down at her. She was watching me with such intensity, such hunger, that it made my breath catch.

I moved higher, positioning myself over her face, but I kept my weight on my knees, just hovering over her. I could feel her breath against my most sensitive skin, and it made my whole body shudder.

She looked up at me, and even from this angle I could see the smirk playing at her lips as her hands came up, hooking around my thighs, and before I could protest, she was pulling me down, forcing me to settle my full weight on her face.

"Ale … " I started, but then her tongue was on me and whatever I was going to say dissolved into a moan.

She licked through me slowly, deliberately, her tongue flat and broad, and I bent forward instinctively, one hand shooting out to grip the headboard, the other tangling in her hair. The angle was so intense and slightly overwhelming, but I could feel every movement of her tongue, every hum of pleasure she made against me.

She focused on my clit first, circling it with the tip of her tongue, then flicking rapidly in a way that made my thighs shake even more. Then she moved lower, her tongue pushing into me, and I gasped, my grip tightening in her hair.

"Oh … fu … fuck," I breathed, my head dropping forward.

She hummed in response, pleased with herself, and the vibration went straight through me. I could feel it everywhere, could feel the pleasure building already, still sensitive from before. Her hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place, and I realised she was right. She was strong enough to handle my weight, strong enough to keep me exactly where she wanted me.

I started moving without thinking about it, rolling my hips, grinding against her face. She encouraged it with her hands, guiding my movements, and I let myself get lost in it. In the sensation of her tongue inside me, on me, the wet heat of her mouth, the way she was completely focused on me.

She alternated between fucking me with her tongue and focusing on my clit, and I couldn't predict which she'd do next. The unpredictability made it more intense; it kept me on edge. My moans were getting louder, more desperate, and I didn't care. Let the whole hotel hear. Let the whole city know that my wife was making me fall apart.

Her tongue found my clit again, and she sucked hard, and I cried out. My hand in her hair tightened almost painfully, and my other hand gripped the headboard so hard my knuckles went white. I was so close, could feel the pressure building low in my stomach as it spread through my thighs.

She hummed again, that pleased, satisfied sound, that pushed me over the edge.

I came with a broken moan, my whole-body tensing, pleasure crashing over me in waves. My thighs clamped around her head and I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only feel. She kept licking me through it, gentler now, drawing it out until I was shaking and gasping for air.

When I finally came back to myself, I realised I was still gripping her hair, still pressing down on her face. I immediately lifted up, moving to the side, and collapsed onto the mattress beside her, my limbs feeling like jelly.

I was breathing hard, my heart was pounding, and for a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to form words.

I felt her move beside me, the mattress shift as she turned toward me. Her hand came up to stroke my hair back from my face, gentle and tender, and I turned my head to look at her.

Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and wet, and she was looking at me with such love, such adoration, that it made everything in my chest ache. Her hand moved from my hair to my neck, her thumb stroking along my jaw, as she was pulling me toward her, guiding me into a kiss.

This kiss was different from all the others. Softer. Sweeter. I could taste myself on her lips, on her tongue. She kissed me like I was precious, like I was everything, and I kissed her back in exactly the same way.

When we finally broke apart, I didn't make any attempt to move. I simply leaned my foreheads against hers, our breath mingling in the small space between us. Her hand was still on my neck, her fingers playing with the baby hairs at my nape, as my hand had found its way to her waist, holding her close.

We just existed like that for a while, in the gentle aftermath as our breathing slowly returned to normal. The sun was brighter now and streaming through the curtains, but that didn’t matter because in here, in this room, in this bed, it was just us. Just me and my wife, wrapped up in each other, in this perfect moment.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice soft and full of emotion.

I pulled back just enough to look at her, to see her face. "I love you too, querida."

Her smile was everything. "I'm going to love you forever."

The words settled over me like a blanket of absolute certainty. I believed her. I believed in us, in this, in the promises we'd made on that beach yesterday. We were so young, and we had so much ahead of us, so many challenges and obstacles and unknowns, but we'd face them together.

We'd love each other through all of it.

"Good," I said, my own smile matching hers, "because I'm not letting you go ... ever."

She laughed, the sound bright and happy, as she pulled me closer, tucking my head under her chin. I snuggled into her; my ear pressed to her chest so I could hear her heartbeat. Her arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, and I wrapped mine around her waist.

We fit together perfectly, like we always had. Like we always would.

We just lay there, wrapped up in each other, as the morning sun grew brighter and Barcelona came fully awake around us. We'd sleep eventually. We'd have to face the real world eventually. We’d have to go back to our training, back to travelling, but not right now.

For now, in this moment, we were just Cece and Ale. Just two people who loved each other more than anything.

the night spilled softly into gold and violet, the air humming with laughter and the low roll of waves. lando leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually behind you — though every time your shoulder brushed his forearm, his breath stuttered just a little.

the hotel door clicked shut behind you, sealing the muffled bass of distant music and the warm hush of the room. the air-con hummed low, cool against skin that was still heated from the walk back. you turned around to remove your heels, the hem of your shell skirt brushing against your thigh with that faint, delicate clatter it had made all evening.

lando leaned against the door, hands still in his pockets, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. "that thing," he said, pointing toward your skirt, voice as he removed his own shoes, "hasn’t shut up all night." you blinked, half-smiling. "you mean my skirt?"

"mhmm." he pushed off the door, stepping closer. "every time you moved, it sounded like it was telling on you.” he muttered, warping his arms around you. you laughed, heat creeping up your neck. "maybe it just wanted attention." you shrugged kissing his left cheek. lando pulled you closer — if possible. tilting his head, his eyes skimmed your outfit before meeting yours again, "then it got plenty."

his lips found yours as his hands worked to pull the strings of your white cami top ( which barely covered your back with it's two strings ). his hands worked on your skirt next working till you were stark naked as he walked you two back to the loveseat in back of the room. pulling you down on his lap. lando couldn't lie but he let out a moan seeing naked figure.

"god, how'd i get so luck with you pretty girl?" he muttered as if enchanted by your beauty. "stop!" you scrunched your nose as the heat crept up your cheeks and neck. you straddled his lap, arms draping over his shoulders. lando captured your lips in a slow and sensual kiss, tongues tangling languidly as he explored each part of your mouth and left you dizzy. lando's hands roamed around your back, tracing the dip of your spine with his knuckles. you rocked your hips, grinding down against him as you deepened the kiss. you could feel every inch of his length pressing against your aching core, separated only by the fabric that covered him.

lando groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips as he guided your movements. he bucked up against you, the friction delicious even through the barrier of clothes. "fuck" he breathed, breaking the kiss to nip at your bottom lip. "you feel so good." you smiled, leaning back to give him better access to yout neck. lando didn't hesitate, peppering your neck with open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips that made you shiver with pleasure. you rocked your his against his as the sensation.

"fuck i need you now" he kissed your neck as he pulled out a condom from his jeans pocket before pushing it down and freeing his cock. he ripped off the wrapper by his teeth and wrapped your hand around his shaft, giving himself a slow stroke from root to tip. lando groaned, his head falling back as he focused on the feeling of your soft palm encircling him before putting the condom on. "come on princess, do your thing" lando breathed. you didn’t need to be told twice as you positioned yourself over his hard length. his hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding you down onto his cock in one smooth motion. yoj both groaned as he filled you, stretching your walls to accommodate his thickness.

you began to move, rocking your hips against his as you rode him slowly. lando's hands guided your movements, helping you find a steady rhythm that had them both panting with pleasure. lando threw his head behind, letting you take control for awhile. "fuck, i've been thinking about this all day." he blabbered, feeling your hot core wrap around his cock. "you feel so good around me." he muttered against your bare breast.

it wasn't long until your thighs began to tremble, your legs threatening to close— "ah–fuck— can't hold myself." you breathed as your frame collapsed against chest. lando chuckled before gripping your hips and thrusting harder. he grabbed a fistful of your hair — making you face him before capturing your lips against his. god knows how much he loves doing this specially when you're on the brink of an orgasm because you always struggle to kiss him back. all because of just how good you were being fucked and honestly, that's the best ego booster that man ever needed.

@yourusername

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yourusername your favourite doctor 💙

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georgerussell63 please come watch me race 💙

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mercedesamgf1 Hello Dr Russell, please come support us in the British GP (George made us write this) 💙

yourusername Hello mercedes, unless you can offer me a job there I will not be going (Tell George to leave me alone) 💙

user1 I didn't know George had a beautiful, successful and better twin sister 😍

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┆ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ °

Thursday

The rumble of a go-karting engine was a sound you’d grown up with, as familiar as your own heartbeat. It was the soundtrack to your childhood, the background to family dinners, and the persistent hum of your twin brother, George Russell’s, entire existence.

And thanks to him, it was also the gateway to a world of VIP access, celebrity encounters, and an unspoken, iron-clad rule: no dating the drivers.

You, Dr. Y/N Russell, had always taken that rule as less of a prohibition and more of a personal challenge.

Life as George’s twin sister in the world of Formula 1 brought a unique set of advantages. Paddock passes materialized in your inbox like magic.

Celebrities, from pop stars to Hollywood actors, were just ‘people’ you might bump into at a hospitality suite, often introduced with George’s signature, slightly awkward charm.

You’d mastered the art of polite small talk with anyone from supermodels to team principals, your comfort level with fame remarkably high, perhaps because, in a way, you were adjacent to it.

For the past few years, however, the F1 circus had been a distant echo. Your world had shrunk to the sterile gleam of operating theatres, the hushed intensity of consultations, and the demanding schedule of a newly qualified doctor.

Your education and burgeoning career had become your singular focus, pushing childhood crushes and the thrill of the racetrack to the farthest corners of your mind.

But some things, like persistent twin brothers, were impossible to shake off.

“Please, Y/N! It’s Silverstone! Our home race! You have to be there!” George’s voice had been a constant barrage of pleas, texts, and increasingly dramatic voicemails for weeks.

He’d even resorted to guilt-tripping you about how long it had been since you’d truly experienced a race weekend, not just watched it on your tiny hospital breakroom TV.

Eventually, you caved. The allure of the British Grand Prix, a rare break from your demanding schedule, and the genuine desire to see your brother in his element, won out.

Besides, you missed the roar of the crowd, the smell of burnt rubber, and the electric tension that only F1 could deliver.

Stepping into the Silverstone paddock was like stepping back in time, yet everything felt new. The vibrant colours, the buzz of activity, the mingling of high-octane sport and high-society glamour.

George met you at the entrance, a wide grin splitting his face, his arm immediately slung around your shoulders.

“Look everyone, my favourite twin is here!” he announced, louder than necessary, as he navigated you through the throng.

And so began the ‘Y/N Russell, Trophy Introduction Tour.’

“Lewis, this is my twin sister, Y/N! She’s a doctor, you know. Proper smart.”

“Toto, meet Y/N! She literally saves lives on a daily basis. My twin sister, a doctor!”

“Marcus, this is Y/N. My twin. She performs surgeries. For a living!”

You’d roll your eyes good-naturedly, offering a polite smile and a firm handshake, often adding, “It’s lovely to meet you, George’s sister who is also a doctor.”

You were proud of your profession, of course, but George’s exaggerated pride often bordered on presenting you as a scientific marvel rather than a human being.

Yet, you were comfortable. You exchanged pleasantries with celebrities and team principals, discussed the weather with sports commentators, and even briefly chatted about the latest medical breakthroughs with a surprisingly knowledgeable film director.

This was your comfort zone, the bizarre circus you’d been born into.

You were currently settled in the Mercedes hospitality suite, a sanctuary of cool air and gourmet food amidst the paddock heat, catching up with George.

He was detailing the nuances of tyre wear and DRS zones, his eyes alight with passion, as you listened with a half-attentive ear, sipping your sparkling water.

You loved seeing him like this, raw and unfiltered, away from the media glare.

“...and then I had to explain to Marcus that the rear end was just –”

“Hey George!”

The voice cut through George’s impassioned monologue, light, familiar, and carrying a warmth that sent a jolt down your spine. Your head snapped up, turning almost before George could respond.

And there he was.

Alex Albon.

Your heart, which had been beating steadily just moments before, performed an immediate, dramatic lurch, then seemed to stop altogether.

It wasn’t a poetic metaphor; it felt genuinely like your entire circulatory system had slammed on the brakes.

He was taller, broader in the shoulders than you remembered, his race suit accentuating a physique honed by years of intense training.

His dark hair was just a little longer, falling boyishly across his forehead, and his smile… his smile was still the same, genuine and infectious, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Those eyes. They still held that mischievous spark you remembered from muddy go-kart tracks and shared bags of chips.

Oh, hell. The crush hadn't just been put on hold; it had been simmering, dormant, waiting for this exact moment to reignite with the force of a super nova.

George, oblivious to the internal earthquake you were experiencing, stood up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Alex! Mate! How’s it going?”

They slapped hands, pulled each other into a quick, solid bro-hug, their camaraderie palpable, a testament to years of shared childhood dreams and competitive rivalry.

You remained seated, frozen, a silent observer in your own body, waiting.

You waited for George to turn, to make the introduction – “Alex, this is my twin sister, Y/N,” probably followed by the inevitable, “She’s a doctor, you know.”

You braced yourself for the polite nod, the brief handshake, the re-learning of each other’s names, the awkward small talk that came with meeting someone you hadn’t seen in over a decade.

But it didn't happen like that.

Alex pulled back from George, his gaze sweeping over George’s shoulder, and landed directly on you. His smile softened, a knowing glint entering his eyes. He didn’t need an introduction. He didn’t hesitate.

“No way,” he breathed, a genuine, joyful surprise in his tone. He took a single step closer, his eyes twinkling. “Y/N Russell! Is that really you? Look at you! Last time I saw you, you were… well, you were still trying to beat George at Mario Kart.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up from your throat. “Well, some things never change,” you managed, your voice a little shaky, a flush creeping up your neck.

The fact that he remembered, instantly, without a prompt, without a beat, bypassed all your careful professional composure. You suddenly felt like that awkward, gangly thirteen-year-old with a hopeless crush again.

George, meanwhile, just blinked. “Wait, you guys remember each other? Really remember?”

He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he’d simply assumed your childhood tagging along to karting events had been a blur of faces.

Alex chuckled, his eyes still locked on yours. “Remember her? George, how could I forget? She was always the smart one, the one who actually figured out the strategy for the team when you two just wanted to crash into each other.”

He winked at you, and your heart did a clumsy flip-flop. “And she was the one who stitched up your scraped knees more times than I can count, remember? The original doctor, long before the fancy degree.”

You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of being truly seen, truly remembered, not just as George’s doctor sister, but as you.

“Someone had to keep you two out of trouble,” you countered, a playful note returning to your voice. “And George was always the one who needed the most band-aids.”

George scoffed good-naturedly. “Hey! I was just… committed to the bit!” He then clapped Alex on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, enough reminiscing. Alex, it’s good to see you, mate. I’ve got debrief in ten, actually. You got a minute?”

Alex glanced at the time, then back at you, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. “Yeah, just about. George, you mind if I just… properly say hi to Y/N? It’s been ages.”

George, ever the somewhat oblivious brother, just shrugged. “Sure, sure. Don’t get lost. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he was off, heading towards the inner sanctum of the Mercedes garage, leaving you alone with Alex.

The sudden silence, save for the ambient paddock noise, was charged with an unspoken tension. Alex turned fully towards you, his hands in his pockets, a relaxed yet intense air about him.

“Seriously though,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “it’s really good to see you, (Y/N). You look… incredible. Dr. Russell, huh? I always knew you’d be something amazing.”

Your cheeks felt hot. “And you’re a Formula 1 driver. Never doubted that either, Albon. Though I hear you still can’t beat George at Mario Kart.”

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent shivers down your arm. “Ouch. Some things never change, as you said. But I’m working on it. So, how’s life outside the F1 bubble? I bet it’s a lot less… high-speed.”

You found yourself relaxing, the familiar easy banter flowing between you as if no time had passed. You talked about your work, the long hours, the rewarding moments.

He listened intently, asking surprisingly insightful questions, his gaze rarely leaving your face. He shared glimpses of his life on the road, the challenges of a new team, the relentless pressure.

“So, George finally dragged you back, then?” he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I saw he was practically begging you on Instagram.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s persistent. And it is Silverstone. Besides, I needed a break. My brain was starting to fuse with my textbooks.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Alex said, and the way he said it, quiet and sincere, made your stomach clench.

He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “Are you around all weekend? I was thinking, if you’re free after the qualifying on Saturday, maybe we could grab a proper drink? Catch up properly? Away from all this madness.” He gestured vaguely at the bustling paddock around you.

Your heart leaped. The rule. The unspoken, iron-clad rule. No dating drivers.

Especially not one of George’s best friends. This was George’s Paddock Rule #1. And here was Alex Albon, challenging it immediately, unintentionally.

But looking into his warm, hopeful eyes, the crushing nostalgia of a childhood crush meeting the undeniable spark of an adult connection, you found yourself smiling. “I think I could make time for that, Alex. It’s been way too long.”

He grinned, a flash of pure delight. “Great. I’ll text you. George usually has my number, so…”

“He’s got mine too,” you said, feeling bold. “Just… tell him it’s for a medical consultation, maybe.”

Alex chuckled, shaking his head. “A medical consultation, right. Something tells me George would be a little suspicious about that kind of consultation.”

His eyes held yours for another beat, a silent conversation passing between you. The challenge was accepted. The game was on.

And for the first time in years, the hum of the F1 engine sounded less like a distant echo and more like a prelude to something wonderfully, deliciously forbidden. . . .

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Friday

The following morning, the Silverstone paddock thrummed with a different kind of energy. The initial buzz of arrivals and reunions had settled into the focused hum of a race weekend.

Today was about Free Practice – the raw, unpolished testing of limits, the fine-tuning before qualifying.

But for you, the morning brought with it a different kind of hum, a persistent, joyful vibration beneath your ribs that had little to do with horsepower.

You’d woken up with Alex Albon’s laugh echoing in your mind, the memory of his eyes locking with yours, the casual ease of his invitation for Saturday.

It was a sensation you hadn’t felt in years, not since your early teens when the mere sight of him leaning against a go-kart, helmet in hand, had been enough to send you into a silent, internal meltdown.

You’d spent the last decade diligently building a career, meticulously acquiring knowledge, and carefully constructing a life that was stable, predictable, and distinctly free of heart-stopping romantic complications. And now, here he was, dismantling it all with a single, knowing smile.

George, bless his oblivious heart, was already in his usual pre-session mode, a whirlwind of focused energy, meticulously reviewing data on a tablet as you both walked through the garage.

The air was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel and hot tyres, overlaid with the sharp tang of ambition. Mechanics moved with purpose, engineers spoke in hushed, urgent tones, and the collective anticipation of the track coming alive was almost a tangible thing.

“Alright, Dr. Russell,” George said, without looking up from his screen, “you ready for a day of me complaining about understeer and then miraculously pulling a lap out of nowhere?”

You nudged him playfully. “I’m ready for a day of you forgetting to hydrate and then needing me to tell Toto you’re just ‘focused’.”

He finally looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s a valid medical diagnosis, isn’t it? Extreme focus leading to temporary dehydration?”

“I’ll write you a note,” you promised, but your mind was already drifting.

You scanned the faces in the crowded paddock, a nervous energy building as you wondered when, or if, you’d see him again. It felt both impossibly soon and agonizingly long since yesterday.

The first Free Practice session officially kicked off, and the roar of the engines became a constant, exhilarating presence. You found a spot in the garage, observing George’s telemetry, occasionally offering a quiet comment or simply absorbing the atmosphere.

It was a world you knew well, one that felt like home in its own chaotic way.

The familiar faces of team personnel, the shared language of lap times and sector analysis – it was comforting. Yet, something new had entered the equation, something that made every passing driver, every glimpse of a different team’s colours, a potential trigger for your pounding heart.

And then you saw him.

He was walking back from the pit lane, helmet under his arm, his race suit still smudged with track dust. His gait was easy, confident, and every muscle seemed to move with a coiled grace.

You noticed the way his team members greeted him, the respect in their voices, the innate leadership in his posture.

He was no longer just the scrawny go-kart kid you remembered; he was a formidable F1 driver, commanding his space, demanding attention.

Your breath hitched. He was still a few yards away, deep in conversation with his engineer, but something in your core recognized him, felt the pull.

You were trying to look casual, to pretend you weren’t subtly tracking his progress, when he suddenly lifted his head.

His eyes, as if drawn by an invisible thread, found yours across the bustling garage.

A flash of that genuine, infectious smile. A quick, almost imperceptible nod. A silent acknowledgement that sent a warm rush through you, bypassing all the noise and chaos of the paddock.

It was brief, merely a second or two, but it was enough. Enough to confirm that yesterday hadn't been a dream, that the spark was real, and that he remembered.

George, who had been engrossed in a discussion with his race engineer, suddenly paused, glancing in the direction Alex had just walked.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, a hint of brotherly suspicion in his voice.

You quickly diverted your gaze, focusing intently on a random screen. “Oh, nothing! Just… admiring the aerodynamic precision of Daniel’s rear wing.”

George scoffed. “Right. ‘Aerodynamic precision’. You and your doctor’s eye for detail, eh?”

He still looked mildly unconvinced, but thankfully, his attention was quickly pulled back to his own car’s setup. You let out a silent breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

The rest of the morning session passed in a blur of near-misses. You’d find yourself just a few metres from Alex in the canteen, or passing him in the narrow corridors between garages.

Each time, your eyes would meet, and a small, private smile would be exchanged – a secret handshake in the very public world of Formula 1.

It was thrilling, nerve-wracking, and utterly addictive.

During the lunch break, you found yourself needing a moment of quiet, slipping away from the usual Mercedes team huddle.

You leaned against a barrier, watching a group of fans pressed against the fence, their excitement palpable.

Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, heart giving a hopeful thump. It was an unknown number.

Hey, is this Y/N? It’s Alex. Hope George gave you the right number and hasn’t swapped phones with Lewis again.

A genuine smile bloomed on your face. He remembered the old trick. You quickly typed a reply.

It is! And thankfully, he usually keeps Lewis’s phone after the pranks, not before. You survived FP1?

The reply was almost immediate.

Barely. Car’s a bit of a handful. But hey, at least I got to see a friendly face. Still on for Saturday after the qualifying? I was thinking a quiet restaurant outside the track? Away from the madhouse.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. George’s rule. Your career. The very public nature of his life. Everything screamed caution. But the pull was undeniable. The memory of his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the sheer comfort of his presence.

Definitely on, Alex. Sounds perfect. Just don’t tell George it’s for anything other than a ‘medical consultation’ about your chronic Mario Kart addiction.

You sent the text, feeling a delicious mix of rebellion and anticipation. A moment later, his reply came, accompanied by a laughing emoji.

It’s severe. I’ll need extensive treatment. See you. And good luck to George today.

You chuckled, tucking your phone away. The world suddenly felt brighter, more vibrant.

The afternoon rolled into FP2, and the intensity ramped up. George was flying, pushing the Mercedes to its limits, and you found yourself genuinely absorbed in his performance, the doctor in you analyzing his every move, the sister in you cheering him on.

But even as you celebrated a strong lap from George, a part of you was still aware of Alex, his name occasionally flashing on the timing screens, his car a distinctive blur on the television monitors in the garage.

As the session drew to a close, George was debriefing with his engineers, looking exhausted but satisfied.

You were gathering your things, preparing to head back to the hospitality unit, when you heard a familiar voice.

“George, mate! Great pace out there today, seriously.”

You turned and there he was, Alex, leaning against the doorway of the Mercedes garage, a casual grin on his face. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, but you suspected he’d been waiting for an opportune moment.

George turned, beaming. “Alex! You too, mate, looking quick. Bit of a handful for you, though, I heard?”

“Yeah, still wrestling with it,” Alex admitted, then his gaze flickered to you, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “Anyway, just wanted to say hi before I head off. And thanks again for the… medical advice, Y/N.”

He said "medical advice" with just enough emphasis to make it sound perfectly innocent to George, but like a shared inside joke to you. You felt a blush rise, but you met his gaze evenly.

“Anytime, Alex,” you replied, a slight smile playing on your lips. “Always happy to provide professional counsel.”

George, surprisingly, just nodded, preoccupied with his thoughts. “Right. Well, good luck tomorrow, mate. We’ll see you out there.”

“You too, George,” Alex said, then his eyes lingered on you for a fraction of a second longer, a silent message passing between you. Saturday.

As he turned to leave, George finally looked at you, a half-frown on his face. “Medical advice? What was that about?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, you know, just driver wellness. He was asking about… sports nutrition. Very important for peak performance.” You gave him an overly earnest nod.

George narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced but too tired to fully probe. “Right. Sports nutrition. You sure you’re not prescribing him some new Mario Kart strategy?”

You laughed, a little too loud, then quickly sobered. “No, no, absolutely not. Purely professional.”

George just grunted, turning back to his engineers. You knew he wasn’t buying it entirely, but he was also too focused on the weekend’s performance to connect the dots. Not yet, anyway.

As you walked away, a lightness in your step, the thrill of the chase, the excitement of something new and deliciously forbidden, filled you.

The Silverstone weekend was just beginning, and already, it was clear that your return to the F1 paddock was going to be anything but a quiet break.

Free Practice might be over, but for you and Alex, the real race had just begun. . . .

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Saturday

The cool, crisp air of a British summer morning greeted you as you stepped out of your Silverstone accommodation on Saturday, qualifying day.

Unlike yesterday’s gentle hum, today the paddock thrummed with a palpable current of electric anticipation.

Every team member, every driver, every fan seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the moment the cars would roar to life, not for practice, but for the ultimate test of speed and nerve.

You dressed differently from how you usually would – a casual, yet professional dress, definitely not to impress Alex on your 'date' later on.

George was already up, a focused intensity in his eyes that only appeared on qualifying and race days. He was in the zone, and you respected that, offering a silent nod of encouragement as you grabbed a quick breakfast.

Making your way through the rapidly filling paddock, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel, burnt rubber, and the distant, muffled roar of engines being fired up.

You exchanged greetings with familiar faces – mechanics, engineers, other team personnel – but your gaze, almost unconsciously, swept towards the Williams garage as you passed.

There was a brief glimpse of Alex, head down, talking to an engineer, his posture radiating a quiet, determined focus.

You felt a familiar flutter in your stomach, a small internal cheer for him, before you redirected your attention to your own team's preparations.

The Mercedes garage was a hive of controlled chaos. Data screens glowed. Tools clinked with precision. George, already kitted out in his race suit, was deep in conversation with his race engineer, Marcus.

Qualifying began, and the tension was a physical entity in the air. Q1 was a blur of early laps, the gradual elimination of the slower cars. Your eyes darted between the live timing screens and the car on the circuit, even as the commentary whispered through your earpiece.

You saw Alex's name pop up, confidently clearing Q1, then Q2. He was truly performing, extracting every ounce of potential from the Williams.

You felt a surge of pride for him, a quiet, personal cheer that no one else could hear or see.

Then came Q3, the pinnacle. George, ever the perfectionist, pushed the Mercedes to its absolute limit. The car danced on the edge, a symphony of power and control.

You held your breath as his final lap flashed across the screen – green, green, green. The garage erupted. Cheers, fist bumps, a collective exhale of relief and triumph.

George Russell, P1. Pole position at his home race. You clapped, a genuine, joyful smile on your face, your brother’s success a shared victory.

As the dust settled and the final grid order solidified, you scanned the results board. George, P1. And there it was: Alex, P7. A fantastic result for Williams, a testament to his talent and the team's hard work.

You felt a quiet thrill for him, a thrill that was entirely separate from the Mercedes celebration around you. You knew what that meant for his race, for his morale. And for your evening.

Later, as George was being swarmed by media, still buzzing with the adrenaline of pole, you made your excuses, citing the need to check on some of the junior drivers after their strenuous sessions.

He waved a hand dismissively, caught up in the high of the moment. “Yeah, yeah, go on. Catch you later, Y/N. Long night of celebrations ahead!”

You offered a supportive smile, but your mind was already elsewhere. Slipping away, you found a quiet corner near the hospitality unit bathrooms to reapply your makeup.

You tucked your hair behind your ears, applying a touch of lip gloss.

Your phone buzzed. It was Alex.

Meet you by the parking lot in 15? My car’s outside the back gate.

Your heart gave a little flutter. On my way. you replied, a smile playing on your lips.

The walk was quick, your steps light with anticipation. You saw his car, a discreet black SUV, waiting patiently. He was already inside, a cap pulled low, his phone in his hand.

As you approached, he looked up, and the smile that spread across his face was genuine, warm, and entirely for you.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to unlock the passenger door. “Perfect timing.”

You slid into the comfortable leather seat, the interior a quiet sanctuary from the noise of the track. “Hey yourself. Congrats on P7, Alex. Seriously impressive out there.”

He chuckled, pulling away smoothly. “Thanks. P1 for George, though, eh? He’s flying. Must be the home crowd energy.”

“Or maybe,” you teased, leaning your head back, “he just listens to his sister's professional medical advice.”

He laughed, a genuine, easy sound that filled the car. “Ah, yes, the legendary advice. Will it help me tomorrow?”

“Only if you consume the right amount of performance-enhancing nutrients,” you replied playfully.

The conversation flowed effortlessly as he navigated the winding country roads away from Silverstone. You talked about the nuances of the track, the struggles of the Williams car, the sheer intensity of qualifying.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the conversation shifted. You found yourselves discussing life outside F1. His love for his animals, your passion for indie films, the ridiculousness of social media trends, the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly cooked meal.

He’d chosen a small, charming gastropub nestled in a tiny village about twenty minutes from the track. It was exactly as he’d described: quiet, intimate, a world away from the bright lights and roaring engines.

The lighting was soft, the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations providing a gentle backdrop.

You sat opposite him, bathed in the warm glow of a nearby lamp, and for the first time all weekend, you felt truly relaxed.

“So,” Alex said, swirling the wine in his glass, his eyes twinkling. “This ‘medical consultation’ is going rather well, wouldn’t you say? I feel my chronic Mario Kart addiction symptoms… lessening.”

You laughed, a genuine, full sound that surprised even yourself. “Excellent. The treatment protocol seems to be effective. Though, I might need to prescribe a follow-up session.”

“I’d be happy to comply,” he said, his gaze lingering on yours, a warmth in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine.

As the evening progressed, the food was delicious, but it was secondary to the company. You learned about his childhood in Thailand, his early racing dreams, the struggles and triumphs that had led him to Formula 1.

He listened intently as you spoke about your life as a doctor, the challenges and rewards of your profession, the occasional craziness of being George’s twin.

He asked thoughtful questions, genuinely interested, not just politely waiting for his turn to speak.

You found yourself captivated by him. His self-deprecating humour, his quiet intensity, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he truly smiled.

He wasn’t loud or flashy, but there was an undeniable magnetism about him, a genuine kindness that shone through.

You noticed the small things: the way he offered you the last bite of bread, the respectful way he spoke about his competitors, the subtle shift in his posture when he was truly engaged in a topic.

At one point, as you were discussing a particularly dramatic hospital case, you gestured animatedly, and your hand brushed against his on the table.

It was a fleeting, accidental touch, but a jolt went through you. His fingers subtly shifted, just enough to graze yours for a fraction longer, a silent acknowledgment that sent a blush creeping up your neck.

You quickly pulled your hand back, trying to appear nonchalant, but your heart was doing a frantic little dance.

The easy conversation continued, punctuated by comfortable silences, shared glances, and genuine smiles. You found yourself leaning in a little, drawn to his easy charm, his thoughtful responses.

The fact that he was a Formula 1 driver, a colleague of your brother, faded into the background. Here, he was just Alex, and you were just you, two people discovering an unexpected, delightful connection.

As the evening wound down, and he drove you to your apartment, the air in the car felt different, charged with unspoken feelings. The comfortable ease of the drive earlier had deepened into something more profound.

“Thank you for tonight, Alex,” you said, turning to him as he parked. “It was… perfect. Exactly what I needed.”

He turned off the engine, plunging the car into a soft, quiet darkness, save for the distant glow of the paddock lights. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

He reached out, his hand gently touching your arm, his thumb stroking softly. “I really enjoyed it, Y/N. More than I thought I would.”

Your breath hitched slightly. The touch was light, yet sent shivers down your arm. You looked into his eyes, and saw a depth there that confirmed everything you had been feeling.

It wasn’t just a pleasant evening. It was a connection, undeniable and strong.

“Me too,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

He leaned in, just slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you. Your eyes fluttered closed, anticipation coiling in your stomach.

But then he pulled back, just enough to hold your gaze, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

“I should let you get some rest. Big day tomorrow, for both of us.” His voice was laced with an undeniable regret, but also respect.

You nodded, a little breathless, your heart still hammering. “Right. Big day.” You opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air. “Good luck tomorrow, Alex.”

“You too, Y/N. And tell George I said good luck as well.”

You closed the door softly, watching as his car slowly pulled away. As the tail lights disappeared into the darkness, you let out a long, shaky breath.

Climbing into your bed, the scent of the evening still lingering on your clothes, you replayed every moment of the date. His laugh, the way he looked at you, the warmth of his hand on your arm.

George’s rules. Your career. The complexities of the F1 world. All of it was there, a looming shadow. But tonight, none of it mattered.

Tonight, there was only one undeniable truth: you liked Alex Albon.

More than you dared to admit, even to yourself. You liked him a lot.

And the thought of Sunday, of seeing him again, of the quiet, hopeful promise of what might be, filled you with a thrill that dwarfed even the drama of the race ahead. The real race, you knew, had only just begun. . . .

Sunday

The distant rumble of engines was your morning alarm on Sunday. You woke with a nervous flutter in your stomach, a mix of race day jitters for George and a quiet hum of anticipation for seeing Alex again.

The air in the Silverstone paddock, even at this early hour, crackled with an electric energy.

You chose a sleek, navy blue dress that morning, a colour that subtly nodded to your brother’s team while still feeling distinctly you. It was practical yet elegant, fitting the dual role you played – supportive sister and discreet specialist, always ready for the unexpected.

Your parents, older sister, and younger brother were already gathered in the Mercedes hospitality suite, the usual pre-race buzz filling the air.

There were shared anecdotes from Saturday’s pole position, good-natured teasing of George, and predictions for the race. You offered a quiet smile, participating in the family banter, but your gaze kept drifting towards the Williams garage.

A few minutes before the drivers’ parade, you saw him, walking with his engineer, a casual intensity in his posture. Your eyes met across the bustling paddock for a fleeting moment.

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a private acknowledgment that sent a warmth through you. You returned it, a secret smile playing on your lips, before George clapped you heartily on the back, pulling you into a conversation about tire strategy that instantly grounded you back into the reality of the day.

The grid was a kaleidoscope of colour and noise. You stood with your family in the garage, the tension palpable. The roar of the engines as they completed the formation lap vibrated through your chest.

George, alone at the front. Alex, a respectable P7 – a fantastic starting position for him. You clutched your hands, a prayer on your lips for both of them.

And then, the lights went out.

The world erupted into a frenzy of motion. The cars bolted away, a blur of speed and precision. George's MP4-36 shot off the line, its engine screaming in protest as he coaxed every ounce of power from it.

You watched, heart in your throat, as he held off Max Verstappen's charging Red Bull into the first corner.

The crowd around you roared as the two titans of the track battled for supremacy. You felt the heat from their cars, the thunder of their engines resonating in your very soul.

For the first few laps, it was a dance of steel and rubber. Max, relentless, tried every trick in the book to unsettle George. But George was on fire, holding his line with a confidence that was awe-inspiring.

You could feel the energy of the team behind you, the collective will to win pulsing through the garage. The adrenaline was intoxicating, a symphony of passion and power.

Alex, meanwhile, was a force in the midfield. Every time his car flashed across the screen, you felt a burst of pride.

He was fighting, clawing his way through the pack with a tenacity that defied his youth. Each pass met with a cheer from you and the others in the Mercedes suite.

As the race unfolded, George's dominance grew. The gap between him and Max widened, and the tension in the garage began to ease.

You allowed yourself to breathe again, the smile on your face growing genuine. The sun glinted off the sweat on your skin as you leaned against the wall, the coolness of the concrete a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

The sweet scent of burning rubber and hot asphalt filled the air, a heady cocktail that heightened every sensation.

In the midst of the chaos, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. You turned to find your mother, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

"This is his day," she shouted over the cacophony, and you nodded, the words resonating deep within you. The bond between you and George was unspoken but palpable, a silent pact of support and understanding.

Then, the collective gasp.

It happened in a fraction of a second, a sickening crunch of carbon fibre and a plume of dust. Into Maggotts and Becketts, Max had gone for an audacious move, clipping George’s rear tyre.

George’s car, the pristine Mercedes W14, was sent spinning, airborne, flipping twice before slamming into the barrier with a devastating impact.

“Russell! Can you move? George! Are you okay?” Marcus, George’s race engineer, practically screamed into the radio, his voice cracking with desperation.

Silence. Only the faint crackle of static.

Your mother’s hand found your shoulder, squeezing so hard it almost bruised. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Your father stood rigid, his jaw clenched.

Your siblings were frozen, their faces reflecting the same horror you felt.

You saw the marshals reach the car, the cameras zoomed in just enough to show George’s helmeted head lolling against the headrest, his body almost limp as they tried to extract him.

The professional detachment you usually maintained as a doctor, even when watching racing incidents, shattered into a million pieces. This wasn’t just a driver. This was George. Your twin.

But you knew you had to keep it together. You couldn’t sprint out there, not without compromising his care. Instead, you bolted for the med center, already calling ahead to prep for his arrival.

Your legs felt like jelly, your heart racing faster than the cars on the track. The pitlane was a blur as you sprinted, the cacophony of the race a distant echo.

By the time the medical car screeched to a halt outside the medical center, you were already there, scrubbed up and ready.

The doors flew open, and George was lifted out on a stretcher, his eyes glassy with pain. You stepped forward, voice firm. “I’ve got this.”

The paramedics looked surprised but nodded, recognizing the authority in your tone. You were a doctor first and foremost, and even in the high-pressure world of Formula One, your expertise was unquestionable.

They swiftly transferred him to the exam table, and you began to assess his injuries. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and you could see the swelling around his knee.

But it was his head that concerned you most, the slight tilt telling a story of potential trauma beneath the confines of the helmet.

You worked methodically, each touch of your hands on his body sending a tremor of concern through you. The scent of burnt rubber clung to his overalls, mixing with the coppery tang of blood and the faint smell of fear.

His breaths were shallow and rapid, but his pulse was strong beneath your fingertips. You ordered a series of tests and scans, ensuring that no stone was left unturned.

The medical staff moved with silent efficiency, reading the urgency in your eyes, the unspoken promise that you would do everything in your power to ensure George's well-being.

Even as the adrenaline coursed through your veins, you knew that the race was still on. The screens around the med center flashed with the chaos unfolding on the track, the commentators' voices a distant murmur in the background.

But here, in this sterile bubble, the only race that mattered was the one for George's recovery. The cacophony of the circuit faded away as you focused on the soft whirr of the MRI machine, the beep of the monitors, and the steady rhythm of George's pulse.

You were so thankful they had made you in charge of this operation. The trust the team had placed in you was a balm to your frayed nerves. You knew George better than anyone – his pain thresholds, his medical history, his quirks and tendencies.

This knowledge made you an invaluable asset, and you were determined not to let anyone down, especially not your brother. You had seen his eyes as they wheeled him in, the silent plea for you to fix him, to make him whole again.

As you worked, you could feel the weight of the team's collective gaze on you. The air in the med center was thick with their unspoken prayers.

You had to be the rock, the one who could navigate this medical storm with precision and calm. Every tap of the keyboard, every beep of the machines, was a symphony conducted by your steady hand. The adrenaline was a drug, pushing you to be sharper, to move faster.

The scans revealed what you had feared most - a fractured collarbone and a severe concussion. You took a deep breath, the taste of antiseptic lingering on your tongue.

he surgery to fix the collarbone would be straightforward enough, but the brain was a delicate dance. You conferred with the neurosurgeon, a man you had worked alongside countless times, but today his usual confidence was tinged with a hint of doubt.

You knew George's career was in your hands, and you had to be the one to make the call.

The anesthesia was administered, and George's eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm.

You took a moment, just one, to lay your hand on his forehead, whispering a silent promise that you'd do everything to get him back on the track.

Then, you donned your scrubs and stepped into the operating theater. The coolness of the room washed over you, a stark contrast to the heat of the race outside.

The smell of alcohol and antiseptic washed away the last traces of the paddock, leaving only the sanctity of your work.

The surgery to repair George's collarbone was a symphony of scalpels and sutures, your hands moving with the grace of a pianist playing a favorite sonnet. The bone was set, the incision closed with meticulous care.

Each stitch was a note in a melody that would soon have him back behind the wheel. The surgery was successful, but it was the concussion that lingered like an unwelcome guest.

You ordered an overnight stay for observation, knowing that George would be fighting you every step of the way.

When the race ended, the air was filled with the sweet victory of another driver, but for you, the most critical race was still ongoing.

You stepped out of the theater into the waiting area, the stark lights jolting you out of the tension-filled bubble of the operating room. Marcus, Toto, and Lewis were there, their expressions a tumult of relief and anxiety.

They had come to check on George, their own race now a distant memory as the fate of their friend and rival weighed heavily on their minds.

Marcus looked up as you emerged, his eyes searching yours for any sign of news.

"How is he?" Marcus asked, his voice taut with concern.

You took a moment to compose yourself, the gravity of the situation still pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. "He's stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation."

Toto nodded solemnly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a steely resolve. "We're here for whatever he needs."

Lewis' gaze was distant, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features. He was the calm in the storm, his presence a reassuring constant in a world of chaos and speed.

"We've got to keep him safe," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

Lewis stepped closer, his eyes searching your face. "How bad is the concussion?" His voice was low, his British accent thick with concern.

You took a deep breath, the cool air of the hospital a stark contrast to the sterile air of the operating room. "It's serious, but he's strong. He'll pull through," you assured them, trying to infuse your voice with a confidence you didn't quite feel.

Toto's eyes searched yours, his jaw tight. You knew he was holding back a flood of questions, a torrent of worry for his driver.

"I'm glad you did the operation," Lewis said, his voice a low rumble. His words hung in the air, a quiet affirmation of your skills. The way George talked about you had clearly painted a picture of a doctor who could handle the most daunting of challenges with a steady hand and a cool head.

The weight of their trust settled over you, a warm blanket of reassurance that you'd do everything to ensure George's recovery.

Marcus and Toto nodded in agreement, their expressions a mirror of the relief that had washed over you when George's pulse remained strong despite the chaos.

"He's lucky to have you, Dr. Russell," Toto said, his German accent clipped with stress. "Your work today was nothing short of remarkable."

Lewis, however, remained silent, his eyes never leaving George's still form. "He talked about you a lot," he murmured, his eyes finally meeting yours. "He said you had the touch of an angel. That you could fix anything."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, heat rising in your cheeks. The compliment, especially coming from Lewis, was unexpected.

You had heard the rumors, the whispers of the deep bond between George and Lewis, and the idea that George had spoken of you so highly to his closest rival was both flattering and unsettling. "I just did what was necessary," you replied, trying to downplay your role.

"Nonsense," Toto interjected, his voice gruff with emotion. "You did what none of us could. You kept him safe." His words were a balm to your soul, the validation you needed in that moment.

You had always been in the shadow of George's racing career, the quiet sibling who supported from the sidelines. But today, you had taken center stage, your medical prowess shining through the gloom of his accident.

"Thank you, George is still unconscious but you can come tomorrow to check on him," you said to the trio, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging within. They nodded, their expressions a blend of relief and determination.

The three men looked at you with a newfound respect, their eyes speaking volumes of their gratitude. Marcus nodded solemnly, his hand squeezing yours for a brief second.

"Thank you, Dr. Russell. We'll leave you to it, but we'll be here tomorrow, bright and early."

As the door to the hospital room clicked shut, you allowed yourself to lean against the wall, feeling the tremor of exhaustion run through your body.

The room was a cocoon of soft beeps and hums, the monitors keeping vigil over George's slumbering form. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the hiss of the oxygen mask a stark reminder of the battle he had faced.

Max, his rival, had sent a bouquet of flowers and a heartfelt note, filled with genuine apologies for the accident. You felt a pang of something - pity, perhaps - for the young man.

The weight of guilt had to be heavy, especially for someone like Max, whose career was built on a foundation of aggressive driving. The camaraderie between drivers was a complex tapestry of respect, rivalry, and mutual understanding of the risks they took.

Lando had visited earlier, his eyes red-rimmed and his usually cheery disposition subdued. He had whispered his regret, his voice thick with unshed tears. You had patted his hand, offering gentle words of comfort.

"It's not your fault, Lando," you assured him. "These things happen in racing. George knows that better than anyone."

Lando's eyes searched yours, desperate for absolution. "But I saw his car… I knew it was bad." His voice cracked, the reality of the situation sinking in.

"Lando, focus," you said firmly, squeezing his hand. "We need to be strong for him."

He nodded, wiping at his eyes. "I'll do my best."

As the door closed behind Lando, you were left with your thoughts, the silence of the hospital room a stark contrast to the chaos of the track. You took a moment to let the gravity of the situation settle in, the weight of George's condition a heavy burden on your shoulders.

What if he didn't wake up? What if the surgery hadn't gone well? What if you had missed something? The what-ifs danced like shadows in your mind, taunting you with the possibility of failure.

You had seen the accident unfold in slow motion, the crunch of carbon fiber on metal, the sickening flip of the car, the way it had come to rest against the barriers.

Your stomach lurched at the memory, the smell of burnt rubber and the metallic tang of fear still lingering in your nose.

You felt your heart race, the thud of it echoing in your ears as you approached George's bedside. The guilt was a living creature inside you, clawing at your insides, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you had made a mistake.

But no, you had done everything by the book, you had been thorough, you had been careful. You had to trust in your abilities.

But then, you heard it. The softest of knocks, almost imperceptible in the cocoon of the hospital room.

You turned, expecting a nurse or perhaps another concerned team member. But there, in the doorway, stood Alex. His eyes searched the room, taking in the scene before settling on you, a silent question in his gaze.

You could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the remnants of the race still clinging to his skin, the scent of adrenaline and fear.

Your heart skipped a beat. He had come, even after the race.

Alex pushed the door open gently, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like a man who had just survived a war, his race suit still bearing the scars of the day's battle.

The sight of him filled you with an inexplicable warmth, a feeling that was both comforting and unsettling. You had always kept your distance from the drivers, maintaining a professional detachment that was crucial in your line of work.

But there was something about Alex that made you want to throw caution to the wind.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent shivers down your spine. The tension between you was palpable, a silent question hanging in the air.

You nodded, unable to find the words to articulate the turmoil of emotions that churned within you. The race had ended, but the adrenaline still hummed in his veins, a potent cocktail that seemed to amplify his presence.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, the concern in his eyes genuine.

You nodded, the words sticking in your throat like a dry mouthful of sand. "Yeah, George is stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation," you repeated, the words becoming a comforting mantra in the face of the uncertainty.

Alex took a tentative step forward, the weight of his concern etched into the lines of his face. His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth beyond the medical jargon.

"Y/n?" he asked, the question hanging in the air.

You nodded, the gesture feeling more like a reflex than a deliberate response.

Your eyes remained locked on George, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. You were acutely aware of Alex's presence, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through your body.

"Are you okay?" Alex repeated, placing the bouquet of flowers on the small table beside George's bed. His gaze was gentle as it met yours, the question in his eyes more than just a formality.

He walked slowly towards you, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if you were a wild creature that might bolt at any sudden noise.

You looked down at your hands, clutched together so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. "I'm fine," you lied, your voice a thin thread of sound that barely made it past your trembling lips.

You hadn't thought about yourself, not once since the accident. Your entire being was consumed with George's condition, the fear of what might happen, the dread of what could have been.

Alex took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You don't look fine," he said softly, the concern in his voice cutting through the fog of your own terror. "You look like you're about to break."

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, and suddenly, you realized that he was right.

You weren't okay. You were terrified. The tremor in your hands spread to your entire body, and you felt the first hot tears spill over your lashes, tracing a path down your cheeks.

You hadn't allowed yourself to feel, not since the moment you had seen George's car spin out of control. You had been a doctor, a sister, a rock for everyone else to lean on.

But now, in the quiet of this hospital room, with the man who had shared your most intimate secrets, you felt the dam of your emotions threaten to crumble.

Alex gently pulled your arm into a hug, his touch a warm embrace that seemed to envelop you in a cocoon of safety.

His arms were strong, his grip firm yet tender, as if he knew that you were teetering on the edge of a precipice and he alone could hold you back from the abyss.

The scent of him – a mix of sweat, engine oil, and a faint hint of the cologne he favored – was a grounding force, bringing you back to the present.

You were shaking, uncontrollably, your body releasing the pent-up tension in a series of tremors. Your heart felt like it was racing to escape the confines of your chest, and your breath came in shallow gasps that seemed to echo the erratic rhythm of George's monitors.

The tears fell in silent rivers, staining the collar of your surgical gown, the fabric sticking to your skin as you leaned into Alex's embrace.

His arms tightened around you, his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your cheek. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had been the last few hours, a beacon of calm in the storm.

You felt his warm breath against your ear as he whispered words of comfort, his voice a soothing balm to the rawness of your nerves.

"He'll be okay," Alex said, his voice filled with a certainty that you desperately needed. "You're the best, Y/N. You're going to get him through this."

You nodded, the words a prayer that you hoped would come true. You knew that George's recovery was uncertain, the concussion a shadowy specter that could claim his career, his very essence.

The thought was unbearable, a weight that threatened to crush you.

But as Alex held you, something inside you began to unravel. The tightly wound ball of fear and anxiety that had been coiled in your stomach since the accident started to loosen, the threads unspooling as he whispered sweet nothings that didn't mean anything and everything all at once.

You felt the tension in your muscles begin to ease, the trembling subsiding as his warmth seeped into your bones.

His hand found the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the electric connection that had always been between you.

The air was thick with it, a silent current that seemed to hum in the quiet hospital room.

"You shouldn't touch me," you murmured into his arms. "I'm sweaty and you probably came from a shower."

Alex chuckled, the vibration of his chest rumbling through your cheek. "You think I can't handle a little sweat?" His voice was a warm caress that seemed to melt the tension in the air around you.

His thumb brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

You pulled back slightly, wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. The look in his eyes was a mix of concern and something else, something that made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the fear of George's condition.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, despite the coolness of the hospital room. “It’s… it’s been a long day,” you mumbled, pulling your arm free from his gentle grasp, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you.

You were a mess, truly. Your scrub top was damp with tears and sweat, your hair was probably plastered to your forehead, and your face felt blotchy and swollen.

This wasn’t how you wanted him to see you, not when you constantly strove to project an image of unwavering professionalism.

Alex watched you, his gaze unwavering. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a profound, almost aching tenderness. He didn’t push, didn’t try to embrace you again.

Instead, he simply reached out, his calloused thumb brushing against the tear track on your cheek, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers further down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s been a long day for all of us. But especially for you. You were the first one there.”

“I just… I just hope I did everything right,” you whispered, the fear tightening its grip around your throat again. “Every step, every decision… what if I missed something, Alex? What if there was a better way, a faster way, a way to prevent… this?” You gestured vaguely towards George, lying pale and still in the bed.

Alex stepped closer again, his proximity a tangible warmth in the cool room. “You’re the best, Y/N,” he reiterated, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Everyone in the paddock knows that. If anyone could have done it, it was you. You saved his life, didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard, the compliment a small balm to your frayed nerves. “I did my job,” you corrected, the familiar mantra of professionalism.

“More than your job,” he countered, his eyes holding yours. “You’re more than a doctor, Y/N. You’re… family. To George, to Lando, to me.”

The word hung between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with each shared secret, each shared victory, each shared heartbreak.

The paddock was a family in its own right, a dysfunctional one, perhaps, but a family nonetheless. You had watched George and Alex rise through the ranks together, their friendship a testament to the resilience of those who dared to dream.

Now, in the sterile quiet of George’s hospital room, the rules seemed to dissipate like mist. The raw fear of the accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth of your emotions.

Alex reached out again, this time taking your hands. His fingers were long and strong, lightly calloused from gripping a steering wheel for hours on end, yet his touch was incredibly gentle.

He turned your hands over, tracing the lines on your palm with his thumb. “You’re allowed to break, Y/N,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on your hands. “You’re allowed to feel this. We all are.”

You pulled your hand from his, the warmth of his skin lingering even as the chill of the hospital air seeped through your thin scrubs. “We’re different, Alex… I’ll be outside.”

Your voice was a strained whisper, barely audible above the quiet hum of the life support machines and the frantic beat of your own heart.

You didn’t wait for a response, didn’t dare to look back, just turned on your heel and practically bolted from George’s room.

The antiseptic scent of the corridor seemed to choke you, a stark contrast to the familiar smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel that usually defined your world.

You walked quickly, blindly, until you found yourself in the small, sterile waiting area.

Collapsing onto a hard plastic chair, you buried your face in your hands, the tremor in your fingers betraying the composure you prided yourself on maintaining.

No dating drivers. The rule. George’s rule. Not just for him, but for you. It wasn't an official team policy, no HR memo, but it was an unspoken boundary, a line drawn in the sand by the very people you called family.

You remembered the day George had first laid it out, half-joking, half-deadly serious, over lukewarm coffee in a sterile hospitality unit. You were then a fresh-faced junior doctor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, utterly thrilled to be working with one of the most prestigious motorsport teams.

George, a rising star, had already established himself as the witty, charming, fiercely loyal pillar of your small group of friends.

“Look, Y/N,” he’d said, stirring his sugar packet with meticulous precision, “this paddock… it’s a bubble. And we’re all stuck in it. We have each other, right? Lando, Alex, me. We’re family. And family doesn’t… complicate things.”

He’d winked at you, but his eyes were serious. “Especially not with one of us. It’s too messy. Too high stakes. We need you sharp, rational. No distractions.”

You’d laughed then, dismissing it as George being George, ever the big brother. But over the years, the wisdom in his words had seeped into your bones.

You’d seen the casual flings, the intense, short-lived romances that bloomed and died within a race weekend, leaving jagged edges and awkward paddock encounters in their wake. You’d seen the toll it took on performance, on mental health.

Your role was to keep your patients at peak condition, both physically and mentally. Emotions were a liability you couldn't afford. You’d seen it play out for other medical staff; a few had left the sport entirely after messy heartbreaks with personnel, or worse, drivers.

George’s rule was a shield, protecting not just your life dynamic, but you.

And yet, here you were. George, your friend, almost certainly still unconscious, hooked up to a life support system.

And Alex… Alex, who had looked at you with such raw, undisguised concern, who had held your hand and offered you permission to break.

The very man who, despite your best efforts to maintain professional distance, had somehow burrowed his way beneath your carefully constructed defenses.

You closed your eyes, picturing the way his strong fingers had traced the lines of your palm. The callouses, a testament to his life’s passion, yet the touch so feather-light, almost reverent.

It had sent a shudder through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with a burgeoning feeling you’d tried desperately to ignore.

In the sterile quiet of the hospital, the rules had dissipated. The raw fear of George’s accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth. And the truth was, you were terrifyingly, undeniably attached.

You spent the rest of the night alternating between George’s bedside, monitoring his vitals with a hawk-like intensity that bordered on obsessive, and the waiting area.

Alex was a constant, unsettling presence. He didn’t push, didn’t speak of what had happened between you just hours ago, but his eyes followed you, a silent question in their depths.

He brought you terrible hospital coffee, a stale sandwich, and for a fleeting moment, as he placed the cup in your hand, his fingers brushed yours. A spark, a jolt, that made you jerk back as if burned.

Two days later, and George woke up. The moment was a blur of beeping machines and the rustle of starched sheets. His eyes fluttered open, the green of his irises a stark contrast to the stark whiteness of the hospital room.

The first thing he saw was you, and his face broke into a lopsided smile, a flash of teeth and relief.

When George finally opened his eyes, a hoarse groan escaping his lips, you were the first face he saw.

A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled your knees, washed over you. “Y/N,” he mumbled, his voice raspy. “What…?”

You patiently explained, your voice calm and steady, outlining the extent of his injuries – significant, but thankfully not life-threatening – and the long road to recovery ahead.

As you spoke, you were acutely aware of Alex, standing silently in the doorway, his own relief palpable.

He caught your eye, a small, weary smile playing on his lips. You gave him a curt nod, a professional acknowledgment, and turned back to George.

The days that followed were a blur of medical jargon, pain management, and physical therapy. Thankfully, it was summer break, and George had the luxury of time to heal.

The Mercedes team rallied around him, offering support and privacy, and you were granted a rare leave from your duties to oversee his recovery in Monaco.

The moment you wheeled George into his luxurious apartment, with its sweeping views of the Mediterranean and the twinkling lights of the Principality below, you felt the weight of his vulnerability.

The apartment was a stark contrast to the high-octane world of Formula One, a sanctuary of quiet opulence that was as much a part of George as the racetrack.

The air smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood, the scent of his favorite candles, a soothing balm to the sterility of the hospital.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "How do you feel?" you asked, your voice a gentle whisper in the quiet room.

George's eyes searched yours, the pain and confusion in them a stark reminder of the ordeal he had just been through. "Sore," he replied, his voice a gruff rasp. "But alive."

The smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth was a reflection of the relief that flooded through you. "That's what matters," you said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

The warmth of his skin, the solidity of his grip, was reassurance that he was still here, still fighting.

As you settled into the rhythm of George's recovery, the days grew into a dance of pain and progress. Each day was a battle, a marathon of rehabilitation exercises and medical checks that left you both exhausted yet hopeful.

The first time he managed to sit up without wincing was a victory, a tiny step towards the podium of health. You watched him, the fierce determination etched into his face, and felt a swell of pride.

This was George – your brother, your patient, your hero.

Alex visited daily, bringing with him a tapestry of emotions that was both comforting and confusing. His eyes searched yours with a hunger that went beyond friendship, a question that made your heart race.

You tried to keep the boundaries firm, but the accident had shattered the illusion of control. You felt the electricity in the air when he was near, a charge that made your skin tingle, your pulse quicken.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over Monaco, George’s voice was stronger than it had been in days.

He sat propped up in bed, the soft light of the lamps playing on the planes of his face, highlighting the shadows of his beard. "What's going on with you and Alex?" he asked, his eyes searching your own.

You stilled, the question hitting you like a surprise pit stop. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice too high, too bright, a poorly concealed shield.

George's gaze was knowing, a hint of amusement in his eyes despite his pain. "You know exactly what I mean, sis. The way you two look at each other when you think no one's watching. It's like watching a Formula One race where only you two know the real prize."

Heat flooded your cheeks, and you swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "It's… complicated, George."

He leaned back into his pillows with a sigh, his eyes never leaving yours. "You know the rule, Y/N. No dating drivers."

You nodded, the words like a knife twisting in your gut. "I know. But it's not just about that."

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. "It's about keeping my head in the game, making sure I'm always there for you."

George's smile was soft, understanding. "You don't have to explain it to me. I know you better than anyone. But maybe it's time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken."

Your heart stuttered at his words, hope and fear mingling in a dizzying cocktail. Could it be possible?

You'd spent so long pushing away the very idea of a relationship with Alex, convincing yourself it was for the greater good. But now, with the world outside the hospital walls feeling so distant, the lines blurred.

Alex's visits grew more frequent, and the tension between you grew more palpable with each passing day. The air in the apartment was charged with unspoken words, every glance a silent conversation.

You felt the weight of his gaze on you as you moved around the room, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed a water bottle or adjusted George's pillows.

One evening, after George had finally fallen into a deep, pain-free sleep, Alex found you on the balcony, staring out over the twinkling cityscape.

The night was warm and still, the scent of the sea mingling with the faint echo of distant laughter from the marina. He approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the cool stone.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet.

You turned to face him, the breeze playing with the loose strands of your hair. "I'm just… processing," you replied, your eyes not quite meeting his.

The air between you was thick with unspoken feelings, a current that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Alex stepped closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cool marble beneath your bare feet. "We all are," he said, his voice low and soothing. "But George is going to be fine. You know that."

You nodded, the tightness in your chest loosening just a fraction at his words. "I know." But it was more than George's recovery that had you on edge.

It was the undeniable pull between you and Alex, a force that had grown stronger with every shared look, every whispered conversation, every heart-wrenching moment of fear and hope.

Alex stepped closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, a comforting presence in the still night.

He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, a jolt of sensation that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between you.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. You wanted to lean into his touch, to surrender to the comfort he offered, but years of disciplined self-control fought against the impulse.

Your role, your duty, your brother – they were the anchors that had always kept you grounded, kept your focus laser-sharp on the track, on George, on the meticulous dance of performance and recovery.

Now, those anchors felt like chains, holding you back from something you instinctively craved.

“Y/N,” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, a low vibration that seemed to resonate through your very bones.

His thumb gently stroked just below your temple, a feather-light touch that promised both solace and a simmering intensity. “You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

Your eyes finally met his, and in their depths, you saw a reflection of your own vulnerability, a depth of understanding that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

There was no judgment, only a raw, open concern that pulled at something deep inside you. The cool night air seemed to thicken, charged with an electricity that hummed between you.

“I… I’m supposed to,” you confessed, the words barely audible. “It’s my job. To be strong. For him. For everyone.”

You gestured vaguely towards the apartment, towards the sleeping figure of your brother, the silent testament to the life-altering event that had brought you to this precipice.

Alex’s hand moved from your face to cup your cheek, his touch firm but tender. “And who is strong for you, Y/N?” he asked, his gaze unwavering. “Who looks after the person who looks after everyone else?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, unwanted and unexpected. The sheer exhaustion of the past weeks, the constant vigilance, the fear, the relentless push of rehabilitation – it all threatened to spill over.

For so long, you had been the rock, the unshakeable force. To have someone see past that facade, to see you, felt like a dam cracking under immense pressure.

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling. The admission was a profound relief, a burden lifted that you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

Alex’s gaze softened further, a warmth spreading through you from where his hand rested on your skin. “Let me,” he simply said. It wasn’t a question, but a quiet offering, a promise. “Let me be that person.”

The air crackled, the unspoken heavy between you. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness of the night.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to pull away, to maintain the professional distance, the carefully constructed walls that had protected you.

But another part, a deeper, more primal part, yearned to collapse into him, to finally release the tension that had been building for what felt like an eternity.

You thought of George’s words: “Maybe it’s time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken.”

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

Your brother, the very reason for the rule, was now giving you permission to consider breaking it. And in this moment, looking into Alex’s eyes, the rules seemed impossibly distant, irrelevant.

“Alex…” You started, your voice barely a whisper, unsure what you were going to say.

To confess the truth of your feelings, the way your stomach did flip-flops whenever he entered the room, the way your thoughts drifted to him even in the most intense moments of George’s therapy, felt like stepping off a cliff.

He didn't wait for you to finish. As if reading the tumultuous storm within you, he leaned in, his eyes dropping to your lips. "I can't pretend anymore, Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Being here, seeing you every day, seeing what you do for George… it's just amplified everything. I've tried to deny it, to push it down, but I can't. I'm completely, hopelessly in love with you."

The words hung in the air, potent and raw. In love. The sheer audacity of it, the overwhelming truth of it, stunned you into silence.

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring slightly as your own emotions, long suppressed, surged to the surface.

It wasn't just physical attraction, not just a fleeting spark. It was something deep, something that had been quietly growing beneath the surface of your professional interactions, nourished by shared anxieties and unspoken understanding.

"Alex," you breathed, the name a shaky confession on your lips. Your hand instinctively reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your touch. The vulnerability in his eyes mirrored your own.

"I know the rules," he continued, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I know your dedication to George, to your career. But what if… what if it doesn't have to be a choice? What if we could have both?"

Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your ribs, echoing the urgency in his voice. The rational part of your brain screamed warnings, reminding you of the complexities, the potential pitfalls, the wrath of the team principal and the media.

But the other part, the one that had been starved of personal connection for so long, yearned for the solace Alex offered. It yearned for him.

"I…" You trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence. His words had unravelled the tight knot of your self-control.

The truth, long buried beneath layers of professionalism and familial duty, demanded to be acknowledged. "I think… I think I'm in love with you too, Alex." The admission was a floodgate, releasing a torrent of emotion.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, a look of profound relief washing over his face. The tension that had held him taut for weeks seemed to melt away.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours for confirmation, for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, a slow, tender smile spread across his face, eclipsing the worry that had resided there for so long.

"Y/N," he whispered, your name a prayer. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.

You met him halfway, your eyes fluttering closed as his lips finally, blessedly, met yours. It was a kiss born of shared fear and newfound hope, of unspoken longing and raw tenderness.

It wasn't fiery or passionate at first, but soft, hesitant, like two weary souls finding an unexpected haven. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, a soft exploration that spoke volumes of respect and reverence.

As the kiss deepened, a wave of profound relief washed over you, a feeling akin to finally breathing after being underwater for too long. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

Your hands found their way to his hair, clutching at the soft strands at the nape of his neck as the kiss grew more urgent, more consuming.

The scent of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body pressed against yours – it was overwhelming, all-encompassing.

For a moment, the world outside the balcony, the sleeping city, the still-recovering George, even the very rules that had governed your life, faded into the background. There was only Alex, and you, and the intoxicating reality of this moment.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your own.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking in the soft glow of the city lights. His eyes, when they opened, were dark and full of wonder, a raw emotion that stole your breath.

"Wow," he breathed, the single word a profound understatement. A small, shaky laugh escaped you. You felt lighter, yet intensely grounded, as if a missing piece of your soul had finally clicked into place.

"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice still thick with emotion. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, still disbelieving that this was real, that you had finally allowed yourself to step into this terrifying, beautiful unknown.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "So… what now, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful apprehension. "Rules broken and all."

You couldn't help but smile back, a genuine, unburdened smile that felt foreign yet exhilarating. "Now," you said, glancing back towards the quiet apartment, towards George. "Now we navigate life one at a time."

The phrase, so familiar from your world, took on a new, deeply personal meaning. You had both just taken an unimaginable risk, a dive into the unknown.

The road ahead was undoubtedly fraught with challenges, with the complexities of your shared professional lives and the inevitable scrutiny that would come.

But as you looked at Alex, at the hope and tenderness in his eyes, you felt a surge of courage. For the first time in a long time, the prospect of the future, with all its unpredictability, didn't feel daunting. It felt like an adventure, and you were ready to face it, hand in hand.

The days that followed the quiet, stolen kiss on the balcony were a delicate dance of newfound intimacy and the continuing, demanding rhythm of George’s recovery.

George, ever the astute observer, seemed to notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He caught you and Alex exchanging knowing glances, lingering touches that lasted a fraction of a second too long, and conversations that hummed with an unspoken energy.

He would simply smile, a knowing twinkle in his eyes, and occasionally offer a cryptic, “Looks like you’re finally considering that rule-breaking, sis.”

You and Alex became experts at discretion. Your stolen moments were brief: a shared glance across George’s bed, a hand brushing yours as you passed in the kitchen, a quick, hushed conversation in the hallway while George was napping.

The balcony, once a place of confession, became your sanctuary for whispered words and fleeting kisses under the vast Monaco sky.

Each touch, each glance, was charged with the thrill of a secret, strengthening the bond that had so suddenly, so dramatically, blossomed between you.

George’s progress was steady, a testament to his formidable will and your unwavering dedication. The frustration of his limited mobility slowly gave way to the satisfaction of incremental gains.

The first time he managed a short walk around the apartment with only minimal assistance, you and Alex exchanged a look of profound relief and shared pride.

Later that evening, after George had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Alex found you weeping silently in the kitchen, not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief and joy of seeing your brother reclaim his body, step by arduous step.

He simply held you, letting you cry into his shoulder, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.

“You did good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice soft against your hair. “You always do.”

His unwavering support, the quiet strength he offered, solidified your feelings for him. It wasn’t just the thrill of a forbidden romance; it was the deep, resonant connection with someone who understood the pressures of your world, the sacrifices, and the unique challenges you faced.

Alex, himself a racer, knew the relentless pursuit of perfection, the gnawing anxiety, and the profound love for the sport that defined your lives.

He saw you, not just as George’s sister or his physiotherapist, but as a woman with her own desires, fears, and strengths.

As summer waned and the distant hum of the F1 season slowly began to pick up again, George’s recovery reached a critical point. He was cleared for light training, his strength returning with impressive speed.

The initial shock of the accident had given way to a quiet determination. One afternoon, as you were helping him with a new set of exercises, he paused, looking at you with a serious expression.

“You and Alex,” he began, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ve seen it. Don’t think I haven’t.”

Your heart hammered, and you braced yourself. “George…”

He held up a hand. “No, let me finish. I meant what I said on the balcony. I know my rule, and it’s there for a reason. But I also know you, Y/N. And I know Alex. He’s a good man. And you deserve to be happy.”

He looked from you to the doorway, where Alex was just entering with a fresh batch of protein shakes. Their eyes met, a brief, silent exchange passing between the two drivers.

Alex stepped forward, placing the shakes on the table. “We know it’s complicated, George,” he said quietly, his gaze resting on you for a moment. “We’re being careful.”

George scoffed playfully, a ghost of his usual cheeky grin returning. “Careful, huh? You two look like you’re starring in a rom-com, all stolen glances and secret smiles.”

He sighed, a more serious look returning. “Look, I love you both. More than anything. But this life, it’s… intense. If you’re going to do this, you have to be ready for what it means. For us.” His gaze swept between you, a silent plea for understanding.

You walked over to George, taking his hand. “We know, Geo. We’re not stupid. And nothing, nothing, will ever come before your well-being or my commitment to you. That’s a promise.”

Alex nodded, stepping closer to stand beside you. “She’s right. This isn’t about being reckless. It’s about… finding something real, something worth fighting for, even within the craziness of our world.” He squeezed your shoulder, a reassuring gesture that spoke volumes.

George looked at the two of you, a long, searching gaze that seemed to weigh the sincerity of your words. Finally, a small smile touched his lips.

“Good,” he said, a hint of his old authority returning. “Because if I see either of you jeopardizing my racing career with some sort of dramatic relationship meltdown, I’ll personally make sure Toto puts you both on simulator duty for the rest of your lives.”

You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “Duly noted, boss.”

As George slowly but surely transitioned from the apartment to the gym, and then to the hallowed grounds of the F1 team’s factory, your world began to shift.

The intense, insular bubble of Monaco began to expand. You resumed some of your other duties, albeit with a new perspective, a lightness in your step.

Alex’s visits to the apartment became less frequent, replaced by rendezvous at private cafes or quiet corners of the team’s hospitality suites at pre-season testing.

The ‘rules’ were still there, unspoken but hanging in the air. Yet, after the terror of the accident and the raw honesty that followed, they seemed less like rigid constraints and more like guidelines to navigate.

You and Alex were treading carefully, respecting the boundaries necessary for your professional lives, but also nurturing the burgeoning love that had blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances.

One crisp autumn evening, with George back in top form and focused on the upcoming season, you found yourself on the balcony of George's apartment once more, the city lights twinkling below like scattered diamonds.

Alex joined you, wrapping an arm around your waist. The air was cooler now, a promise of winter, but the warmth between you was undeniable.

“Remember that night?” Alex murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You leaned into his embrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “Every detail.”

“We broke all the rules that night, didn’t we?” he chuckled softly.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, your hands resting on his chest. “Maybe,” you admitted, a smile playing on your lips. “Or maybe, we just redefined them.”

He smiled back, a deep, knowing look in his eyes. “To us, then. To new rules.”

He leaned down, and under the vast, star-dusted sky of Monaco, he kissed you again. It was a kiss of quiet promise, of shared courage, and of a love that, against all odds, had found its starting line.

The journey ahead was long, but for the first time, you felt ready to face the race, knowing you weren't running it alone. . . .