#grumpy old man

After the kiss, Toto becomes perfect.

That is the worst part. He does everything right.

In public, his hand still finds your back. His smile still appears when you tease him. His voice still softens when he calls you Liebling in front of cameras, sponsors, and one mechanic who has started looking like he is emotionally invested enough to need a support group.

To everyone else, nothing changes. To you, everything does. Because in private, Toto disappears. No more lingering in your hotel doorway after meetings. No more quiet dinners in his office while he pretends he does not need feeding. No more dry little comments sent by text at midnight. No more thumb brushing your knuckles when nobody is watching.

He is polite, professional, controlled.

Painfully controlled. So controlled that makes you want to throw a croissant at his head and demand the real Toto back.

Unfortunately, you are a grown woman and George Russell’s race engineer, so you do not throw baked goods at your boss.

The Monza weekend begins under bright sun, loud fans, red grandstands, and Ferrari flags everywhere.

You arrive in the garage with your headset around your neck and coffee in hand. One coffee. Just yours.

A week ago, you would have brought one for Toto too.

You almost do. You stand outside the hospitality coffee station for thirty seconds staring at his usual order like it has betrayed you personally.

Then you walk away. Very mature. Very adult. Very miserable.

Toto is already in the garage when you arrive.

He looks up. His eyes flick to your hand. One coffee.

Something moves across his face. Gone instantly.

“Good morning,” you say.

“Morning.”

That is it. Morning.

As if he did not have you on the edge of your hotel desk days ago, kissing you like he had finally lost a war with himself. As if he did not tell you it was a mistake. As if he did not look at George’s name on your phone like it cut him.

George appears beside you before the silence can swallow you whole.

“Morning,” he says, smiling.

Your body tries to react the way it used to. Butterflies. Excitement. Panic. George-shaped sunshine.

You get… warmth. Gentle. Pleasant. Easy. Nothing like the storm Toto leaves behind even when he says nothing at all.

“Morning, race winner,” you say.

George grins. “You’re going to keep calling me that?”

“For at least two race weekends.”

“Fair.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Dinner after the race? There’s a little Italian place near the hotel. Good pasta. No cameras. No Bradley.”

You laugh despite yourself. “No Bradley is a strong selling point.”

Across the garage, Toto is close enough to hear. You know he hears because his hand stills on the pit wall.

George glances toward him, then back at you. “So?”

You swallow. “Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”

George smiles fully. “Good.”

Toto turns away. No reaction. No tightening jaw. No sarcastic comment. No protective hand at your back.

Nothing.

That hurts more than jealousy. You would take jealousy. Jealousy means he cares.

This cold silence feels like he has locked the door from inside and left you standing outside with all your stupid feelings and a very inconvenient memory of his mouth.

Bradley walks past with Amara and Jules, sees you, sees George, sees Toto’s back, and slows down.

For once, he says nothing. That should worry everyone.

Qualifying at Monza is sharp, loud, and stressful enough to make your eye twitch.

George qualifies second. Kimi third. A good result. Strong. Promising.

The garage celebrates in that focused Mercedes way: satisfied nods, claps on shoulders, people already thinking about tyre strategy before the helmets are fully off.

George pulls you into a quick hug after he gets out of the car.

It catches you off guard. His arms are warm. His laugh is breathless.

“P2,” he says near your ear. “Not bad?”

“Not bad?” you repeat. “You nearly gave me heart failure in sector two.”

“I recovered.”

“You owe me emotional compensation.”

“So, dinner?”

You smile. “Fine. Pasta counts.”

Toto is watching. You feel it. When you look over, his face is calm. Too calm.

Then Bradley calls both of you into a small meeting room behind hospitality.

You know immediately something is wrong. Not bad wrong. PR wrong.

Bradley stands at the head of the room with Amara and Jules beside him. Toto leans near the wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You sit opposite him. That alone feels wrong.

A month ago, you would have sat beside him.

Bradley clasps his hands. “First, excellent work.”

You blink. “On qualifying?”

“On everything.”

Toto’s face does not move.

Bradley continues, a little softer now. “The campaign has achieved what we needed. More than achieved it.”

You look at him.

Amara opens her tablet. “Sentiment around Toto has shifted significantly. Fans love seeing him warmer, more relaxed, more open. Sponsor feedback is excellent. The team dynamic reads beautifully.”

Jules adds, “And speculation around you two is at peak visibility.”

You swallow. “Peak visibility sounds like something that requires antibiotics.”

Bradley almost smiles. Then his expression turns careful. “We don’t want to keep you in something longer than necessary.”

Your stomach drops. Toto looks at the floor.

Bradley speaks gently now. “You did what we needed. More than that. And George is clearly interested in you.”

The room goes quiet. You cannot look at Toto. So, of course, you look at Toto.

He says nothing. Nothing.

Bradley keeps going, because apparently silence has never stopped a PR man in his life.

“We can start easing the story down. No big statement. No drama. Just less public closeness. People will assume you and Toto ended things quietly, respectfully. Then you have a free hand to see where things go with George.”

A free hand.

You look at your own hands in your lap. One of them still remembers Toto’s fingers. Stupid hand.

“That makes sense,” you say.

Your voice sounds very normal. You deserve an award.

Toto says nothing.

Bradley looks at him. “Toto?”

Toto lifts his head. His face is perfect. Boardroom perfect. Painfully perfect.

“If that is what she wants.”

She.

Not you. She.

Your chest tightens.

Bradley glances between you both. “And you?”

Toto’s jaw moves once. “It was always the plan.”

There it is. The knife, polished and professional.

You nod quickly. “Right. Yes. The plan.”

Amara looks like she wants to say something. Jules looks like he wants to leave and take the oxygen with him.

Bradley, for the first time in history, appears to regret his own success. “Well,” he says quietly, “then we’ll begin easing it down.”

Toto pushes off the wall. “I have a strategy meeting.”

He leaves before anyone can answer.

You stare at the door after him.

Bradley says your name softly.

You stand. “I should check George’s long-run notes.”

“You okay?”

You smile. Bright. Fake. PR would be proud.

“Of course.”

The race is good. That is the irritating thing about life.

It keeps happening even when your heart is behaving like a badly updated software package.

George finishes second. Kimi third.

Mercedes is loud and happy, Monza is louder, Ferrari fans are dramatic about existing, and the podium is all champagne, sun, and noise.

George looks beautiful up there. Happy. Glowing. He points at you from the podium again, and this time you wave back with a smile that should feel lighter than it does.

Toto stands beside the garage crowd. He does not touch you. He does not lean close. He does not whisper that you did well. He claps for George. Smiles for the team. Looks proud. Looks sad.

You hate that you can tell.

You hate that George is on a podium and all you can think is that Toto looks like something has been taken from him.

After the celebrations, George finds you near the hospitality exit, hair still damp from champagne, shirt sticking slightly to his shoulders.

“Still on for dinner?” he asks.

You should say yes without thinking. You do say yes. But you think first. And the thinking scares you.

Dinner with George is lovely.

He chooses a small Italian restaurant tucked away from the main street, with warm lights and old wooden tables and pasta so good you almost forgive Monza for being emotionally inconvenient.

George is kind. Funny. Attentive.

He asks about you. Not the car. Not the data. You.

Your family. Your studies. Why engineering. Why Mercedes. Whether you always talk this fast when nervous.

You laugh. He smiles.

It should be perfect. It almost is. That is the problem. Almost.

At some point, over tiramisu, George looks at you and says, “I heard you and Toto… ended things.”

Your spoon pauses. You look down at the plate.

“That was quick.”

“The paddock is quick.”

“The paddock needs hobbies.”

He smiles gently. “You okay?”

The question is kind. Too kind.

You nod. “Yes. We’re fine. It was… mutual.”

Mutual. A useful word. A coward’s word.

George watches you for a moment. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“You’re not.”

“Good.”

He reaches across the table and touches your hand. His fingers are warm. Nice and gentle.

You look at his hand on yours and try not to compare. Comparing is cruel. To him. To you. To everyone.

But your stupid heart does it anyway.

George’s touch is soft. Toto’s touch was steady. George looks at you like he wants to know you. Toto looked at you like he already did and it terrified him.

After dinner, George walks you back to the hotel.

The night air is warm. Monza still hums somewhere around you, full of engines, fans, and late-night celebration.

At the elevator, he stops. “I had a good time,” he says.

“So did I.”

You mean it. That is the unfair part.

He steps closer. Slowly. Giving you time.

You know what is coming. You waited months for this. George Russell, looking at you like you matter. Like you are wanted. Like he has finally seen you.

His hand touches your waist. He leans in.

You let him kiss you. It is soft. Sweet. Careful. The kind of kiss you imagined once. The kind of kiss that should make everything click into place.

It does not. There is no lightning. No breath stolen from your lungs. No desk edge under your thighs. No rough whisper asking you to tell him to stop. No feeling that the whole world has gone dangerously quiet.

There is just George. Kind, lovely but wrong.

He pulls back and smiles. You smile too. You hope it looks real.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight.”

You walk into your room and close the door. Then you stand there in the dark. Silent. Still.

Your lips still warm from George. But your heart aching for Toto.

“Oh,” you whisper to yourself.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You got what you wanted. And now you know you do not want it anymore.

You do not sleep. You try. You fail.

You turn onto your left side. Then right. Then back. Then you stare at the ceiling like it might produce a technical solution to romantic stupidity.

It does not. Very poor performance from the ceiling.

At 6:42 a.m., your phone buzzes.

George: Morning. Last night was lovely. Breakfast?

You stare at the message.

Lovely. It was lovely. That is exactly the problem.

You type, delete, type again.

You: Morning. Yes, breakfast sounds good.

Coward.

You shower. Dress. Fix your hair. Look at yourself in the mirror and wonder when your life became a strategy call with no winning option.

At breakfast, George is waiting with coffee.

Your usual order. He remembered. That should make you melt. Instead, it makes you feel worse.

“Morning,” he says, smiling.

“Morning.”

You sit with him near the window. It is nice. Again. Everything with George is nice.

He asks if you slept well. You lie.

He tells you about something Kimi said at the gym that morning and makes you laugh.

Then the door of the hotel restaurant opens. Toto walks in. Alone. No Bradley. No Amara. No Jules. Just Toto in a black polo, looking tired in a way he usually hides better.

He sees you. Then George. Then the coffee in front of you. Then George’s hand resting near yours on the table.

His expression does not crack. But his eyes do. Just a little.

He gives you a small smile. Sad. So sad it hits harder than anger.

“Morning,” he says.

George looks up. “Morning, Toto.”

You try to speak. Nothing comes.

Toto nods once and walks to the coffee station.

He does not take his usual seat. He does not look back.

You stare after him. George sees.

“You’re still in love with him,” he says quietly.

You turn back too quickly. “What?”

George’s face is soft. Not accusing. That makes it worse.

“I think you are.”

You open your mouth. Close it. “I don’t know what I am.”

George nods slowly. “That is an answer.”

You look at your coffee. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for being confused.”

“I kissed you.”

“I kissed you too.”

“You’re being too nice.”

He smiles a little. “I can be rude if it helps.”

You laugh once, helplessly. Then he reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.

This time, you do not feel butterflies. You feel gratitude. And guilt.

Which tells you everything.

The next days are gentle torture.

George is sweet. You hate that.

It would be easier if he were arrogant. Pushy. Careless. Anything.

But he is George. He brings you coffee. He walks with you through the paddock. He texts goodnight. He touches your shoulder when he passes behind you in the garage. He makes you laugh. And every time he does, you think: this would have been enough once.

Once, before Toto held your hand in a factory corridor. Before Toto kissed your forehead in a garage full of people and made you feel safe. Before Toto looked at you across a ballroom like jealousy was eating him alive. Before Toto kissed you in your hotel room like restraint had finally failed. Before Toto called it a mistake with hurt in his eyes.

You are not stupid.

Slowly, painfully, you understand. You did not fall for the fake boyfriend. You fell for the man who remembered how you take your tea after one late-night debrief. The man who let you steal his fries and acted offended because it made you laugh. The man who looked terrifying to everyone else and impossibly gentle with you. The man who made dry jokes about budget caps and still pressed a folder into your hands when he knew you were nervous, just so you had something to hold.

The man who was not scary. Not to you. Never to you.

And now he treats you like air. Polite air. Professional air. Air he refuses to breathe too deeply.

By the time you return to Brackley, you know.

It takes you three more days to do something about it. Because apparently courage is easier at 300 kilometres per hour than in an office hallway.

The data gives you an excuse. A legitimate one.

You have performance notes from Monza, simulator correlation numbers, and a question about rear tyre warm-up that genuinely needs Toto’s input.

You repeat this to yourself outside his office. This is work. This is professional. This is not you walking toward a cliff with a laptop.

You knock.

“Come in.”

His voice.

You open the door.

Toto is behind his desk, glasses on, laptop open, a stack of papers beside him. He looks up.

For one second, something flashes across his face. Longing. Then it is gone.

“Do you have the data?”

Of course. Straight to work.

You step inside and close the door. “Yes.”

You put the tablet on his desk.

He gestures for you to sit. You do.

You talk about car balance. Tyres. Race pace. Simulation discrepancies. You both sound normal. Very impressive. Award-winning emotional repression.

At one point, he leans forward to study a graph, and his shoulder nearly brushes yours.

You stop breathing. He notices. He moves back.

That hurts.

You finish the technical review in twenty minutes. There is nothing left. No reason to stay. No reason except the one sitting between you like an exposed nerve.

You start gathering your tablet.

Toto speaks first. “Are you happy?”

Your hands still. You look up. “What?”

“With George.”

His voice is quiet. Careful. Too careful.

You stare at him. He looks down at the papers on his desk, not at you.

“Is he good to you?”

Your throat tightens. “Yes.”

Toto nods once. “Good.”

You wait but he says nothing else. And something in you breaks. “Stop doing that.”

His eyes lift. “Doing what?”

“Treating me like I’m air.”

His face tightens. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am giving you space.”

“No. You’re punishing yourself and pretending it’s noble.”

His jaw moves. “You got what you wanted.”

The words are calm. They still hit.

“Did I?”

His eyes sharpen. “You wanted George to notice you.”

“Yes.”

“He did.”

“Yes.”

“You wanted a date.”

“I thought I did.”

Toto stands abruptly and turns toward the window.

There. There it is again. The wall. The back. The refusal to let you see his face.

You stand too. “I’m talking to you.”

“I heard you.”

“Then look at me.”

He does not.

“Toto.”

His shoulders tense. “Do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Say my name like that.”

You laugh softly, hurt and frustrated.

“You said that before.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe because I keep trying to reach you and you keep running away.”

He turns then. Fast. “I am not running away.”

“You are.”

“I am doing what I should have done from the beginning.”

“What, pretending I mean nothing?”

His face changes. Pain. “You do not mean nothing.”

The room goes quiet. Your heart pounds. Toto looks like he regrets saying it.

You step closer.

“Then why did you say the kiss was a mistake?”

“Because I had no right to kiss you.”

“I kissed you back.”

“You were confused.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His eyes flash. “You were in love with George.”

“I thought I was.”

“That is not better.”

“It is the truth.”

He laughs once, bitter and quiet. “The truth is that I agreed to help you get another man’s attention and then behaved like a jealous fool when you got it.”

“You were jealous?”

He looks at you like the question is absurd.

“Yes.”

The single word hits the room hard.

Your breath catches.

Toto’s control finally starts to crack.

“I saw him with you. I heard him ask you to dinner. I should have let you answer. That was the plan. Instead I interrupted because I could not stand the thought of him having that moment with you.”

Your eyes burn. “Toto…”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to understand. I knew this was wrong. I am your boss. I am older. I was coming out of a divorce. You were looking at George like he was the sun.”

“He wasn’t.”

“He was to you.”

“Maybe once.”

His expression falters.

You take another step closer. Now there is only the desk corner between you.

“I wanted George to see me,” you say, voice shaking despite your best effort. “And then he did. He was kind and sweet and exactly what I thought I wanted.”

Toto says nothing.

You keep going because if you stop now, you might never start again. “He took me to dinner. He kissed me.”

Toto closes his eyes. It hurts to watch.

You continue, softer. “And all I could think was that it didn’t feel like you.”

His eyes open. The room stills.

You can hear your own breathing. You can hear his.

“I tried,” you whisper. “I really tried to be happy. Because this was the plan. Because Bradley said we could stop pretending and I’d be free to date George and everything would make sense.”

Toto’s face is unreadable now, but his eyes are bright. Too bright.

“And?” he asks.

One word. Barely there.

You step around the desk.

“I’m not in love with George.”

Toto does not move.

You are close enough to see his breath change. Close enough to see hope terrify him.

You swallow. “I fell in love with you.”

The words leave your mouth. Simple and clear.

Toto goes completely still.

For one second, you think you have destroyed him. Then his expression changes. The wall falls. Not all at once. Piece by piece.

His mouth parts slightly. His eyes soften. His face looks younger and older at the same time, like relief and pain have collided somewhere behind his ribs.

“What did you say?” he asks.

Your heart twists. “You heard me.”

“Say it again.”

“Toto…”

“Please.”

The please is quiet. Raw.

You breathe in. “I fell in love with you.”

He closes the distance in two steps.

Then stops. Because he is Toto. Because even now, when his whole face looks like he is barely holding himself together, he still gives you the choice.

His hand lifts but does not touch you.

“Again,” he whispers.

You almost laugh through the ache in your chest. “You are very demanding for a man who ignored me for a week.”

His mouth trembles. There is almost a smile.

“Liebling...”

Oh. That word. Soft. Broken. Yours.

Your eyes sting. “Then say it back,” you whisper.

His hand cups your cheek. Warm, soft.

“And I am in love with you,” he says. “Completely. Terribly. Inconveniently.”

A laugh escapes you, shaky and wet. “Inconveniently?”

“Deeply inconvenient.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You chose me.”

“I did.”

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“George?”

“I need to talk to him. Properly. Kindly. But I don’t want him like this. I don’t want anyone like this.”

Toto’s eyes search yours. “Like what?”

You step closer, until your hands rest against his chest. “Like I want you.”

That does it. His restraint finally gives way.

He kisses you. No cameras. No George. No PR. No strategy. Just Toto’s mouth on yours, warm and certain, his hand at your cheek, the other settling carefully at your waist as if he still cannot quite believe he is allowed to touch you for real.

You kiss him back with everything you have been holding in.

All the confusion. All the longing. All the stupid late nights staring at your phone. All the moments you looked for him across rooms and pretended it meant nothing.

He draws you closer. You go gladly.

His forehead rests against yours when the kiss breaks. Both of you breathe too fast.

“This is real,” he says, like he needs to hear it.

You smile.

“For real purposes only.”

His laugh is low and rough and beautiful.

Then the door opens. Without a knock. Of course. Because the universe has a sense of humour and that sense of humour works in PR.

Bradley steps in with a folder. “Toto, I just need—”

He stops.

You are standing in Toto’s arms. Your hands are on his chest. His hand is at your waist. Your lips are probably swollen.

Toto looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at you. Then at Toto. Then back at you.

The silence lasts exactly three seconds.

Bradley’s face slowly transforms. “Oh,” he says.

You hide your face against Toto’s chest.

Toto’s arm tightens around you. “Bradley.”

Bradley points at the two of you with the folder. “You are kissing.”

“Very observant.”

“In your office.”

“Yes.”

“With no cameras.”

Toto gives him a flat look. “That is traditionally how privacy works.”

Bradley’s eyes shine with absolute, unbearable joy. “So…” he says slowly. “We are no longer pretending?”

You lift your face from Toto’s chest.

Toto looks down at you. His expression softens in front of Bradley, in front of the whole world if needed.

“No,” Toto says. “We are not.”

Bradley closes his eyes. Takes one breath. Then whispers, “I am a genius.”

Toto immediately says, “Get out.”

Bradley opens his eyes. “I brought this family together.”

“You created a workplace crisis.”

“I created love.”

“You created paperwork.”

“Romantic paperwork.”

You start laughing. You cannot help it.

Toto looks at you, and all the sadness from breakfast, all the distance, all the cold control is gone.

Smiling Toto is back. For real this time.

Bradley clutches his folder to his chest. “Amara owes me twenty euros.”

Toto points at the door. “Out.”

Bradley backs away, still grinning. “Should I prepare a statement?”

“No.”

“A soft launch?”

“No.”

“A hard launch?”

“Bradley.”

“Right. Leaving. Congratulations. Terrible professionalism, excellent chemistry.”

He closes the door. Two seconds later, you hear him outside shout-whisper:

“AMARA. THEY’RE REAL.”

Toto sighs. You laugh harder.

He looks at the ceiling like he is asking for patience from every god, engineer, and legal counsel available.

“I will fire him.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You love him.”

“I tolerate him under protest.”

“You love me.”

His eyes drop to yours. The annoyance fades. Everything fades.

“Yes,” he says.

Just that. Yes.

Your heart softens so quickly it almost hurts.

You reach up and fix his collar. It is not crooked. You just want to touch him. And he knows. His hands settle at your waist.

“You realize,” he says, “that George deserves honesty.”

“I know.”

“And the team will talk.”

“They already talk.”

“And Bradley will become unbearable.”

“He was born unbearable.”

Toto smiles. You smile back. For the first time in weeks, it is easy. No pretending. No strategy. No calculated glances across the garage.

Just you, standing in Toto Wolff’s office, finally choosing the man you were never supposed to fall for.

You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. Perfectly. Like they knew the way all along.

“So,” you say, “what now?”

Toto looks at your joined hands. Then at you.

“Now,” he says, voice low and warm, “I take you to dinner.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you asking me on a date, Herr Wolff?”

“Yes.”

“No PR?”

“No PR.”

“No George jealousy strategy?”

“No.”

“No Bradley deck?”

“I will burn every deck he makes.”

You grin. “Sounds serious.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “It is.”

Your smile softens. “Good.”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. This time, no one is watching. This time, it is not for George. It is not for fans. It is not for cameras. It is not for Toto’s image.

It is for you. Only you.

And when you leave his office later, hand in hand, Bradley is waiting down the hallway with Amara and Jules, all three pretending very badly to be casual.

Amara looks delighted. Jules looks relieved. Bradley looks like a man who has personally won a championship.

Toto stops. “Do not say anything.”

Bradley lifts both hands. “I would never.”

You walk past him.

Bradley waits exactly two seconds. Then whispers, “For real purposes only.”

Toto turns. Bradley runs.

You laugh so hard you have to hold onto Toto’s arm.

And Toto?

Toto smiles. Fully. Openly. Like he has finally remembered how. Like maybe you brought him back after all. Like maybe the fans were right. Like maybe the best PR strategy Bradley ever made was the one that stopped being fake.

THE END

a/n: As I wrote before, I had so much fun writing this story. And of course, the best ones are always the ones with a happy ending 😉 Thank you for reading, commenting, and experiencing this story with me. You’re the best! ❤️