Part1: For PR Purposes Only
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Toto Wolff x fakegirlfriend!engineer!reader George Russell x engineer!reader — one-sided crush
Summary: You are George Russell’s race engineer, loved by fans, adored by the garage, and hopelessly in love with George himself. Toto Wolff is grumpy, newly divorced, and allergic to joy unless it comes with a Mercedes front row. Somehow, you make him smile. Bradley notices. Bradley gets an idea. This is how disasters begin.
Warnings: fake dating, boss/employee tension, grumpy x sunshine, oblivious crush, PR chaos, Toto being dry as the Sahara, reader being a walking workplace incident.
Word count: 3.8k
a/n: a new light-hearted series based on a request that I absolutely love — and had way too much fun writing 😉
You are carrying three coffees, one tablet, two folders, and your dignity.
The dignity is fictional, but the coffees are real.
The problem begins when someone leaves a cable across the garage floor. A black cable. On a black floor. In a place full of people who should know better, because this is Formula 1 and not a medieval trap corridor.
You step over it. Well, almost. Your boot catches. The tablet slips. One folder opens. A sheet of tyre degradation data floats through the air like a sad white flag.
You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a dying kettle.
Somewhere near George’s side of the garage, Kimi looks up. George turns. Bradley Lord freezes mid-sentence. And Toto, standing beside the monitors in Mercedes garage with his arms crossed and his face arranged into its usual expression of expensive disappointment, simply watches you fight gravity and lose.
You do not fall. That is important.
You perform what you would later describe to the FIA as “an emergency balance correction under unstable conditions.”
To everyone else, it looks like you hop on one foot, slap a folder against your chest, nearly headbutt a tyre stack, and save all three coffees by pure witchcraft. A small miracle.
The garage goes quiet. You straighten, breathless, cheeks hot, fingers still locked around the coffee tray.
“Controlled test,” you announce. “Floor grip evaluation.”
Kimi nods solemnly. “Very scientific.”
George starts laughing. That alone makes your heart forget basic rhythm.
George Russell laughing because of you. Perfect. Beautiful. Terrible. Absolutely terrible.
You have been in love with him for eight months and three days, which is embarrassing because you are a grown woman with a degree, a headset, and the ability to tell a Formula 1 driver how to manage brake migration through Turn 6. You should be immune to cheekbones and good manners.
You are not.
George walks over, still smiling. “You okay?”
You are dying. Professionally, of course.
“Great,” you say. “Fantastic. Fully operational. Coffee survived. I’d call that a Mercedes win.”
George takes one cup from the tray. His fingers brush yours.
Your brain immediately opens seventeen emergency tabs.
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re a lifesaver.”
You smile so brightly that if someone measured your energy output, it could power the motorhome.
“No problem.”
Behind George, Toto’s gaze moves from your face to George’s hand around the cup, then back to you. He says nothing. Which, with Toto, usually means he has said at least six things internally and disliked all of them.
Bradley, unfortunately, has noticed everything. Because Bradley notices things for a living. That is the issue with PR people. They see chemistry before the people involved do, then package it, schedule it, and ruin everyone’s peace.
You hand Toto his coffee last. He looks at the cup. Then at you. “Is this safe?”
You blink. “It’s coffee.”
“You transported it during a stunt sequence.”
“You’re welcome.”
His mouth twitches. It is tiny. Barely there. A microscopic crack in the Wolff granite. But Bradley sees it. His eyes sharpen like someone just found free engagement under a sofa cushion.
Toto takes the coffee. “Thank you,” he says.
You smile at him. “Careful. That sounded almost warm.”
“It will pass.”
“Ah, there he is.”
His mouth twitches again. This time Kimi sees it. George sees it. Half the garage sees it.
Someone near the back actually whispers, “Did Toto just smile?”
Toto’s head turns. The whisper dies instantly. You grin into your own coffee. Toto looks at you with deep irritation.
It does not work. You are immune to it now. That is another problem.
Somehow, somewhere between late-night strategy calls, race debriefs, and you bringing him food because he has the survival instincts of a decorative vase, you and Toto have developed a rhythm.
He is dry. You are sunshine with safety hazards.
He says things like, “That is an ambitious interpretation of the data.”
You answer, “Thank you, I was raised by chaos and Excel.”
He calls your optimism “statistically concerning.”
You call his mood “cloudy with a chance of legal threats.”
The team loves it. The internet loves it.
Toto pretends he hates it. You know he does not. At least, you think he does not.
It is hard to tell with a man whose emotional range often looks like three shades of board meeting.
The day continues in its usual race-weekend madness. George needs updates. Kimi wants to know if you have snacks. Bono asks for a revised run plan. Someone in hospitality loses a guest pass. A mechanic steals your pen. Again.
By lunch, you are sitting on a folding chair outside the engineering room, balancing a wrap on your knee while scrolling through George’s latest feedback.
You are reading one line for the third time because George has written, rear instability entry mid-corner, but manageable, and for some reason your traitorous brain has decided even his technical notes are attractive.
Pathetic. Truly. You need help.
“You are staring at that tablet like it has proposed marriage.”
Toto’s voice appears above you.
You look up. He stands there in a black Mercedes shirt, sleeves pushed slightly up, watch catching the light, face stern enough to make investors confess crimes.
You swallow your bite too quickly and nearly choke. Very elegant.
“I’m working,” you say once you recover.
“You are smiling at telemetry.”
“It’s good telemetry.”
“It is George’s telemetry.”
Your face heats. Absolutely not. No. You keep your expression neutral with the effort of a woman landing a damaged aircraft.
“I smile at all telemetry.”
Toto raises one eyebrow. You hate that damn eyebrow. It knows too much.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday, you stared at Kimi’s data for ten minutes and called it nonsense.”
“It was confusing.”
Toto sits beside you without asking. That in itself is strange. Toto usually stands. Looms. Observes. Makes rooms nervous.
Now he sits, long legs stretched out, coffee in hand.
You glance at him. “You okay?”
“Why?”
“You sat down voluntarily.”
“I am capable of sitting.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
He gives you a flat look. You smile. And there it is again. That tiny almost-smile.
You feel weirdly proud every time you manage it. Like you have unlocked a secret achievement. Made Toto Wolff show human expression: +50 XP.
Across the paddock lane, Bradley is talking to two PR team members, Amara and Jules. You know them well enough. Amara handles digital strategy and has the eyes of someone who can already predict a trending hashtag before breakfast. Jules manages partner content and speaks in phrases like “brand warmth” and “audience relatability,” which makes Toto look like he wants to walk into traffic.
All three of them look your way.
You do not notice at first. Toto does. His gaze narrows.
“What?” you ask.
“PR is watching.”
You turn slightly. Bradley immediately pretends to look at his phone. Amara suddenly becomes fascinated by a wall. Jules points at nothing.
Subtle. Like a marching band in a library.
“Oh no,” you say.
“Yes,” Toto says. “That is the correct response.”
“Maybe they’re just admiring us.”
“They do not admire. They harvest.”
You snort. “That’s bleak.”
“That is PR.”
You take another bite of your wrap. “Bradley is nice.”
“Bradley once told me I should appear more approachable.”
“You should.”
“I own a team. I do not need to look like I offer free hugs.”
“You look like you invoice people for eye contact.”
He turns his head slowly. You beam at him. For a second, he just stares. Then he exhales through his nose. And he almost laugh.
Your chest warms.
Across the lane, Bradley’s eyes go wide. You should have been more worried. You are not. Because George walks past. Everything inside you sits up like a golden retriever hearing a treat bag.
George slows. “Lunch break?” he asks.
You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just going through your feedback.”
“Of course you are.” He smiles. “You never switch off, do you?”
Toto mutters, “She trips over cables during operational hours. Switching off would be dangerous.”
You kick his shoe lightly.
George laughs again. There it is. That laugh.
You feel your soul leave your body, wave politely, and float toward him.
George’s eyes move between you and Toto. Something flickers there. Curiosity, maybe.
“So,” George says. “You two seem cheerful.”
You nearly choke again. Toto looks offended. “That is a serious accusation.”
“I meant compared to normal.”
“I am normal.”
You and George look at each other. You both laugh.
Toto’s expression becomes very dry. “Wonderful. A mutiny.”
George smiles at you, then checks his watch. “I’ve got the debrief in ten. You coming?”
“Yes,” you say quickly, standing so fast your wrap nearly falls. “Absolutely. Coming. I mean— yes. Debrief. Work. Important.”
Kimi, passing behind George, whispers, “Smooth.”
You glare at him. George grins. Toto watches. His eyes follow the pink flush on your cheeks, the way you tuck hair behind your ear, the way your entire posture changes around George. Softer. Brighter. Nervous.
He sees it all.
You walk off with George, talking about balance issues and Turn 11, trying very hard to sound like a professional and not someone writing Mrs Russell in invisible ink across her own brain.
Behind you, Toto remains seated. Bradley appears beside him thirty seconds later. Toto does not look up.
“No.”
Bradley pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You are breathing like you have an idea.”
“That is hurtful.”
“It is accurate.”
Amara and Jules join him.
Toto finally looks up. Three PR people stand in front of him with expressions far too hopeful for his comfort.
“No,” he repeats.
Bradley smiles. “Toto.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what we’re going to say.”
“Every idea that begins with you saying my name like that costs me sleep.”
Amara folds her arms. “We have a problem.”
“I have many.”
“You have an image problem.”
“I have a car performance problem. That is more urgent.”
Jules gives him a careful smile. “The public perception around you after the divorce is getting… heavy.”
Toto’s jaw tightens.
The divorce.
There it is. The word nobody says too loudly around him. His split from Susie has been handled quietly, respectfully, as well as something like that can be handled when half the paddock behaves like gossip is a renewable fuel source. No scandal. No shouting. No villain. Just an ending.
Still, the media has done what media does. Cold. Distant. Isolated. Brooding. Difficult. Detached.
Some of it is unfair. Some of it is close enough to hurt.
Bradley softens his voice. “You know we’re not trying to exploit anything personal.”
Toto gives him a look.
Bradley sighs. “Fine. We are trying to manage public perception around something personal. Better?”
“No.”
“More honest?”
“Unfortunately.”
Amara steps in. “People respond well when they see you relaxed. Human. Warm.”
“I am warm.”
Jules blinks. “To whom?”
Toto stares at him. Jules wisely stops speaking.
Bradley points subtly toward the engineering room. “With her, you are different.”
Toto’s expression does not change. “That is because she has no survival instinct.”
“She makes you smile.”
“She insults me.”
“You smile after she insults you.”
“That is irritation.”
Amara tilts her head. “It photographs like fondness.”
Toto looks deeply pained.
Bradley sits opposite him. “She’s loved by the fans. The garage adores her. She’s funny, bright, natural on camera, and she has the kind of energy that makes you look less like you are about to buy and dismantle a country.”
“I do not look like that.”
Jules coughs. Toto’s eyes cut to him. Jules studies his shoes.
Bradley continues, brave because PR people fear death less than bad engagement numbers. “We don’t need anything dramatic. Small moments. Content. Paddock walk-ins. A little teasing. Maybe you two appear together more often. Let people wonder.”
“No.”
“Toto—”
“No fake relationship.”
Amara’s eyebrows lift. “Interesting. Bradley didn’t say relationship.”
Toto goes still. Bradley smiles like a man who has just seen daylight through a locked door.
Toto stands. “This conversation is over.”
“Is it?” Bradley asks.
“Yes.”
“Because George noticed.”
That stops him, barely. But Bradley sees it.
Toto turns his head slowly. “What?”
Bradley lowers his voice. “George noticed you two earlier. Everyone did. The energy works. And she—”
“Careful,” Toto says.
A warning. Bradley respects it. Well, mostly.
“She likes George,” Bradley says instead.
Toto looks away toward the engineering room.
Through the glass, you are standing beside George, tablet in hand. George is leaning slightly over your shoulder, reading something. You are explaining a data trace with animated hands, all focus and fire.
Then George says something. You laugh. It is bright. Too bright.
Toto’s fingers tighten around his coffee cup.
Bradley notices that too. “Maybe,” Bradley says carefully, “this helps her as well.”
Toto looks back at him.
Bradley shrugs. “If George sees her being admired by someone else. Someone… significant.”
“I am her boss.”
“Exactly. That’s why the team cannot know it is staged. It has to look organic. Real enough that nobody questions the chemistry.”
“No.”
Amara adds, “Only us five would know. You, her, Bradley, me, Jules. No one else. Not George. Not Kimi. Not the garage. Not social team beyond what we assign.”
Jules nods. “We keep it subtle. Nothing official. No announcement. Just enough for the fans to build the story themselves.”
Toto’s face is unreadable.
Bradley leans in. “You know she’s good for the team. Good for George. Good for morale. And whether you admit it or not, she’s good for you.”
Toto says nothing. Which is dangerous. Because Toto saying nothing can mean no. It can also mean he is calculating how badly something can go wrong before deciding to do it anyway.
Finally, he speaks. “She decides.”
Bradley blinks. “What?”
“You ask her. Privately. No pressure. If she says no, this dies here.”
Bradley looks almost victorious.
Toto points at him. “And if you make her uncomfortable, I will throw your entire content calendar into the harbour.”
Bradley nods. “Understood.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, Bradley. I mean physically.”
“Still understood.”
You get ambushed twenty minutes later in a quiet meeting room. Ambushed politely. That is worse.
Bradley sits across from you. Amara has a notebook. Jules has a tablet. Toto stands by the window with his arms crossed, looking like he would rather be negotiating with Ferrari lawyers.
You look between them. “Am I being fired?”
“No,” Bradley says.
“Did I accidentally go viral again?”
Amara hesitates.
Your eyes widen. “Did I?”
“No,” she says quickly. “Well. A little.”
You groan. “Was it the cable?”
Jules slides his tablet toward you. There you are. Saving three coffees, nearly fighting the floor, then announcing a controlled grip test.
The caption from a fan account reads:
mercedes sunshine engineer nearly dies for coffee, toto wolff almost smiles, george laughs, cinema.
It has thousands of likes.
You stare. Then you look at Toto. “You almost smiled?”
“I was having a muscle spasm.”
“On your face?”
“Yes.”
“That’s called joy.”
“I would know if I had it.”
Bradley points between you two. “This. Exactly this.”
You blink. “What?”
Bradley inhales like he is about to pitch a Netflix deal. “We want to lean into your dynamic.”
You stare at him. “My dynamic?”
“With Toto.”
You glance at Toto. He looks grim. Which tells you nothing, because he also looks grim when breakfast has the wrong jam.
Bradley continues. “You two have great energy. Fans love it. The team responds to it. Toto seems more approachable with you.”
“Because I annoy him into emotional movement.”
“Exactly.”
Toto mutters, “I object to the accuracy of that.”
Amara smiles. “We’re thinking subtle content. More shared appearances. More paddock moments. A little teasing.”
You narrow your eyes. “This sounds suspicious.”
“It is PR,” Toto says. “Suspicion is appropriate.”
Bradley clears his throat. “And perhaps… a little speculation.”
You freeze. “Speculation.”
Jules steps in quickly. “Nothing official. Nothing inappropriate. Just enough that people think there may be... something between you.”
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look at Toto again. He meets your eyes. Steady. Very serious now.
“This only happens if you want it,” he says. “You can say no.”
That helps. A little. Your brain is still buffering.
“You want people to think that... I’m dating Toto?” you ask.
Bradley says, “Maybe.”
Toto says, “No.”
Amara says, “Softly.”
Jules says, “Strategically.”
You stare at all of them. “That was four different answers.”
Bradley folds his hands. “The idea is simple. Toto needs warmth in the public eye. You naturally bring that out in him. And—”
He glances at Toto. Toto gives him a look sharp enough to cut carbon fibre.
Bradley chooses survival. “And it may shift how certain people see you.”
Your stomach flips. Oh. Oh no.
You look at Toto. His expression changes, just slightly. He knows. He knows about George. Of course he knows. You are apparently about as subtle as a flare gun.
Heat floods your face. “I don’t know what you mean.”.
Toto’s eyebrow rises.
You point at him. “Do not eyebrow me!”
“I said nothing.”
“You eyebrowed.”
Bradley looks fascinated. Amara writes something down.
You snap your head toward her. “Please don’t write down eyebrowed.”
She closes the notebook.
Toto pushes away from the window. “Give us a minute.”
Bradley immediately stands. “Of course.”
Amara and Jules follow. Bradley pauses at the door. “Just to clarify, by minute, do you mean actual minute or Toto minute, which can be anywhere between thirty seconds and a hostile board meeting?”
Toto looks at him. Bradley leaves.
The door shuts. Now it is just you and Toto. That feels suddenly different.
You fold your arms, then unfold them, then realize you do not know what to do with your hands, so you grab the back of a chair.
Toto watches this process with mild concern. “You can say no,” he repeats.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You look at him. “Yes.”
He nods. Silence. Then you ask the question burning through your ribs. “You know about George?”
Toto’s face does something strange. It softens, but only at the edges.
“I have eyes.”
You wince. “Is it that obvious?”
“You look at him like he personally arranged the sunrise.”
You groan and cover your face. “Oh my God.”
“And yesterday you walked into a tyre blanket because he smiled at you.”
“That tyre blanket attacked me.”
“So you said.”
You peek at him through your fingers. He looks amused. The traitor.
“I hate this,” you mutter.
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate that you know.”
“That, yes.”
You drop your hands. For a moment, he says nothing. His gaze stays on you, focused and unreadable.
Then he speaks, quieter. “This could make him notice.”
Your breath catches. Toto continues. “George is comfortable with you. He trusts you. That can make a man blind. Sometimes he needs to see that someone else is looking.”
Your heart thumps. “You mean… you?”
“In theory.”
“In theory,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“You would pretend to be interested in me so George maybe realizes he might be interested in me?”
Toto looks like he regrets every decision that led to this sentence. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Then, somehow, both of you almost smile.
The whole thing is insane.
Toto Wolff, grumpy post-divorce team principal, fake flirting with you, George Russell’s race engineer and professional sunshine accident, to make George jealous while helping Mercedes PR make Toto look less like he was carved from boardroom marble.
This is either genius or the start of a criminal investigation. Maybe both.
“What would it involve?” you ask.
Toto’s expression tightens slightly. “Nothing you are not comfortable with.”
“That is very vague.”
“Because you decide the limits.”
You blink. That lands somewhere soft.
“Oh.”
His voice stays calm. “A hand on your back. Sitting together. Walking into events together. Some teasing on camera. Perhaps dinner after sponsor commitments.”
“Dinner?”
“For optics.”
“Right.”
“For George.”
“Right.”
“For PR.”
“Of course.”
You both go quiet. Something about the silence feels annoying. Warm and dangerous.
You clear your throat. “No kissing.”
Toto nods immediately. “No kissing.”
“No weird fake pet names.”
“Define weird.”
“If you call me sugar bunny, I resign.”
His face twists with horror. “I would resign first.”
“Good.”
“No lying to the team directly?”
He considers. “No announcement. No confirmation. We let people assume.”
“So we’re weaponizing gossip.”
“Yes.”
“Very Formula 1.”
“Unfortunately.”
You look toward the glass wall. Through it, you can see George crossing the garage, talking to Kimi. He smiles at something Kimi says.
Your chest aches with that familiar stupid hope. Maybe this could work. Maybe George just needs a push. Maybe Toto is right. Maybe this is harmless.
You turn back. Toto is watching you watching George. Something unreadable passes through his face. Then it is gone.
“Are you sure?” you ask.
He looks at you. “About what?”
“Doing this. With me.”
His answer comes too quickly. “Yes.”
Your pulse jumps for no reason. Stupid pulse.
Toto adds, dryly, “You are irritating, but effective.”
There he is. You laugh, relieved. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I have been told my charm is subtle.”
“By whom?”
“Myself.”
“Reliable source.”
He almost smiles again. You hold out your hand. “Fine. For PR purposes only.”
He looks at your hand. Then he takes it. His palm is warm. Large. Steady.
Your hand looks smaller in his. A weird thought.
For George. This is for George.
Toto’s fingers close around yours. “For PR purposes only,” he says.
The door opens. Bradley peeks in with the survival instinct of a man testing whether a wolf is asleep.
“Well?”
You and Toto both turn. Your hands are still joined. Bradley’s eyes drop. Then lift. Slowly.
A smile spreads across his face. “Oh,” he says. “This is going to be excellent.”
Toto releases your hand first. “You are already annoying me.”
Bradley beams. “That means it’s working.”
You look at Toto. Toto looks at you. And for one tiny second, before common sense returns, it feels less like a plan and more like the beginning of something neither of you has read the terms and conditions for.
Which is fine. Totally fine. You are an engineer. You understand risk. Mostly.
From the other side of the glass, George glances over. His gaze lands on you. Then on Toto. Then back on you.
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. Curiosity. Maybe even surprise.
Your heart jumps. The plan is already working.
Toto sees George looking. Bradley sees Toto seeing George looking.
Amara whispers, “Perfect.”
Jules whispers, “Soft launch.”
You whisper, “Oh God.”
Toto leans slightly closer, voice low enough only you hear. “Smile.”
You turn your head toward him. “What?”
“For George.”
Right. Yes. George.
You smile. Bright. Nervous. Convincing.
Toto looks at you for half a second too long. Then he smiles too. Small smile.
Across the garage, George stops walking. Bradley almost vibrates with joy.
And you, poor genius, still think this story is about making George Russell jealous.
Toto Wolff knows better.
Or at least, he will.
Soon.
