#nascar!driver reader

6 Months Ago:

You and Oscar met for the first time backstage.

You were jet lagged. He was grumpy. Someone gave you both too much caffeine and stuck a mic in your face.

You (jokingly): “Oh, him? Yeah, I could take him. F1 drivers are just go-kart kids with PR teams.”

Oscar (deadpan, sipping water): “You drive a fridge with wheels and call it sport.”

The press ate it up.

A 7-second clip of you fake-scowling at each other while Oscar says “stock cars are for people who failed geometry” goes viral overnight. Someone adds WWE music. It becomes a meme. You’re trending on Twitter under “#RacingEnemies.”

Then someone finds a photo of you bumping into each other off-camera and you flipping him off—even though you were laughing.

It doesn’t matter.

The internet decides you hate each other.

It spirals fast:

You tweet: “Imagine racing 19 other rich guys for two hours and still needing a tire blanket to function.”

Oscar replies with a photo of your pit crew and captions it: “NASA called. They want their tech support back.”

You mock his podium interview accent on Twitch.

He changes his iRacing username to ‘ChevyH8r88’ during a stream.

Behind the scenes, though?

You were already dating.

You met up for sushi the day after the media thing and immediately hit it off. What was supposed to be a fake-feud joke to promote your series spiraled into a full-blown fanfiction warzone. By the time you realized the internet thought you hated each other, it was too late to fix it without revealing everything.

And honestly?

You leaned in. Hard.

🎧 “Sponsor Wars”

Brought to you by: Quad Lock™. Stick it. Grip it. Ship it.™

The intro music slaps way too hard for a podcast hosted by two people who allegedly hate each other.

Oscar: “Welcome back to Sponsor Wars, the only podcast where the co-hosts are legally obligated to interact twice a week, thanks to the beautiful people at Quad Lock™—now with 70% more spite.”

You: “And 30% more sexual tension.”

Oscar: splutters audibly “That’s not—You can’t say that in the ad read!”

You: “It’s not in the script if you don’t look.”

Oscar: “You’re a menace.”

You: “And yet, here you are. Contractually chained to me for another 15 episodes. How’s that feeling, Piastri?”

There’s a moment of silence, the kind where a normal co-host might pivot to a race recap or a sponsor plug.

Oscar does not.

Oscar (dry): “Like Stockholm Syndrome with merch codes.”

You: “Use promo code ‘HOTPITSTOP’ for 10% off your emotional damage.”

Oscar: “Why is that real?”

You: “Because I emailed Quad Lock™ at 3 a.m. and they let me name the code.”

Oscar: “Unhinged. Truly. Do you sleep?”

You: “Only on long-haul flights and your chest, next question.”

There’s a violent pause. You can hear Oscar blink. Maybe glitch a little.

Oscar: “We’re not even five minutes in and you’ve already said ‘sexual tension’, ‘your chest’, and slandered my race result in Singapore. Do you wanna just light the NDA on fire while you’re at it?”

You (mock sweet): “Would that be before or after I light your engine map settings?”

Oscar: “That’s not even a—! You drive stock cars, you can’t just—”

You: “I can and I will. You’re lucky I don’t know how to hack into your telemetry.”

Oscar: “You barely know how to spell telemetry.”

You: “Spell ‘denial’ then. Go ahead.”

Oscar: “…D-E-N-I—oh f*** you.”

You: “You wish.”

Oscar: sputtering again “You—Stop. Okay. Topic of the week. We’re supposed to talk about the cultural differences between NASCAR and F1.”

You: “Oh, easy. NASCAR is blue-collar chaos with beer, and F1 is Euro-dramatics with champagne.”

Oscar: “F1 is precision. Strategy. Data-driven performance—”

You: “—and no one can touch each other or it ruins their whole personality.”

Oscar: “Oh my god.”

You: “Like, if I bump someone, it’s called ‘racing.’ You sneeze on Max Verstappen and it’s a federal offense.”

Oscar: “Well, at least we don’t have 40 cars all packed like sardines, praying someone doesn’t crash into the wall.”

You: “Says the guy who races on tracks where you literally have no room to breathe without risking an international incident.”

Oscar: “That’s because we’re precise, calculated. You guys just throw the kitchen sink at it and hope for the best.”

You: “Yeah, well, sometimes the kitchen sink comes back as a trophy.”

Oscar: “And sometimes it comes back on fire with three broken fenders.”

You: “That was one time.” 

Oscar: “It was last weekend. They had to put out your brakes with an actual garden hose.”

You: “Okay, but did I die? No. Did I finish? Yes. Did I pass four people on two wheels while my spotter screamed like a Final Destination extra? Hell yes.”

Oscar: “That man deserves hazard pay.”

You: “That man deserves an Oscar. Not you. A real one.”

Oscar: “Wow.”

You: “I say it with love.”

Oscar: “You say everything with love and a side of chaos. It’s confusing.”

You: “Admit it—you like it.”

Oscar: quietly “…Stockholm Syndrome with merch codes.”

You: grinning “I knew you’d come around.”

Oscar: sighs “Okay. Fine. You want to talk about cultural differences? Let’s talk about the fans. NASCAR fans will literally fight you in the infield. F1 fans will write a 20k-word Tumblr post about your aura and birth chart.”

You: “False. NASCAR fans will fight for you. Some guy in Talladega got my number tattooed on his calf after I won.”

Oscar: “That’s not fan loyalty. That’s a cry for help.”

You: “What do F1 fans do? Build moodboards of your jawline and compare it to Roman sculptures?”

Oscar: “I mean, technically yes, but—”

You: “One of them made a 3D render of you as a vampire last week.”

Oscar: “It had lore.”

You: “It had erotica.”

Oscar: horrified pause “You read it?”

You: “Out loud. On Twitch. While wearing your hoodie. I got three new subscribers.”

Oscar: “I’m going to pass out.”

You: “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Oscar: quietly “They did get my hair right.”

You: “You’re welcome.”

Oscar: “Okay, next question before I combust. Listener asks: ‘If you had to trade cars for one race, which track would you pick?’”

You: “Easy. Monaco. I want to hit a curb at 130 and see God.”

Oscar: “You’d get black-flagged in the first sector for excessive vibes.”

You: “Let me dream. You?”

Oscar: “Bristol. Just to say I survived it.”

You: “You wouldn’t. You’d cry before turn three.”

Oscar: “I don’t cry.”

You: “You cried when we watched Cars.”

Oscar: “Because Doc Hudson deserved better!”

You: “Exactly. That’s why I love you.”

Oscar: flustered “We’re cutting that.”

You: “No we’re not. Quad Lock™ loves vulnerability.”

🎧 [soft outro music starts]

Oscar: “This has been Sponsor Wars, somehow still on the air.”

You: “Thanks to Quad Lock™—and also probably Satan.”

Oscar: “Catch us next week, where we review each other’s fan edits and try not to spiral into a full PR crisis.”

You: “Spoiler: we fail.”

🎧 [cue dramatic music sting, inexplicably followed by a car horn and a yeehaw]

🎧 [recording light clicks off]

Oscar pulled off his headphones with a sharp exhale. “You cannot keep flirting during ad segments.”

You were already halfway into his seat, grinning. “You say that like I haven’t been doing it for six months.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah, and my media team keeps sending me PowerPoint decks titled ‘Tone It Down: A Crisis Timeline.’”

“You wanna tone it down?” You leaned closer. “Tell that to your face next time you look at me.”

Oscar blinked. “What does that even mean—”

You just smiled and reached over to poke his cheek. “Exactly.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you said, smug, “you let me steal your post-race hoodie.”

“That was my favorite one,” he muttered.

“It smells like jet fuel and ego. I treasure it.”

“God help me,” Oscar mumbled under his breath.

“Hey,” you said, head tilted, voice teasing, “if God wanted to help you, He wouldn’t have let you fall for a stock car gremlin with a podcast mic and no boundaries.”

He sighed. “The mic isn’t the problem. The boundaries are.”

“You say that—” you leaned in again, voice dropping “—but you never tell me to stop.”

There was a quiet beat. Then, soft and simple, Oscar said, “No. I don’t.”

A pause settled between you.

“Wanna get takeout before the airport?” you asked, your voice gentler now.

Oscar didn’t even look up—he was already unlocking his phone. “I ordered from McDonald's ten minutes ago.”

You blinked. “You knew I’d ask.”

“I always know.”

@ wheelfightclub

“You cried when we watched Cars” — I need this embroidered on something. Possibly a straitjacket.

@ quadlock4life

This is the most compelling slow burn enemies-to-lovers storyline since 2012 Tumblr. Thank you for your service.

@ fanficfuel

I fear what AO3 is going to look like after this episode. I truly do. (also please DM me if you know who wrote the vampire AU 👀)

@ dragstripdaydreams

Honestly, I’m just here for the accidental flirting. It’s the best part of any sport.

@ burnoutracer

The way they try to roast each other but end up sounding like a couple arguing over takeout is peak content.

@ checkeredflagchaos

If the internet had a NASCAR-F1 romance novel genre, this would be the bestseller.

@ pitlaneparadox

Me after every episode: “Do they hate each other or are they secretly in love?” Still no answer.

The phone buzzed for the seventh time in as many minutes.

Oscar glanced at it, face-down on the table beside a crumpled napkin and the remnants of a half-eaten protein bar. Another group chat lighting up — probably the one Lando renamed #QuadCockBlocked after episode nine. He didn’t check. He already knew what they were saying. He could feel the memes forming like storm clouds.

Across from him, you were scrolling too, thumb moving at the same lazy pace you always used when chaos hit. You thrived in it. Bathed in it. Surfing the tsunami of your own media disaster, as his PR manager once put it.

“Fan edit dropped yet?” you asked, not looking up.

Oscar groaned. “You mean the one where I’m a vampire and you’re the forbidden werewolf I crash into at Silverstone?”

You looked up then, eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, that one’s live?”

“I saw it this morning. It had a soundtrack.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly invested. “What song?”

He deadpanned, “Hozier. Obviously.”

You grinned like Christmas came early. “So good for us.”

“No. No, see, that’s the problem. You say stuff like that and then people think we’re—”

“—Into each other?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar. Babe. We are.”

He rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. “That’s not the point.”

“That's literally the point.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair with a resigned exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. “My media team is going to have a stroke. The Reddit thread about the episode already has fan theories with source citations. Citations.”

You reached across the table and stole a fry off his plate with zero remorse. “Do they at least have the vampire lore right this time?”

Oscar gave you a look. “You mean aside from saying I feed on high-octane tension and post-race adrenaline?”

“So... yes.”

He threw a napkin at you. You caught it midair and bowed like it was a trophy.

You tucked the crumpled napkin into your hoodie pocket like it was sacred, like it belonged in a shrine next to Oscar’s used gloves and a signed die-cast model of his McLaren. Which, incidentally, you owned. Unironically.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.

Outside, the café windows buzzed with a low autumn light, soft enough to blur the faces of fans still trying to pretend they weren’t taking photos. It was getting harder to be subtle in public—not because of the fame, but because of the dynamic. The line between banter and betrayal-of-contract was so blurred it might as well be skid marks on a wet pit lane.

Oscar tapped his phone once, scrolled through his notifications, then groaned again. “We’re trending.”

“What now?” you asked, half-chewing the fry you’d stolen.

He turned the screen toward you. A screenshot of a Reddit post, 12k upvotes in under an hour.

[r/formulafiction]

Title: “They’re not acting. They’re just bad at hiding it.” Okay but hear me out—this week’s podcast episode has at least four unscripted slips, including the “that’s why I love you” comment at 36:14, which they didn’t cut. I am begging someone with media literacy to explain how this isn’t a soft-launch of a hard launch.

You tilted your head. “Okay, but like. They’re not wrong.”

Oscar stared at you. “You want us to soft-launch on Reddit?”

“Not on Reddit. Just... in spirit. Through vibes.” You popped another fry into your mouth and shrugged. “We’ve done worse.”

“Name one thing worse.”

“You let me call Max Verstappen a yogurt cup with anger issues live on mic and didn’t cut it.”

Oscar paused. “Okay. Yeah. That was bad.”

“Exactly. So what’s a little accidental confession compared to that?”

He looked at you for a beat too long. Like he was weighing something. Or bracing for it. Then he said, slowly, “My team’s gonna want damage control.”

You shrugged. “Then give them damage to control.”

“Is that seriously your solution?”

You leaned across the table, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—whatever weirdly specific blend of adrenaline and peppermint you always wore. “Oscar,” you said, voice low. “I watched a Twitch stream edit of you getting out of a race car in slow-mo to the Twilight soundtrack. Nothing we say can out-weird the internet anymore.”

He blinked. “Was it good?”

You grinned. “Oscar. It had transitions. It had lens flares.”

He dropped his face into his hands.

“Okay,” he said finally, sitting up straight and wiping both palms down his thighs. “So what’s the plan?”

You tilted your head, faux-innocent. “Plan?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “You always have a plan. Usually one that makes my publicist cry.”

“Technically,” you said, plucking another fry off his plate, “my plan is to keep being my charming self while you slowly stop pretending you’re not into it.”

He blinked. “You’re deranged.”

“And you,” you said, waving the fry like a wand, “are complicit.”

Oscar opened his mouth, presumably to argue, then immediately closed it again. He sighed. Then—God help him—he smiled.

And that’s when your phone buzzed.

You picked it up lazily, thumb dragging across the screen. Your expression didn’t change—at first. But then something shifted. A flicker of mischief. You turned it toward him wordlessly.

A post. Not even two minutes old.

@ formulaunhinged 📸 Just spotted these two at a café in Monaco. Tell me why this looks like a scene from a rom-com where the racer boyfriend tries to stay grumpy but keeps smiling anyway??

Attached: a zoomed-in candid. Oscar, mid-smile. You, elbow on the table, smirking at him like you already knew how the photo would look.

Below that: Top comment:

@ 8188shipper

I fear they’ve reached the “sharing fries = soft launch” stage of the parasocial pipeline. Godspeed, PR.

Oscar looked at the photo. Then at you. Then at the fry still dangling between your fingers.

He took it.

A beat passed.

“I’m not smiling,” he said, unconvincing.

You grinned. “You are.”

He chewed. Swallowed. “That picture makes it look like we’re—”

“Dating?” you offered.

Oscar gave you a look. “Domestic.”

You blinked. “Worse.”

He nodded gravely. “Much.”

The buzz returned—your phones lighting up again, almost in sync. New mentions. New screenshots. TikToks already stitching the candid with audio from last week’s podcast.

Oscar didn’t even bother checking this time.

He just leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and said, “Okay. Hypothetically. If we were going to hard launch—”

“—We’re not,” you interrupted, teasing, but your heart skipped anyway.

“Hypothetically,” he repeated, ignoring you. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to choose the moment, instead of letting Reddit beat us to it?”

You squinted at him. “Oscar Piastri. Are you suggesting we coordinate our chaos?”

“I’m suggesting,” he said, deadpan, “that if I’m going down with this ship, I’d like at least some input on the soundtrack.”

You stared at him for a moment, dead silent. Then leaned back, slowly, theatrically, folding your arms like you were weighing a multi-million dollar strategy decision.

“Alright,” you said at last, tone mock-serious. “Contingency plan: hard-launch, but make it look like an accident.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Isn’t that just our entire brand?”

“Exactly.” You smirked. “Leaning in is free press. Might as well aim the chaos.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and looked out the window like he couldn’t believe he was entertaining this. Like he hadn’t already signed the waiver on your mutual derangement months ago.

You reached for your phone, unlocked it, and began tapping with purpose.

“What are you doing?” he asked, already wary.

“Drafting the caption.”

Oscar blinked. “Caption for what?”

You tilted the screen so he could see. It was a photo of them. A selfie of the two of them on a winter trip and slapped it into an Instagram post draft with an empty caption field waiting to be filled.

“Absolutely not,” he said, immediately. “No way. You’re not posting that.”

“Too late,” you said, fingers still moving. “I’m in the zone now. Give me five seconds and a Taylor Swift lyric and I’ll have your fanbase in emotional shambles.”

He tried to lunge for your phone, but you pulled it back with an expert lean and stuck your leg out under the table, using his own race instincts against him.

“Let me help,” he said, giving up on the grab and narrowing his eyes. “If we’re actually doing this—hypothetically—we’re doing it right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You have a caption in mind?”

Oscar hesitated. Then said, cool as hell: “Strategic alliance. Signed in fries.”

You nearly dropped the phone.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “you’re so lucky I’m already in love with you.”

He froze for half a second too long.

“…Hypothetically,” you added, voice softer this time. Less teasing. Still playful, but—

Oscar’s gaze didn’t move.

And then: “You’re not gonna delete that from the caption now, are you.”

You grinned like a fox. “Absolutely not.”

He rolled his eyes again—out of habit more than irritation—but didn’t say anything when you tapped Post.

Just sat there while the likes rolled in, fast and furious. Notifications lighting up both your phones like warning lights on a failing engine.

Oscar’s phone vibrated its way halfway across the table like it was trying to escape the consequences of your mutual recklessness.

He didn’t stop it.

Instead, he reached for your iced tea and took a sip like the situation demanded hydration and not, say, a fire extinguisher.

You checked the post again. Already at 43,000 likes and climbing. Comments rolling in like a live reaction thread to a Netflix drop.

@ gridwivesclub

if this is PR, it deserves an Emmy. if it’s real, i need a moment. like. to scream into a pillow. or twelve.

@ f1femslashfic

THEY’RE EITHER DATING OR THIS IS THE MOST ELABORATE METHOD ACTING SINCE THE BEAR

@ lando_n_is_crying

lando’s gonna be so annoying about this i just KNOW it

You refreshed. The top comment had changed.

@ girlmathpitwall

They posted a couple trip photo with a cryptic caption and didn’t clarify anything. That's a HARD launch. full send. DRS wide open. God bless.

Oscar stared at the screen like it owed him money.

You looked up from your phone with a wolfish grin. “So. Should we go dark now?”

“What, like drop this and disappear?”

“Exactly. Let the internet spiral.”

“That's evil,” Oscar said flatly.

You nodded. “That’s the vibe.”

He didn’t say no.

Instead, he reached for the last fry, held it up between two fingers like an offering. “If this ends in a press conference where Emma has a breakdown on live TV, I’m blaming you.”

“She already yells in bullet points,” you said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He raised both brows. “You really want me to answer that?”

“Nope,” you replied, snatching the fry from his hand and popping it in your mouth. “Not when I’m winning.”

Your phone buzzed again—this time, with texts from Lando.

Lando Norris 🧃

bro. Bro.   BRO. What the ACTUAL hell did i just witness Are you both INSANE My timeline is BLEEDING vibes and I was NOT emotionally prepared

Oscar read it, sighed like a man personally victimized by his teammate, and locked his phone.

“He’s spiraling,” he said.

You looked up, unbothered. “He always spirals. It’s his brand.”

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was physically restraining the urge to agree too enthusiastically. 

“I bet he’s already screenshotting it for his private story with the caption ‘i hate them but like...i get it.’”

Oscar winced. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Lando Norris 🧃

If Emma calls me for backup i’m faking a concussion tell Oscar his future children owe me a karting scholarship for the stress i endure

You showed him the message.

Oscar blinked. “Children?”

“Oh, he’s spiraling deep.”

Oscar took a breath. “Okay, but we should text Emma. Just to get ahead of it.”

You made a pfft noise. “She’s already looped into twelve crisis meetings and a damage-control email thread with Zak, the FIA, and possibly the Pope.”

He gave you a look.

You grinned. “Fine. I’ll text her something reassuring.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you sent:

Don’t worry we didn’t say technically that we’re dating just, you know, emotionally, spiritually, and via fries Tell Zak he still gets his good boy points for Oscar not swearing in public mostly

Oscar leaned over to see the screen. “You’re going to give her a heart attack.”

“She’s survived Lando in a bucket hat phase. She’s strong.”

Another buzz.

Emma - PR Queen 👑

Do not speak to me unless it’s through your lawyers or a shared Google calendar invite I swear to god if either of you go on TikTok tonight I will drive to Monaco and cut the wifi myself also how the hell did this post hit 60k in under 5 minutes Stop being hot in public

Oscar blinked. “Did she just call us hot?”

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, but the roar of engines kept the desert alive, a relentless pulse beneath the floodlights. You gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart pounding in sync with the thundering V8 beneath you. Your visor fogged slightly from the heat and adrenaline, but you didn’t dare lift it—not yet. The final laps of the season blurred past in a frantic rush: every second stretched thin, every inch of track a battleground.

Ten months on the road. Ten months away from everything you loved—away from Max and Charles.

The noise of the crowd was a distant echo behind the walls of your helmet, but inside you, silence pressed heavy and sharp.

You crossed the finish line, again outside the top ten.

Another season slipping through your fingers like grains of sand you couldn’t hold.

You eased your car to a stop in the garage, heart still hammering, sweat trickling beneath your race suit. The pit crew moved around you, their faces a mix of fatigue and sympathy. You peeled off your gloves, your hands trembling slightly.

Later when your chief hands you your phone there are two messages waiting.

Max: We miss you. Counting down the days until you’re home.

Charles: Hold on, chérie. We’ll see you soon.

You stared at the screen, your chest tightening. The distance —ten months apart every year— felt wider than ever at that moment. You wanted to reply, to tell them you were okay, that you weren’t breaking inside, but the words wouldn’t come.

You sat down on the edge of the garage bench, the cold metal biting through your suit. The noise around you faded into background static. Your mind raced, flashing back over every race this season—the near misses, the crashes, the podiums you never made. The sacrifices you’d made to get here.

Every race had been another day away from Max and Charles. Every victory they celebrated from afar. Every loss you swallowed alone in a hotel room while they were thousands of miles away, in a world that felt so different from yours.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the messages still glowing in the dark. You wanted to tell them how tired you were. How it hurt to be the third wheel to their inseparable bond, even though you loved them more than anything.

But how do you say, I feel like the odd one out when you’re supposed to be their equal? When you don’t want to admit that the miles between you are heavier than any trophy?

Instead, you shoved the phone into your pocket and stood.

The flight from Phoenix to Monaco was long, but it felt like even more time had passed. Time spent hoping, worrying, pretending the months apart hadn’t hollowed something inside you.

When you finally stepped off the plane, the cool Mediterranean air wrapped around you like a balm. You scanned the crowd and saw them—Max leaning casually against the terminal wall, a mischievous grin breaking across his face the moment he spotted you; Charles stepping forward, his eyes bright but shadowed with worry.

They were both here. They were real. And yet… the space between you felt bigger than the miles.

Max was the first to close the distance, pulling you into a tight hug. His warmth was electric, but it didn’t chase away the ache you’d carried for months.

Charles caught your hand, his fingers soft but trembling. “We missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” you said, your voice quieter than you wanted.

The next few days passed in a blur of racing stories, media appearances, and the ever-present pressure of their demanding lives. You were caught between wanting to soak in every moment with them and the exhaustion that came from living two lives—one in America and one here in Europe.

Nights were the hardest.

You’d lie between them—Charles curled close to your back, Max’s hand resting on your hip—and still feel like you were on the outside looking in. Their sleep was steady, breathing matched like a rhythm you’d fallen out of.

You loved them. God, you loved them.

But love hadn’t been enough to make the loneliness go away.

They talked about F1 over breakfast: simulator sessions, car developments, the drama in the paddock. They pulled you into the conversation, sure—but you always felt like a guest star in their story. Smiling at the right beats. Nodding at the right names.

You told yourself it wasn’t their fault. They weren’t doing anything wrong.

But that didn’t stop the bitter seed inside you from growing: You’ll never fit into their world the way they fit into each other’s.

They didn’t notice it at first.

Not when you lingered in the guest room “just for a nap.” Not when you slipped out early for runs alone along the harbor. Not even when you left their texts on read for a little longer than usual, sitting quietly on the couch while they laughed on a call with Lando and Carlos.

But Max noticed when you started pulling away from his touch.

And Charles noticed when your kisses became short, distracted. When you smiled, but your eyes didn’t.

One evening, a few days before New Year’s, you stood in front of the mirror in Max’s apartment, brushing out your hair in silence. The glass fogged faintly from the heat of the shower behind you.

Max leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed. “Are you ever gonna tell us what’s going on?”

You blinked, pausing mid-stroke. “I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for months,” he said. Not unkind, but not soft, either. “That’s not what I asked.”

Charles appeared beside him, a towel still slung over his shoulders, hair damp. “Is it something we did?” His voice was gentler. Hesitant.

You forced a smile—an automatic reflex, polished from months of doing just that. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Max shot back. “You’ve been here for a week, and it’s like you’re not even with us. You're quiet. You don't even fight me anymore.”

Charles stepped forward, concern shadowing his features. “We know it’s been a long season, mon cœur. But this… this feels different.”

You didn’t know how to say it. That being here, in this place that was supposed to be home, made you feel like a placeholder. That you couldn’t bear how easily they slipped back into their routine without you.

So instead, you whispered, “I just need some air.”

And you left.

You didn't mean to disappear.

But when the door shut behind you, your legs didn’t stop at the end of the block.

You kept walking.

Through the narrow streets of Monaco, past glowing storefronts shuttered for the winter, down steep alleys that smelled faintly of salt and stone. Your breath fogged in the cold, and your jacket was too thin, but you didn’t stop. The world was quiet out here, and it felt easier to think in the hush.

Easier than pretending everything inside that apartment wasn’t suffocating you.

You’d dreamed about coming here during the season— counted down the days, clung to the idea of Max’s arms, of Charles’s warmth, as the year dragged you through crashes and DNFs and endless weeks on the road. But the dream hadn’t lived up to the reality.

Not because they didn’t love you.

But because… maybe love wasn’t enough when you lived an ocean apart.

You walked until your legs ached and the cold settled into your bones, the drizzle beginning to fall just as you looped back toward the apartment, rain slicking the old cobblestones beneath your shoes.

When you reached the building, the lights were still on.

They hadn’t gone to bed.

Of course they hadn’t.

You hesitated at the entrance, heart in your throat, fingers trembling as they hovered over the keypad. Then—without even thinking why—you turned and walked around the side of the building, taking the outside stairs up to the rooftop terrace instead.

The rain had picked up.

You stood at the edge of the terrace. Monaco stretched out below in golden streaks and sleepy lights, but you couldn’t enjoy it.

You were too full of every word you hadn’t said.

Behind you, the terrace door creaked open.

Footsteps.

Max.

He didn’t speak right away—just came to stand beside you, shoulders tense, eyes scanning your face.

Then Charles appeared in the doorway, his sweater loose over pajama pants.

Neither of them looked angry.

Just scared.

Max’s voice was low, controlled—but his jaw was tight. “You walk out like that again without your phone, I swear to god—”

“I didn’t mean to disappear.”

“Then what did you mean to do?” he snapped. “Because we’ve been sitting here wondering if you were even coming back.”

“I needed space.”

Charles stepped forward, softer, pleading. “From us?”

You turned your gaze back to the city. The rain was light now—more mist than storm—but you welcomed the cold.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” you said quietly. “I don’t know how to be in this relationship when I only get to live in it for a few weeks a year.”

Max was silent. But Charles whispered, “You think we don’t feel the distance too?”

You blinked hard. “It’s not the same. You two are in the same paddock, on the same schedule, in the same places. You’ve got each other every weekend. I’m… just the FaceTime call between your races.”

Max’s voice cracked in the middle when he said, “Don’t say that.”

You shook your head. “I lie in bed between you, and I feel like I’m visiting a life I don’t belong to.”

Neither of them moved. 

Charles’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want to sound insecure. Or jealous. Or—like I couldn’t handle it.”

“And what if you couldn’t?” Max said. “What if we’re supposed to handle it with you?”

You finally turned to face them. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason something this good fell apart.”

There it was.

The thing you hadn’t let yourself say. The truth sitting heavy on your tongue for months.

Max stepped toward you. Not angry now—just wide-eyed and aching. “You think we’d let you go that easy?”

The words hit you like a slap, like a lifeline.

You blinked, swallowing down the sob that had been pressing into your throat for days. “I don’t know what you’d do,” you said hoarsely. “You already have each other. You don’t need me.”

Max’s expression crumpled, and for a moment, you saw it—all of it. The fear. The disbelief. The grief. Charles stepped forward slowly, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

But it felt true. 

The rain slicked your hair to your forehead as the silence stretched between the three of you, heavy and fragile. The city lights blurred behind the mist, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from their faces—faces you loved so fiercely it hurt.

Max inhaled sharply, then closed the distance between you with careful, deliberate steps. His hands reached out, trembling slightly as they found yours —steady, warm, grounding. He swallowed hard, searching your eyes like he was trying to reach some hidden part of you that words couldn’t touch. “You do belong,” he said finally, voice low but fierce. “Not just when you’re here. Every day. We don’t want this without you.”

You swallowed hard, feeling a tremor run through your body — fragile and raw, the kind that comes from holding back too long.

Charles stepped forward, his voice softer now, a quiet promise in every word. “We’re not just racing partners, not just lovers. We’re a family. And family stays together. No matter the distance, no matter the struggle.”

You blinked, tears finally spilling down your cheeks, catching on the cold rain. “I’ve been so scared,” you admitted, voice breaking. “Scared I’d be the one to break us. That I’d ruin the three of us.”

Max shook his head, brushing wet strands from your forehead, his fingers gentle. “You don’t ruin anything. You complete us.”

Charles stepped in then, sliding his arms around your waist from one side while Max’s went around your shoulders. They didn’t try to fix it with more words. They just held you. Quiet, steady, anchoring you as the wind tugged at your clothes and the rain continued to mist across your skin.

The city below glittered like another world—distant, surreal. But here, in this moment, on a rooftop soaked in heartbreak and love, everything was painfully, beautifully real.

Max’s arms tightened slightly around your shoulders, as if afraid you might slip through them again. Charles’s hands gripped your waist like he was trying to tether you to the present, to them. You could feel the way their breaths synced around you, one on either side, anchoring you in the middle like a gravity you’d forgotten you had.

You closed your eyes.

Just for a moment.

And you breathed.

It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase the months apart or the ache of not knowing where you truly fit. But they’d softened— edges dulled by the warmth of their hands and the honesty hanging between you like fog in the night air.

Eventually, Charles broke the silence, voice almost playful but tinged with rawness. “You do realize this means you're not allowed to vanish again, right? Not unless you’re taking one of us with you.”

You let out a breath—half-laugh, half-sob. “Deal.”

Max huffed a soft laugh beside you. “Good. Because I was about five minutes away from calling Seb and begging him for emotional advice. And we both know how that would’ve gone.”

Charles grinned faintly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “He would’ve quoted Goethe. And then sent us a link to a therapy podcast.”

You laughed then—a real one this time. Brief, wet, a little broken, but yours. The kind of laugh that cracked something open instead of covering it up.

“God, I’m sorry,” you whispered, breath catching as you leaned into them. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

Max shook his head, nose brushing your temple. “You don’t have to apologize for hurting. Just… let us be there when it happens.”

Charles tightened his arms around you. “Let us be yours, too. Not just each other’s.”

You stayed like that, soaked to the skin under the thin drizzle, hearts bruised but no longer splintering apart in silence. 

Max glanced up at the sky, rain still drizzling over the terrace. “You know,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips despite the tension, “if we keep standing out here, we’re all going to catch pneumonia.”

You gave a tired laugh, wiping rain from your cheeks. “Well, maybe pneumonia would be a nice change.”

Charles shook his head, his voice soft but firm. “No chance of that. You’re coming inside. We’re not letting you out here alone again.”

They guided you back down the stairs, flanking you on either side, the quiet between the three of you no longer strained. Just settled. Real. You entered the apartment again, but this time it didn’t feel so suffocating. Not like a world you had to fit into, but one that had space carved out for you—imperfect, maybe, but intentional.

Your clothes clung to your skin, damp from the rain, and a shiver rolled through you as the contrast between the rain-soaked night and the cozy interior settled into your bones. You didn’t realize how cold you were until Charles gently pressed a hand to your back.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured. “Come on.”

He and Max guided you toward the bathroom without fanfare, without questions. Just quiet care. Max reached in first, turning the knobs until the water ran warm, steam beginning to curl around the edges of the mirror. Charles gently peeled your jacket off your shoulders, fingers brushing your skin like a question.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You let them undress you, piece by piece, until the chill was replaced with the humid warmth of the room. 

Once you stepped into the shower, the heat was immediate—soothing, enveloping. You stood under the stream, eyes closed, letting it wash over you like absolution.

A few minutes later, you heard movement behind the glass.

Max’s voice came soft and low. “Can we join you?”

You opened your eyes, nodding without turning around. “Yeah.”

The door opened. Charles stepped in first, then Max. The water ran warm over all of you now, droplets sliding down skin and silence. You didn’t speak. None of you did. Not at first.

It wasn’t about sex—not tonight. It was about presence. Proximity. Reconnection. Their hands didn’t roam with hunger; they simply found yours. Held them. Grounded them.

Charles stood behind you again, his arms wrapping around your waist as Max stood in front, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone like he was memorizing you all over again.

You could feel your chest loosening, breath by breath.

Max leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We didn’t fall in love with someone who needs to be perfect all the time. We fell in love with you.”

Charles’s breath warmed the nape of your neck. “And we’re still here. No matter what it looks like. No matter how far you feel.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from pain—it was from the weight of being seen.

“I don’t want to keep drifting from you,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

“Then don’t,” Max said simply. “We’ll meet you halfway. Every damn time.”

Charles tightened his hold slightly. “Even if that means we change what this looks like. Even if we have to fight to keep finding each other.”

You let out a slow breath, one that carried months of grief and silence and trying to be stronger than you needed to be.

“I want that,” you said, voice trembling but sure. “I want to try.”

And just like that—just with that promise—the three of you began again.

Not fixed. Not whole. But choosing each other anyway.

Max kissed your temple. Charles held you tighter.

The water kept running. The steam fogged the glass.

But you weren’t lost anymore.

Later, when the water finally went cold and your skin had long since wrinkled beneath the stream, Max turned it off with a quiet flick of his wrist. No one rushed. Charles reached for the towels, wrapping one around your shoulders before draping another across his own back. Max stood close, warm even in the chill that crept back in.

You moved as one—slow, instinctual. A constellation realigning after being pulled apart.

In the quiet hush of the bedroom, Max pulled out one of his hoodies and slipped it over your head like he’d done a hundred times before. Charles helped you into a pair of thick socks, kneeling like it mattered.

It did matter.

All of it did now.

There was no more pretending. No more polite space left between bodies or words. You curled into Max’s side, head tucked beneath his chin, while Charles pressed against your back, his fingers tracing soft, absentminded patterns against your hip.

The silence wasn’t strained anymore. It was a balm.

And for the first time in months, you slept.

When morning came, the sky over Monaco was streaked with soft gold and pale lavender, and everything smelled like rain and warmth and second chances.

You stirred slowly, muscles sore in ways that had nothing to do with racing. You felt Max shift behind you, brushing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand before reaching for you instinctively. Charles murmured something in French, still half-asleep, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.

For a moment, it all felt easy. Natural. The way it was meant to be.

And maybe that was the most painful part—that this version of your life had always felt like a dream you only got to live in borrowed time.

But now… maybe not.

Charles rolled toward you, his palm resting against your cheek. “Bonjour, mon cœur.”

You smiled faintly. “Morning.”

Max yawned behind you. “Are we pretending that today doesn’t exist? Or are we being adults and getting up at a reasonable time?”

“Do we ever get up at a reasonable time when we’re all in the same bed?” Charles asked, voice laced with mock innocence.

You buried your face into Max’s chest, laughing into the fabric of his shirt. “Five more minutes.”

Max grumbled something unintelligible, pulling the duvet tighter around the three of you like it could shield you from the world outside. Charles chuckled, but didn’t argue. His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers lacing together like it was instinct.

Five more minutes turned into ten, then twenty.

None of you seemed in a rush to let go.

The day unraveled slowly, like a yawn—lazy and golden, with no sharp edges. Monaco outside the windows was sun-drenched and quiet, the world taking its breath while the three of you remained in your cocoon, wrapped in warmth and second chances.

Eventually, hunger became too insistent to ignore. Charles stretched with a groan, ruffling his sleep-mussed hair. “Okay, okay. I’ll make coffee.”

You murmured a sleepy thanks, but didn’t move. Max grunted something close to “traitor” as Charles slid out of bed, laughing under his breath.

You watched him go—barefoot, hoodie hanging loose on his shoulders—and felt that tug in your chest again. But this time, it wasn’t ache.

It was love.

Real. Steady. Present.

Max kissed your temple. “Come on. Let’s get up before he burns the toast again.”

You groaned. “I’d rather starve.”

Max smirked. “Romantic.”

You grinned into the pillow. “Realistic.”

When the two of you finally joined Charles in the kitchen, the apartment smelled like espresso and poorly buttered croissants. Charles had clearly raided the tiny bakery down the street—still in his pajamas, judging by the flour dusted faintly on his sleeve.

“Breakfast of champions,” he declared, holding up a half-warm croissant like it was an Olympic medal.

“Speak for yourself,” you muttered, reaching for a mug.

Max stole a bite of Charles’s pastry, and got a slap to the wrist for his trouble. The bickering was easy, familiar—like you’d never left. But now, your laugh joined theirs in the kitchen, not from the sidelines, not from a screen across the ocean. Here.

Later, sitting at the small table with your knees brushing Charles’s and Max’s foot hooked around your ankle under the chair, something in you shifted. A quiet click. Like the lock on a door you hadn’t realized you’d been leaning against this whole time.

The ache was still there—would probably always be there in some way. But it didn’t drown you now. Not when they were looking at you like that. Like you mattered. Like you belonged.

Because you did.

~Bonus~

The next morning didn’t come in golden.

It came gray.

Heavy clouds hung low over Monaco, smudging the skyline like someone had dragged their thumb through yesterday’s perfect picture. You were vaguely aware of the shift in light as you blinked awake—slower this time. Not lazy-slow, like the day before.

Sluggish. Weighted.

Your mouth was dry, your head pounded. Every part of your body ached. Like your joints were filled with lead and your skin had been stretched too thin overnight. Max was already gone from bed—probably up and brewing some version of espresso strong enough to reanimate corpses. Charles was still curled beside you, but even in sleep, his brow was furrowed. Like he could feel something was off.

You shifted slightly, trying to roll onto your back, and instantly regretted it. A flash of nausea surged through your gut, and your throat tightened painfully around a dry swallow. Your skin felt clammy, the sheets suddenly too much and not enough all at once.

Fuck.

You’d felt the tickle yesterday evening—a tightness in your throat, the sting in your sinuses you’d blamed on emotions and poor sleep. But now there was no denying it.

You were sick.

Properly, fully, fuck-my-life sick.

Your head throbbed, every heartbeat echoing like a drumbeat inside your skull. The kind of sick that made the world feel tilted, just enough to disorient you. Flu, maybe. Or something you picked up on the plane—stale air, recycled germs, stress and exhaustion doing their part to break your defenses down.

Max’s footsteps were distant but steady as he moved around the apartment, the familiar sounds somehow both comforting and frustrating. You wanted to call out, to ask him to come back, but your throat was raw, each attempt met with a rasping cough that left you gasping for air.

Charles shifted beside you, eyes fluttering open fully now, his gaze locking onto yours immediately. Without a word, he reached out, his hand warm against your clammy forehead. His touch was gentle but firm, anchoring you in the swirling fog of your fevered mind. “Mon cœur, tu es brûlante,” he whispered in a voice barely above a breath, worry threading every syllable. “You’re burning up.”

You wanted to protest, to say you were fine, that this was just a passing thing. But the rasping cough that escaped your throat cut through your will like a knife. Charles didn’t hesitate. His eyes darkened with concern as he gently helped you sit up, propping you against the pillows.

“Max!” he called softly, his voice steady but urgent as he rose and crossed the room. You heard the clatter of mugs and then footsteps quickening in response.

Max appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed, eyes sharp despite the early hour. He took in your pale face and the way Charles’s hand lingered on your forehead. Max’s eyes softened, the usual spark of mischief replaced by genuine concern. “Damn, you look rough,” he said, his voice low, careful not to startle you. He stepped closer, crouching by the bedside, and held out a glass of water. “Try to drink this, slowly.”

You nodded weakly. The cool water soothed your dry throat, but the effort left you breathless, and a cough escaped—harsh and rattling. Max winced, clearly pained to see you like this. He reached out instinctively, steadying the glass as your hands trembled. “Okay, that’s enough for now,” he murmured, setting it down on the nightstand with gentle care. “We need to take your temperature.”

Charles was already moving. He crossed the room with purpose, rummaging through the drawer in the bathroom just off the bedroom. There was the muffled clink of bottles, a soft curse in French, and then the familiar beep of the digital thermometer being turned on.

He returned a moment later, kneeling beside the bed with the small device in hand. He held it to your forehead, his hand steady despite the tight line of worry etched across his face. The cool plastic of the thermometer pressed gently to your skin, and even that small touch felt like too much—too bright, too sharp against the heat radiating from you.

The thermometer beeped after a few seconds. Charles pulled it away and frowned instantly, his eyes scanning the small digital screen.

“Quarante,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then louder, with a flick of his eyes toward Max, “C’est quarante.”

Max blinked. “Forty?” he repeated, straightening up. “As in… forty Celsius?”

Charles nodded grimly.

Max swore under his breath. “That’s—hold on—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb flying across the screen. “One hundred and four. Fahrenheit.”

Your breath hitched. Even in the haze of your fever, that number registered somewhere deep in your chest. Too high. Way too high.

Charles’s eyes met yours again, softer now. “You’re burning up, mon ange,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp temple. “We need to bring it down. Now.”

Max was already on the move, his voice clipped but calm. “Cold compress. I’ll start the bath—just lukewarm, not cold. Don’t want to shock her system.”

You could hear the water start running in the bathroom, a low hiss behind the door. Your limbs felt like they’d been filled with wet cement, every breath dragging like it weighed something. Even blinking took effort. Charles stayed close. One arm braced gently behind your shoulders, the other resting across your lap as he watched you with that particular brand of quiet worry he never showed in public. Not even on race day. But now? Now he looked like he’d sit there forever if that’s what you needed.

“I hate this,” you croaked, voice nearly unrecognizable—hoarse and broken.

“I know,” he said softly, pressing his lips briefly to your temple. “But we’ve got you.”

The door to the bathroom cracked open. Max reappeared with a towel slung over one shoulder and a folded washcloth already damp in his hand. “It’s ready,” he said, his voice low. “No rush. Just steady.”

Charles nodded once, then looked back at you. “We’re going to help you up, okay? Slowly.”

You barely managed a nod. Even that small movement sent your head spinning. But their hands were already there—sure and gentle, lifting you like you were something breakable. Max took your arm, Charles your waist, and between them, they guided you upright, then onto unsteady feet.

Each step was a small war.

Your legs felt foreign, too long and too weak all at once. Cold sweat beaded along your spine. You hated this part—the helplessness, the vulnerability. But neither of them flinched. They held you up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you reached the bathroom, your forehead was slick with fever and effort. The tub was half full, soft ripples lapping at the sides. No steam, no harsh chill—just a perfectly tempered calm waiting for you.

They helped you in without a word.

Charles steadied your arms, Max kept your legs from slipping, and then you were in—submerged to your hips, the lukewarm water hugging you like a sigh. It shocked your system in a way that made your breath catch. Not painful—just jarring. Like your body was finally realizing how hot it had been.

Your head lolled back against the edge of the tub, eyes fluttering closed.

“Stay awake, chérie,” Charles murmured, fingers brushing your wrist. “Just a little longer.”

You blinked at him, exhausted. “Trying.”

Max knelt beside you, dipping the washcloth into the water and wringing it out over your shoulders. Cool rivulets traced down your spine. “Five minutes, maybe six,” he said, mostly to Charles.

Charles checked his watch. “Set a timer,” he murmured, already brushing his thumb over your knuckles, trying to coax warmth back into them without adding heat. You were burning from the inside out, and he hated it. Hated seeing your lips pale, hated the way your shoulders trembled ever so slightly even submerged in the bath. He would’ve taken it from you if he could—every ache, every flush of fevered skin, every gasping breath.

Max didn’t argue. He set his phone down on the closed lid of the toilet and leaned in, wringing the cloth again, this time letting the water trickle over your chest. “This helps. You’re doing good,” he said, voice lower now. Gentler.

The words skimmed over the surface of your dazed mind like soft rain on a too-warm window. You couldn’t find the strength to respond, not even a nod. But you heard him. You heard both of them. They were the only sounds you could hold onto in the haze.

“Do you think she caught something in Phoenix?” Max asked after a few seconds of quiet, eyes flicking to Charles but never leaving his task.

“Maybe. Or the flight home, with her being in the rain the other day, who knows,” Charles replied, glancing down at you. “She hasn’t stopped moving in weeks. No rest. She’s exhausted.”

“Yeah, well, she’s never been good at resting,” Max said dryly, dipping the cloth again, this time letting it slide gently along your arms. “Even when she needs to.”

You could feel them talking about you, around you, but it didn’t irritate you. There was something comforting in the way they moved in sync—taking care of your body like it was familiar to them, like it was sacred. They didn’t treat you like a burden, even as you slumped lower in the bath, your strength unraveling like thread.

“I don’t want to be a problem,” you rasped, surprising yourself with the sound of your own voice. Your eyes didn’t open, but you felt their reactions instantly—Charles’s grip tightening just slightly, Max’s hands pausing mid-motion.

“You’re not a problem,” Charles said immediately, firm enough to leave no room for argument.

“Not even close,” Max added. “You’re sick. And you’re allowed to be sick.”

You tried to respond, but it came out as a soft sigh—half protest, half surrender.

“Okay,” Charles murmured, brushing your temple with the back of his fingers. “That’s enough for now.”

Max checked the timer. “Four and a half minutes. Close enough.”

Together, they moved again with silent coordination. Charles supported your back as Max reached for the towel. Your limbs felt heavier than before, your knees barely bending as they helped lift you from the water. But you weren’t scared—not with their hands on you. One guiding, one steadying. Always there.

Max pressed it gently to your arms while Charles cradled your damp frame against him, balancing your weight. It was slow, and it was quiet. There were no sharp words, no impatient sighs, only soft murmurs in French and English, and the rhythmic sound of your own breathing starting to even out. Every time your knees wobbled, a hand was there. Every time your head dropped forward, someone’s fingers curled around your chin to guide you back.

They got you into bed like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Fresh sheets. Pillows fluffed. Water waiting on the bedside table. Medicine set beside it, and a cool compress already folded in Charles’s hand. Max disappeared just long enough to grab an extra blanket and toss it over the chair—just in case.

When your head hit the pillow, it was like falling down a well.

The room spun, and then stilled. You could feel the heat still raging inside you, but it wasn’t unchecked now. It was corralled. Surrounded. Watched over.

Max sat on the edge of the bed and gently coaxed you to drink again. “Sip, then meds,” he said, holding the glass to your lips. You obeyed, sluggishly but without resistance. The water was cool and tasted faintly of lemon—he’d added it without saying anything, like he just knew it would help. Once the paracetamol was swallowed, Charles pressed the cool compress to your forehead again, the fabric soothing against your burning skin. His fingers lingered there a moment longer before sliding down to brush lightly over your cheek.

“Try to rest,” he whispered, his voice a soft anchor in the swirling haze.

You nodded, eyelids heavy, but the ache inside you made it impossible to truly let go. 

Max reached out, his hand warm and steady as he tucked the extra blanket around your shoulders. “We’re here,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to fight it.”

You didn’t have the strength to answer, not really. But your lips parted just enough, the beginnings of a thank you caught in the curve of your mouth.

They understood anyway.

Charles settled on your left, half-propped against the headboard, his fingers still trailing slow, featherlight lines across the side of your face. Max remained on your right, one leg folded up on the bed now, elbow resting casually on his knee. His presence radiated that familiar quiet energy—not loud or dramatic, just steady. Safe.

They stayed like that for a while. No one moved too much. No one spoke unless it was needed. The storm outside rolled on, soft and steady, the occasional rumble of thunder low in the distance like it was happening underwater.

You weren’t sure when your body gave in completely. Sleep took you the way water fills a basin—gradually, without drama, until everything else was quiet. You didn’t dream. There was no kaleidoscope of fever imagery, no phantom voices or spinning lights. Just a blank, dark stillness. And in that stillness, peace.

When you woke again, the gray light had shifted to a soft silver. The storm outside had thinned into a drizzle, barely audible against the windows. It must’ve been late afternoon—early evening, maybe—but you’d lost all sense of time. You blinked slowly. Your lashes felt heavy, tacky with sleep, and the edges of your vision were still a little fuzzy. But there was clarity now, just enough to recognize the world again.

Max was the first thing you registered—his voice, low and steady, humming some unrecognizable tune under his breath. He was seated cross-legged at the foot of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone with a half-eaten granola bar in hand, the wrapper crinkling softly every now and then. He didn’t notice you stirring at first.

Charles, on the other hand, had never taken his eyes off you.

He was closer now, curled on his side, elbow propped against a pillow, his head resting in one hand. There was something profoundly quiet in his gaze, like the air right after thunder—watchful, reverent. He smiled when he saw your eyes open, slow and faint but so warm it tugged at something deep in your chest.

“Bonjour, mon ange,” he said softly. “You came back to us.”

Your throat was still sore, but not the sandpaper-raw pain from earlier. It just felt tired now. Overused. You licked your lips, tried to speak, and Charles was already reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, holding it out before you could even fully sit up.

“You need help?” he asked gently.

You shook your head, but the motion made your vision blur. “Maybe,” you rasped, just above a whisper.

Max looked up at that. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty joins us again,” he said, dropping his phone and rising to his feet. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus,” you muttered.

“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve got more color now. Earlier you looked like—” he cut himself off, flashing a quick smile. “Never mind. You don’t wanna know.”

Charles chuckled under his breath. “She doesn’t. Trust me.”

He helped you sip the water slowly, careful not to let too much tip at once. The lemon was still there. Your body welcomed it, and you closed your eyes for a moment just to savor the faint, clean taste.

Max hovered a step away, arms crossed. “Your fever broke a few hours ago. Still a bit warm, but you’re out of the scary zone.”

“Barely,” Charles added, eyes scanning your face. “You scared us.”

“I know,” you whispered, guilt tugging at your chest like a slow tide. “Sorry.”

“Stop doing that,” Max said immediately. “You don’t have to apologize for having a human body.”

Charles nodded, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

You let yourself sink into the pillows again, bones aching in a dull, hollow way. Still sick, still wrung out—but no longer lost in the fever. There was a tether now. Something solid to cling to.

Max returned to the chair near the window, grabbing a folded hoodie and tossing it lightly toward the bed. “Put this on when you’re ready. You were shivering earlier.”

You looked down. You were in one of Charles’s shirts, far too big, soft and worn at the edges. It smelled like laundry and him. Your skin was still damp at the edges, and the chill of the air outside the blankets had begun to bite.

Charles caught the hoodie before it slid too far, holding it up. “Come here,” he said softly, coaxing you upright with practiced ease. Between them, they helped you slip it over your head. It smelled like Max—faint espresso and cedarwood—and it settled around you like armor.

“Still hungry?” Max asked. “I made soup. Real soup. No cans involved.”

You blinked at him slowly, surprised. “You… cooked?”

Max grinned, mock-wounded. “You say that like it’s shocking.”

“It is shocking,” Charles murmured, glancing at you with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “He burns toast.”

“Once,” Max protested, holding up a finger. “Once. And the toaster was broken.”

“The toaster was not broken,” Charles replied without looking at him. “You just turned it sideways to fit the baguette.”

You made a sound that was half a laugh, half a cough, and immediately winced. Your body didn’t quite appreciate the effort. But the moment still lifted something in your chest—something tight and guilt-wrapped that had been pressing there all day.

Max stepped toward the door. “Alright, I’m bringing it in. Both of you can mock me after you’ve eaten.”

Charles shifted beside you, brushing your hair back gently from your face. “You should try,” he said softly, once Max was gone. “Even a little. You’ve barely kept anything down.”

You nodded. “I’ll try.”

He smiled. Not the full one you loved, but something quieter. Proud. Relieved. “That’s all we need.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full, warm in the quiet way shared spaces sometimes are—where no one needs to perform or fill the gaps with chatter. You leaned your head against Charles’s shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you carefully, mindful of your still-aching body. His chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythms, and for a few seconds, you just let yourself be—held and still and not pushing through anything.

Max returned a moment later with a tray balanced in both hands—soup in a wide ceramic bowl, steam curling from the surface, along with a piece of what looked suspiciously like very toasted bread. “Et voilà,” he said with an exaggerated French accent, setting the tray gently on your lap. “Soup à la Verstappen.”

You eyed it cautiously. It smelled... decent. A little too garlicky, maybe. But the warmth rising from the bowl soothed your dry sinuses instantly. “This might actually be edible.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“She’s just being careful,” Charles said, smirking.

Max made a face at both of you, but didn’t push back. He settled onto the bed again near your feet, watching as you brought the spoon to your mouth and tasted.

It wasn’t bad. Salty and warm, full of soft noodles and slivers of chicken. “Okay. It’s actually good.”

Max looked victorious. “You hear that? Actually good.”

Charles clapped once, mock-celebratory. “A culinary miracle.”

You managed another small smile, sipping again. The warmth filled you from the inside this time—different from the fever, slower and softer, like your body was beginning to remember how to be cared for.

You didn’t finish much. Maybe ten slow spoonfuls before the fatigue began to tug at your eyelids again. Max took the tray without comment, setting it aside on the nightstand. Charles tugged the blanket up higher around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your chin.

You felt small again, but not in the way that hurt. Not powerless. Just… held. Wrapped in something gentler than obligation. Loved, even in the most quiet, aching version of yourself.

As you closed your eyes again, Charles’s fingers threaded through yours beneath the covers. Max leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out with a soft sigh. The room was dim now, the last of the silver light fading behind the clouds.

“You’re going to be okay,” Charles whispered near your temple, barely audible.

The rules of the masquerade were simple: No names. No titles. No pasts.

You adjusted the edge of your mask as you stepped into the ballroom, crystal chandeliers scattering light across silk gowns and tailored suits. The air smelled like champagne, roses, and something electric—anticipation, maybe. Or nerves.

You weren’t used to rooms like this.

Race tracks made sense. Noise. Speed. Purpose. Here, everything moved slowly, deliberately, like a dance you’d never rehearsed.

Your invitation had called it a charity masquerade for international motorsport initiatives. Vague enough that no one would ask questions. Perfect enough that you could disappear into the crowd for one night.

No firesuit. No media. No expectations.

Just you.

You were halfway to the bar when you felt it—that strange awareness, like being watched without pressure. Curious, not invasive.

When you turned, he was already looking at you.

His mask was dark—matte black, sharp lines, understated compared to the feathers and gold around him. He stood apart from the crowd, posture relaxed but alert, like someone used to moving fast even when standing still.

His eyes met yours, and something in your chest shifted.

He didn’t smile right away. Instead, his gaze flicked briefly to your mask, as if committing it to memory, before he raised his glass in a quiet, questioning salute.

You surprised yourself by returning it.

Moments later, he was beside you.

“Champagne?” he asked, voice low, warm, accented just enough to make it interesting.

You glanced at the flute in his hand. “Only if it’s not terrible.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I wouldn’t risk that kind of first impression.”

You laughed softly, accepting it. “Bold of you to assume this is a first impression.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Fair point.”

Silence settled—not awkward, just… open.

He leaned one shoulder against the bar, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without it being intrusive. The orchestra shifted behind you, a slow swell of strings that made everything feel softer, unreal.

“So,” he said lightly, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, “if we can’t ask names or jobs… what can we ask?”

You considered that, eyes tracing the curve of the chandelier reflected in your champagne. “Intentions,” you said. “Those are harder to fake.”

His brow lifted, intrigued. “Alright. Why are you here?”

You exhaled through your nose, something like a smile forming beneath the mask. “To remember what it feels like to be anonymous. To exist without people deciding who I am before I open my mouth.”

His gaze sharpened—not suspicious, but understanding. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That makes sense.”

“What about you?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted over the crowd—the flash of cameras kept at a polite distance, the careful choreography of people who knew they were being watched even tonight.

“I wanted a night where nothing was expected of me,” he said finally. “No performance. No pressure. Just… movement.”

“Movement?” you echoed.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think better when I’m moving.”

That sent a familiar spark through you, something instinctive. “Me too.”

His attention snapped back to you. “Yeah?”

You shrugged, deliberately casual. “Standing still too long makes me restless.”

He laughed then, a soft, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off guard. “I was starting to think that was just me.”

The music shifted again—slower now, deliberate. A few couples began to drift toward the center of the ballroom.

He glanced toward the floor, then back to you. Hesitated.

“Would you—” He stopped, shook his head with a small smile. “Sorry. No expectations, right?”

You set your glass down on the bar. “Right.”

And then, because the night already felt unreal enough, you held out your hand.

“But I still want to dance.”

For a fraction of a second, he looked stunned. Then he took your hand, his grip warm and steady, and led you onto the floor.

He moved like someone who trusted momentum. Every step was confident, precise, as if he understood balance on a level deeper than choreography. You matched him easily, body remembering rhythms that had nothing to do with ballrooms and everything to do with timing, weight, control.

“You’re very comfortable with speed,” he murmured, guiding you through a turn.

You smiled beneath the mask. “You notice everything.”

“I have to,” he said. “If I don’t, things go wrong.”

That felt… familiar, too.

They did.

The world narrowed to the space between you—the brush of his hand at your waist, the steady pull of his lead, the way his focus never wavered even as the room spun around you. You caught your reflection in a mirrored pillar: two strangers, masked, moving as if they’d done this before.

Song bled into song. Laughter slipped in between quiet conversations near the edge of the floor. At one point, you found yourselves on the balcony, cool night air cutting through the warmth.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“As long as it doesn’t break the rules.”

He nodded. “What do you dream about, when you let yourself?”

The question landed heavier than you expected.

You rested your hands on the railing, city lights glittering below like scattered stars. “I dream about crossing a line and knowing I gave everything I had,” you said. “About the moment after—when the noise drops away and it’s just… relief.”

He went very still beside you.

“That moment,” he said slowly, “is the best part.”

You turned to look at him. “You know it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Too well.”

Something unspoken passed between you then—recognition without revelation.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sharp intake of breath, no sudden step closer. Just a quiet understanding that settled between you, steady and unmistakable, like finding the racing line without meaning to. The city hummed below, distant and soft, lights stretching out like a constellation only half-mapped. 

“Okay, we should probably steer back into safe territory before we accidentally reveal our entire lives,” you said after a moment. 

His lips curved. “Probably a good idea.”

“Safe topics only,” you continued. “Nothing that gives anything away.”

He considered that. “Pets.”

You glanced at him. “Strong choice.”

He nodded, as if bracing himself. “I’m a cat person.”

You blinked—then laughed outright. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, mock-defensive. “They’re smart. Independent. They don’t listen unless they respect you.”

“That tracks,” you said, smiling. “You have to earn their trust.”

“Exactly. And when you do, it actually means something.”

You leaned your elbows on the railing again, thoughtful. “I’m the opposite.”

He turned toward you. “Dog person?”

“Big dogs,” you corrected immediately. “The kind that think they’re lap dogs even when they’re absolutely not.”

He smiled at that, soft and real. “Why big ones?”

“Because they’re steady,” you said. “Protective without being loud about it. They’ll sit with you in silence and still make you feel safe.”

His expression shifted—subtle, but you caught it. Like that answer had landed somewhere personal.

“That sounds nice,” he said quietly.

“It is,” you replied.

The orchestra inside swelled, strings curling through the open doors, wrapping the balcony in something warm and slow.

“What else?” he asked. 

You thought for a moment. “Music.”

He chuckled. “Risky.”

“Only if you explain too much,” you said. “Just what it does for you.”

He nodded. “Alright. Music that keeps my brain moving. Rhythm. Momentum.”

“Fast?” you guessed.

“Clean,” he corrected. “Something you can lock into.”

You smiled. “Mine’s slower. Stuff that forces you to breathe.”

“Balance,” he said again.

“Always.”

You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his this time. Neither of you moved away.

“Food?” he offered.

You made a face. “Comfort or celebration?”

“Comfort,” he said without hesitation.

“Same,” you admitted. “Something warm. Familiar. Like no matter where you are, there’s still a place you belong.”

He was quiet for a moment after that.

“I like talking like this,” he said finally. “About things that don’t need context.”

“No explanations,” you agreed.

“No expectations.”

You let the quiet settle again, easy and unforced. The city kept breathing below you, traffic lights blinking in patient rhythm, as if the whole world had agreed to move a little slower for this moment.

“Can I add one more safe topic?” he asked.

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re on thin ice.”

He smiled. “Harmless. I promise.”

“Alright,” you said. “One.”

“Habits,” he said. “Little ones. The kind no one notices.”

You considered that, chin tilting thoughtfully. “I talk to myself when I’m focused,” you admitted. “Not full conversations. Just… reminders. Timing. Breathing.”

His eyes warmed. “I do that too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Especially when I’m trying to get something exactly right.”

You laughed quietly. “Seems like we both like control.”

“Or at least the illusion of it,” he said.

“Fair.”

The music inside shifted again, something gentle and looping, like it could play forever if no one told it to stop. You became acutely aware of how close you were standing now—close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough that it would only take the slightest decision to cross another invisible line.

Neither of you moved.

His gaze dipped, just briefly, then lifted back to yours. There was no rush in him, no urgency—only certainty, quiet and steady.

You shifted closer first, the movement small but unmistakable. Your hand found the front of his jacket, fingers curling lightly into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

He leaned in.

The kiss was gentle, unhurried. A soft meeting of lips that lingered just long enough to feel intentional, like neither of you needed more than this moment to understand it.

His hand came up to your cheek, warm and careful, thumb brushing along your jaw in a touch that felt reverent rather than possessive. You tilted into it without thinking, letting the city and the music and everything else fall away.

For a few heartbeats, there was nothing but the kiss—slow, steady, grounding.

When you parted, it wasn’t abrupt. Your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, the closeness unbroken. You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary—forehead to forehead, breath warm, the night holding you gently in place.

His thumb traced a small, absent-minded arc along your jaw, not moving away, not pressing closer either. Just there. Present. As if he were memorizing the feel of you without meaning to.

You laughed softly, the sound barely louder than the city below. “Well,” you murmured, “that escalated.”

He smiled against your skin—an actual smile this time, you could feel it. “Just a little.”

You pulled back enough to look at him properly, still close, still caught in the gravity of it. His eyes were bright now, unguarded in a way they hadn’t been before.

You were about to say something—anything—when your phone vibrated in your clutch.

Once.

You ignored it.

It vibrated again, insistent this time, a sharp interruption that cut clean through the softness of the moment. Your breath caught. You didn’t need to look to know what it meant. Some instincts didn’t need confirmation.

“I—” You broke off, already reaching for it. The glow of the screen lit the inside of your mask for half a second before you angled it away.

His expression shifted immediately. Not alarmed. Just attentive.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed. “I have to go.”

The words came out steadier than you felt.

Now his concern sharpened, but he didn’t grab you, didn’t press. He simply nodded, trusting the urgency in your voice. “Right now?”

“Yes.” You forced a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect—”

“You don’t need to explain,” he said gently. “Just—” He hesitated, then softened. “Go.”

Relief and regret tangled in your chest.

You stepped back, the warmth between you cooling far too quickly. The balcony suddenly felt too open, the city too loud.

“I’m really glad I met you,” you said, and meant it in a way that scared you.

He smiled, small but real. “Me too.”

You turned, already moving toward the doors—and then stopped.

You went back to him in two quick steps, reached into your clutch, and pressed something into his hand before he could react.

A small enamel pin. Simple. Clean lines. Racing stripes.

“For… memory,” you said, breathless now. “So you know I was real.”

His fingers closed around it instinctively. He looked down at it, then back up at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll keep it,” he said. Not lightly. Not casually.

You nodded once, already retreating. “I hope you have a good night.”

And then you were gone—slipping back into the ballroom, weaving through silk and laughter and borrowed faces, disappearing before he could follow, before the moment could ask for more than you could give.

He stayed on the balcony long after.

Long enough for the music to change. Long enough for the night to thin.

Austin. Ten months later.

The paddock buzzed with a quieter kind of chaos—the in-between hum of Saturday morning before everything sharpened. FP3 and qualifying loomed, but for now there was space to breathe. Engineers clustered over laptops. Max walked through it all on instinct, Red Bull team kit, cap pulled low against the Texas sun. 

He nodded at a mechanic, accepted a fresh red bull can, listened with half an ear as someone rattled off a weather update. Routine carried him forward. It always did.

And then something caught his eye.

Not a person at first—just a flash of enamel, glinting briefly as someone shifted their weight near the hospitality entrance.

His steps slowed.

Racing stripes.

The same clean lines he’d turned over between his fingers more times than he’d admit. The same pin he’d carried from suitcase to suitcase, told himself it was just a souvenir, a coincidence, a story he’d never finish.

He stopped.

Turned.

A woman was leaning against the barrier just outside hospitality, guest badge swinging lightly from its lanyard as she laughed at something the person beside her said. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Relaxed. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.

And there it was—clipped just below the badge.

The pin.

For a moment, the paddock noise softened, like it had been wrapped in cotton. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Somewhere, an engine barked to life and cut again. None of it mattered.

Max didn’t hesitate.

“Hey,” he said.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just enough.

You turned.

For half a second, your expression held polite confusion—the automatic response to being addressed in a paddock full of people who assumed familiarity. Then recognition landed, sudden and unmistakable. His eyes. His accent. Your breath caught. Your hand lifted without thinking, fingers brushing the lanyard, finding the pin like it was an anchor.

“You’re…” you said softly.

Up close, in daylight, without masks or music or borrowed anonymity, the familiarity still held. Maybe more so. The same awareness. The same quiet pull. Max smiled—not the public one, not the practiced paddock version. Something smaller. Real.

“Hi,” he replied.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The paddock kept flowing around you—footsteps, radios, the hiss of tires being rolled across concrete—but it all felt slightly out of focus, like the world had decided to give you a pocket of quiet.

Your mouth curved first. Small. Careful. “I was starting to think I imagined you.”

He shook his head once, a breath of a laugh escaping him. “Yeah. Same.”

You glanced down at the lanyard, fingers brushing the pin again, grounding yourself. “I wasn’t sure if I should wear it,” you admitted. “It felt… ridiculous, maybe.”

His eyes softened. “I’m really glad you did.”

Something eased in your chest at that—something you hadn’t realized you were holding tight since the night of chandeliers and borrowed names.

You introduced yourself. 

He just took it in, the way he did with data that mattered.

“A NASCAR champion,” he repeated quietly, not as disbelief—more like recalibration.

You shrugged, a little self-conscious now that the mask was gone in every sense. “In my own right,” you added, half-smile returning. “Which is why the pin felt… appropriate. It’s from my car’s paint scheme. Limited run. I don’t give them out often.”

“That explains why it felt important,” he said, and there was something like relief in his voice. Not because of the title—because of the fit. The way the pieces finally aligned.

He glanced down at the pin on your lanyard, then back up at you. “I wondered,” he admitted. “That night. You moved like—” He stopped himself, smiled. “Like someone who knows momentum.”

You laughed softly. “I could say the same.”

An engineer called his name from a few meters away, something about a schedule check. Max lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning away from you.

“FP3’s coming up,” he said. Not apologetic. Just stating a fact.

“I know,” you replied. “I won’t be offended if you disappear into work mode.”

He studied you for a moment longer than necessary.

Not guarded. Not distracted. Focused—like he was lining something up in his head and deciding whether to commit to it. Then he exhaled, slow, and tipped the Red Bull can slightly in his hand, more habit than intention.

“I don’t really do ‘work mode’ the way people think,” he said. “I just… narrow things.”

You smiled. “That tracks.”

He glanced past you for half a second—toward the garages, the screens, the quiet tightening of the morning—then back to you, attention snapping fully into place again.

“But I don’t want this to be rushed,” he added. Not apologetic. Intentional.

Something warm settled low in your chest. “Me neither.”

Another beat passed. The paddock noise crept back in at the edges—radios, footsteps, the distant echo of an engine—but the pocket of quiet held.

“So,” you said, lighter now, “what happens when you’ve got five minutes and a Red Bull?”

He smiled at that. “We walk.”

He gestured with his head toward the edge of the paddock, away from the garages and the foot traffic. You fell into step beside him easily, pace matching without thought.

No touching. No rush. Just proximity.

“I kept thinking about that night,” he said after a moment. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… every now and then. Like a reference point.”

You nodded. “Same. It felt unfinished.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Does it still?”

You considered that honestly. The sun. The noise. The pin warm under your fingers.

“No,” you said. “It feels like a continuation.”

That earned you a real smile—brief, but unmistakable.

They slowed near a quieter barrier, stopping just short of where the paddock thinned out. He checked his watch again, reflexive.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. Not regretful. Just factual.

“I know,” you replied. “I’ll be around.”

He hesitated—then reached out, fingers brushing the edge of your lanyard, not quite touching the pin.

“Don’t take it off,” he said softly.

You met his eyes. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Satisfied, he stepped back, lifting the can in a small, familiar salute. “After qualifying.”

“After qualifying,” you echoed.

He turned then, disappearing back into the rhythm of the paddock—this time without the sense of loss that had followed him off the balcony months ago.

You watched him go, fingers curling around the lanyard.

This time, the story wasn’t slipping through your hands.

The Monster Energy crossover was supposed to be a branding stunt. You walked out with a lifelong Twitch rival and a future boyfriend.

Not that either of you knew that yet.

You were fresh into your second full NASCAR Cup season, still reeking of rookie energy and adrenaline, and Lando had just graduated from “F1 baby” to “that cheeky McLaren menace.” The event organizers threw drivers from all disciplines into a media pit of brand synergy and sponsored chaos, and somehow, you ended up in a sim racing rig next to him.

He won, but only because you drove backwards to block him.

That moment got clipped, memed, and edited with dubstep by a thousand chaotic teenagers on TikTok.

And you? You found your favorite idiot.

Now it’s tradition: every off-season, you and Lando stream together. Mario Kart. iRacing. Minecraft. Whatever ends in shouting and a dozen Twitch clips of “WTF did I just watch.” Twitch chat calls it “off-season therapy.”

Tonight’s stream was no different.

[Stream Title: “Lando vs [Y/N] - MARIO KART WAR IV 🔥🎮 | loser buys Taco Bell”] [Viewers: 86,421 and climbing]

LandoNorris: “Okay, we’re going no items. Pure skill.” [Y/N]: “So you're preparing to lose with dignity this time. Got it.”

Twitch Chat: 🏁 Chat is moving fast “flirting or fighting??” “KISS ALREADY OMG” “he’s blushing look at this simp”

Lando’s laugh echoed through your headset. “You’ve never had dignity in Mario Kart, mate. Don’t start now.”

“Oh please, I drive at 200 mph for a living. You think Rainbow Road scares me?”

“You literally screamed last time.”

“That was a strategic vocal maneuver to psych you out.”

Twitch chat exploded.

“strategic vocal maneuver = scared baby noises confirmed” “this is foreplay”

You snorted, nearly dropping your controller. “Chat, please. Children are watching.”

“I am the child watching,” Lando muttered.

“You're like a toddler who somehow unlocked Twitch streaming and F1 sponsorships.”

“Yeah,” he grinned into the camera, “and you’re the NASCAR delinquent who puts ketchup on tacos.”

“One time!”

“Once is enough!”

You ended up winning—barely—and Lando screamed dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been betrayed by God and Nintendo. You leaned back, smug, arms behind your head.

“I believe that’s five to four, me.”

“I demand a recount.”

“This isn’t Florida, Norris. Accept defeat.”

Chat lost it again. Emotes. Memes. Clipped within seconds.

You sat there in the afterglow of your digital domination, sipping a monster while Lando reset the lobby. It was moments like this—the quiet in between chaos—that always got you. You glanced at him through your monitor. He was focused, lower lip caught between his teeth, hair a curly disaster. Always a mess. Always Lando.

And always him.

You told yourself, again, that it was just a friendship thing. The way he made you laugh. The way he texted you before every race, win or lose. How he called after your crash at Daytona last year, staying on the phone for two hours because, as he said, “I’ll know you’re okay if I can hear your dumbass voice.”

Just friends.

Sure.

Later, stream off, your call lingered. You always hung out after, talking into the night like teenagers at a sleepover. Lando was still on camera, leaned back in his gamer chair, hoodie half-off one shoulder.

“You ever think we peaked at that first crossover event?” you asked, half-joking.

Lando chuckled. “Peaked? You drove backwards into me.”

“You screamed like a little girl.”

“You said ‘yeehaw, bitch’ before doing it!”

You both burst into laughter, that kind of ugly, stomach-hurting laugh that only came with familiarity and affection. He wiped his eyes.

“God, you’re such a menace,” he said fondly.

“Look who’s talking. You’ve literally named a Minecraft horse after me. And then blew it up.”

“In my defense,” he smirked, “you called it ugly.”

“It had my name, Norris!”

“That was your warning.”

You shook your head, still smiling. It was so easy with him. Effortless, like drafting behind someone you trust—no sudden turns, just rhythm and speed.

“Are you coming to the States next month?” you asked.

“For Daytona? Yeah.” He hesitated. “Well. Mostly for you.”

You blinked.

He backpedaled instantly. “I mean—not like—ugh. You know what I mean.”

You bit your lip, heart rate edging toward a caution flag. “Yeah. I do.”

The silence was warm, not awkward. Filled with things unsaid and Twitch chat jokes that weren’t there anymore.

“I like streaming with you,” he said suddenly.

“I like everything with you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Lando froze. So did you.

“…That—was that—?” he began.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Uh. That was a sentence.”

He stared. Then smiled.

“Cool,” he said softly. “Because I like everything with you, too.”

[Two Weeks Later | VLOG - “OFF-SEASON SHENANIGANS ft. chaos incarnate”]

Your vlog opened on Lando arriving at your place with a Taco Bell bag and a grin that could power a small city.

You zoomed in dramatically on his face.

“This is the face of a man who lost to me on Rainbow Road.”

Lando: “This is the face of a man rethinking all his life choices.”

Cut to you two racing go-karts at your local track. Him yelling. You yelling louder. Someone (you) crashing into the bushes. Again.

Cut to a grocery store run where Lando argued that British snacks were “culturally superior” and you nearly got kicked out for mock-fighting over tea.

Cut to you both in your garage, elbows deep in your modded sim rig, trying to update firmware and failing miserably.

The vlog ended on a couch shot—both of you, soft and tired, with a blanket over your legs and a PS5 controller each.

You: “This is peak off-season. Don’t @ me.”

Lando, half-asleep: “I’m not saying I’d marry you, but…”

The screen froze. Zoomed in.

Dramatic “To Be Continued” music plays.

[STREAM TITLE: “Relationship Reveal ft. the Moron Squad 🚨💘 | it happened.”] Viewers: 146,000+

[Y/N]: “So hey, yeah, surprise. We’re dating.” Lando: “I lost at Mario Kart and won at life.”

Chat: “CALLED IT!!!” “i’ve waited 84 years” “my crops are thriving, my skin is clear” “do the ‘yeehaw bitch’ voice again for old time’s sake”

You looked at Lando. “You wanna say it?”

He raised a brow. “Say what?”

You nudged him with your shoulder, grinning. “The thing.”

He rolled his eyes, affectionate. “Fine.” He leaned into the mic dramatically. “Yeehaw, bitch.”

You cracked up. Twitch chat imploded.

[CLIP TITLE: “YEEHAW BITCH BUT MAKE IT ROMANTIC 🏁❤️”] Posted by: sim4life666 Views: 2.3 million

*Lando reaches out mid-stream, just casually grabs your hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s always been this way.*

He says, “It was always you.”

You call him a nerd and squeeze back.

Chat breaks. Internet breaks. The clip hits trending within 10 hours.

Daytona - Trackside

Your season is about to start. Sun baking the asphalt, cars roaring in the background, adrenaline humming in your chest.

Lando’s in your pit box, somehow looking right at home in your colors. You tug off your helmet after practice, sweat sticking to your neck. He’s there with a water bottle and a grin.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Always.”

He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and murmurs, “Don’t drive backwards into anyone.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

The cameras catch it. The fans scream. The TikToks are already editing themselves.

Charles Leclerc had seen many things in his life: paparazzi frenzies in Monte Carlo, 10-car pileups at Eau Rouge, even Sebastian Vettel in socks and sandals. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the whirlwind that was you.

You, with your cutoff jean shorts, a bandana tied around your wrist, chewing gum like it was your job, and hollering from across the paddock at your NASCAR crew like you were trying to raise the dead.

You were loud, fast, and, by all accounts, a danger to public safety.

And now, God help him, you were making a beeline for him.

He tried to act casual—checked his watch, adjusted his hat, looked for a fire escape. But there was no escaping you. You walked like someone who hadn’t had a single thought of doubt in their entire life, hips swinging, sunglasses reflecting the blinding midday sun.

You stopped just inches from him, blowing a pink bubble between your lips until it popped, loud and obnoxious. His eye twitched.

“You’re Charles Leclerc,” you said, like it was an accusation.

He cleared his throat, nodding. “Yes. I—”

“Didn’t ask for your resume, baby, just makin’ sure I got the right one,” you interrupted, sliding your sunglasses to the top of your head and giving him a once-over that could melt tires. “I’ve seen you on the TikToks. Monaco, fancy little accent, cheekbones sharp enough to slice brisket. You’re prettier in person. Real delicate-lookin’.”

Charles made a soft, baffled sound that might’ve been a thank you, might’ve been a cry for help.

You squinted at him like you were trying to decide whether to punch him or kiss him.

“I bet you iron your underwear.”

Charles blinked. “I—what?”

“Just lookin’ at you, I can tell. You probably got one of those color-coded closet situations, don’t you? I bet your socks are in little rows like soldiers.”

“I have… drawers?” he offered, unsure if this was a trick question.

You laughed — full belly, head-thrown-back, unapologetic chaos. People turned to look. Charles tried not to die on the spot.

“You’re funny,” you said, grinning like a coyote that just spotted an unattended chicken coop. “You don’t even mean to be, which is the best part. You just stand there all polite like you ain’t never cussed out a slow driver in your life.”

Charles tried to speak, but you were already grabbing his hand and shaking it like you were sealing a backroom deal.

“Name’s [Y/N],” you said, your grip strong and warm and slightly greasy with something engine-related. “Driver of the number 95 Kickin’ Chicken Chevrolet. Three-time winner of the ‘Most Likely to Be Pulled for Questioning Post-Race’ award and unofficial paddock burnout record-holder.”

You winked. “But you can just call me trouble, sugar.”

Charles blinked again, because his brain was trying to reboot like an old computer on bad Wi-Fi. “I… it’s nice to meet you?”

You tilted your head at him, a smile still playing on your lips like you knew something he didn’t—which, to be fair, you probably did. “You always talk like you’re narratin’ a BBC wildlife doc? That’s adorable. I feel like David Attenborough’s gonna whisper ‘Here we see the rare, well-groomed Monegasque in his natural habitat… scared, confused, and overdressed.’”

Charles swallowed. “I… am just here for the joint promo event.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, like you’d just remembered it. “Right, right, the ‘Motorsports Without Borders’ thing. Real kumbaya stuff. They told me I had to ‘play nice’ this time.” You leaned in. “But lemme tell you a secret,” you drawled, voice low and conspiratorial. “I don’t do nice. I do fast, loud, and occasionally illegal. So if you’re gonna be glued to my hip all day, sugar, you best buckle the hell up.”

Charles tried to maintain eye contact, but that was difficult when you radiated the energy of a racetrack fistfight and the heat of an open flame. He tugged at his collar like it was suddenly too tight.

“I am… buckled,” he said, uncertainly. “Emotionally.”

You grinned. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Before he could respond—or flee—you turned on your heel and jerked your head toward the garage. “C’mon, Pretty Boy. They want some B-roll of us bein’ all chummy around the cars.”

He followed like a man under a spell. A deeply confused, slightly horrified spell.

You led him through the chaos of the paddock—the smell of burnt rubber, the chatter of mechanics, the roar of engines revving in the distance. Charles kept his posture rigid, like a soldier marching into enemy territory, but you just strode ahead like you owned every inch of asphalt.

At the garage, cameras were already pointed at you two. The director gave a quick nod, and you immediately switched gears—from NASCAR outlaw to charming partner-in-crime, slapping Charles on the back with a grin wide enough to shame the sun.

Charles flinched like you’d hit him with a wrench.

Your arm stayed draped over his shoulders like you’d been best friends since kindergarten, dragging him closer to the #95 car like he was just another member of your pit crew. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and jet fuel panic.

“Look alive, Pretty Boy,” you muttered out the side of your mouth. “We’re makin’ memories.”

Charles tried to smile for the cameras, but it looked more like a hostage photo.

The director called for action. You slapped the hood of the car like it owed you money and launched into a southern-fried sales pitch.

“This right here,” you drawled, “is my baby. Ain’t she beautiful? Got more horsepower than a Kentucky derby, turns like a sinner in church, and growls louder than my Aunt Linda after three gin and tonics.”

Charles blinked, nodding like that made perfect sense.

The director motioned for him to respond.

“Yes, she is… very shiny,” he said stiffly, patting the car like it might bite him.

You burst out laughing again, the kind of laugh that made mechanics pause mid-torque to glance over.

“Oh darlin’, you sound like you’re describin’ a toaster. Try again—give her some passion!”

“I… like how the wheels are… round?” he tried.

You wheezed. Actually wheezed. Bent over, hands on your knees, laughing like you’d just heard the world’s filthiest joke in church.

“Oh God,” you gasped, wiping at the corner of your eye, “you are delicate. They really sent me a fresh croissant in a fire suit.”

Charles, to his credit, only looked mildly like he wanted to disappear into the asphalt. He straightened his shoulders and offered a weak smile to the nearest camera. It twitched at the corners like he was being held at gunpoint by a cupcake.

“I am trying,” he said, voice almost pleading.

“Oh, sugar,” you said, sidling up to him again with a grin so wide it should’ve been illegal in several states, “you’re doin’ better than tryin’. You’re survivin’. That’s all I ask.”

The cameraman called “Cut!” and everyone relaxed, stepping away from the lights. You stretched like you’d just finished a triathlon, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to flash a strip of midriff. Charles stared at the ceiling. 

“You always that tense, Pretty Boy?” you asked, tipping your water bottle toward him like you were offering a toast. “Gonna pop a blood vessel if you keep clenching like that.”

“I am not clenching,” Charles said, extremely unconvincingly.

You snorted. “Sure. And I’m Miss Congeniality.”

He looked like he wanted to say something—possibly in defense of your congeniality, possibly to ask what was happening to his meticulously ordered life—but he never got the chance. One of your pit crew jogged up, grease-smudged and out of breath, holding a clipboard.

You took one look at the crew member—wide-eyed, sweating, and clearly in the early stages of panic—and sighed like a woman who’d been asked to babysit a litter of caffeinated puppies.

“What now, Toby?” you asked, popping your gum like a warning shot.

Toby held out the clipboard like it might explode. “We’ve got a… slight situation.”

You arched a brow. “Is it on fire?”

He hesitated. “Not yet.”

You snatched the clipboard, scanning it with a practiced eye. Charles tried to sneak a peek over your shoulder, but all he saw was a mess of pit notes, tire pressure readings, and what looked suspiciously like a doodle of a chicken doing burnouts.

“Someone swapped the fuel maps on the primary, and Jimmy—God bless him—accidentally locked himself in the hauler with a crate of Red Bull and a torque wrench.”

You blinked. “Again?”

Toby just nodded grimly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do— have Maddie check the cooling line for a clog, and for the love of Dale Earnhardt, someone go get Jimmy out before he turns that trailer into a rocket ship.”

Toby ran off, clipboard under one arm like a quarterback charging toward the end zone.

You turned back to Charles, who was watching you like a man witnessing a tornado organize a board meeting.

“What?” you said, brushing your hands off on your cutoff shorts. “You’ve never seen controlled chaos before?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then, cautiously, “Controlled?”

“Sure,” you said with a grin. “This is just Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday. I lose track.”

Charles looked at the garage—smoke curling up from one corner, a mechanic shouting about someone rewiring a brake light into the radio, and a half-eaten corn dog balanced precariously on a tire.

“This is your… normal?” he asked slowly.

You shrugged. “It’s NASCAR, baby. If everything’s working right, something’s probably wrong.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “In Formula One, they run simulations for hundreds of hours.”

You snorted. “Yeah, and how many of those simulations account for Jimmy mixing up brake fluid with sweet tea?”

“…None?”

“Exactly. Real-world experience.” You clapped him on the back again—he barely flinched this time. Progress. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

Charles looked at the horizon like it might offer him a lifeline. “Am I?”

You grinned, spinning your key ring around your finger like a gunslinger at high noon. “Darlin’, by the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna beg for chaos.”

Just then, a loud clang echoed from the back of the garage, followed by Jimmy’s voice shouting, “I FOUND THE FLAMETHROWER!”

Charles went pale. “You have a flamethrower?!”

You didn’t even look. “Legally? No.”

“Mon dieu.”

You turned to him, all bright eyes and bad ideas. “Hey, you hungry? My mama shipped me a pecan pie that’ll knock your socks off. Literally. Last guy who had a slice couldn’t feel his feet for an hour.”

Charles looked like a man who had lost all control of his life—and was one bad decision away from accepting it.

“Sure,” he said, softly, helplessly.

You beamed like he’d just agreed to elope. “Atta boy. Let’s go feed you before you faint like a Victorian bride.”

And with that, you slung an arm around his shoulder again, already dragging him toward the team RV.

Somewhere, probably, a camera kept rolling.

And Charles Leclerc —Monegasque prince of precision and press interviews— had never felt more off-script.

And somehow, terrifyingly…

He kind of liked it.

The team RV was a well-worn beast plastered with stickers boasting everything from sponsor logos to tongue-in-cheek phrases like “Fueled by caffeine and questionable decisions.” You pushed the door open, letting the humid rush of recycled air and stale coffee hit Charles like a wall.

“Welcome to the pit stop lounge,” you announced, tossing your keys onto a cluttered table. “It’s where legends are made, and occasionally, where we hide when things get real ugly.”

Charles eyed the cramped space with wide, wary eyes. There were empty energy drink cans stacked like a trophy, a couch that looked like it had survived three NASCAR seasons, and a whiteboard filled with scribbles, car setups, and what might have been a grocery list.

You snagged a paper plate from the counter and peeled back the foil on the pecan pie, releasing a warm, sticky scent that somehow smelled like comfort and trouble all at once.

“You have to try this,” you said, plopping a generous slice onto Charles’s plate. “Mama’s secret recipe. Guaranteed to make you forget all your worries—or at least make ‘em taste sweet for a minute.”

Charles took a tentative bite, and his eyes flickered with surprise.

“See? Told ya.”

You flopped onto the couch beside him, wiping a smear of pecan filling off your chin with the back of your hand.

“So,” you said, voice dropping just enough to be conspiratorial, “how’s the high life treating ya? All tuxedos and tea parties, or do you get your hands dirty sometimes?”

Charles shrugged, still chewing. “Formula One is… precise. Controlled. Every move is calculated.”

You snorted. “Precise, huh? Sounds like a fancy word for ‘boring.’”

He gave a half-smile, shaking his head. “It’s different. But I suppose there’s excitement in your kind of racing too. If only I could stop feeling like I’m about to break something—or someone.”

You studied him for a beat, then grinned wide, eyes sparkling. “Welcome to the club, Pretty Boy. Breaking things is part of the fun. Hell, sometimes it’s the whole point.”

Charles looked like he wanted to protest, but you cut him off with a mock-serious finger wag.

“Don’t get all delicate on me now. You’re here for a reason. And besides,” you added, voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “I kinda like having a walking, talking contrast to my chaos. Keeps things interesting.”

His cheeks flushed—whether from the pie, the heat, or your words, he wasn’t sure.

The RV door swung open, and Toby poked his head in, wiping grease off his hands.

“All systems are nominal. Jimmy’s out of the hauler,” he announced, earning a whoop from you.

Charles blinked. “That… sounds like a victory.”

You smirked, giving Toby a nod. “Victory’s just the baseline. Now, what else did you say about the engine?”

Toby glanced at the clipboard again, tapping a few notes. “ECU reset done. Maddie found a kink in the cooling line. She’s flushing it now. Should stabilize temp in about ten minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow at Charles, who was still digesting all this like it was a foreign language. “See? Controlled chaos. Feels a lot like chess—except every piece’s on fire.”

Charles gave a slow, half-laugh, half-sigh. “I think I’m going to need a translator.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, popping another piece of pie into your mouth and smacking your lips. “I’m bilingual—English and ‘This race might explode at any second.’”

Charles’s smile finally found its footing. “You really are something else.”

“Sugar, I’m trouble wrapped in pecan pie,” you said, grinning like you’d just dropped a bombshell.

Before he could respond, your phone buzzed. You glanced down and scowled. “That’s the director. Wants a quick shot of us ‘bonding’ before the joint press conference.”

You shot Charles a mischievous look. “Looks like you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, then met your eyes with a newfound spark. “Lead the way, trouble.”

You stood up, stretching with a dramatic yawn. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As you both stepped out of the RV, the paddock buzzed louder—engines roaring, crews shouting, and somewhere in the distance, Jimmy was definitely not playing with the flamethrower.

You caught Charles’s arm, giving it a quick squeeze. “Ready to make some memories, Pretty Boy?”

He smirked, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Let’s do it.”

And just like that, the whirlwind had a partner.

The cameras caught every step as you and Charles moved through the bustling paddock, a perfect contrast: his composed, almost regal bearing against your unapologetic wildness. The director barked orders, wanting candid moments of laughter, light teasing, the sort of chemistry that made the promo sing.

You nudged Charles playfully. “Say something that sounds like you belong in this mess.”

He cleared his throat, voice steady but tinged with amusement. “It’s… different. But exhilarating.”

You grinned, looping your arm through his. “Exhilarating’s my middle name.”

Charles shot you a look that was half amused, half incredulous. “I’m pretty sure that’s not on your birth certificate.”

“Maybe not,” you said with a wink. “But it should be.”

The cameras clicked, the crew moved around you like a well-oiled machine, and somewhere in the background, you caught the flash of Jimmy emerging from the trailer—bruised but triumphant, flamethrower nowhere in sight.

As the sun dipped lower, you and Charles wrapped up the shoot with a staged, perfectly imperfect handshake that made the director beam.

“Alright, folks,” he said, waving the crew off, “that’s a wrap for today. Great work!”

You and Charles lingered for a moment longer, the echo of the crew’s footsteps fading into the background. The sun was melting toward the horizon, casting long shadows and turning the paddock into a golden stage just for the two of you.

Charles looked over at you, that same mixture of confusion and awe lingering in his eyes. “So… what now? We just go back to our own worlds and pretend none of this happened?”

You shrugged, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Depends. You wanna live a little, or you wanna keep polishing those color-coded socks?”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine, like he’d just discovered a new language. “I might need some lessons.”

“Good,” you said, flashing that trademark grin. “‘Cause I’m one hell of a teacher.”

You glanced at your watch—time for the joint press conference, but the thought of stepping back into the polished, buttoned-up world felt suddenly less urgent.

“You know,” Charles said, voice soft, “you make chaos look… kind of beautiful.”

You smirked, elbowing him gently. “And you make order seem a little less boring.”

Together, you turned toward the press area, ready to face the flashing lights and awkward questions. But something between you had shifted — a spark ignited in the chaos, a hint that this unlikely partnership might just rewrite the rules for both of you.

In the world of high speeds and higher stakes, Logan Sargeant lost one kind of race— But he found his place in yours.

You’re used to the roar of engines, the burn of adrenaline, the raw power of your NASCAR machine as it screams around the oval track. You live for the rush—the split-second decisions, the crackle of radio chatter, the smell of burnt rubber. But tonight, everything feels quieter. Still.

The phone rings, and when you answer, you hear it immediately, putting him on speaker—Logan’s voice, heavy and uncertain.

He exhales hard. “Just like that. No more seat. No plan.”

You pause mid-scroll, thumb hovering over a still photo of him in his F1 suit, hair a little messy, smile still bright. Your chest tightens, but you steady yourself. Logan’s always been a fighter, and you know this is just another turn in his race. You clear your throat and say softly, “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve got me. Maybe it’s time to come home and be my HAB full-time, just for a little while.”

You hear a soft laugh on the other end, followed by a long pause. Then he says, “I’m coming for you. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

Three Days Later

He shows up at the paddock like he’s done it a hundred times—though you can tell from the way he tugs at the hem of his hoodie and keeps his sunglasses on indoors that he’s fighting nerves.

“God,” he murmurs, eyes on your car as it’s rolled out of the hauler. “She’s a beast.”

You grin. “You get used to her.”

He turns to you then, lower lip caught between his teeth. “And you’re really okay with me being here?”

You shrug. “You’re my HAB. Full-time gig, remember?”

That earns a real smile. You kiss his cheek in front of your crew, not caring who sees. Someone whistles behind you.

“Man, y’all are disgustingly cute,” your tire specialist mutters, amused.

He chuckles at the comment, ducking his head with that familiar Florida-boy flush spreading across his cheeks. Still, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers find the hem of your fire suit, just a small touch of grounding as he watches your crew swarm around the car.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “You’re allowed to look a little lost, y’know.”

“I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You’re not.” You nudge his hip with yours. “You’re with me.”

Logan lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, his gaze clearer now. “Yeah. Okay.”

The two of you stand there for a beat, surrounded by the hum of tools, shouted instructions, and the scent of fuel in the air. It’s your world. But you can already feel it reshaping to include him.

Practice runs are underway. You’re deep in the cockpit, helmet on, fingers wrapped tight around the wheel, focusing on your line—until your radio crackles.

“The car looks good through the turns,” your spotter calls. “Logan says you’re sliding a little outta four.”

You blink. “Logan’s watching now?”

“Watching and waving like a damn golden retriever.”

You can’t help the smile that curls your lips.

Back in the garage, you climb out of the car, sweat dripping down your neck as you pull off your balaclava. Logan’s already approaching, holding out a cold water bottle like he was born to do this.

He grins. “You were cooking through the backstretch. But you’re still overdriving into turn three.”

You narrow your eyes. “You really are watching.”

He shrugs. “Used to analyze telemetry between free practice and quali. Old habits.”

“You make a hot pit crew guy,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “You just wait till I get you out of that fire suit.”

You nearly choke on your water. One of your engineers coughs pointedly.

That Evening — Motorhome Quiet

The sun’s starting to set. Most of the crew’s gone off for dinner, and the paddock’s quieted down to a low buzz. You’re sitting on the couch in your RV, legs spread, shoes off, in a sweatshirt (Logan’s) and leggings. Logan’s sitting between your knees, back resting against your chest. His hair’s damp from a shower, and he’s in one of your oversized crew shirts, sleeves pushed up, ankles bare.

“I thought I’d feel… more useless,” he murmurs, voice soft.

You wrap your arms around him, palms flat over his stomach. “You were never just the driver. Not to me.”

He shifts slightly, leans his head back to rest on your shoulder. “You’re not just saying that because I brought you that granola bar during debrief?”

“Well,” you laugh, “it was a pretty good granola bar.”

You feel his breath catch in his throat before he says it. “I was scared to come.”

You squeeze him gently. “I know.”

“I didn’t know who I was without the car, the suit, the pressure. But being here…” He turns in your arms until he’s facing you, straddling your lap, forehead against yours. “It’s not loud in my head anymore. You quiet the voices.”

You simply lean and kiss him. Long and slow. Like you have all the time in the world.

Race Day — Hours Before the Green Flag

You’re pacing. Pre-race tension clings to your shoulders like static. Logan’s seated on a folding chair outside the hauler, tapping something into his phone before he looks up.

“C’mere.”

You stop.

“Babe,” he says, voice firm. “C’mere.”

You walk to him. He rises, hooks his fingers into the waistband of your suit.

“You’re going to do great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “You’ve got the best hands, the best instincts, and the biggest balls on the track.”

You snort. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Already has.” He winks. “Now go win something. I’ve got plans for what happens after.”

You don’t ask. But the heat in his eyes tells you exactly what kind of celebration he has in mind.

It’s chaos in the best way.

Three cautions, one near spin, and a fuel strategy gamble that’s either genius or reckless. Your hands are locked on the wheel, heart in your throat. Every vibration of the track hums through your bones like adrenaline on loop.

“Five to go,” your crew chief says through the radio. “You’re clear. Push now.”

You don’t answer, but you can feel the grin tug at your mouth beneath the helmet. You dig deep. Brake late. Cut sharp.

White flag.

One more lap.

You take the inside line, muscle the car just past the leader’s quarter panel and— Checkered flag.

You win.

You scream into your helmet as the radio crackles with shouts, your crew cheering like you just lit the world on fire. You circle once, the burnout messy and raw and perfect.

And then, in the pits—

Logan’s running.

He doesn’t wait for cameras or team protocol. The second you climb out of the car, he’s there, arms open, grabbing the collar of your suit and yanking you into him.

“You did it,” he says breathlessly, pulling your face to his. “You did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you murmur against his ear.

“You’d better not,” he teases, but there’s something wet in his eyes. Something big and full and proud.

Post-Race – Dusk at the Track

The sun’s dipping below the grandstands, streaking the sky with oranges and fading purples. The media frenzy is finally dying down, and most of the team has dispersed yet again—some off to dinner, some still buzzing around the hauler. You’re catching your breath behind a stack of equipment cases, guzzling a half-warm Gatorade, watching the crowd linger at the far edge of pit road.

That’s when you see him—Logan.

He’s alone for the first time all day, sunglasses hanging from his collar, hair a little wild from hours under a cap. He’s standing near the security fence, scrolling through his phone, probably catching up on texts and memes your spotter has no doubt sent him by now.

Then: “Excuse me?”

A small voice. Timid. Soft. Nervous.

You watch as Logan looks up.

A girl, maybe ten or eleven, stands on the other side of the barrier. She’s got braces, big brown eyes, and a shirt with his F1 number printed in blue. Her hat’s slightly too big, almost slipping down her forehead, but she clutches a mini diecast car to her chest like it’s sacred.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I don’t want to bother you—”

“You’re not,” Logan cuts in, crouching down to her level instantly. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Aubrey.”

He smiles, soft and real. “Hi, Aubrey.”

You stay quiet. Hidden. Watching.

She hesitates, looking down at her shoes. “I liked you… when you were still in Formula One. My brother said you were his favorite before—” She stops herself, like she’s unsure if it’s okay to bring it up.

Logan nods gently. “Before I got dropped?”

Aubrey nods, wide-eyed.

He lets out a breath, but there’s no bitterness in it. “Yeah. That was rough.”

“I thought you were still really good,” she says, small voice stronger now. “I didn’t understand why people were mean. I—I told my dad it wasn’t fair.”

You see his jaw twitch, just slightly, like he’s holding something in.

“I’m really glad you said that,” he tells her. “I didn’t always think I was good enough. Still don’t, some days. But hearing it from you? That means the world.”

Aubrey finally smiles. “I think it’s cool that you’re here now. NASCAR’s lucky.”

Logan laughs, genuinely. “You hear that?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing you’re nearby even if he can’t see you. “NASCAR’s lucky.”

You smile against the lip of your bottle, heart squeezing.

He twirls the cap in his fingers — the one he’s been wearing all day with your number stitched on the front, the sponsor logo slightly sun-faded, the brim worn in all the right ways from hours under sun and stress. The one he’s claimed like a quiet badge of pride: your cap, your team, your win.

Then he offers it out through the fence to her.

Aubrey stares, wide-eyed. “Is that… yours?”

Logan grins. “It was. But I think you should have it.”

She takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass. “Why me?”

“Because,” he says, his voice a little lower now, softer, more sincere, “you believed in me when I didn’t. That’s the kind of fan worth everything.”

She flushes pink and hugs the hat to her chest.

“But,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “you have to promise me one thing.”

She nods hard. “Anything.”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, toward your hauler — toward you.

“You cheer for her now. The driver who just won today?” His grin tugs wider. “That’s my girl. And she’s everything I ever wanted to be on a track.”

Aubrey’s eyes go huge. “She’s amazing.”

“She is,” Logan says, proud like it’s in his blood. “So keep rooting for her. And if anyone ever tells you girls can’t like racing—tell them they can come talk to me.”

She giggles, nodding furiously, and gives him a shy wave before her dad gently takes her hand and guides her away — leaving her clutching your cap like it’s the world’s most precious treasure. 

Logan stays where he is for a second, watching the little girl disappear into the thinning crowd, her new cap still clutched to her chest like it might float away if she lets go.

You cross the distance to him without a word. He doesn’t turn—just exhales like he knows it’s you. “She’s going to remember that forever,” you say softly.

He turns, slow, hands already finding your waist like muscle memory. “She reminded me of why this matters.”

You raise a brow, still catching your breath from the long, wild day. “Racing?”

“No,” he says, stepping in closer. “Being here. Being with you.”

It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that only comes after the roar, the kind that settles in your chest instead of your ears. Logan’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes—like he’s grounding himself in something that finally feels permanent.

You loop your arms around his neck, resting your forehead against his. “You didn’t have to give her that cap, you know.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Because it was never really mine. It was yours. And giving it away like that? That’s what pride looks like when it’s real.”

You swallow hard.

“She’s cheering for you now,” he adds. “Just like I am.”

There’s so much emotion humming under his voice—not sadness, not anymore. Just that quiet, steady type of love. The kind that builds over time and settles into your bones. You pull back just enough to kiss him—gentle, unhurried, full of everything that didn’t need to be said out loud. When you break apart, he still holds you close, one hand slipping into your back pocket like he can’t help himself. 

“You know what I think?” he asks, lips brushing your cheek.

“What?”

“That girl might be the only person here who had a better day than me.”

You chuckle. “Pretty sure I had the better one. I got the checkered flag and you.”

“Okay,” he admits, nudging his nose against yours. “We’ll call it a tie.”

The sun’s just about gone now. The track lights cast long shadows on the pavement as the two of you walk back toward the motorhomes, fingers intertwined.

Your crew chief whistles low when you pass. “Still glowing?”

You grin. “Is it that obvious?”

Logan smirks beside you. “Blame me.”

Your fueler mutters, “We do.”

You shake your head, but you don’t let go of him. Not tonight.

Not after a win, not after that moment, and definitely not when you’ve got something this good to hold onto.

As the two of you climb into the RV, Logan pauses in the doorway, looking back over the track one last time.

“She was brave,” he says quietly. “Coming up to me like that.”

“She wasn’t just brave,” you reply. “She was right.”

He turns to you, and whatever he's about to say vanishes into a soft, tired, completely in love smile.

You tug him inside by the front of his shirt. “Now c’mon, HAB. You owe me post-win kisses and a back rub.”

He laughs and lets you lead him in. “You drive like that every time, I’ll be rubbing your back ‘til retirement.”

You glance back at him, smug. “So... forever, basically?”

He leans down to kiss your temple, his voice dropping low. “Gladly.”

Outside, the world’s still moving — but here, the air’s quieter. Heavier.

You toe off your shoes, tossing your team shirt somewhere near the couch, and Logan… Logan just watches you. Like he’s still not used to you. Like you walked out of that firestorm of a race and now he’s the one who gets to follow you upstairs.

You raise a brow at him, playful. “What, never seen a winner undress before?”

He smiles slowly, stepping forward until his fingers graze your hips. “Not like this.”

You let him kiss you — and like everything else he’s done today, it starts gentle. Meaningful. But there’s tension simmering beneath his skin, and the second your hand tangles in his hair and you pull just a little, it snaps. He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sink into it with a soft gasp. He follows — all heat and breath and hands under fabric — until your shirt is gone and his hoodie’s somewhere on the floor.

“Still taste like Gatorade,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, your throat.

“You smell like the end of a perfect day,” you say, fingers slipping just under the hem of his sweats.

He huffs a laugh, but the sound breaks when you palm him— slow and steady, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“I was trying to be romantic,” he groans.

“You were,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Now you’re something else.”

He grins — lazy, crooked, yours — and then he’s stripping the rest of the way down, pressing you flat into the sheets as he settles between your legs.

“You know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” he asks, his voice low and rough and close to your ear. “All day, watching you light that track up like you owned it…”

You gasp as he sinks in slow, deep, the stretch familiar and perfect. His hands pin yours above your head, his forehead resting against yours as he starts to move — unhurried, intense, like the win doesn’t matter nearly as much as this does.

You’re not loud. Neither of you are — not at first.

But the way he says your name when you clench around him? Like a prayer?

It undoes you.

“Look at me,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “I wanna see you fall apart.”

You do — with a gasp, with a broken cry into his neck, with his body locked to yours like he never wants to let go.

He follows close behind, spilling into you with a quiet groan, hips stuttering, mouth pressed to your shoulder like he’s never been safer than right here.

You’re still wrapped around each other, sweat cooling between lazy kisses and the occasional exhausted laugh. One of his hands traces slow, thoughtless patterns on your arms, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

The silence is easy. Earned. The kind of quiet that settles in only when everything has been said — and everything else has been felt.

“You always this good after a win?” he murmurs, voice raw, playful, lips brushing your jaw.

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He hums, dipping his head to press a soft kiss over your sternum, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. “That a challenge, champ?”

“No,” you say, fingers sliding into his messy hair again. “That’s a promise.”

Logan looks up, and there’s something warm in his expression — deeper than lust, steadier than adrenaline. His hand flattens over your ribs, just above your heart, like he needs to feel it beating to believe you’re real.

“I’ve been in a thousand paddocks,” he says softly. “Stood on pit walls in Monaco, walked the grid in Abu Dhabi. But tonight, watching you cross that line?” His breath catches. “That was the proudest I’ve ever been of anyone.”

Your throat tightens. You thread your fingers through his, still resting over your chest, and pull his hand up to your lips. Kiss the inside of his wrist — slow, intentional.

“I won today,” you whisper. “But I swear, Logan… having you here? That felt like winning twice.”

He doesn’t speak — not right away.

He just kisses you again, slower this time. No rush. No fire.

He was back in Monaco for the time being.

The room was too quiet. 

Daniel sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the muted television. Sports commentary flickered across the screen, lips moving, ticker tape running with words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

"Ricciardo dropped.""What’s next for the Honey Badger?""End of an era?"

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. Again.

Third call from his manager. Six missed texts from PR. One DM from some brand that was already asking if he’d “pivot to content.”

He didn’t answer any of them.

He hadn’t even unpacked. The duffel bag sat untouched, right where he’d dropped it when he came in hours ago. His fireproofs were still stuffed inside, smelling faintly of fuel and disappointment.

When the knock came at the door, he didn’t move.

Then, her voice: “It’s me.”

Daniel stood slowly, hesitated, and cracked open the door.

She was leaning against the frame, dressed in jeans, a ball cap tugged low, arms crossed like she knew exactly how long it would take him to open up — figuratively and literally.

“You look like shit,” she said.

“I feel like a bigger pile of it.”

She stepped inside before he could argue.

She didn’t offer sympathy. That was one of the things he liked about her.

No ‘you’ll bounce back.’ No cliché advice. She just tossed a can of soda from the mini fridge into his hand and sat down on the floor like this was any other day.

“You want me to say they’re idiots?” she asked after a minute.

Daniel shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re idiots.”

He gave a quiet laugh — short, tired. “Cheers.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She cracked her own soda, leaned back on her palms, and looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking hard about nothing in particular.

She looked at him, eyes steady, voice softer than before. “You know,” she said slowly, “you could always come to NASCAR. As a driver... or as my HAB.”

Daniel blinked, confused.

“HAB — Husbands and Boyfriends, like WAGs but for us ladies,” she smiled faintly. “I want you there, Dan. Not just cheering from a thousand miles away. Not just on a screen. I’m tired of the distance.” She paused, searching his face. “I’m not asking for a promise. Just... think about it. Because I want to be with you. For real. Not half a world apart.”

Daniel snorted. “Yeah? Think I’d survive?”

She side-eyed him. “With the right coaching... maybe.”

His smile faded a little. “I’m not joking when I say I don’t know what comes next.”

“I know.” She shifted, sitting up straighter. Her voice was quieter now. “But losing everything doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself, Dan.”

He blinked, looked away. That landed closer to the chest than he’d expected.

“I don’t even know who I am without a Formula car,” he admitted. “It’s been my entire identity since I was a kid.”

“Well.” She stood. “Maybe it’s time you figure out who you are when no one’s watching.”

Weeks later and thousands of miles apart, Daniel sat alone on the sun-drenched porch of his childhood home in Australia. The scent of eucalyptus hung in the air, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. The house was alive with small, grounding sounds—his mother humming in the kitchen, the clatter of pots, and the joyful shouts of his niece and nephew racing through the yard. 

Later that afternoon, Daniel wandered around outside where the warm sun filtered through the gum trees, casting dappled shadows on the dusty ground. He watched his niece chase their dog, her laughter ringing clear and bright, a sound so simple yet profoundly grounding.

The tension that had knotted in his chest for months loosened, if only a little. Here, in this quiet place, there was no pressure to be “Ricciardo the racer.” Just Daniel—the uncle, the son, the guy who still loved the feel of dirt under his boots.

He found his old dirt bike tucked away in the shed and couldn’t resist. The engine sputtered to life, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel the thrill of speed without expectation. The wind whipped past, the world rushing by in a blur of green and brown.

At night, Daniel settled on the couch with his phone, catching live streams of her NASCAR races from across the globe. He watched as she navigated tight turns and fierce competition, her focus razor-sharp.

He sent a message: “You’re amazing out there.”

Her reply came later, a blurry selfie in fireproofs, her grin wide and wild: “Told you NASCAR’s sexy.”

He smiled softly, the first flicker of something new stirring inside him—a seed of hope and possibility. 

Days passed in a quiet rhythm. Mornings spent helping his mum in the kitchen, afternoons riding his bike and in the evening either FaceTiming her or watching her races.

Each time he watched, something inside shifted. The way she handled the car with fierce determination, the grit and grace in her moves—it wasn’t Formula 1, but it was racing, raw and real.

One night, after she’d won a particularly tough race, Daniel found himself texting her again.  That was incredible. You made it look effortless.

Her reply was quick and playful, but full of warmth.  Effortless? You’ve been watching too many highlight reels. But I’ll take the compliment.

He chuckled softly, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing: Maybe it’s time I find my own way back. Or a new way forward.

Days turned into weeks, and though the idea of returning to racing lingered quietly in the back of his mind, Daniel didn’t rush. He let himself breathe, let the distance from the spotlight soften the sharp edges of failure and doubt.

One afternoon, while scrolling through social media, he noticed a post from her dad—a legend in the NASCAR world—talking about next season and hinting at new opportunities for talented drivers.

A thought sparked. Maybe this was more than a joke, more than just a comforting word from her during a hard time. It might be hard, for so many reasons. But, maybe this could be real. Daniel’s heart beat faster. He stared out at the horizon, feeling for the first time in months that he wasn’t lost anymore.

He’d moved out to the backyard now, sitting on the edge of the porch, barefoot on dry grass, the sun dipping behind the trees. The air was still, warm, and quiet — the kind of quiet that made you listen to yourself.

His phone felt heavier than usual in his hand. The name on the screen wasn’t hers — it was her father’s. A name that carried weight in NASCAR. A name people still said with reverence.

He took a breath and hit the call button before he could second-guess it.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Then, the familiar voice picked up — rough and direct, like gravel under tires. “Didn’t expect a call from you, Ricciardo.”

Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, didn’t expect to be making it, if I’m honest.”

A pause. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, nothing’s wrong.” Another pause. “I’ve been watching her races. Every week.”

Her dad didn’t say anything, but Daniel imagined the way his brow would furrow, waiting.

“I don’t know exactly what I’m asking you,” Daniel admitted. “I just... I’ve been thinking. A lot. About what comes next. And it’s not Formula One. At least not anymore.”

“You think it’s NASCAR?” the older man asked, not judgmental, just plainspoken.

“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “But I know I’m not done racing.”

That earned a beat of silence.

“You’re not the first F1 guy to flirt with stock cars. Most of ‘em don’t last long. They come in expecting one thing, and don't respect what it actually is.”

“I’m not asking for a free pass,” Daniel said. “I’m asking to learn. If you think there’s space for that.”

A long exhale came through the speaker. Then: “There’s always space for someone who wants to earn it.”

Daniel felt something settle in his chest.

“I’ll be back stateside soon,” he said.

A Few Weeks Later – 

The track buzzed with the usual electricity—crew radios crackling, tires screeching in practice laps, the tang of fuel hanging in the air.

She was mid-conversation with her race engineer, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes scanning the data screen beside the pit wall. Focused. In her element.

She didn’t notice him at first.

Daniel stood just outside the paddock ropes, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, sunglasses hiding the nerves in his eyes. He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t warned her. He didn’t want this to be about grand gestures or media fodder. 

Someone nudged her shoulder and pointed, and when she turned and followed the gesture, her eyes landed on him.

For a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then: “What are you doing here?” she asked, cautious but not cold.

Daniel shrugged, that familiar lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

She blinked. “You flew all the way here… to watch qualifying?”

His voice was quieter this time. Steadier. “No. I flew all the way here because I think I’m ready.”

A pause passed between them—engines whirring in the distance, voices shouting over radios, the chaos of the paddock carrying on like the world didn’t just shift slightly under their feet.

“You sure?” she asked, searching his face.

He nodded once. “Not entirely. But I don’t think I need to be. Not yet.”

A flicker of a smile touched her lips. “So what now?”

Daniel glanced around the paddock, then back to her. “Now I watch the racing. And maybe… maybe I figure out how to be part of it.”

She stepped toward him, close enough that her voice didn’t need to rise above the noise. “You’re not just here to be my HAB, are you?”

He grinned. “Depends. Are there jackets? Or stickers?”

She rolled her eyes. “Idiot.” But her voice was soft, and she didn’t look away.

They stood there, the distance finally closed, not with declarations or promises—but something steadier. Realer.

After the race, she was still wired — a top-5 finish and elbows-out driving had kept her adrenaline running high. Daniel was waiting by the hauler.

He didn’t start with a joke. Instead: “Tell me how the strategy works. Like, really works.”

She blinked. “Do you want the short version or the full rookie crash course?”

“I want to know what I’m walking into. If I walk into it.”

She studied him for a beat, then leaned against the hauler beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

“It’s not just turning left,” she said, voice low. “It’s managing tire wear and air pressure and fuel windows while you’re packed into a 38-car freight train doing 200, inches apart. It’s people bumping you at 180, drafting you to slingshot, brake-checking just to get in your head.”

She paused.

“It’s a war zone in there. Controlled chaos. And nobody gives you space just because you’ve got a name.”

Daniel swallowed, eyes still fixed ahead. “That’s why I want to do it right.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“You mean that?” she asked, not teasing, not challenging. Just checking.

Daniel nodded, slowly. “I don’t want a shortcut. Not a PR stunt, not some puff piece about redemption. If I do this… I want it to mean something.”

A beat passed. Then she exhaled, some of the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Then you need to unlearn a lot,” she said gently. “This isn’t about downforce and DRS zones. It’s about survival. Rhythm. Feeling the car shift under you lap after lap, conserving your tires while trying not to get eaten alive.”

Daniel cracked the faintest smile. “So… not unlike being a midfield F1 driver.”

That made her laugh, short and real. “Fair enough.”

He turned to her then, leaning against the hauler fully, watching her as she unwound the tape from her fingers.

“You ever scared in there?” he asked, quietly.

She glanced at him, surprised by the question. “Not scared. Just… sharp. You don’t get to lose focus. Not for a second.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense.

“I’ve got a lot to learn,” he said after a moment.

“You’re not the first to cross over,” she offered. “But if you do, don’t come in thinking your name earns you anything. Some of these guys have been here since they were teenagers. They don’t care who you were in Monaco.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m not trying to be who I was in Monaco.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing with something like quiet respect. “Then you might have a shot.”

They arrived at the Charlotte test track just after sunrise a few days later.

The air was still, the sky streaked in soft oranges and blues. The only sounds were the hiss of tires being unloaded and the low murmur of the crew prepping the garage.

Daniel stood beside her truck, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes on the asphalt like it might whisper answers. “You don’t need to be perfect today,” she said gently. “You just need to listen. And try.”

He gave a short nod. “You’re not staying?”

She shook her head. “You’ve got this. And if I stand in that garage, you’ll look for me every time you screw up. You don’t need comfort right now. You need clarity.”

He swallowed, understanding more than he wanted to admit.

She stepped close, her hand brushing his cheek, thumb resting just below his eye. “I’m proud of you. For showing up.”

He leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“Wish I had your guts,” he muttered.

“You’ve got your own,” she whispered, then rose onto her toes and kissed him — slow, grounding. Not a goodbye, but a promise: you’re not alone, even when I’m not there.

When she pulled away, she gave him a look that made his chest ache.

“I’ll call you tonight,” she said. “Don’t crash the car.”

And with that, she left — leaving Daniel in the growing hum of a new world that didn’t care who he used to be.

The stock car felt wrong the second he slid in. Too hot. Too wide. The seat was molded, but not to him. His helmet bumped the side of the roll cage as he adjusted.

“Radio check?” the crew chief asked in his ear.

Daniel’s voice crackled back. “Copy.”

He rolled out onto pit lane slowly, the sun glinting off the windshield. No crowd. No lights. Just the track. The car groaned under him like it had something to prove.

The first lap was a mess. He fought the wheel. Took corners too tight, then too wide. Braking points were a guess. The car didn’t glide — it lunged.

Second lap: he stalled coming into the pit entry.

Third: his spotter’s voice buzzed in, dry and unimpressed.

“She said you were stubborn. Didn’t say you were suicidal.”

Daniel grit his teeth, hands gripping the wheel tighter. He wanted to quit — just for a second.

But he didn’t.

Lap after lap, he stayed in it. Sweat pooling at the base of his neck. Arms burning. Hands raw. It was more physical than anything he’d driven in years.

It was brutal.

And something about that felt honest.

When he pulled into pit lane at the end of the session, he barely managed to kill the engine with a steady hand. The world was still spinning a little as he climbed out, helmet in hand, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

No one clapped.

No congratulations.

But someone handed him a cold bottle of water, and the crew chief gave him a look that wasn’t approval — not yet — but wasn’t dismissal either.

It was a beginning.

He sat on the bumper of the car, drained, quietly smiling to himself.

His phone buzzed.

[1 New Message] Her: “You still alive?”

He took a photo of his sweat-drenched fireproofs and blistered palms. Typed back:

Daniel: “Barely. But I want more.”

The room was dim, just a sliver of morning light slipping between the blackout curtains.

Daniel lay stretched across the bed, one arm slung over his eyes, the other curled loosely around her waist. Her back was warm against his chest, breaths slow and steady in the quiet. His body ached — his thighs, his shoulders, his wrists — all reminders of yesterday’s fight with a machine that didn’t forgive the way an F1 car did. But it was the good kind of pain. Earned. Something real.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Then again.

And again.

He groaned softly, shifting to reach for it, trying not to wake her. But she stirred anyway, one hand brushing over his stomach, half-asleep.

“Mmm. What time is it?” she mumbled.

“Too early,” he muttered. But his screen was already lit up.

14 texts. 6 missed calls. All names that had gone quiet for months — now suddenly loud again.

He opened the first message.

From his agent: “You seen this yet? Might want to get ahead of it.”

His stomach sank.

Daniel tapped over to Twitter.

The photo hit him like cold water. A candid, blurry shot — him at the Charlotte test, helmet under one arm, fireproofs clinging to sweat, face mid-sentence. Caught off guard. Not smiling. Not polished.

Just… real.

“Daniel Ricciardo Testing NASCAR in Charlotte – Comeback or Crisis?” “Is F1’s Smiling Star Out of Tricks?”

He scrolled. The comments flooded in.

Some were kind — hopeful.

“If this is real, I’m in.”“Let him race. Let him be happy.”“Dan in NASCAR?? This is what the sport needs.”

But others cut sharp.

“Mid in F1, gonna be mid here too.”“Retire gracefully, man.”“F1 reject tries his luck in hillbilly bumper cars.”

He dropped the phone to the sheets with a soft exhale, staring at the ceiling. His jaw clenched, pulse loud in his ears.

The thing about rebuilding. You didn’t get to do it quietly.

You did it under rubble, with the world standing by, waiting to see if you’d sink deeper or crawl out.

She rolled over then, eyes still heavy with sleep, but she must’ve felt it — the shift in the air. In him.

“What is it?” she asked softly, already reaching for the phone.

He didn’t stop her.

She scanned the screen. Read the headline. The comments. Her expression didn’t change — no wide-eyed shock, no pity — just a slow, quiet understanding.

“Damn,” she muttered. Then looked at him. “You okay?”

Daniel let out a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “Didn’t expect it to go public yet. I thought I’d have time.”

“To what?”

“To be better. To be ready before they started tearing it apart.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, voice calm. “They were always going to talk. The second you climbed back into a car, you gave them permission to watch.”

He didn’t argue.

“But here’s what matters,” she continued, her voice steady but fierce. “They don’t get to define you. Not anymore.”

He turned his head toward her. Their eyes met in the half-light.

“They don’t know what it took to get you here,” she said. “But I do.”

She smiled — soft, private. The kind meant only for him. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, right over the bruise forming from harness straps.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now let’s go piss off a few more headlines.”

Three days later, Daniel stood on the edge of pit lane at a short track, fireproofs zipped to his throat, helmet in hand. Qualified and ready to run as an open car in his first race. 

He wasn’t a mystery anymore.

He wasn’t a rumor.

He was on the grid.

The media had shown up early, vultures circling. Fans leaned over barricades, cell phones raised. Some were cheering. Some were just watching, waiting to see if he’d fail.

But Daniel’s eyes weren’t on them.

They were on her — already suited up, already in the zone. She passed him a small nod from across the paddock, just enough to ground him.

Then someone handed him his gloves.

Inside one of them, folded small, was a note.

You earned this. Now go remind them why they ever knew your name.

He smiled, slipped on the gloves, and walked toward the car.

The green flag wasn’t far now.

The heat rising off the track was sticky and metallic, thick with oil and anticipation. Daniel’s nerves were buzzing, the kind of crackling static that used to come before lights out on an F1 grid. But this wasn’t Europe. This wasn’t Formula 1.

The cars were heavier. The crowd was louder. The air… different.

He was walking toward his car when a voice broke through the low hum of pre-race focus.

“I thought this series had a rookie program,” someone drawled behind him.

Daniel turned — and immediately clocked him. Mitchell Brady. Your rival. All cocky swagger and sharp smiles. His fireproofs were half-zipped, hanging around his hips like he wanted the cameras to catch the name on his belt.

“Didn’t think we were taking in strays from other continents,” the man added, nodding toward Daniel’s stock car. “Guess it’s charity season.”

Daniel offered a flat smile. “I appreciate the warm welcome.”

Brady grinned, teeth sharp. “Just saying — some of us fought like hell to get here. Don’t think your little F1 sob story’s gonna earn you space on track. Out here? You want room, you gotta take it.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good to know.”

Brady clapped him on the shoulder — too hard— before strutting away toward his own pit. Daniel exhaled through his nose and turned back toward the car.

No cameras. No polished PR team. No grid interviews or skybox execs. Just rubber on asphalt, an unfamiliar cockpit, and a field of drivers who didn’t care who he used to be.

He climbed into the car and pulled the seven belts across his body and chest, every movement practiced now, but not yet second nature. The cockpit was cramped, sweltering, already radiating heat like a furnace.

The radio crackled. His crew chief's voice came through, low and calm. “We’re set, Ricciardo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Then came the most famous words in stock car racing; “Drivers, Start Your Engines!”

The engine fired up beneath him, loud and angry.

He adjusted his gloves. Tapped the wheel with his thumbs. Checked his mirrors.

The field began to roll.

Pace laps.

The rhythm of it was slower, but the tension wasn’t. Around him, cars weaved, tires scrubbed, spotters barked into radios. He could feel the eyes on him — not just from the stands, but from inside the cars too. They were watching. Waiting to see if the Formula 1 guy would fold.

Lap 1 — Baptism

The flag dropped.

And the field detonated.

Engines screamed. Tires bit. The pack surged forward in a thunderous wall of motion, all muscle and heat and fury. Daniel held his line, jaw tight, steering steady.

Turn one came fast — not the precision of Silverstone or the sweep of Suzuka. It was a dive. An elbow-out brawl.

He was boxed in.

Pinned low.

Two cars jostled ahead of him. One twitched, recovered. Another squeezed through a gap that barely existed.

Daniel lifted just enough to avoid disaster — instincts sharp, but not yet trained for this specific chaos.

He was holding on.

Barely.

Mid-Race — Fire

It wasn’t just physical. It was psychological.

No telemetry feedback in real-time. No tire blankets. No endless optimization from the pit wall. Just feel. Just grit.

He could hear her voice from weeks ago — “It’s a war zone in there.”

She hadn’t been lying.

A car clipped his rear quarter — subtle, but intentional. He caught it, and corrected it. Another tried to dive low, but Daniel boxed him out, forcing him back in line.

He wasn’t faster.

But he wasn’t easy to move either.

Lap after lap, the car started to come to him. The weight. The brake points. The way it wanted to slide before it gripped — a beast he could feel learning him as much as he was learning it.

Final 10 — Something to Prove

He was running 18th when his spotter’s voice cut through:

“12 car just blew a tire. Bottom’s open. Go now.”

Daniel didn’t think. He moved — darted low, split the gap, caught the draft of two squabbling cars ahead and slingshotted himself forward a few places. Three corners later, a bump from behind reminded him he’d pissed someone off. It didn't matter.

With four to go, he found himself behind Brady, P15 and cocky as ever.

Daniel didn’t wait.

He took the outside. Risky. Dirty air and all. But the F1 in him knew how to manage tires. He let the corner float wider, stayed steady on the throttle, and made it stick.

Brady looked over as Daniel pulled alongside, surprised. Then grim.

They rubbed once — hard enough to rattle Daniel’s teeth.

But he didn’t lift.

Didn’t blink.

And by the time the white flag waved, he was past.

Checkered

He crossed the line in 14th. 

No podium. No fireworks.

But when he pulled into the pit lane and killed the engine, his hands were shaking. Not from fear.

From adrenaline.

From clarity.

He climbed out slowly. Pulled off the helmet. The roar of the crowd wasn’t deafening, but it wasn’t indifferent either.

Scattered cheers. Curious eyes. And the murmur of something shifting.

Someone handed him a bottle of water. Another clapped him on the back. 

Across the pit lane, he caught sight of the board. She was P5 — and likely cooling down in the garage, probably replaying every corner like she always did. And Daniel? He couldn’t stop grinning.

It wasn’t a podium. But it was a foothold.

Later, the noise faded. Pit road had started to empty, team radios dropping off one by one. Engines cooled. Tools clicked back into their boxes. The sun dipped behind the grandstands, the sky bleeding into dusk.

Daniel stood in the quiet, fireproofs unzipped to the waist, undershirt clinging to sweat and exhaustion. The ache in his body was sharp and earned — wrists tight, shoulders sore, thighs on fire. But he was standing. He’d finished. 

And he hadn’t embarrassed himself.

Behind him, a few reporters lingered, cameras slung low, hovering like they were waiting to pounce.

“Ricciardo Holds His Own in Stock Debut.”“Not Just a Tourist.”“Still Got Fight in Him.”

He didn’t give them a soundbite. Not tonight.

Instead, he ducked behind the haulers — away from the murmurs and mics — and found you already there, leaning against the trailer wall. Fireproofs tied low around your waist. A tray of greasy fries balanced in your lap like this was any other Saturday night.

You looked up, gave him a once-over, then smirked. “You’re walking. Good sign.”

Daniel exhaled, half-laughing. “Walking. Breathing. Still got all my limbs.”

“You finished ahead of six full-timers. And him.” You nodded toward the shadows where Brady had stormed off, helmet tucked under one arm, jaw locked.

“Barely,” Daniel muttered as he sank down beside you.

“You still did it.”

They sat there in comfortable silence as the track shut down around them. Crew members joked nearby. Someone revved an engine one last time. The last echoes of the race gave way to the hush of night. Daniel reached over and stole a fry, chewing slowly. “You could’ve told me my kidneys would rearrange themselves on lap twenty.”

You shrugged, teasing. “You needed the full experience.”

He leaned back on his palms, eyes tracing the soft glow of the overhead lights. Then he said it — not loud, not dramatic — just honest.

“When I lost F1, I thought I lost everything.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“But this?” His voice was quieter now. “This feels more like me than anything has in years.”

Her hand found his without thinking, fingers brushing, then locking in place.

“I told you NASCAR’s sexy.”

He turned, tired eyes shining. “Not as sexy as the girl who brought me here.”