The only light came from the star-shaped nightlight plugged into the corner, casting a soft, golden glow over the rocking chair. You were there, curled up with your legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against the high back of the chair. In your arms, your daughter was fast asleep, a tiny fist clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Ollie stopped in the doorway. He felt the air leave his lungs.

It happened every time. He’d come home thinking he was prepared for how much he loved you, thinking he knew the extent of it, only to be knocked sideways by the sheer, crushing weight of it. seeing you like this—hair messy, face devoid of makeup, holding the life you two created—it felt like a physical blow.

He crossed the room silently, dropping to his knees beside the chair.

You stirred, blinking open tired eyes. A soft smile broke across your face when you saw him. "You're home," you whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

"I'm home," Ollie breathed. He didn't lean in for a kiss immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the sweep of your eyelashes, the slight pulse in your neck. It was intense, bordering on feverish.

"Ollie?" You shifted slightly, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You okay? You look... intense."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. He turned his face, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm, then your wrist.

"I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Not just 'I wish you were there' missed you. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe right until I walked through that door."

"You were only gone four days, you drama queen," you teased gently, though your thumb stroked his cheekbone lovingly.

Ollie opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, and terrifyingly sincere. He shifted, resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you like a devotee at an altar.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Do you know what I was doing during debriefs? Thinking about this. Thinking about you holding her. Thinking about the way you smell."

He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your skin, needing the contact to ground him.

"It’s actually a problem, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. "I am so obsessed with you it scares me. I look at you and I feel... greedy. I want every second of your time. I want every thought in your head."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, despite the years you’d been together. "Ollie..."

"No, I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning forward to press his forehead against your thigh, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor himself to you. "You’re a masterpiece. Look at you. You’re exhausted, you haven't slept properly in weeks because of the baby, and you are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."

He looked up again, his expression vulnerable.

"I would burn the world down just to keep you sitting in this chair, looking at me like that."

You softened, your heart squeezing in your chest. You leaned down as much as you could without disturbing the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, luckily for the world, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

Ollie let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as he buried his face against your stomach, right beside where the baby lay.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and devotion. "Because I'm never letting go."

When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.

Panic, the constant companion of a young mother, spiked in your chest. You sat up abruptly, hair falling over your face, expecting to hear a cry or the hum of the baby monitor. But there was nothing.

Then, the smell of coffee and burnt toast drifted down the hallway.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, following the scent. The morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, blindingly bright, illuminating the scene in front of you.

Ollie was standing by the stove, shirtless, wearing only his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. In one arm, he balanced your daughter, who was happily chewing on the drawstring of his pants. With his free hand, he was attempting to flip a pancake.

He looked chaotic. There was flour on the counter and a carton of milk dangerously close to the edge. But he was humming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to burn the house down, Ollie."

Ollie spun around so fast he almost dropped the spatula. The moment his eyes landed on you, that same intensity from the night before snapped back into place. The spatula was forgotten on the counter (dripping batter onto the marble) as he just stared.

"Hi," he said, his voice raspy with morning grogginess.

"Hi," you replied, walking over to rescue the milk carton. "How long have you been up?"

"Couple of hours," he shrugged, shifting the baby so she was resting more comfortably on his hip. She made a happy gurgling sound at the sight of you. "She woke up around six. I didn't want to wake you."

You reached out to take the baby, but Ollie stepped back slightly, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I've got her. You drink coffee. You sit."

"Ollie, I can hold my own child—"

"Y/N," he cut in, stepping into your personal space. He used his free hand to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "I’m serious. Sit down. Let me do this."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He was warm, smelling of baby powder and strong espresso.

"I watched you sleep for a while before I brought her out here," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving against your pulse point. "You were drooling a little bit."

You laughed, trying to push him away, but his grip on your waist tightened. "Shut up. That ruins the romance."

"It really doesn't," Ollie pulled back to look at you, his eyes scanning your face with that terrifyingly soft adoration. "It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost woke you up just to tell you how pretty you looked, but I figured you’d kill me."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally a quick, hard peck on your lips.

"Go sit," he commanded gently, guiding you toward a barstool. "I’m making you pancakes. They might be burnt, and they definitely won't be round, but I made them."

You sat down, watching him turn back to the stove. He was humming again, occasionally whispering nonsense to the baby on his hip, who was watching him with wide eyes.

"You're obsessed," you said, resting your chin on your hand, your heart feeling full to the point of bursting.

Ollie glanced over his shoulder, a lopsided, boyish grin on his face. "We established this last night, darling. I'm completely gone for you. Now, do you want syrup or fruit?"

"Both," you smiled.

"Both it is," he said, turning back to the pan, whispering to the baby, "See? Mommy gets whatever she wants. That's the rule."

The end-of-season party was in full swing. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was light. But in the corner booth of the VIP area, a different kind of show was happening.

Kimi Antonelli leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and sighed loudly. He looked across the table at Arthur Leclerc, who was currently trying to ignore the situation.

"Is he blinking?" Kimi asked, nodding his head toward Ollie. "I genuinely don't think he's blinked in three minutes."

Ollie was sitting next to Y/N. He had one arm draped protectively over the back of the booth behind her, and his body was angled entirely in her direction, effectively turning his back on half the group.

Y/N was in the middle of telling a story about the baby’s first attempt at crawling. She was animated, using her hands to demonstrate, laughing at her own bad parenting moment.

Ollie wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the sound of her voice. He was staring at her profile with a look of such profound, dopey adoration that it was almost painful to witness.

Every time Y/N laughed, a soft, matching smile would spread across Ollie’s face, like a reflex. He reached out, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve, then drifting up to brush a stray eyelash off her cheek.

"It's disgusting," Arthur whispered, though he was smiling into his glass. "He used to be cool. He used to want to talk about racing."

"Now he just wants to talk about how 'Y/N is a goddess for birthing his child,'" Kimi mimicked Ollie’s British accent poorly. "If I hear him say 'Did you see how she holds the bottle?' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the pool."

At that moment, Y/N shivered slightly, the air conditioning in the venue a bit too high.

Before she could even rub her arms, Ollie was moving. He was out of his jacket in a split second, draping it over her shoulders and tucking the lapels in to ensure she was covered. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her flush pink and swat his chest playfully.

Ollie caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, completely unbothered by the audience.

"Oi! Bearman!" Kimi finally snapped, tossing a peanut at him.

Ollie didn't even flinch. He just lazily turned his head toward his friends, keeping one hand firmly planted on Y/N's waist. "What?"

"You're drooling," Kimi deadpanned. "Dial it back, mate. We get it. She's the love of your life. You're obsessed. We are trying to have a conversation here."

Ollie looked at Kimi, then looked back at Y/N, who was now hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed but laughing.

Ollie smirked, completely shameless. "I haven't seen her in four days, Kimi. You're lucky I'm even acknowledging your existence right now."

"You're whipped," Arthur shook his head. "So whipped."

Ollie just shrugged, leaning back and pulling Y/N into his side, resting his chin on top of her head. He looked at his friends with a smug, satisfied expression.

"I have a beautiful girlfriend," Ollie stated matter-of-factly. "We have a beautiful baby. And I’m the one going home with her. Call me whipped all you want. I’m winning."

Y/N groaned into his chest. "Ollie, stop bragging."

"Never," he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent again. "They're just jealous."

Kimi rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to get another drink. I can't be around this much sugar."

As Kimi walked away, he heard Ollie whisper loudly to Y/N: "Do you want anything? Water? Champagne? My kidney?"

The red digits on the clock read 3:14 AM. The nursery felt like a pressure cooker.

Your daughter had been screaming for two hours straight—a high-pitched, sawing wail that grated against your very soul. Teething. It was brutal. You were pacing the floor, bouncing her rhythmically, tears of sheer exhaustion streaming down your own face. Your back ached, your arms were shaking, and you felt like the worst mother on the planet because you couldn't fix it.

"Shh, baby, please," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please just sleep."

The door creaked open. You expected a sleepy, grumpy Ollie. Instead, you found him fully awake, eyes clear and focused in the dim light.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just walked straight to you.

"Give her to me," he said. His voice was low, calm, and brokered no argument.

"Ollie, you have training tomorrow, go back to sleep—"

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, his hands gently covering yours where they clutched the baby. His thumbs stroked over your knuckles. "Look at me."

You looked up, blinking through tears.

"You're done," he said softly. "Your shift is over. Give me my girl."

He took the screaming baby from your arms with a practiced ease that still surprised you sometimes. He shifted her high onto his shoulder, immediately starting a deep, rumbling hum in his chest that you knew she found soothing. He began a specific, swaying walk around the room.

"Go to bed," he instructed over his shoulder.

You hesitated, hovering by the crib. "But she's—"

Ollie stopped swaying and turned to look at you. His expression was fierce, but not angry. It was that intense, singular focus again.

"I cannot handle seeing you in pain," he said, his voice rough. "It hurts me more than her crying does. If you don't go get in that bed right now and let me take care of our family, I'm going to lose my mind. Go."

The sheer force of his care for you was overwhelming. You nodded mutely and slipped out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, you were drifting off when the bedroom door opened softly. Ollie padded in. It was silent outside.

He climbed into bed behind you, smelling of baby lotion and relief. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm clamping around your waist like a vise. You felt him bury his face in your neck, inhaling sharply.

"Is she asleep?" you whispered.

"Out cold," he mumbled against your skin. "Took some convincing." He kissed your shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully. "God, I love you. You're such a good mom. I'm so obsessed with you it makes my teeth ache. Now sleep."

It was a black-tie gala for one of the sponsors. Ollie had stepped away for two minutes to grab you both refills on champagne.

You were standing near a high-top table, idly watching the crowd, looking stunning in an emerald green gown that Ollie had spent the better part of the evening staring at.

"Excuse me," a voice said to your left.

You turned to find a man in an expensive suit—someone you didn't recognize, perhaps an investor—smiling smoothly at you.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, stepping a little too close into your personal space, his eyes raking over your dress. "But you look incredibly bored. And far too beautiful to be standing here alone."

You gave a polite, tight smile. "I'm not alone, actually. My partner is just getting drinks."

The man laughed, a dismissive sound. "Well, he's a fool for leaving you unguarded. I'm Marcus. Can I get you—"

He started to reach out to touch your arm.

He never made contact.

Suddenly, the air pressure around you changed. A warm, solid weight slammed against your back. An arm, heavy and unyielding, wrapped around your waist, pulling you back so hard your spine collided with a rock-hard chest.

The smell of Ollie’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive—flooded your senses.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ollie's voice was unrecognizable. It was several octaves lower than usual, stripped of all warmth, all humor. It was ice cold and razor-sharp.

The man, Marcus, blinked, looking up at Ollie, who was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as murderous. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and flat.

"Oh, uh, no," Marcus stammered, taking a reflexive step back. "I was just... making conversation with the lady."

Ollie didn't blink. The arm around your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress. It wasn't painful, but it was a clear, primal marking of territory.

"She's not interested in conversation," Ollie said, his voice deadly quiet. "And she's not 'the lady.' She's my wife. Move along."

It wasn't a request.

Marcus turned pale, mumbled an apology, and practically ran into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, the tension didn't leave Ollie’s body, but his focus shifted entirely to you. He turned you in his arms, his hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head back.

The icy look vanished, replaced by frantic, searching concern. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly now. "Did he touch you? Tell me if he touched you, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Ollie," you soothed, placing your hands over his on your face. "He was just annoying. You scared him off."

"Good," Ollie breathed, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His heart was hammering against your chest. "I hated the way he was looking at you. I wanted to rip his eyes out."

He kissed you then—hard, possessive, and desperate, right in the middle of the gala floor, not caring who was watching. When he pulled back, he kept you locked against his side.

"We're leaving," he muttered into your hair. "I need to get you home and remind myself that you're mine."

The noise at Monza was deafening, the Tifosi screaming as the cars tore down the main straight. But inside the hospitality suite, it was relatively muffled.

Ollie stood by the glass, arms crossed, watching the monitors with a critical eye. He had a few silver hairs mixed into the dark curls at his temples now, and fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes—evidence of a life spent squinting at the sun and smiling at you.

On the screen, a car emblazoned with the number 87 overtook down the inside of Parabolica.

"Did you see that move?" Kimi (now sporting reading glasses that he refused to admit he needed) pointed at the screen. "That was late on the brakes. She drives exactly like you, Ollie. Aggressive. Little bit stupid."

"She drives better than me," Ollie corrected without turning around. "She has her mother's patience."

"She’s leading the championship," Arthur added, shaking his head. "God help us all. Another Bearman."

You walked into the suite then, carrying two espressos. You were wearing a team jacket over a simple white dress, your hair windblown from the walk through the paddock.

The moment you stepped into the room, Ollie’s posture changed. The tension in his shoulders from watching your daughter race evaporated. He turned away from the track—away from the race his eighteen-year-old was currently leading—and walked straight to you.

"Hi," he said, taking the coffee from your hand and setting it down on a table without looking at it.

"Hi," you smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. "She's doing well. Five laps to go."

"I don't care," Ollie murmured. He stepped into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in until there was no daylight between you.

"Ollie," you laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Kimi and Arthur, who were both groaning theatrically. "Your daughter is about to win Monza. Watch the screen."

"I've seen Monza," Ollie said dismissively, his eyes scanning your face with that same hungry, reverent intensity he’d had at twenty-one. "I’d rather watch you."

"Please," Kimi called out from the couch. "We are forty years old. Are you still doing this? It’s been twenty years, mate. Give it a rest."

Ollie didn't even look at them. He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"They don't get it," he whispered to you, his voice lower, rougher with age but just as devoted. "They don't understand that it never stops. It just gets worse."

You softened, leaning into his touch, the roar of the cars outside fading into the background. "It gets worse?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes dark and sincere. "I used to be obsessed with the girl who held my baby. Now I'm obsessed with the woman who raised her. I look at you, Y/N, and I think... how did I get away with this? How did I get to keep you for two decades?"

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I am still so head over heels for you, it’s embarrassing."

"It is embarrassing," Arthur shouted. "We are all embarrassed for you!"

You giggled, and Ollie smiled—that boyish, lopsided grin that hadn't aged a day. He kissed you, slow and deep, ignoring the race, ignoring his friends, ignoring the world.

"Let them talk," he murmured against your lips. "I won the championship a long time ago."On the screen behind him, the car with number 87 crossed the finish line in first place, the garage erupted in cheers, but Ollie Bearman was too busy looking at his wife to notice.

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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alexandrasaintmleux love you bby

ynleclerc mwahh

scuderiaferrari our favourite couple and third wheel

yourbff miss u queen

ynleclerc ughh missu too love

user1 aww alex and charles are so cute

user2 she’s only famous bc of her brothers 😂

olliebearman you look cold

ynleclerc come warm me up then ?

olliebearman whatever you want beautiful

charles_leclerc ?

user3 OLLIE’S COMMENT HELLO????!!

user4 and charles’ response LMAO

user5 need… ynollie… now…

olliebearman

Liked by charles_leclerc, ynleclerc, oscarpiastri, kimi.antonelli and others

view all comments

ynleclerc my fyp when im hungry.. 🫦

olliebearman 👀

charles_leclerc I am talking your phone.

kimi.antonelli 🔥🔥🔥

user6 YNOLLIE!!!!!!

charles_leclerc what the hell is that.

user6 IM GONNA DIE

user7 this y/n girl needs to back off she’s so weird

user8 he won’t notice you don’t worry

user9 can y/n fight

user10 they’re not together lmao they’re just joking around… they’ve been like this forever

olliebearman posted a story !

replies

user11 noooooooo ynollie is over 💔💔

kimi.antonelli is that who i think it is 😏

olliebearman maybe…

charles_leclerc Good. Now you’ll stop being gross with my sister

user12 that should be me holding your hand… that should be me making you laugh

ynleclerc

Liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, alexandrasaintmleux and others

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alexandrasaintmleux cute 🩷🤍

ynleclerc je t’ adore

yourbff GIRL

user13 SOFT LAUNCHHHH

user14 ynollie nation… i fear we are screwed

user15 it’s THEIR lives you dont know these people

user16 it’s official.. no more ynollie

charles_leclerc WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN

charles_leclerc i guess im glad it’s not ollie since you are both taken now

charles_leclerc wait a damn minute…

olliebearman

Tagged: ynleclerc

Liked by ynleclerc, kimi.antonelli, babickovaeli, estebanocon and others

olliebearman well well… i am going to be murdered by my PR team and her brothers #worthit #amanwhoyearnsisamanwhoearns

view all comments

ynlecerc ewwwwwwww you’re so cheesy

ollliebearman you love it

ynleclerc i do 😕

arthur_leclerc how do i dislike a post

kimi.antonelli FINALLYYY

charles_leclerc …

charles_leclerc count your days bearman.

user17 oh we are SO back

haasf1team We’re gonna let it slide

user18 i used to be a hater but 🥹

user19 YNOLLIE IS REAL

alexandrasaintmleux my favourites 💕💕

charles_leclerc YOU KNEW!??

ynleclerc 😘

user20 just a reminder HE posted this 🤭

bearmansradio

Liked by haasf1team, kimi.antonelli, yourusername, and 3,727,364 others

bearmansradio Ollie’s radio during the GP today, the first time he mentioned girlfriend Y/N after the couple made their relationship public a month ago. ❤️

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username ok but like going by the reaction probably not the first time he chewed ronan’s ear off about it 😂

username fr the way ronan kindly!!! asked him if he could manage to shut up about her for 20 laps

username and he’s such a simp he can’t do such thing lmaooo

username OLLIE HAS A GIRLFRIEND NOW WHAT

username Uhm not “now”, they’ve been together for like 2 years, it’s just that no one knew

username alexa play that should be me by justin bieber

username ^ real

olliebearman I tried 😔

yourusername And we’re very proud of you for that 🫶🏻

bearmansradio

Liked by haasf1team, charles_leclerc, and 4,829,774 others

bearmansradio Ollie finishes the Monza GP in P3, receiving his first ever trophy on the podium and… a pizza? 🍕🏁

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username Lmaooo the fact he didn’t want to be better for the sake of being better BUT to get a fucking pizza

username god my love for this man is unhealthy

username same 💔 Y/N is a lucky woman

olliebearman A pizza margarita, please! @/yourusername

yourusername Yk what I’m not complaining, you deserve it ❤️

username Went from private relationship to virtually making out in a public comment section real quick

username lmaoo i’m weak

bearmansradio

Liked by olliebearman, yourusername, scuderiaferrari, and 4,949,221 others

bearmansradio Ollie’s radio during the second free practice session in Spain. 🇪🇸 Wrong language, Ollie, but we get your sentiment.

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username not him whistling at her 🤣🤣

username i feel like ronan is so chill with ollie like?? he just lets him do shit like that

username RIGHT, and not only that, he encourages it by telling him he’s passing her 😭😭😭

username i feel like they’re way nicer to the rookies in general but then again Ollie looks like a baby still, how can you be anything other than nice

yourusername @/olliebearman Lol baby

olliebearman Goo goo ga ga

kimi.antonelli fucking weirdo

username god he’s so cute i love him sm

bearmansradio

Liked by haasf1team, maxverstappen1, yourusername, olliebearman, and 5,838,644 others

bearmansradio Two podiums in a row, and this time it’s P2! Go get your girl, Ollie!!

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username did you see how he ignored the team to go hug & kiss her first?? 😭

username my babies 🥹🥹

username grown adults btw

username you guys gotta stop babying them istg it’s ridiculous

maxverstappen1 Well done, mate !! 💪

username lmao proud rookie dad

username i wonder if he approves of his daughter in law??

olliebearman He does!

username OMG LMAOO you weren’t meant to see this

yourusername My man ❤️

username He’s not your man, you aren’t married 😒

yourusername Yet 😏

kimi.antonelli Gagged her

bearmansradio

Liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and 4,882,112 others

bearmansradio Ronan & Ollie dreamteam. Please never seperate these two, we’re begging you Haas. 🙏🏻🙏🏻

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username Iris as THEIR song?? That’s it, they’re forever

username it’s the fact Ronan just did it no questions asked 😭😭😭

username bet DJ’ing wasn’t on Ronan’s goals when he studied engineering

username babying a 19 y/o in general probably wasn’t

yourusername What a sap

olliebearman Only for you tho ❤️

yourusername Only proving my point, baby

maxverstappen1 Oh for fucks sake, get a room!

—

Other drivers: Radio Check | Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! (For a particular driver or every version is up to you!)

🧸 date ──── May 28, 2025

🧸 a/n ──── Had this idea tap dancing in my head since Brazil 2024. It came back in my dream last night. I cleared my schedule so I can write a quickie. Enjoy 💋

📍 São Paulo Grand Prix, 2024

“OFF THE ROAD into the tarmac runoff for Oliver Bearman!” the commentator’s voice cuts sharp through the rain static on the broadcast.

It’s Sunday at Interlagos, and the weather tests everybody’s nerves. The skies are heavy and grey, brooding with thunderclouds that haven’t stopped spilling for hours. The asphalt has a darker shade, smoother, but far from forgiving; it offers little grip and even less predictability. Where there should be confidence in traction, there’s second-guessing and white-knuckled steering.

On-screen, the Haas is already facing the wrong direction, half-stranded in the runoff at Turn 10, its tires carving muddy streaks through the damp tarmac. With worn inters and a gust of crosswind hitting off the Senna S complex, it just snapped under braking, enough to slide, to lock up, to go straight off and miss the corner entirely.

Because that’s what rain does: punishes the smallest errors. And the lack of experience becomes a curse rather than an excuse.

Inside the cockpit, Oliver’s first reaction is confusion, his brain trying to make sense of what just happened. All it took was a fraction of a second, and the car pirouetted like it had a mind of its own. His heart jumps into his throat in an instant and, luckily, the young driver manages to keep it out of the wall, just barely. As the adrenaline fades, disappointment crashes in like a wave, forcing him to grip the steering wheel, only to give him the impression that he’s still got something to hold on to.

In the garage, the helplessness of his error settles into her chest. “No,” she breathes sharply, hand flying to her mouth instinctively.

The camera shifts from the replay of the spin to her. She’s standing by the monitors, arms crossed so tightly around herself now that it looks like she’s holding herself together by force. Her eyes are wide, and she is visibly horrified. She doesn’t blink as she stares at the screen, like if she looks away, something worse than that might happen.

Next to her, Oliver’s father reaches out gently, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. His voice is calm, as he tells her something that the cameras aren’t able to pick up, but she nods stiffly, agreeing with the man, even though her body doesn’t seem to relax one bit. She’s not the kind to show her panic so publicly, never was. However, everything happened too fast for her mind to process, and now her nails are digging little crescents moons into her arms, and the camera captures it all.

She’s aware that the world is watching — she feels like throwing up the second she sees herself on the monitor — but at this point it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is her Ollie.

As if summoned, his radio is displayed next in the right-hand corner of the screen.

“I’m such an idiot, man,” his voice comes through strained, full of self-loathing. For a little while, there is no response from Slade. Just the deafening static, his heavy breathing, and the weight of his disappointment that hangs between the words.

That’s what breaks her the most, not the spin. Not the fact that he lost so much ground or that he deprived the team of a potential finish in the points. Hearing him so defeated and unforgiving of himself, like he’s not allowed a single mistake in the same conditions where even the most experienced drivers are put to the test, it’s impossible for her to make peace with.

What’s worse is that she knows there are hours that separate her from him after the race is over, and she won’t be able to beat some sense into his pretty head that will for sure overthink every single second of his mistakes.

Two and a half, to be exact, when she finally sees him from the Haas hospitality. His shoulders are hunched, head slightly down, and though there are cameras following him, there’s nothing urgent in his steps, just exhaustion.

He knows he’s about to lose them when he enters the building anyway, but right before he can do so, Ollie hears his name. His team principal intercepts him just a few paces from the door, and the cameras shift and pivot like vultures drawn to movement; a few journalists still hang around, hoping for scraps of reaction.

The girl catches everything, her heart reducing to atoms when she sees her boyfriend suddenly so tense. She wants to run to him, to put herself between him and the noise, like Belle stepping in front of the Beast when the village came with pitchforks. She wants to shield him and tell them all to fuck off. But she can’t. Not without tarnishing his reputation, anyway.

“We talked about just keeping it on the track,” Ayao reminds him, and even though the man’s tone isn’t quite accusing, there is a hint of scolding behind his voice. “That’s what you had to do today.”

Oliver doesn’t speak, just nods once. Tight. Only to show his boss that he understands, he gets the message, but has nothing else to add. Not now, at least. Unfortunately, like it or not, his body language talks for him: it tells them he wants out of the conversation, away from the cameras, away from the moment he keeps replaying in his head.

At this point, he is just embarrassed. He doesn’t smile, and doesn’t give a quote. Just turns, opens the door, and finally disappears into the hospitality unit.

She’s catching sight of him right before he disappears down the corridor toward the driver’s room. His steps falter slightly when he hears her behind, and he glances back over his shoulder, waiting with his palm around the door knob.

When their eyes meet, he’s still silent. It’s as if he has lost the right to words, as if they can’t describe what he’s going through now anyway, so he chooses not to give them any power.

“I’m okay,” he says at last, his voice sounding mechanical, like he’s just repeating the same lie he told everyone until he got to her.

It makes her stomach twist.

She exhales a shaky breath, steps closer to reach up and touch the side of his face, ignoring the dampness in his curls. Or the fact that he just flinched at her gesture.

“Ol…”

He doesn’t look at her when he adds, “I just need a minute, okay?”

She nods, even though he’s not looking. “Right,” she says, her heart breaking a little at the way he’s pushing her away. “But is that all? Just a minute?”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to turn around and just let her fix whatever it is that needs to be fixed. It’s not as if she didn’t do that before. For him. But this time is different; everybody saw. He can’t physically move. Just stands there, hand still on the doorknob, his back still facing her.

“Can you just wait in the car?” asks Oliver as he opens the door, then disappears inside without waiting for her answer.

SHE FIGURES THE room is way too quiet the second she steps out of the hotel bathroom, towel wrapped around her body. The lights are turned off, and there’s just a tiny lamp on the bedside table that casts some of its poor rays across the walls.

Oliver sits up in bed, back against the headboard, eyes tracking her silently; he watches her as she moves around the room in silence, going through her routine like muscle memory. Moisturizer. Hairbrush. Towel switched for one of his old Ferrari Driver Academy shirts, its worn fabric hanging loose on her frame with the sleeves too long and the faded logo barely visible now. She always wears it when she’s trying to feel close to him, because that’s the first shirt he gave her back when they started dating.

And he knows that.

Even though they’re about to share a bed, they are currently miles apart.

He wants to tell her that he is still present, because he notices how, in her routine, she’s not leaving space for him anymore. But she keeps going, unbothered, plugging in the blowdryer and flicking the switch on. The low hum fills the room the next second, and it makes Oliver close his eyes at the noise, like it breaks whatever opportunity to speak he’s had left.

Her reflection in the mirror doesn’t look at him. Not even a glance. And it hits him once again, the same sick twist in his gut from earlier, when he just sent her away. He didn’t mean to, but he needed to be alone for his own sanity.

Looking back, Oliver realizes how wrong and heartless he was towards her, the only person in the entire paddock who didn’t deserve that treatment from him. He hates himself for it, and that’s one of the reasons why he desperately wants to at least try to get inside her head. To snuggle there and apologize until they fall asleep and forget that today existed in the first place.

But it would be too easy that way.

When the blowdryer clicks off, the room falls into silence again. Until he finds the strength to finally speak.

“Can you stop ignoring me, please?” asks Ollie, his voice breaking through, rougher than he intends. “I’m sorry.”

She’s still in her own world, avoiding to look at him. Just hangs the dryer on the hook and smooths her shirt down over her legs.

“For what?” she asks with a calm in her voice that sends shivers down his spine. “You didn’t do anything.”

Ollie narrows his eyes. “Come on, now. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend.”

“I’m not pretending,” she shrugs, walking to her side of the bed and pulling back the covers to slip under them. “I just want to sleep, Oliver. We have a ten-hour flight tomorrow.”

His full name sounds unfamiliar in her mouth. It makes his face twist in disgust, physically cringe, because it’s so wrong coming from her. Too distant.

“So that’s it?”

She shrugs again. “I’m just tired. That okay with you?”

He lets out an unamused chuckle. “No, actually, it’s not,” he snaps, sitting up straighter. “I am just trying to apologize so we can move past this.”

She turns her head toward him then, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no heat in hers, just quiet exhaustion. “Well, I waited in that car like a neglected dog for forty minutes, Ollie. After waiting for you to come back from the media pen. And after sitting through two hours of a race that never seemed to end. Respectfully, you can take your apology and shove it deep down your—”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” Oliver cuts her off. “I’m so bad at this, I know. But I’m sorry,” he insists. He runs a hand through his curls, eyes closing for a moment, enough to try to put his thoughts in order. When he opens them again, she’s already turned onto her side, facing away. “I just… I didn’t want to dump it on you, alright?”

Her brow furrows, and wants to ask him what he means by that. But then she feels the bed shifting slightly, and his arm slides around her waist, hesitant, like he’s unsure if he’s still allowed to touch her. Then firmer, Ollie pulls her back into him until there’s no space left. His body curls around hers, big and warm and familiar, as his face finds the curve of her neck, his nose pressing into her hair like he needs to just breathe her in, in order for everything to be right again.

He tangles their legs together beneath the sheets, his hold tight, too afraid she’ll slip through his fingers if he’d give her the chance.

“Don’t ignore me, darling,” whispers Ollie. “Please.”

Her heart starts racing at the sound of his mellow voice. She loves it and hates it at the same time, that a single word has the power to melt her so quickly.

His hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt, until his fingers find the warmth of her bare skin. They brush gently over her stomach, covering it completely, a soothing touch in the midst of desperation. It sends a jolt straight through her chest, and her heart stutters against her ribs once again, every nerve suddenly wide awake, hyperaware of the way his fingertips trace lazy, featherlight patterns like he’s playing the piano.

“I saw your face on the replay,” he finally explains with a defeated exhale. “You looked like the ground had just been ripped out from under you, and I am…” he pauses, swallows hard, then continues, “I’m supposed to protect you from that. From feeling like that.”

As if an arrow passes through her heart, she closes her eyes and just waits for it to go through to the other side, hoping that it will do as little damage as possible.

“I’m the one in the car,” says Ollie. “I signed up for this. I don’t care about the risks, because I chose them. But you didn’t. You chose me. And seeing you like that, like you’d just watched something awful happen and couldn’t do anything… Yeah, I don’t know how to handle that yet.”

She stiffens slightly in his arms, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket.

Oliver presses a kiss into the back of her shoulder. “I’ve been trying so hard to keep things normal between us. Same as before it got official, you know? Same stupid routines. But this is already changing things. Doesn’t it?” he asks, leaning in again to brush his lips over the curve of her shoulder.

She’s about to reply when she feels the tender heat of his tongue as he presses another kiss, on her neck this time. Her eyes sting, tears welling despite herself, and she turns in his arms, unable to keep her indifference intact. Her hands wrap around his torso, clutching him tightly, burying her face in his chest like she needs to feel every heartbeat to believe he’s here.

“I hate that you’re going to worry about me now,” he keeps going, as if his words have just returned from a long vacation, and he really needs to tell her everything. “Like, really worry. Not ‘what if his car breaks’ worry, but ‘what if he doesn’t come back in one piece’ worry. And I get it, because if this job ever made you regret being with me—”

She cuts him off before she even gets the chance to think of how to assure him best. “Ollie,” she breathes, shaking her head as her fingers press lightly against his chest. “That’s never going to happen. I could never regret you,” her voice is steady, in contrast with how fast her heart’s still beating. “I know what comes with loving you. And yeah, it scares me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever walk away because of it. All you can do is be the best you can every time you’re in that car. That’s all anyone can ask of you, including Ayao. Including your team. And including me.”

He’s quiet, his eyes searching hers like he’s still not sure he deserves to hear that. But she doesn’t waver.

Instead, she reaches up, fingers threading gently through his curls, brushing them back from his forehead, her touch delicate. “I’m proud of you, my little cub. Not just when you get it right. If anything, it was pretty impressive what you did today.”

His eyes close for a second, her words settling into the cracks he’s been trying to hide all day. When he opens them again, they’re glassy and full of shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For shutting you out. I didn’t mean to.”

She doesn’t need to say it. It’s in the way she leans in, closing the distance between them as her lips meet his, like they’ve both been holding their breath for too long.

As they kiss, his hand moves instinctively, sliding down her side until it finds her thigh. With one gentle motion, he lifts her leg over his hip, needing her closer than close. Her body pressed against his gives purpose a whole new meaning, the tension in his shoulders finally softening under her touch.

When they part, she studies him. His face is pale under the soft light, freckles stark against the skin that’s still slightly flushed from the day. His eyes are rimmed in exhaustion, but there’s something else beneath them that makes him look even younger than he is.

“By the way, just so we’re clear,” she begins, “I don’t need you to protect me, Ollie. I just need you to talk to me. Like we always do.”

He smiles now, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “Can I now?”

As a response, she shakes her head, eyes dark with desire. “Nope, you missed that train, I’m afraid. I have other plans for that big mouth of yours,” she whispers, her voice laced with all the love that’s been hanging by a thread today.

She kisses him again, deeper this time, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling around his shoulders as she guides him, rolling them gently until he’s above her. Then, with a push, she urges him down, beneath the covers and between her legs, where her need for closeness matches his.

Oliver lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes never leaving hers as he disappears beneath the sheets. His hands glide along her thighs, parting them slowly, his smirk lingering as their eyes lock one last time before the world narrows to just the two of them.

And for the first time today, he doesn’t feel like he’s spinning out. Shame turns to lust. Exhaustion to hunger. His breath ghosts over her smooth skin, leaving goosebumps behind while savoring her quiet whimpers.

Impatient, she lifts her hips slightly, nudging his shoulder with her knee, “Keep taking your sweet time, and I’ll poke the damn bear if it gets him to move.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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The afternoon sun was already beginning its slow descent, painting your bedroom in strokes of dusty gold.

Around you, the air was thick with the scent of old silk and faint perfume, dominated by the organized chaos that only a 21st birthday wardrobe crisis could create.

You stood amidst the wreckage—piles of velvet, lace, and ill-fitting sequins draped over the armchair and the footboard.

Beside the bed, Ollie, ever the picture of laid-back confidence even when faced with sartorial meltdown, was stretched out on your duvet, his hands laced behind his head.

He watched you with that steady, soft gaze that could make your heart thump a rhythm you hadn't known it possessed.

“It’s the worst,” you muttered, pulling off a midnight blue sheath that clung in all the wrong places. “It’s too serious. It says, ‘I’m here to discuss fourth-quarter earnings,’ not, ‘I’m here to aggressively turn 21.’”

Ollie chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. “Babe, you look good discussing anything. But keep going.”

You cycled through the options. There was the shimmering, champagne-colored slip—too delicate, too easily ruined by spilled prosecco.

There was the emerald jumpsuit—bold, but perhaps too aggressive for a casual house party. With each outfit rejected, your anxiety ticked up a notch.

You wanted perfection. Not just because it was your 21st, but because tonight felt like a milestone in your life with Ollie, too.

“Okay, last one,” you announced, grabbing the dress you’d intentionally saved for the end.

It was the one you hadn’t worn since you bought it six months ago; the one Ollie had immediately declared his favorite, mostly because of the way the color played against your skin.

You retreated into the closet, the heavy silence punctuated by the rustle of fabric. When you emerged, you walked straight into a monologue, already convinced of its failure.

It was red. A deep, rich, almost sinful crimson that seemed to drink the light. The cut was simple, elegant—a high neckline balanced by a subtly low back, the material hugging your curves before falling into a smooth, liquid skirt that grazed your ankles.

“See? This is the problem,” you ranted, gesturing wildly with your hands. “It’s too fabulous. It looks like it belongs on a yacht in Monaco, or maybe at a very dramatic opera.

It doesn’t scream, ‘Come drink cheap beer and listen to music too loud in my parents’ kitchen.’ It’s just… too much.”

You smoothed the fabric down, preparing to tear it off, when you realized Ollie hadn't moved. The casual ease had drained from his posture. He was no longer lying down.

He was propped up on his elbows, utterly still, the mesmerizing quality of his gaze dialed up to eleven.

He didn't just look at the dress; he looked at you in the dress. His eyes traveled slowly, taking in the way the color deepened the flush on your cheeks, the way the fabric moved with the slightest shift of your weight.

The look on his face was raw, unguarded, and deeply intimate. It was a look that said: I love you.

The rant died on your lips, replaced by a sudden, exhilarating heat thrumming just beneath your skin.

Ollie slowly pushed himself off the bed. He moved with a languid precision that was entirely focused on you. The distance between you felt electric, charged by his silence and your sudden inability to breathe normally.

He crossed the room in three measured steps, stopping when he was just close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him. He didn’t touch the dress initially.

Instead, he reached out, his finger tracing the delicate line of your jaw, tilting your head back slightly. His expression was a perfect cocktail of adoration and possessiveness.

Then, his lips found the sensitive curve of your neck, just beneath your ear. The light graze of his stubble, the warm puff of his breath—it sent a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly air.

“You look amazing, babe,” he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. His hands settled lightly on your hips, steadying you. "Absolutely, breathtakingly amazing."

You felt your cheeks flood with warmth. The intensity of his gaze, the sincerity layered into his voice, made you feel profoundly, delightfully shy, even after all this time. You leaned into his touch, allowing your head to rest against his shoulder.

“Thanks, Ollie,” you whispered, the complaint about the dress entirely forgotten.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his thumbs gently stroking the skin above the waistband. “You’re going to pick this one, right?”

It wasn't a question of fashion. It was a question of shared desire, of affirmation.

“Definitely,” you said, the word solid and final.

The kiss that followed was slow and deep, a silent promise exchanged between the two of you before the chaos of the night consumed you.

It tasted of anticipation and the lingering sweetness of his approval. You didn’t need any other confirmation; the red dress was the one. It was his favorite, and now, it was yours too.

The transition from the intimate quiet of your room to the seismic shift of the whole house felt instantaneous.

One minute, you were adjusting your strap in the mirror; the next, the doorbell was a relentless chime, backgrounded by thumping bass that caused the antique glassware in the dining room cabinet to rattle.

The house, usually a haven of suburban calm, had transformed entirely.

Every room was a crush of bodies, the air thick with perfume, cheap beer, and the collective energy of youth. Laughter echoed off the walls—loud, insistent, and celebratory.

Strapped into the crimson armor of the dress, you took on the role of the birthday host with a fierce, adrenaline-fueled energy.

You moved through the house like a radiant star, pausing to hug friends from high school, accept sloppy toasts from college roommates, and navigate introductions to people you’d vaguely heard Ollie mention.

The red dress was a magnet. People complimented it, joked about it, and remarked on how perfectly it suited the occasion.

You smiled until your jaw ached, genuinely grateful for the outpouring of affection, but constantly aware of the sheer quantity of people.

Your anchor in the swirling chaos was Ollie.

From the moment the party reached its peak, he had positioned himself on the worn leather couch in the living room, a strategic vantage point that offered him a clear view of the hallway, the kitchen, and the main gathering space.

He was there with Kimi, his closest friend. Kimi was animated, gesturing wildly as they discussed something involving grad school applications and questionable late-night pizza.

Ollie, however, was subdued. He held a bottle loosely in his hand, nodding occasionally at Kimi, but his attention rarely wavered from you.

You saw him across the room while accepting a ridiculously oversized novelty key from your aunt. You saw him while you were laughing near the bar cart, defending your choice of punch flavor. And you saw him when you were pulled onto the makeshift dance floor for a brief, energetic sprint.

His gaze was a steady pulse in the noise. It wasn't intrusive or demanding, but it was there. It was a quiet reassurance that even though the house was overflowing with well-wishers, you were still singularly his.

Sometimes, your eyes would meet across the distance—over a sea of bobbing heads and flashing lights. Each time, he would offer a fractional smile, a slight tilt of his head that said, You’re doing great. You look incredible.

This went on for hours. As the night deepened, the energy became less frantic and more saturated.

At one point, near midnight, you were trapped near the front door, offering explanations for an inside joke to a group of friends from your summer job. The conversation was draining, your voice hoarse. You felt the familiar strain of social exhaustion creeping in.

You desperately needed a moment to breathe, to reset.

You glanced instinctively toward the couch. Ollie was still there. Kimi had momentarily wandered off. He was alone, his elbow resting on the back of the couch, watching you navigate the end of the conversation.

When he caught your eye, he didn't call you over. He simply raised his bottle in a silent toast, his mouth forming the shape of "Happy Birthday."

But the look he gave you was heavy, filled with shared anticipation for when this was all over. It was the promise of quiet, of private celebration, of connection that didn't require smiling for the camera.

You offered him a tired, genuine smile in return. The simple, sustained attention was invigorating. It reminded you that this whole performance was leading back to the beginning—back to the quiet intimacy in your room, back to him.

The party finally began its slow, inevitable collapse around 1:30 AM. Guests started hunting for coats, offering final, slurry hugs, and promising to text you tomorrow.

You and Ollie worked in tandem, guiding the stragglers out. You were both running on fumes, your bodies humming with the residue of too much noise and adrenaline.

The final few minutes were spent standing on the front porch, waving goodbye to Kimi and your last three college friends, the air suddenly cold and crisp. The relief was palpable.

When the door finally clicked closed, the silence of the house rushed in, massive and startling.

You leaned your back against the cool wood of the door, letting your head fall back. “I think,” you gasped, “I need a team of professional cleaners, a year of therapy, and maybe a nap until 2025.”

Ollie turned, his silhouette framed dimly by the living room window. He looked exhausted too, a slight stubble shadowing his jaw, his hair mussed from unconsciously running his hands through it all evening. But his eyes were wide awake, intensely fixed on you.

“It was perfect,” he said, his voice low and raspy from lack of use. He walked slowly toward you, tracing the path he’d mapped out with his eyes all night. “You were perfect.”

He stopped in front of you, his hands resting on your shoulders as he surveyed the red dress again. It was slightly rumpled now, evidence of too much dancing and hugging, but on you, it still held the power it had possessed in the afternoon light.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead.

The weight of the last twenty-four hours—the anticipation, the performance, the sheer volume of energy expended—came crashing down. All you wanted was the comfortable, familiar solidity of him.