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𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 — eo31 + pg10

esteban ocon x !ex reader x pierre gasly (smau + written)

you haven’t thought about esteban ocon in years. not really, anyway. sometimes his name sneaks into your head when the rain smells like home, or when you drive past a go-kart track and remember the way his laughter used to echo off the asphalt. but that was a lifetime ago — another version of you, another version of him.

now you build engines for a living, your hands more familiar with metal than memories. you’ve built walls, too, ones you thought were unshakable. until pierre gasly crashes right through them with his grin, his warmth, his way of making you feel seen again.

you tell yourself it’s safe this time. easy. clean. until he invites you to one of his races, and you find yourself standing in a garage painted blue and pink — staring into the same brown eyes that once promised you forever.

fc : dekota_thompson on ig (used a few pics of kika + flavy as well!) a/n : day 18 of chef's tea party series! (for the purpose of the story, estie is still with alpine and franco is at haas!) (also i switched up the og request ever so slightly, pierre and esteban knew each other as children obvs but reader and pierre never met until later on)

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yourusername

liked by pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux, yourbff and 23,450 others.

yourusername : a little bit of this, a little bit of that <3

tagged : pierregasly

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pierregasly : mon bébé ♥️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mon amour🥰

liked by pierregasly

username007 : omg we have a new wag!!!!

↳ username13 : she is so beautiful too oml

↳ username15 : how did pierre pull her????

alexandrasaintmleux : please come to a race soon!!!! i need to meet youuuu😭😭

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : omg:,) i will be at the next one! so excited to finally meet you!

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username00 : omg important wag meeting

yourbff : the most beautiful girl in the world 💋

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : ily ily ily

liked by yourbff

username005 : pierre's new gf??

↳ username775 : yes yes. i heard she is super smart too. i believe she is an engineer

↳ yourusername : you heard correctly!

liked by 607 others

↳ username775 : omg hiiiii

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flashback!

You meet Esteban when you’re seven years old. He’s the boy next door — skinny knees, messy brown hair, a chipped front tooth, and an endless supply of energy. He shows up at your door one afternoon holding a small die-cast race car and says, very matter of factly, “You’re going to help me build a racetrack.”

From then on, you do everything together. Summers smell like gasoline and lemonade, scraped palms and laughter. He races anything with wheels, and you take everything apart just to see how it works. Your parents call you inseparable, but neither of you ever think much about it. You’re just you and Esteban.

He’s wild in the way kids are when they dream too big. You’re steady in the way kids are when they believe in something. He says he’ll be a Formula 1 driver one day, and you never laugh — you just nod and say, “Then I’ll build your car.”

When you’re twelve, he wins his first real karting race, and you’re the loudest one cheering. When you’re fourteen, he starts spending more time at the track than at home, but he always comes by your house to tell you about his day. He says it’s because you listen better than anyone else.

And when you’re sixteen, he kisses you for the first time — in the empty parking lot of the local grocery store, sitting on the hood of his mother’s car. It’s awkward and too fast, but it feels like something you’d both been waiting for your whole lives.

You start dating after that. Slowly, quietly, in that teenage way where everything feels both infinite and fragile. You learn how to love through him — through every early morning text, every late-night call, every promise whispered into the dark.

You build each other. You make each other believe that maybe dreams aren’t so impossible after all.

When you’re nineteen, the world stops being small.

He gets his first big opportunity — a chance at a Formula 1 career. You get accepted into one of the best engineering schools in France. It’s everything you both worked for, but it means being apart.

The first few weeks, you try. Calls, texts, photos — anything to keep the distance from swallowing you whole. But his schedule gets tighter, and your assignments pile higher. The calls turn into messages, the messages turn into silence.

You visit him once that summer. He’s different — not in a bad way, just different. He’s confident now, busier, surrounded by people who talk about lap times and sponsors instead of small-town dreams. He looks at you like he wants to hold on, but he doesn’t know how.

One night, you’re sitting outside his small apartment, your legs tangled under a blanket, and he says, “I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to do this.”

You don’t cry. You just take his hand and nod. “Maybe we’re not meant to figure it out right now.”

You kiss him goodbye the next morning — soft and steady, like you’re trying to memorize the way it feels.

And then you both go your separate ways.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. You stop checking the race results, stop following the headlines. You focus on equations, engines, and blueprints. You stop wondering where he is or who he’s become. At least, you try to.

Years pass. You graduate with honors. You get your dream job at a leading motorsports company — designing hybrid systems and performance parts for race teams all over the world.

You’ve built a good life. A quiet one. Your apartment smells like coffee and metal polish, your hands are always inked with notes or grease. You don’t think much about the sport anymore; it’s just a job, one you happen to be very good at.

Then, one day, you’re sent to represent your company at a development conference in Monaco. You’re giving a presentation about energy recovery systems when someone interrupts from the audience with a question — half technical, half teasing:

“So, are you saying you could make me faster than Verstappen?”

You look up to see Pierre Gasly, grinning like he already knows the answer. The room laughs, and you roll your eyes, replying just as smoothly, “If you can keep it out of the wall, maybe.”

He finds you afterward. He’s charming, confident, but disarmingly kind. He tells you your work is fascinating, that he’s never met someone who talks about engines like they’re alive. You try not to blush when he asks if he can take you to dinner to “continue the scientific discussion.”

One dinner turns into two, two into weekends, and before long, into something real. Pierre makes you laugh again — a loud, honest laugh that you hadn’t heard in years. He listens to you talk about your projects, asks questions, remembers details. He tells you you’re brilliant, not just talented.

And you fall for him, softly, unexpectedly. He never pushes you to talk about the past, and you never tell him about the boy who taught you how to dream.

You don’t know that his teammate — the man waiting in the next garage over, the one he laughs about and argues with over lunch — is the same boy whose name you stopped saying years ago. Not yet.

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present day!

It’s one of those days that start wrong and never quite recover. The office lights flicker. The simulation software crashes twice. One of your senior engineers questions a design you’ve already tested and proven. You spill coffee on your white blouse right before a meeting and spend the entire afternoon pretending it doesn’t bother you.

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted — the kind of tired that sits in your bones. You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and sigh into the quiet hum of your apartment. You’re already thinking about reheating leftovers and collapsing in bed when you hear it — soft music coming from the kitchen.

You frown, heart skipping. You didn’t leave anything on.

Then you smell it — garlic, basil, the warm sweetness of something simmering.

“Mon amour?” a voice calls from the kitchen.

Your breath catches. You round the corner, and there he is.

Pierre.

He’s in a white T-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly messy, barefoot on your kitchen tile. He’s holding a wooden spoon and grinning at you like you just lit up the whole world.

“Surprise,” he says, lifting the spoon as if it’s part of the announcement. “I came home early.”

For a moment, you just stand there, speechless. Then you laugh — tired, relieved, a little shaky. “You weren’t supposed to be back until Friday.”

“I know.” He crosses the room in a few steps and wraps his arms around you before you can say anything else. “But I missed you too much.”

You melt into him instantly, your face pressed against his chest. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, the faint smell of soap and spice — it all untangles the knot in your chest that’s been there all day.

He leans down to kiss your forehead. “Tough day?”

You nod. “Everything went wrong. Absolutely everything.”

“Then tonight,” he says softly, “everything will go right.”

Dinner is perfect — not because of the food, though his cooking is surprisingly good, but because of him. He tells you stories about the last few weeks on the road — about how he and his trainer accidentally got locked out of their hotel room, about a seagull stealing a mechanic’s sandwich, about the chaos of travel that somehow sounds charming when he says it.

You tell him about work — about the project that’s been giving you trouble, about the simulation that refused to run, about how your coworker insists that a certain formula “doesn’t make sense” when it absolutely does.

Pierre listens to every word. He doesn’t interrupt or try to fix it. He just listens, his eyes soft and full of that patient, quiet understanding that always makes you feel like the only person in the room.

When you finish eating, he insists on doing the dishes even though you protest. You try to argue, but he kisses you mid-sentence, a lazy, playful kiss that leaves you smiling against his lips.

“Go,” he murmurs. “Take a bath. I’ll take care of everything.”

You blink, a little dazed. “You’re running me a bath?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

You roll your eyes but your chest feels light, full.

The bathroom smells like lavender when you step inside. Candles flicker along the counter, and the water in the tub steams gently. You can hear faint music from the living room — something slow and soft, almost like a lullaby.

Pierre knocks once before poking his head in, holding a towel. “Everything okay, chérie?”

You smile, already sinking into the water. “Perfect.”

He walks over, crouches beside the tub, and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “You work too hard,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

“You race cars at two hundred miles per hour,” you counter. “I think we’re even.”

He laughs, that easy, boyish sound that always fills a room. “Maybe. But at least I get a few days off between races. You don’t.”

You close your eyes, letting the water cradle you. “That’s because machines don’t take vacations.”

Pierre leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”

Later, you’re both in bed — your hair still damp, his skin warm against yours. The city hums quietly outside, a faint reminder that the world is still moving even though this small space feels timeless.

He lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, just watching you. He traces the tattoo on your forearm with his fingertip, smiling faintly.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“Can you blame me?” he says, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “You look peaceful. I like seeing you like this.”

You lean into his touch, half-asleep, half-lost in the comfort of him.

Then his voice softens. “I was thinking…”

You hum in response, your eyes still closed.

“Would you come to the next race with me?”

Your eyes open, just slightly. “The race? Pierre, you know I—”

“I already spoke to your boss,” he interrupts gently, grinning when you sit up in surprise. “Don’t be mad. I just asked if you could have a few days off. I told him it was for something important.”

You blink. “Pierre…”

“He said yes.” He reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You’ve never been. I want you to see it — what I do, what I love. You’ve spent so much time helping others race. You deserve to see it up close.”

You search his face, trying to find a reason to refuse, but all you find is sincerity. The warmth in his eyes melts away any hesitation.

“Okay,” you say finally, smiling softly. “I’ll go.”

His grin widens. “You will?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “How could I say no when you’ve already planned everything?”

He laughs too, pulling you close again until you’re tucked against his chest. “You won’t regret it.”

You rest your head against him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your palm. The lavender still lingers on your skin, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely at peace. You don’t know yet that this trip — this one, simple yes — will change everything.

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f1gossipgirls

567,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : we officially have a new wag in the paddock! after a few months of soft launching, yn ln, has finally entered the paddock alongside pierre gasly. the two have been rumored to be together for a few months now. yn ln is a top engineer for a massive motorsports company. i think pierre found a good one!

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user has limited the amount of comments on this post.

username008 : oh so she is SMART SMART

liked by f1gossipgirls

↳ f1gossipgirls : fr fr one of the teams should hire her

↳ username75 : i heard she also graduated from one of the best engineering schools in the world

liked by f1gossipgirls

username010 : was she seen with any of the other wags today??

↳ f1gossipgirls : yes! she was seen sitting with alexandra and carmen outside of hospitality:)

username085 : i saw her on alpines instagram story and wasn't sure who she was. beautiful girl!

↳ username23 : yeah i saw that video of her talking to esteban and some of the team

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Light filters through the curtains like honey, warm and golden against the linen sheets. You wake before Pierre does — or at least, you think you do. He’s already half-awake, watching you through heavy lashes, a lazy smile curling at his lips when your eyes meet.

“Bonjour, ma belle,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile softly. “Good morning.”

He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers tracing your jaw in that absent, tender way that still makes your heart trip. “Big day,” he teases. “Your first time in the paddock.”

You groan and bury your face in the pillow. “Don’t remind me. I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

Pierre laughs — that quiet, melodic sound that fills a room without trying. “Impossible. You could walk in wearing pajamas and everyone would still adore you.”

You lift your head to give him a look, and he just grins wider. “I’m serious. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself — the brilliant engineer who makes everyone else look slow.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now.

You shower, dry your hair, and stand in front of the mirror trying to decide if the dress you packed is too much. It’s a simple white sundress — elegant but soft, paired with small gold earrings and comfortable shoes. You’re fussing with the zipper when you hear Pierre behind you.

“Need help?” he asks, voice quiet.

You nod, holding your hair out of the way. His fingers brush against your bare back as he zips the dress up, slow and careful, almost reverent.

When he finishes, his hands linger for a moment. “You look beautiful,” he says, so softly you almost don’t catch it.

You turn around, heart tugging in your chest, and kiss him gently — one of those soft, morning kisses that taste like sunlight and trust.

The drive to the paddock feels surreal. You’ve seen photos, of course — the glitz, the chaos, the fans leaning over fences for autographs. But seeing it up close is something else entirely. The roar of engines in the distance, the blur of team colors, the hum of energy that seems to vibrate in your chest.

Pierre’s hand stays in yours as you step out of the car. Cameras flash immediately, reporters calling his name, shouting questions. You blink against the brightness but don’t flinch — years of conferences and presentations have taught you how to handle being watched.

Pierre introduces you to a few staff members as you walk, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand, grounding you. “This is YN,” he says with quiet pride. “She’s an engineer — one of the best, actually.”

You laugh softly, trying not to blush. “He’s exaggerating.”

But you see the glances exchanged between photographers and team members — curiosity, recognition, maybe even a bit of awe. You’re not just “Pierre’s girlfriend” to them. You’re someone who belongs here, even if you don’t realize it yet.

Across the paddock, Esteban Ocon is talking to his race engineer when something makes him look up. At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing — just the flash of a white dress, a familiar tilt of a head, a laugh that curls around him like a memory.

His heart stops. It can’t be. He blinks, thinking it’s the light playing tricks on him, but when she turns slightly — when you turn slightly — everything in him freezes. It’s you.

Older, poised, radiant. The same eyes, the same smile that used to undo him completely. You’re standing next to Pierre Gasly, hand in his, moving through the crowd like you were always meant to be here.

Esteban’s stomach twists. He looks away quickly, pretending to study his tablet, but his mind is gone — years rewinding all at once. The way you used to laugh when he tripped over his words. The way you’d fall asleep next to him during study breaks. The way you said goodbye. He forces a breath out. Of course Pierre didn’t know. How could he?

He tells himself he’ll stay out of the way. It’s better that way — cleaner. You’re happy, and he won’t ruin that. You don’t see him. You’re too caught up in the whirlwind of introductions and cameras. You move easily through the noise, shaking hands, smiling when photographers call your name, answering a few friendly questions about your work when someone recognizes you from an industry piece.

Pierre watches you the entire time, pride shining through every look. You handle it all effortlessly — calm, gracious, exactly as he knew you would.

After a few rounds of media, he leads you toward the hospitality area where a few of the other drivers’ partners are gathered. That’s where you meet Alexandra Saint Mleux, Lily Muni He, and Carmen Mundt — all of whom immediately take to you.

Alexandra greets you first, all warmth and curiosity. “Pierre told us you’re an engineer! You must be incredibly smart to do what you do.”

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I like to think so, on good days.”

Lily grins. “You have to meet the rest of us. We’re kind of like the unofficial welcome committee.”

Carmen leans in with a conspiratorial smile. “And the best part of the paddock gossip circle. We promise to share the good stuff.”

You spend the next hour chatting, laughing, sipping on coffee that’s too strong but still comforting. They make you feel included instantly — teasing you about Pierre’s habit of talking about you constantly, telling you stories about life on the road.

It’s easy, warm, and for the first time since arriving, you feel like you truly belong here.

Eventually, Pierre returns, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, a grin on his face. “Having fun without me, chérie?”

“Always,” you tease.

He chuckles and gestures toward the garage. “Come on. There are some people I want you to meet.”

He takes you through the Alpine hospitality area, introducing you to the engineers and technical staff. When they learn who you are and what you do, their expressions shift from polite interest to genuine respect. You talk easily about energy systems, performance analysis, and design structures — it’s comfortable territory for you, and you can see how impressed they are.

Pierre beams the whole time, one arm casually around your waist. “Told you she was brilliant,” he says to one of the engineers, and you elbow him playfully.

Then, as you’re about to head back toward his side of the garage, Pierre glances around. “I should find Esteban — I haven’t seen him all morning.”

You freeze at the name, your pulse skipping. You tell yourself it’s a coincidence. It has to be.

But before you can say anything, Pierre spots him across the garage. “Ah! There he is!”

You follow his gaze — and your breath catches. There he is. Esteban.

Older. Broader shoulders. The same dark eyes, the same sharp jawline softened by surprise when he turns and sees you.

Pierre doesn’t notice the tension. He grins, clapping his teammate on the shoulder. “Esteban! Come say hello. This is YN.”

You and Esteban both hesitate for half a second too long — long enough for it to feel like the air shifts.

“Hi,” you manage, forcing a polite smile. “It’s… nice to meet you.”

His expression doesn’t flicker. If anything, he plays the part perfectly. “Likewise. Welcome to the team.” His voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something behind it — a tremor only you recognize.

Pierre nods proudly. “She’s an engineer, by the way. Works in performance systems. I’ve been trying to convince her to work for Alpine one day.”

Esteban’s eyes flicker, a small smile ghosting his lips. “That would be… fitting.”

The silence that follows feels like a held breath. You clear your throat softly. “It was nice meeting you, Esteban. I should let you get back to work.”

“Of course.” His tone is polite, professional. The same voice he used the day he told you goodbye.

You step back toward Pierre, who rests a hand on your back, none the wiser. As you walk away, you can feel Esteban’s gaze on you — not invasive, not possessive. Just quietly there.

That evening, back in the hotel room, you’re curled up on the bed with your laptop when Pierre comes out of the shower.

He sits beside you, towel drying his hair. “You were amazing today,” he says softly. “Everyone loved you.”

You smile. “It was fun. Tiring, but fun.”

He hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “You seemed… a little quiet after meeting Esteban. Everything okay?”

Your heartbeat stutters, but you force an easy smile. “Yeah, I was just overwhelmed, I think. There’s a lot to take in.”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to read something in your face, then nods. “Fair enough.” He leans over, kissing your forehead. “Try to rest, okay? Tomorrow will be even busier.”

You nod, watching him move around the room, your mind far away — back in that brief moment when familiar brown eyes met yours across the noise of the paddock and everything you’d buried came rushing back.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’ve moved on. But deep down, something you thought was gone has started to stir again.

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You wake slowly, the soft hum of early traffic beneath you, the faint rustle of fabric as Pierre moves around the room. He’s already half-dressed in Alpine blue, the crisp lines of his uniform fitting him perfectly. When he notices you blinking awake, his expression softens instantly.

“Morning, mon cœur,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. His hand runs absently through your hair, the gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache a little. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod, stretching, your voice still raspy from sleep. “Better now that I don’t have to wake up alone.”

Pierre grins at that, helping you sit up before handing you a mug of coffee just the way you like it. There’s something about him on race mornings — focused but tender, calm but humming with the kind of quiet intensity that made you fall for him in the first place. You sip slowly, watching as he readjusts his shirt, fixing his small necklace as well.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You smile. “You made it impossible to say no.”

His grin turns boyish, proud. “Good. That was the plan.”

You arrive at the paddock with Pierre’s hand in yours. The cameras start flashing immediately — fans calling his name, journalists shouting questions that he handles with effortless charm. He keeps you close though, his thumb brushing your hand every few seconds, grounding you through the noise.

The scent of rubber and fuel, the electric hum of engines warming up, the blur of blue and orange team colors — it’s all so familiar and yet completely new through this lens. You’ve worked in motorsport for years, analyzing performance data, designing simulations, but walking through the paddock as a wag is still brand new. They’ve all heard about you by now, the quietly brilliant engineer who managed to charm the driver.

When you lean close to whisper something to Pierre, the way his hand finds the small of your back, the way he looks at you — it’s soft, natural, unguarded. And from a few meters away, someone notices.

Esteban. He’s been pretending not to. He’s been trying, so hard, all morning — burying himself in race prep, in data sheets, in pit wall briefings — but every time he catches a flash of you, laughing, standing too close to Pierre, his pulse spikes in a way he hates.

He’s supposed to be over this. Over you. But there you are, wearing the same kind of sundress you used to wear when the two of you were young and stupid and in love — your smile bright, your hair caught by the wind, your hand in another man’s.

He tells himself to look away. He doesn’t.

When the drivers head to the garage for the pre-race briefing, you stand with a few of the other partners — Alexandra, Lily, Carmen — all of them sweet and welcoming. You chat about travel schedules, favorite circuits, jet lag, trying to seem normal while your heart beats like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest.

At one point, Alexandra leans close and laughs, “Pierre’s been glowing since you got here, you know that? He’s usually all intense before a race, but this morning he was actually smiling.”

You smile at that — genuine, warm — and glance toward the garage where he’s standing with Esteban.

They’re side by side, their Alpine suits matching, helmets under their arms. Pierre looks calm. Esteban… doesn’t. His expression is a practiced mask of focus, but you can see the tension in the way his jaw tightens, the way he keeps his eyes anywhere but where you stand.

The race itself is chaos.

You stand just behind the monitors in Alpine’s hospitality suite, your hand pressed to your chest every time the cameras cut to Pierre’s car. He’s fast today — confident, precise. Esteban too, but every time they battle on track, you feel that strange twist in your stomach.

You want Pierre to win. Of course you do. But when Esteban’s radio crackles through the speakers — his voice tight, straining, full of that same competitive fire you once loved — it hits somewhere deep and uninvited.

Pierre finishes P6. Esteban, P8. Both solid results. The team celebrates. Cameras flash. And you smile, trying to keep your focus on Pierre — who rushes up to you post-race, hair damp with sweat, still in his fire suit.

He kisses you, right there in front of everyone. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make your knees weak and for Esteban — a few feet away — to freeze mid-step.

Later, when things quiet down, you step outside for air. The sunset paints the paddock in gold and rose, soft light bouncing off the metallic trailers. You’re lost in thought when you hear his voice.

“YN.”

You turn — and it’s him. Esteban. Standing a few meters away, still in his base layer, hair tousled, eyes unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hum of generators fills the silence.

“You look…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “You look good.”

You smile faintly. “You too. Congrats on the points.”

He nods. “Thanks.” His hands flex at his sides. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Pierre surprised me,” you say simply. “Didn’t really have time to overthink it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sounds like him.”

The silence stretches again, heavier this time.

There’s a million things unsaid between you — old heartbreak, lingering what-ifs, the quiet ache of recognition. You can feel it, the pull of familiarity, the warmth of memories neither of you should still hold onto.

“I’m happy for you,” Esteban finally says. It sounds sincere. Mostly. “He’s… good for you.”

You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “He is.”

And that’s it. That’s all there’s room for.

Before you can say more, Pierre’s voice carries down the walkway, calling your name — bright, warm, alive. You glance toward him, then back at Esteban. He’s already looking away.

You join Pierre, slipping your hand into his as you walk off together. Behind you, Esteban watches until you disappear around the corner, his chest tight with something that feels a lot like regret.

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a few weeks later...

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It happens on a quiet Thursday morning, the kind that starts with lazy sunlight spilling through the windows and Pierre humming to himself in the kitchen. You’re half-awake, padding in barefoot, your hair in a loose braid and your favorite mug in hand when your phone buzzes with an email notification.

At first, you don’t think much of it — your inbox is usually full of data reports, simulation updates, minor consultation requests. But then you see the subject line.

“Formal Offer — Alpine F1 Engineering Division.”

Your eyes widen. You set the mug down slowly. Pierre glances over his shoulder from the counter, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Everything okay?”

You read the first few lines once, twice, three times before your voice even returns. “They… they want to hire me,” you whisper. “Full-time. Alpine wants me on their engineering team.”

Pierre’s reaction is immediate. His face lights up, bright and pure and proud — like the sun catching on glass. He crosses the room in seconds, arms wrapping tightly around you, lifting you off the floor as he spins you once, laughing against your cheek.

“Mon cœur! That’s incredible!” he says between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. “You deserve this — you earned this.”

You cling to him, laughing and breathless. “They said I can lead one of the vehicle performance projects — redesigning their data models, adjusting the suspension and aero integration workflow. Basically, I can… change anything I think needs changing.”

Pierre sets you down gently but doesn’t let go. His eyes shine with pride. “Then say yes.”

You look up at him, heart pounding. “You really think I should?”

“I know you should,” he says softly. “This is your dream, YN. And selfishly?” His lips twitch into a grin. “I love the idea of seeing you in my garage every weekend.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest — but inside, you’re already imagining it. The paddock, the garage, the smell of fuel and machinery, the rush of purpose. And yes — the inevitable complication.

Because no matter how hard you try not to think about it, you know exactly who else wears Alpine blue.

Your first race weekend as part of the Alpine engineering team feels surreal. The uniform fits perfectly — navy and white with your name embroidered just above the logo. The lanyard around your neck carries new weight.

Pierre can’t stop smiling when he sees you step out of the hotel that morning. “You look perfect,” he murmurs, stealing a quick kiss before the cameras find you.

“Professional,” you correct, grinning.

“Same thing,” he says easily, his hand brushing yours as you walk toward the paddock together.

Inside the garage, you’re instantly in your element — monitors humming, mechanics moving with precision, engineers cross-checking telemetry. You slide seamlessly into the rhythm, reviewing data from free practice, analyzing wind tunnel feedback, suggesting adjustments that actually get implemented.

And it works. For the first time in a long while, Alpine feels… sharp. Balanced. Competitive. Everyone notices. Even Esteban.

He keeps his distance at first — polite nods, brief exchanges during debriefs — but his eyes linger longer than they should. Watching you in that space, confident and capable, sparks something both admiring and painful in him.

He’s genuinely happy for you. He really is. But when he sees the way Pierre’s hand rests on your back as he leans in to whisper something that makes you laugh, the way you glow under the fluorescent lights — it’s a quiet kind of ache. The kind that has no right to still exist.

Race day comes, and Alpine is flying. Strategy clicks. Pit stops are smooth. Pierre finishes P4; Esteban, P5. Double points. The best result the team’s had all season.

When the checkered flag waves, the garage erupts — cheers, applause, the slap of hands on shoulders. Someone pops a bottle of champagne over the monitors. You’re in the middle of it all, flushed and beaming.

Pierre finds you first, pulling you into a hug that lifts you clean off your feet. “You did it, engineer,” he laughs into your ear, his voice full of pride.

“We did it,” you correct, cheeks warm.

Esteban approaches a moment later, his helmet tucked under his arm, still in his suit. “That new setup on the suspension—” he starts, smiling faintly, “—genius. Really made a difference.”

You blink, a little caught off guard but pleased nonetheless. “Thanks. You drove it beautifully.”

Pierre glances between you two, smiling, oblivious to the quiet current that hums beneath the exchange. “My girlfriend’s brilliant, huh?” he teases, nudging Esteban’s arm.

Esteban laughs softly, nodding. “Yeah. She is.”

For a fleeting second, your eyes meet — and something unspoken flickers there before you both turn away.

The celebration dinner is full of laughter, champagne, and congratulations. But later, when you and Pierre finally slip away to your hotel room, the quiet feels heavier — gentler, somehow.

You’re both exhausted, the adrenaline finally fading. He’s sitting on the bed, still half-dressed in team gear, scrolling through messages from friends and colleagues. You sit beside him, twisting your fingers nervously in your lap.

“Pierre?” you start softly.

He looks up immediately. “Yeah, mon amour?”

You take a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He sets his phone down, turning his full attention to you. “Okay.”

You exhale slowly. “It’s about Esteban.”

His brows lift slightly, but his expression remains calm. “Alright.”

You hesitate, searching for the right words. “Before you and I met… Esteban and I— we used to be together. A long time ago. When we were kids, really. It ended before I moved on with my career, before I met you. I just— I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else or think I was hiding it.”

Pierre watches you quietly, processing. Then, he nods once — slow, deliberate. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out, taking your hand gently. “It doesn’t change anything. You had a life before me, YN. So did I. What matters is that you’re here now. With me.”

The relief hits you like a wave, your chest loosening. “You’re really not upset?”

He smiles — small, sincere. “Only if it makes you uncomfortable. If working with him hurts you in any way, we’ll talk about it. But otherwise?” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I trust you. Completely.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t deserve you.”

He laughs quietly, pulling you into his chest. “You do. And for the record,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’m glad he gets to see how amazing you’ve become.”

You laugh softly, half-embarrassed, half in awe of him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head.

You stay like that for a long while — tangled together in the quiet, the city lights flickering outside the window, your heart finally still.

But later, when Pierre falls asleep with his arm draped over your waist, you find yourself staring at the ceiling, thinking about how easy he made it all seem. And wondering why, deep down, part of you doesn’t feel completely at peace yet.

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a few weeks later...

It starts small. Little things that no one else would notice.

The way Esteban’s gaze lingers across the garage a moment too long when you’re leaning over Pierre’s monitor, explaining the telemetry updates. The way your pulse jumps every time you hear his voice during debriefs — that same rhythm you once knew by heart.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re colleagues now. Adults. You’ve built something real with Pierre — something strong, something safe. You love him. You’re sure of that. But emotions don’t always listen to reason.

Three weeks later, Alpine heads into another race weekend, and the air in the paddock feels thick with heat and competition. Pierre’s been in form lately — two top-five finishes back-to-back — and Esteban’s pushing harder than ever to match him.

During FP2, they nearly collide in Turn 9. It’s nothing serious, just a close call, but when they return to the garage, the tension is unmistakable.

Pierre pulls off his gloves, shaking his head. “He cut in too early,” he mutters, more frustrated than angry.

Esteban, already out of his helmet, shoots back dryly, “Maybe if someone had checked their mirrors—”

“Maybe if someone remembered it’s practice and not the championship,” Pierre snaps.

You’re standing between them with a tablet in hand, pretending to review data you can’t even focus on. The engineers around you shift awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable.

You sigh softly, setting the tablet down. “Alright,” you say, keeping your tone calm, professional. “Telemetry shows both of you were within a tenth of the same braking point. It was close, but no harm done.”

Both men glance at you, then at each other. Pierre’s jaw relaxes first. Esteban just exhales, muttering something under his breath before walking off.

Later, when you pass him in the hallway, he slows just slightly, his voice low. “You always did have a way of calming me down.”

You pause. “I just did my job.”

He smiles faintly. “You always say that.”

And before you can respond, he’s gone.

You stand there for a beat longer than you should, wondering when he started looking at you like that again — like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.

That night, after the race briefing, you’re helping the team review tire degradation models. Most of the crew has gone to dinner, the garage quiet except for the low hum of machinery.

Esteban walks in halfway through, half in uniform, hair still damp from the shower. He smiles when he sees you. “Burning the midnight oil?”

You look up, startled but composed. “Someone has to make sure your car doesn’t fall apart tomorrow.”

He chuckles, leaning against the counter beside you. “You haven’t changed at all.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t either. Still impossible to keep off the throttle.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Then, for a moment, it’s silent — until he looks at you again, softer this time.

“Do you ever think about… back then?”

The words hang heavy in the air.

You glance down at the monitor, fingers tightening around your stylus. “Sometimes,” you admit. “But mostly I try not to.”

He nods, lips pressing together, as if he’s trying to respect a boundary but can’t quite help himself. “I never forgot it,” he says quietly. “Any of it.”

You swallow hard. “Esteban—”

He shakes his head, forcing a small smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t make things weird. I just… needed to say that once.”

You meet his eyes, searching for something to hold onto — but all you find is honesty. The same honesty that once broke your heart.

And that’s when Pierre’s voice echoes from the door.

“Mon cœur?”

You spin around, relief and guilt crashing together all at once. Pierre’s standing there, smiling — unaware of what he just walked into. “They’re closing the hospitality lounge soon. Thought you’d want dinner before everything shuts down.”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I just— I’ll grab my stuff.”

Esteban steps back, letting you pass. “Goodnight, YN.”

“Goodnight,” you murmur.

Pierre wraps an arm around your shoulders as you walk away, pressing a kiss to your temple. He talks about the new sim setup Alpine’s testing next week, but your mind’s somewhere else — replaying Esteban’s voice, his eyes, the weight of words you didn’t ask to hear.

The next morning, Pierre catches you staring absently at your tablet, lost in thought. He chuckles softly. “You’re zoning out again. Should I be jealous of the data?”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You? Never.”

But something in your voice makes him look closer — a faint hesitation he knows too well.

He sets his hand over yours. “You okay?”

You blink, snapping out of it. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He studies you for a moment longer but lets it go. “Alright. Just don’t burn yourself out. I need my favorite engineer at her best.”

You smile — genuinely this time — and lean up to kiss him. “Always.”

Still, later that afternoon, when Esteban’s car rolls into the garage after another strong session and you find yourself instinctively smiling at his feedback — that familiar warmth flickers again.

It’s nothing romantic. Not yet. Just history — the ghost of something that once mattered. But ghosts have a way of haunting the quiet places, the ones you thought were safe.

That night, after the race, Pierre finds you on the balcony of the hotel, sitting cross-legged with a glass of wine. The city glows below, soft and golden.

He joins you quietly, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “You were brilliant this weekend,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s saying you’ve changed the whole team dynamic already.”

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. “I’m just doing what I love.”

He hums softly, his thumb tracing circles on your arm. “Can I ask you something?”

You turn toward him. “Of course.”

“Are you sure you’re okay working with him?”

The question lands gently but hits deep. You look at him, surprised but not defensive. “Pierre…”

He shakes his head quickly. “I’m not angry, mon amour. I just see how he looks at you sometimes. And I know history isn’t something you can just switch off.”

You exhale slowly. “It’s complicated. But I promise — it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

He nods, kissing your forehead. “I believe you. I just needed to hear it.”

The two of you fall quiet again, the night wrapping around you like a secret. Still, when you finally go to bed, your dreams are full of overlapping voices — Pierre’s laughter, Esteban’s quiet confessions, and your own heart caught somewhere in between.

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There was a tension you could almost taste in the air — a subtle, humming current that ran through the Alpine garage every time the three of you were in the same room. Weeks had passed since the first time the walls between you, Pierre, and Esteban had cracked, and in that time, it had only gotten harder to pretend.

The jokes between the two Frenchmen had softened. The teasing glances lasted too long. When Esteban smiled at you during debriefs, Pierre’s jaw would tighten almost imperceptibly. When you touched Pierre’s hand under the hospitality table, Esteban’s voice would falter mid-sentence. You were all trying to play it off — to keep things professional, light, normal — but there was nothing normal about the way your heart jumped at both of them.

It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was history and possibility and something you didn’t have words for.

But then, the whispers started.

First, it was someone in comms mentioning that Esteban’s manager had been seen talking with another team. Then, the murmurs spread — that he might be in talks for a 2026 seat elsewhere. The minute you heard, your chest went tight.

You found him after hours, sitting in the quiet of the paddock, the light from the motorhome glowing faintly behind him.

“Are you really leaving?” you asked, voice soft but trembling.

Esteban didn’t look at you right away. “You shouldn’t have heard it like that.”

“That’s not a no.”

He sighed, looking down at his hands. “I just think it might be best. For everyone.”

Pierre arrived just then — still in his Alpine jacket, hair slightly messy, expression tight with worry. “So it’s true?”

Esteban’s laugh was hollow. “Depends on what version you’ve heard. That I’m leaving? That I can’t take this anymore?” His eyes flickered between the two of you. “Maybe both.”

You stepped closer. “If it’s because of me—”

“It’s not just you,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “But you’re part of it. You both are.” His voice cracked slightly. “Every time I try to tell myself it’s fine, that I can move on, one of you looks at me like that and—”

Pierre’s voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still wanted.”

That broke something in the air.

You felt tears sting the corners of your eyes as you reached for him. “Because you are, Esteban. You always have been.”

Pierre stepped closer too, his tone raw. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. None of this was supposed to happen like this.”

Esteban finally looked at you both, eyes full of a thousand unspoken things. “I still have feelings for you,” he said softly, looking at you. “But it’s not just that anymore. Somewhere along the way, I started feeling something for him too.” His eyes flicked toward Pierre, hesitant but honest. “And that’s the part that scares me the most.”

Pierre froze. You could see his breath catch.

“Esteban…” he whispered. “You should’ve told me.”

“How was I supposed to?” Esteban asked, voice breaking. “You’re my teammate, my friend, and you’re with her. I wasn’t going to destroy what you two have. I thought the only way to make it stop was to leave.”

You shook your head, stepping closer. “No. No, you’re not leaving. Not because of this, not because of us. I’ll quit before I let you do that, Esteban. You don’t run from people you care about.”

Pierre reached out then — one hand on your shoulder, the other tentatively brushing against Esteban’s arm. “We’ll figure it out. Somehow.”

For a moment, the three of you just stood there in silence — the night still around you, the tension slowly melting into something gentler.

You could see it in all your eyes — the exhaustion, the fear, the longing. None of you had the answers, but for the first time, there was honesty.

“I don’t know what this is,” Esteban said softly.

“Neither do we,” you admitted. “But it’s real. And that’s enough for now.”

Pierre nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “We’ll make it work. All of us.”

And somehow, in that dim corner of the paddock, where everything should’ve fallen apart — it felt like the three of you were finally starting to put it back together.

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The sun crept through the blinds of your Monaco apartment, cutting soft golden lines across the rumpled sheets. It was too quiet — the kind of stillness that came after something irreversible.

Pierre was the first to stir. You could feel him shift behind you, his hand finding your waist instinctively, thumb tracing small circles against your skin. On the other side, Esteban exhaled softly, the warmth of his body still close enough to feel. The three of you hadn’t meant for last night to end like that — with confessions and tears and then, somehow, a quiet comfort that had led here.

It wasn’t messy or rushed. It was just… human. Honest.

For a long moment, no one said anything. You could hear the distant hum of the city waking up outside, but none of you moved.

Finally, Esteban broke the silence. “We’re really bad at ignoring things, huh?”

Pierre let out a tired laugh against your shoulder. “Très mauvais.”

You smiled faintly but didn’t open your eyes. “I don’t think ignoring it was ever going to work. Not with us.”

Esteban turned slightly, looking at you both — his expression a mix of wonder and uncertainty. “Last night felt like something we shouldn’t have done… but I don’t regret it.”

You met his gaze, heart squeezing. “Neither do I.”

Pierre nodded slowly, sitting up just enough to look at both of you. “We needed it. To stop pretending. To stop running from it.”

You could see the conflict in Esteban’s face — the professional side of him already worrying, calculating the consequences. “We still have to race together. Work together. This doesn’t just go away because we feel something.”

Pierre reached for him then — just a hand on his arm, grounding. “Then we don’t let it ruin that. We talk, we trust, we protect each other. We’ve always done that, haven’t we?”

Esteban looked down at where Pierre’s hand rested against his skin. “Yeah. We have.”

The room went quiet again. You sat up between them, pulling the sheets closer around your chest, your voice gentle but firm. “We don’t have to label it. We don’t even have to explain it yet. But none of us should keep pretending this doesn’t matter. You’re both too important to me for that.”

Pierre’s hand found yours. Esteban’s followed, hesitant at first, but then sure. Three sets of fingers intertwined, warm and trembling and real.

“I don’t know how this works,” Esteban said softly. “I’ve never… done this.”

“Neither have we,” you said, smiling a little through the ache in your chest. “But maybe we don’t need to have it figured out yet. Maybe it’s enough to just care.”

Pierre squeezed both your hands, his expression soft. “Then that’s what we do. We care. We try.”

Outside, the sun had fully risen now — light spilling over the balcony, catching in Esteban’s hair, glinting off the curve of Pierre’s jaw. You wanted to freeze the moment — the fragile peace of it, the quiet understanding that something had shifted between the three of you.

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It had been weeks since everything changed — since the three of you stopped running from the truth and decided to start building something together. Somehow, it worked.

The tension had turned to quiet comfort, the uncertainty into trust. You found a rhythm — morning coffees before briefings, stolen touches in the Alpine garage when no one was looking, long nights filled with laughter and shared exhaustion. For the first time in years, Esteban looked lighter. Pierre couldn’t stop smiling. And you? You were exactly where you were meant to be.

Race day came with the kind of buzz that only happens when everyone knows it’s going to be special. The car setup was perfect. The strategy was clean. The energy in the garage was magnetic.

“Big day, mon cœur?” Pierre asked that morning, slipping behind you and kissing your temple as you checked over data one last time.

“Big day,” you said with a grin. “Let’s make it count.”

He winked. “For you? Always.”

Esteban passed by, catching the exchange, and laughed softly. “You two are ridiculous,” he teased — but the fondness in his tone betrayed him.

“Just jealous,” Pierre shot back.

“Maybe,” Esteban said under his breath, and the three of you shared one last look before helmets went on and engines roared to life.

By the time lights went out, your pulse was hammering louder than the crowd. You watched from the pit wall, headset on, voice calm but heart racing as the two Alpines held strong — lap after lap, strategy after strategy executed flawlessly.

And then it happened. P1 and P2. Across the line. Side by side.

For a moment, the world went silent — and then it erupted. Screams, cheers, blue and pink confetti bursting through the air. You were on your feet before you even realized it, laughter breaking out of you, tears slipping down your cheeks as you pulled off your headset.

They were both out of the cars within seconds, sprinting toward you — still in their helmets, adrenaline burning in their eyes. You barely had time to brace yourself before Pierre swept you up, spinning you around as Esteban wrapped his arms around both of you from behind.

You could hear the crowd roaring louder, camera flashes bursting all around. But none of you cared. Not about the optics, not about the questions that would come later.

Just this. Your boys, their victory, your team.

Esteban pressed his forehead against yours, both of you laughing breathlessly, Pierre’s hand still at your waist. “We did it,” he said, voice rough with disbelief.

“No,” you smiled, “you did it.”

“We,” Pierre corrected softly, eyes gleaming. “All of us.”

You watched them climb the podium a few minutes later, side by side under the French flag, champagne spraying into the air. You’d seen so many podiums before, but none had ever felt like this. The pride in your chest was overwhelming.

Pierre caught your eye from the top step, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. Esteban’s gaze found yours too, softer but just as full of emotion. He reached over and bumped Pierre’s shoulder — a small, unspoken thank you that said more than words ever could.

Later that night, when the celebrations died down and the cameras were gone, you found yourselves curled up in your hotel room — still wearing their Alpine shirts, smelling faintly of champagne and sweat and victory.

Pierre was on one side, his arm slung lazily over your stomach. Esteban lay on your other side, fingers laced with yours, his head resting against your shoulder. The air was quiet, warm, and safe.

“Never thought I’d see the day we’d all end up like this,” Esteban murmured, voice half-asleep.

Pierre chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Esteban said softly, smiling into your skin. “It’s perfect.”

You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to his forehead, then another to Pierre’s hand. “It really is,” you whispered.

Outside, the streets glittered against the night — the city alive with celebration, the sound of laughter still echoing faintly from below.

But inside that quiet hotel room, the three of you had everything you’d ever wanted. Love, peace, and the soft, infinite warmth of finding your way back to each other. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending. It just felt right.

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