#senna!oc

"What do you mean he doesn't know about it?"

Franco took a deep breath, massaging his own scalp as his friend and co-worker continued talking, a mix of excitement and judgment in his words.

"You are not making this any better," he mouthed.

"You are dating his daughter! You are da-ting. The man's daughter. Like... The man's daughter. The hell haven't you met her family!?"

"I am scared, okay!? If I get rejected by her family... It's not just my girlfriend's family. It's simply Senna himself! Should I what!? Drop the job? Hide in a cave?"

Alex laughed, the words and the tone easing the tension. The guy was worried to death and things might be simpler than he thought. Everyone knew Senna was a fun person.

Dating Cecília Senna felt almost like marrying into royalty. It's a good feeling, though. Bagging Cecília Senna could easily be added to one of Franco's big achievements — and he's a former F2 driver called in last minute to fill a Formula One seat — and he's doing great.

But still, it's Cecília Senna, the only child of a legend, someone he looked up to growing up, someone he saw in the paddock many times before ending up in his daughter's sheets.

"Hello, everyone!"

God, his heart might have dropped to the floor just now. The retired driver walked into the garage happily, with his daughter attached to his arm and waving familiarly.

Everyone gathered around them immediately, though Cecília's eyes instantly met Franco's. She knew he was scared and had made fun of him until she couldn't anymore, teasing him in every way she could.

"I've heard the news on the Argentinian! You guys are lucky you got away easily!"

Alright, it's time to pray. What news? That he's fucking his daughter? That they meet every week? That she wanted a Williams' box pass so badly just because of him? Or... That they hid it from everyone just to gain a bit more time?

"We got quality, mate! That's it." Vowels took his cue to fill in the blank, the people dispersing and going back to their work. "Found the kid sparring and made him a beast."

"Yeah, of course," the Brazilian laughed. "What's up, buddy! Feeling the pressure?"

Franco mentally cursed Cecília for raising her eyebrows and doubling the meaning of the question, but he managed to stand up and dry his sweaty hands on his pants.

"I try not to, honestly. Not... think about it a lot," he said, feeling he could have worded the sentence a bit better as they shook hands.

"That's the spirit! I heard a lot about you, little man. Do you know my daughter? Cecília?"

Tricky question. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tricky question.

If he had heard about it, then he knew about them. Franco could say "yes" and end up with a lecture, or say "no" and be caught in a lie.

"You guys think you are smart, huh? Fooling around, hiding from cameras..."

Oh, it's over. It's over for him. The "drop the job and hide in a cave" plan was almost running in his veins right now. Maybe he should Sebastian Vettel his way around, retire early, and move to a countryside home in Switzerland. Yes, that's a good plan.

"Pai... Para com isso." Cecília shoved her dad's side, rolling her eyes. (Dad... Stop that.)

"What? You guys thought you got away with it?"

"Pai! Ele tá ficando sem graça!" she insisted. (Dad! He's getting uncomfortable!)

Franco thought of speaking up, but the nerves were all up and maybe he should let it be.

"Yeah! He should!" Ayrton still had a serious look on his face, making Franco shiver.

"Pai, sério." (Dad, I'm serious.)

"Sir, I know it—"

"Come on, Franquinho! I'm fooling around, take that scared look off your face!" In a matter of seconds, Ayrton's grin turned into a playful smile, and his arm was hooked over Franco's shoulder, messing up his hair and leaving him even more confused. "Did I scare you? You should have seen your eyes!"

Franco laughed, still a bit dulled. That was a big one.

"You're a bastard," Cecília rolled her eyes once again, aware of the father she had.

The man was a natural jokester, full of little jokes and loved making uncomfortable scenarios in the name of fun. He was a handful.

"And you guys should have told me about this before! You lost it all, Franquinho. Angra, the travels... You need to be introduced to the family!"

He had heard about Angra; the beach house Cecília went to every now and then, how much she and her father loved the place. He even saw an old interview where Ayrton said that his retirement plans included being "Angra's nature inspector."

"Yeah- Yeah, sim." Franco risked some Portuguese, patting Ayrton on the back before they both stepped apart. "Sorry for... for taking too long to meet you, I was- Damn, you got me good."

"I could see!" Senna didn't waste a single laugh. "Don't worry, little boy. You're a good investment. And Cecília is pretty happy, so... you got my support."

"I'm even happier to hear it." Franco chuckled. "Thank you, very much. Your daughter also makes me really happy."

"Of course! Her bad jokes make everyone laugh." Ayrton kept the teasing going. "Now you better show me some racing! I've been in your place and to keep the daughter you need to be as good as dad!"

"You should have seen your face, baby!"

Franco glanced at his girlfriend as he turned his head, their first alone time since the morning's humiliation session.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he mouthed, shirt off and focus switching. "That was traumatizing."

"I told you he's a clown." Her shoulders went up a bit. "But he wasn't lying at the end! He likes you!"

"I got that part. Now I know where you got that dark humor from." The blue-eyed boy stood in the middle of his room, hands on his waist as he let his girlfriend use her eyes.

"What can I say? I am my father's daughter." She smiled mischievously. "He wants you to spend some time, though. Before Vegas, maybe?"

"I could've Max Verstappen my way around and have stayed for the week... But we waited until your dad could scare me to death in the middle of the box so... Yeah, it can be next week." He started simple, voice steady.

But then Cecília approached and her hands liked to touch. All over his torso while she traced a good way for his hair.

"You ain't seen nothing yet." The smile was still on her face, lips coming closer and closer to his. "But I am really happy, you know? Now we can just be and enjoy some time... I can take you to Angra, and I don't need to hide in your driver's room. I was done with pretending I was investing in Williams just so I had a reason to watch the races here."

"Told you about it... You could afford my seat."

Another joke. Ever since he got into F1 as an emergency call, she did say she only had to call her dad and his 2025 seat would be secured.

"You're gonna get it because you deserve it, I am not affording that." She flashed her eyelashes, rimming a single syllable as his hands also started to travel.

Inside her expensive shirt, up and down her back in good pressure before they found room at her waist.

"You know what else I deserve?"

"You freak! Go shower and I'll be waiting for you outside. My dad is around!"

It took them no time. Within weeks, Ayrton and Franco became partners in crime, and suddenly, Cecília was having a taste of her own medicine.

"Turn it off! Now!" Ayrton whispered in a screaming tone, the last signal Franco needed before turning off the power for the whole house.

Cecília had just come back from the beach and Franco finally knew the Angra house. It was dark, and the prank was not very well planned.

"Porra." (Shit.) they heard the Brazilian swearing. "Que inferno, de novo? PAAAAI?" (What the hell, again? DAAAAD?)

He knew some words in Portuguese and it only made it funnier. Him and his father-in-law were hiding in the small laundry room as Cecília searched for them.

"Ready, kid?"

"No, but I'll do it anyways."

"Good kid. You're a great one." The old man, as a new custom, messed with the Argentinian's hair, before opening the door and waiting for him to leave.

"Eu juro, se vocês estiverem armando pra cima de mim eu— Ah— FRANCO! NO!" (I swear, if you guys are planning something against me I—)

He's fast even with his limited knowledge about the furniture in the house, walking in the dark before he could lift her and throw her over his shoulder.

It's the fourth time she's thrown in the pool and she just knows it's her father opening the glass door for the exterior area before she's sinking in cold water.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU ALL!" Cecília screamed. "I JUST WASHED MY HAIR! OH MY GOD! PUTTING YOU TWO TOGETHER WAS THE WORST THING I EVER DID!"

"Não reclama, princesinha..." (Don't you complain, little princess...) her father played, now standing besides her boyfriend. "Bate aqui, you passed the test. Welcome to the family." (High five,)

"I hate you guys. Eu odeio vocês, los odio. Whatever. Don't ever talk to me again." Cecília stomped her way out of the pool, walking straight past them.

"Don't get mad, baby... It's just a joke!"

"Well, boy... It's your girlfriend. Go ease her nerves. You're called Colapinto for a reason."

17 December 2020 Aston Martin Headquarters Silverstone, United Kingdom

THE SOUND OF her car engine roaring is one of the most beautiful things in the world. That is what Noêmia Senna Borges believes. The rush of adrenaline it sends coursing through her veins just to hear it purr as she presses on the accelerator is like nothing she has ever experienced – and ever will experience again. Children often cry at loud noises, but infant Noa had delighted in the roar of her father's Formula 1 car when he took her, perched on his shoulder as he walked around the paddock, to his final races before he retired. So it isn't an overstatement to say – she was born to drive.

It's a car of emerald green, not red as she had always hoped, that flies around the legendary Silverstone track on her final lap of the day. Noa likes to think that a Ferrari would feel like home beneath her hands – like an extension of herself. The Aston Martin she brings back into the garage isn't quite there yet, though, hearing her lap times replayed through the radio, it doesn't sound a long way off. Engineers and strategists bustle all around her as she steps through the garage, pulling her balaclava over her head, and letting her now unruly curls fall down around her shoulders. A few compliment her on her drive, but most stick to appreciative smiles or nods. Noa is perfectly content with that. She's been raised to accept praise when given, but never to seek it. She drives for herself, not for validation.

Her time on the track is over for the day, so Noa stays behind in the garage to watch Sebastian's test laps. She settles in her own little corner, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of his engineering team to be at peace, but equally, close enough that she can pick up on snippets of their data feedback. With her water bottle in her hand and her balaclava drawn up to her nose to ward off the cold (though she keeps having to pull it down to take sips from the straw) Noa goes almost unnoticed. That is, until her PR manager, Raffaella Di Angelo, appears to remind her of their scheduled afternoon meeting. She assures her she won't be late, and sends the Italian woman on her way again gladly, as her focus switches back to the emerald green car hurtling around the track. Raffaella shakes her head when she leaves. She's worked with a few Formula 1 drivers in her time, but they are all the same – hooked on the need for speed.

Sebastian's lap times are only marginally better than hers. This in itself seems to give her a spurt of hope, and she leaves the garage positively beaming. He tells her afterwards that she is one of the best rookies he's ever come across – Noa knows, of course, the other name that resides on Sebastian Vettel's prestigious list, but she chooses to ignore that for the moment. Nothing, not even him, can ruin this for her.

"You know, if you wanted to, we could compare our notes sometime." He says as they come to a halt in the lobby, and she turns to look him in the eye properly, "I often find it useful just to talk everything through with someone else."

"I'll definitely take you up on that offer." Noa smiles up at him, "I've – uh – got a meeting with Raffaella right now, though. And then I'm going to see a... friend in London. Could we take a rain check?"

"Yeah, no problem." Sebastian says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Just come find me whenever you want. My door's always open."

Noa laughs, "Ok. I'll hold you to that."

He leaves her with a wave as he speeds off into the car park, where his Suzuki GT 750 is parked (because of course he drives a motorcycle to work). She watches until he is no more than a dot on the horizon, before turning back inside.

The marketing and media team's headquarters is normally bustling with activity, but today, it seems uncharacteristically quiet. Noa figures it must be because testing for the month is coming to an end – Christmas is approaching, after all, and people have families to spend time with. Though, of course, Raffaella stays. It only seems right, even if she hasn't known her for all that long, the PR manager is the most diligent, hardworking person she's ever met. There aren't many people in Formula 1 as young as her already so high up in the ranks, but Noa understands perfectly why she is the exception. Even now, when the rest of her team have headed home for the holidays, she sits in her pristine office, sorting through her perfectly arranged files as if there is nowhere else in the world she would rather be. Noa refuses to believe that's true, but she is grateful for it anyway.

"Hey." The driver says as she pushes open the door to Raffaella's office. Her PR manager looks up, "Taking the late shift today?" she teases.

"You know I'm always on the late shift." Raffaella rolls her eyes playfully, "I like it better when it's quiet – I can actually hear myself think."

Noa laughs. She takes her seat at the desk, opposite the Italian, who takes a moment to glance over the papers in front of her once more. Then she looks up, a smile gracing her face. The gold-rimmed glasses she always wears slip down her nose slightly, but she doesn't push them back up.

"So, just to recap everything from the last few meetings." She beams, "Your public image is skyrocketing, just as we predicted. Of course, your family name does have something to do with that, but it's mostly you."

I should hope so, Noa thinks, fighting off the urge to raise an eyebrow.

Contrary to popular belief, it isn't all bad being the only woman on the grid – or at least, not for her. Of course, she knows her family name has a significant part to play in that, but she genuinely believes it's not just her status as Gabriel Borges' daughter, or Ayrton Senna's niece that has earned her such worldwide recognition as she's getting now. The female audience in Formula 1 is growing massively; more than it has ever grown before, and that audience needs a role model to look towards. Many people have named her as this role model, this heiress to the throne of growth in women's motorsport.

"You're the perfect example." Raffaella had said to her the last time they met, "You've got everything: confidence, a pretty face, the right family name, and – more importantly – bucketloads of talent. There's a reason the fans are betting on you to become F1's next wonderkid. You quite literally have everything going for you."

From a media perspective it's true – Noa is gold dust. The product of two of the sport's greats; a generational talent, fighting against the stereotypes, strongarming her way to a Formula 1 seat like it's predestined that she should sit there. It's so simple really. Every big name nowadays is looking to support the minority (for the right reasons or not still remains to be seen). Fans have been concerned about the lack of female presence in motorsports for decades, and that concern is now beginning to escalate. In a society where women are re-gaining their deserved power, it would be, frankly, nothing short of a death wish to shun one of the movement's most influential and powerful figureheads.

Noa can't help but think sometimes, despite the difficulties she's faced actually getting to this point, perhaps being the only woman on the grid might even play into her hands. No one, no matter how good she is, ever truly expects her to be able to beat these men at their own game. Therefore she has absolutely nothing to lose. And if she does well – which she fully intends to do, and more – then her legacy on the sport will be just as lasting as either her father's or her uncle's. The first female World Champion; immortalised in the history books.

Make no mistake, Noa adores her family. Her idols. Gabriel and Ayrton have both played such a huge role in getting her to where she is today, and she'll forever be grateful for that. But sometimes, all she wants is to finally step out of their great, looming shadows – perhaps cast her own for a change. Make a name for herself. Noa doesn't want to be known as Gabriel Borges' daughter or Ayrton Senna's niece for the rest of her life. She wants her own piece of Formula 1 history, that will be remembered years later, just as they are.

"I can turn you into the biggest star this sport has seen in decades." Raffaella says earnestly, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement, "All you have to do is drive like I already know you can. Let me handle the rest."

Noa grins widely. This is the beginning of a new chapter in her life; she can feel it. A chapter where she finally gets to see all her dreams — which not so long ago, she had feared were unattainable — finally accomplished. The setbacks of the past year will be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory. All she has to do now is keep looking forward.

"We've actually received a new contract proposition from a potential sponsor." Raffaella goes on, waiting just a moment to properly let her words sink in, "It's a big one."

Noa sits up straighter. A thrill of something like electricity shoots down her spine.

"Well don't keep me waiting!" she huffs when Raffaella keeps quiet for a few seconds, dragging out the suspense too much for her liking. She's never been a patient person — least of all with something like this. The Italian woman giggles.

"Dio, I can't believe I'm even saying this." she begins. Her own excitement is building up so much now that it leaves her a little short of breath, "You're gonna lose my mind when I tell you —"

"Just say it, caralho!" Noa cuts her off shrilly. Raffaella fights off the urge to burst out laughing again.

"Ok, ok!" she concedes, holding her hands up in surrender when the driver makes half a move as if to dive across the table and shake the withheld information out of her, "Chanel wants you to be the new face of No. 5!"

Noa's jaw all but drops open.

Holy shit.

"You're joking?" she laughs. It's disbelieving, and her hands fly automatically to cover her mouth, "Me? They want me?"

"Yes, you." Raffaella chuckles.

"...But why?"

Of all the people in the world who have been offered this opportunity in the past, Noa never for one second believed she would be asked to join them. Nicole Kidman. Brad Pitt. Even Marilyn Monroe herself. What put her, a promising but unproven rookie up with the likes of them?

"Why do you think?" Raffaella scoffs, as if her simply asking the question is ridiculous, "You're the daughter and niece of two of the greatest Formula 1 drivers ever. Let's not forget, you look like a model — the perfect poster girl. That's what brands like this look for: someone who everyone wants to either be or be with. Besides that, the world is crying out for more female role models like you. Chanel is just giving the people what they want. By sponsoring you, investing in you, they're also investing in one of the biggest industries in the world, with one of the richest fanbases! It's a no-brainer!"

Noa sits dumbfounded, listening to her PR manager with an expression of half-formed joy mixed with confusion, and utter shock. She opens her mouth to say something — although what, she isn't exactly sure of — but Raffaella is speaking again before the words have chance to form on her lips.

"You don't have to make a decision about it now, so don't worry." she assures her with a gentle smile, "If you want to sign the contract, you'll have to do it in London by no later than March of next year."

It takes Noa a moment to come to her senses, but as soon as the word contract is mentioned, she is brought back to reality with a jolt. Why does she even need to think about an offer like this? It's every girl's dream, is it not? To be the face of a brand that legendary. Surely she would be stupid not the drive into London right now and sign that contract on the spot.

So then why does Raffaella suddenly look so nervous?

"The reason I'm giving you time to think about this is that — well, there's a catch." the Italian woman sighs, her furrowed eyebrows softening in sympathy, "The deal has two parts: two partners, if you will. The first being you, and the second..." she trails off, wincing, "...the second being Charles Leclerc."

And just like that, every ounce of elation that had filled Noa's body at Raffaella's initial announcement dissipates into the open air. Of course it has to be him. Despite everything, he's the one person she doesn't seem to be able to forget about. It's like the universe is trying to torture her.

"Obviously Chanel is aware of your friendship." Raffaella continues hastily, deciding to take her silence as an opportunity to get a word in edgeways before the arguing starts, "Or, former friendship, that is..."

"They clearly didn't get the memo about that part." Noa grumbles under her breath.

"You wouldn't have to see him much." the PR manager reasons, "The contracts are separate for the most part, but there are a couple of overlaps, since you're representing the same brand. Photoshoots, a few interviews — nothing too invasive, though, I'll make that clear — maybe a public appearance at a gala or two later on in the season..." she trails off again. The frequent silences are beginning to make Noa's skin crawl, for the simple fact that it gives her too much time to think about the situation; to think about him.

"Like I said, you don't have to make any decisions right now—"

"It's ok." she cuts Raffaella off quickly, a weak smile appearing on her face that has the PR manager sighing with relief, "You'll have to give me a couple of weeks to, uh...weigh up my options." she looks away, biting down on her lower lip anxiously — a bad habit from her childhood, "I know what you're thinking. I'd be mad to turn it down."

Noa knows she would be. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and she's sure that if she doesn't take it, Chanel will have plenty of other people lined up who will.

"I just need to work out a couple of things with him first."

That's the sticking point. Given the way her friendship with Charles ended (and the unpleasant fallout following it) Noa doesn't even know if she's ready to see him again without punching him in the face. She doesn't have that much restraint, but especially not around him. Though once it had been one of her favourite things about him, it's now the thing that could potentially land her a lawsuit — her emotions are always dialled up to eleven whenever Charles Leclerc is around.

Raffaella pauses, a frown slowly pinching at her skin, drawing her perfectly arched eyebrows together, "Have you not spoken to him? At all?"

Noa's face falls. Almost in an instant, she begins to backtrack.

"Sorry, I know it's a sensitive subject —"

"It's ok." the driver repeats with a humourless laugh, "I haven't spoken to him since 2018. Not for lack of trying..." she trails off with a shake of her head, not wanting to dig up old graves when she should have well and truly buried them long ago, "But I'll figure something out. I promise."

Slowly, Raffaella nods. She seems to be trying to read Noa's face for a moment, her eyes squinting from behind her glasses. All she sees is that her words are truth. A small smile graces her lips — almost proud. If only she knew, Noa doesn't have any intention of figuring it out any time soon.

They move on from the topic of Charles before it can dampen the mood anymore. She's still curious about this sudden contract offer. It's so out of the blue, Noa doesn't know quite what to make of it. She half expects the day to turn out to be one of those dreams that seem so realistic at the time, that when you wake up, you miss the fantasy world like you have actually lived it. Noa waits and waits for reality to kick in — but it never does.

"Is it not a bit of a risky move?" she asks, biting down on her lower lip once again, "I mean, I haven't even made my full debut yet. What if I turn out to be a complete failure?" half-joking, she laughs. The sound is hollow.

"Oh, come on." Raffaella scoffs, "Let's be real here. You're a Senna Borges. You couldn't be a failure even if you tried."

The words are supposed to console her — they should console her. But Noa merely feels the old yet familiar sensation of doubt, like someone's bony fingers inching up her spine. She banishes it just as quickly. It's not the time to re-open that wound.

Soon enough, her hours at the factory are up. As it turns out, Raffaella is even more of a workaholic than she'd first thought, merely brushing away her offers of a lift back to her hotel when she laughed about how her old Kia Picanto is stuck in the garage for repairs, so she'll have to travel back by taxi — if she can even get one all the way out here. But no matter how much Noa insists, Raffaella's answer is always the same.

She leaves the stubborn Italian still working in her office with a disbelieving shake of her head, already making a mental note to get her to let loose a little bit when the season starts — she'll have Raffaella partying like a Brazilian before the end of the year, she swears it. Besides, there's really no better environment to do it in than at a Formula 1 after party; with the pick of the best clubs, the strongest alcohol, and the most glamorous company. Never mind Raffaella, Noa can't wait to get back to her old party lifestyle. God knows, she needs a pick-me-up after the year she's had.

The drive into London doesn't take too long; no more than an hour and a half, and her brand new Aston Martin DB11 makes light work of the journey. She types the address of the café where they arranged to meet into the car's built-in sat nav. It's low profile, out of the centre of London where the only people they're likely to bump into will most likely not even bat an eyelid at their presence. Noa is glad of that.

She climbs out of her car, locking it behind her, when the little café finally comes into view. There are a few people inside she can see, but no sign of him yet — she assumes he must be sat somewhere out of her eye-line, as he texted her not even a few minutes ago to let her know he was inside. The bell at the top of the door jingles as she pushes it open, smiling at the woman at the counter who greets her. Noa's eyes wander briefly around the room. It takes her a few moments to spot him, sat placidly in a booth in the corner of the room, but when she does, her face lights up.

As if he can sense her eyes on him, Arthur Leclerc is looking her way in the next instant. He shoots up from his seat, striding over to meet her halfway. He looks nervous, Noa notices. His mouth opens and closes as if he's searching within himself for something to say, but can't quite find the words.

In truth, Arthur is nervous. This is the first time he's seen his best friend, his sister in over two years. Sure, they've kept in touch a little, sending messages here and there for birthdays and family holidays, but it isn't the same. He misses the days that Noa and her family would be round at his house between every race, and the summer breaks they would spend lounging by the beach in Rio de Janeiro. Though they're long gone now, they live in his memory as clearly as if they happened yesterday. Arthur knows, of course, the reason why they can never happen again — thanks to his idiot of a brother — but that never stops him from wishing he could go back in time and stop everything from playing out in the way that it has. Charles often forgets, whenever Noa is brought up in conversation, that the rest of his family loved her too. He isn't the only one who lost his best friend.

Despite the overwhelming urge Arthur has to both cry and apologise profusely at the same time when he sees her walk towards him, he ends up not having to do either of those things — Noa makes the decision for him, as she jumps into his arms without hesitation. It feels so natural to rest his head on her shoulder, as she presses a tender kiss to the side of his head. It's just like how things used to be.

"I missed you, 'Thur." she whispers.

Arthur echoes the words back to her. He can't help but hold on that little bit tighter, desperate to savour this moment for as long as he can. After all, there's no guarantee that, after everything, they will be able to do this again once the season starts.

The other café-goers are beginning to stare, so they soon take their seats opposite each other in the booth. There's no time to talk further, as a waiter soon wanders over to take their orders. It comes as a surprise to Noa that Arthur's coffee order hasn't changed, even after two years — a nutella mocha with chocolate flakes sprinkled on top. Pretty much the sweetest coffee he ever could have picked. She can't help but tease him about his infamous sweet tooth, which she remembers got him into trouble frequently when they were younger. Arthur rolls his eyes fondly, before she orders a simple black coffee.

He starts off the conversation nervously again. It's been so long since they last properly talked in person, and he knows she's changed a lot in those two years. Even if he didn't know all the reasons why, he would have been able to tell anyway. Something in Noa's eyes has changed dramatically. They're duller than Arthur remembers — that bright, mischievous spark has faded. He's familiar with it, of course, because he watched the same thing happen to his own brother's eyes after their father's death; but it's so drastic in Noa. She had always been able to light up a room with her eyes and smile, almost like she was the sun. Now it's as if someone has turned down a dimmer on her glow. She's just a shadow of what she used to be, and that worries Arthur.

"I'm good, everyone's good." she says in reply to his question: How are you and your family? It feels too formal, but it's all he can think to say. Besides, the words that come out of Noa's mouth are a lie, and he knows it, "Pai's still fixing up those old cars — remember the garage he opened that one summer? Yeah that's still going strong."

But as much as Arthur wants to call her out, to ask her how she's really feeling, he can't bring himself to. So he merely lets her talk.

"We got a puppy for mãe's birthday to keep her company at home when we're away." Noa continues with a small smile, "A German Shepherd called Paco. He's adorable."

She shows him a picture on her phone, and they both spend a few minutes cooing over videos of the tiny puppy tripping over things on his still slightly wobbly legs. Noa makes some throwaway comment about taking him to meet Paco, but Arthur doesn't hold her to the words. He knows how unlikely she is to stick to them.

"Oh! Did I tell you Luiz has got a girlfriend now?" Noa says with a sudden gasp. She knew there was something she needed to tell him, but for someone reason, the memory had completely escaped her until now. Arthur's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, and he slaps a hand over his mouth dramatically.

"You're joking! No way he beat me to it." the Monégasque says with a small, defeated sigh, making Noa giggle loudly. It almost takes Arthur off guard — he hasn't heard her laugh in so long.

"It's as much of a shock to me as it is to you." she muses, shaking her head in disbelief, "She's really nice, as well — his girlfriend. Her name's Eloísa. She's a painter."

Noa met her little brother Luiz's girlfriend in the summer, about a month after they first started dating. At first, she'd thought they might be moving a bit quick, considering this was their first proper relationship for the both of them, but as soon as she caught sight of Eloísa dos Santos Alves, Noa somehow knew she was perfect for her brother. And sure enough, almost six months later, they're still going strong.

Eloísa is the chalk to Luiz's cheese, in the best way possible. She's the only person Noa has ever met who can balance out his excitable, erratic nature, with her calm, soothing presence and soft voice. Equally, Luiz helps to bring her out of her shell a little, making her feel more comfortable being outspoken in front of unfamiliar people in a way she never would be otherwise. Noa has watched them communicate with no more than looks in their eyes across the dining room table. The level of trust they've managed to build in their relationship already is like nothing she's ever seen, except for in her parents. Sometimes, Noa quietly wonders to herself if she will ever experience something like that — but she never lets her mind linger on it for too long. She'll only end up upsetting herself.

“Tell him the next time we see each other he’s got to give up his secrets.” Arthur says, only half-joking, “There’s no way he’s managed to pull this girl without some level of coercion, right?”

Noa snorts in a distinctly unrefined manner at that, earning her more than a few strange looks.

“Aww, I’m sure you’ll find a girl stupid enough to put up with you at some point, ‘Thur.” she tells him in a voice of mock-sympathy, reaching forwards to pinch his cheek. He slaps her hand away.

“Or I’ll be single forever.” He retorts glumly. Noa can’t help but shake her head at his dramatics. It’s something in the Leclerc genes, she thinks.

“Well, then we can both be single forever together.” she offers brightly, a smile lighting up her face, but once again not quite reaching his eyes. Arthur tilts his head to one side curiously.

“So no boyfriend?” he asks.

Noa’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink, “That’s a conversation for another time.” she mutters. For the moment, Arthur lets it slide. She’s right, they have more important things to talk about, and he thinks that now is as good a time as any to broach the topic he’s been trying to avoid this whole time.

Though, surprisingly, Noa beats him to it.

“There’s actually something else I need to tell you.” she sighs quietly, internally readying herself for a difficult conversation. Arthur’s ears almost prick up, sensing the newfound seriousness in her voice, and sits up straighter in his seat, “It involves Charles, so I thought you should know.”

He doesn’t miss the way Noa winces at the mere mention of his name. It’s the saddest thing of all, he thinks. Once, not so long ago, he’d watched her face radiate happiness and adoration whenever Charles was brought up in conversation. Now it’s as if just thinking about it him pains her. Though intrigued by this surprise announcement, Arthur can’t help the terror that runs up his spine as he waits with bated breath for her to keep talking. He’s reminded awfully of their last conversation, where Noa could barely even string a sentence together between her sobs of pure rage. Incidentally, that was the last time either she or Charles spoke of each other to him. It’s been radio silence ever since.

“I’ve been offered a sponsorship deal to become the new face of Chanel No.5.” Noa blurts out suddenly, all in one breath. Arthur freezes for a split second. His brain seems to lag behind as it tries to process the words that have just come out of her mouth. Now, he may not know a lot about fashion or brands, but he does know Chanel, and he does have a rough idea of the kind of celebrities who have represented them before. It takes him a moment to shake himself out of his stupor, but as soon as he does, pure joy fills his body and creeps onto his face in the form of a smile so wide it makes his cheeks ache.

“Noa! Merde, that’s incredible!” he cries. The briefest of smiles passes across her face, but it does not last nearly as long as he would have thought, and its soon replaced by anxiety. Arthur’s own grin begins to fall off his face, “Why am I sensing there’s a but in here somewhere…”

The corners of Noa’s mouth twitch up ruefully, “Charles has been offered the same contract.” She explains, “Which means that we'll have to — well, we'll be doing a lot of promotional stuff together...photoshoots and interviews, that kind of thing."

Arthur winces.

“So you see why I have a bit of a problem?” Noa laughs humourlessly, “This is…an incredible opportunity, but – I don’t know if I can do it with him there. Not yet, anyway.” She sighs wearily, running a hand through her unruly curls. Her balaclava has knotted it even more than usual, and her fingers snag more than a few tangles before they can brush through the ends, “And that’s not even considering how he’s going to react to all this.” her teeth sink into her lower lip, hard enough that she knows she’s in danger of drawing blood, “Has he said anything?” she asks, her voice filled with anxiety.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head slowly, “He doesn’t really tell us much now, to be honest. But Noa…” he trails off with a quiet sigh, pausing for just a moment to contemplate his next words, “…Surely it’s not worth giving this up just because of a feud.”

For a split second, she feels annoyance flare up in her chest. It’s a flash of white hot flame running from the base of her spine upwards, lingering over her heart. But just as soon as she feels it, she pushes the sensation down. Arthur means well, she knows that – and if she’s being honest, he’s right.

“I know, I know.” She concedes, “It still hurts, though. I don’t –“ Noa’s voice catches in the lump forming in her throat. She bites back her emotions quickly, sadness and grief quickly replaced by that all-too-familiar rage. She hates that it still affects her so much – that she still regrets every single word spoken that night. Noa wishes, more than anything on earth, that she could simply forget it ever happened; forget him. “– I don’t know if I’m ready to see him again, to be honest.”

“Not to sound harsh,” Arthur says, his eyebrows raising up towards his hairline, “But you’re gonna have to be ready pretty soon. Once the season starts, you won’t really have much of a choice in the matter.” he murmurs anxiously. Noa watches his eyes slip out of focus slightly, as he seems to be consumed in his thoughts. She nods once again, knowing he’s right. Then, he seems to come to life again, sitting bolt upright in his seat so quickly she almost jumps back in shock, “And, if you think about it, maybe this could be a good thing!” he grins so widely and brightly at the prospect, she can’t bring herself to cut him off, “Maybe this will help you both start to make amends for what happened. You could be friends again!”

Noa lets out a shaky breath. No matter how hard she tries to smile back at him, to match his seemingly boundless optimism, she simply can’t do it. It’s not as if she hasn’t tried – for the first six months of the year, she spent hours sat staring at her phone, waiting, hoping that Charles might call. Despite everything, despite all the hurtful words they both said that night, Noa always had faith that he would come through. For six months, she fully believed that she would get her best friend back. She believed he would reach out to her, because if he didn’t then, in the time she needed him most, then she figured he never would.

That’s why Noa has so little faith now. Charles never contacted her. Even when she called him, even when she texted, there was never any reply. He abandoned her. She’d been there for him when he needed her the most, but he couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone when their roles were reversed. So Arthur may be able to say the sun hasn’t set on their friendship; he may be able to hope that they could patch things up, go back to the way things used to be – but Noa isn’t stupid. She won’t get her hopes up again; she simply can’t. If Charles lets her down a second time, she doesn’t think she’ll survive it.

taglist: @harrysdimple05 @ricciardosheart @azxulaa @dakotali

Oscar Piastri was kind. 

That was the first thing Ísis noticed about him—and the one thing she couldn’t quite reconcile with everything she expected from a Formula 1 driver. 

Not the results. Not the reputation. Not even the quiet confidence the paddock seemed to respect. 

Just… the ease of him. 

And for reasons she didn’t like examining too closely, it irritated her more than it should have. 

Because kindness like that didn’t survive this sport. 

And if it did— 

It meant someone else would have to break it. 

He was grounded. Everyone knew that. And Ísis learned it quickly, too. 

He wasn’t loud. Didn’t fill a room just to prove he could. There was nothing performative about him—no sharp edges, no arrogance disguised as ambition, no constant need to assert himself in spaces where he already belonged. 

A simple guy, finally living the dream he had spent his entire life building toward. 

And he was good at it. 

Annoyingly good. 

Not the kind of good that came purely from raw, effortless talent—the kind that flickered unpredictably without structure. No—his was constructed. Earned in hours no one saw. 

The late nights in the simulator when the paddock had long gone quiet. The extra debriefs that ran longer than necessary. The careful, almost meticulous study of telemetry—line by line, corner by corner. The questions asked in meetings that actually changed outcomes. 

Disciplined. Precise. Reliable. 

He worked for it. Chose it. 

And it showed. 

P4 in his second year. Calm under pressure. Clean races. No unnecessary risks, no wasted movement. The kind of driver teams built around—the kind they trusted to deliver results without creating chaos. 

The kind who had chosen this life and never once seemed to question it. 

The kind she was about to ruin. 

Because he was good. 

But she was better. 

And that made everything worse. 

Because she understood exactly what that meant— 

That she was about to take something from him that he had built, chosen, and earned… 

While she had arrived with it already attached to her name. 

Last year, the car had been good—and he had clearly been the number two driver. There had been structure then. A quiet, unspoken hierarchy. A defined understanding of where each of them stood within the team. 

This year, the car would be better. 

And the fight for number one was open. 

Not hers by default. Not his by promise. 

Just… open. 

And she intended to close it. She had to. 

“How’s the suit on you?” His voice came from her side—easy, warm, familiar in a way that never seemed forced. 

It was their first day back from winter break. Both had been asked to appear at the MTC to try on their suits, review the upcoming season’s schedule, and film a handful of marketing and promotional pieces. 

Ísis straightened almost instinctively before turning. Her gaze dipped—briefly, involuntarily—over the papaya and black suit, catching the line of his shoulders before settling on his face. 

Pale skin. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. A few faint beauty marks, traces of old scarring. Hazel eyes that met hers without pressure, without demand. Just kind. 

“It’s fine,” she said with a small shrug. “Could be tighter around the waist.” 

Oscar nodded, glancing down at his own suit as he tugged lightly at the fabric. 

“Yeah, I can imagine.” 

There was recognition in that. He remembered—from last season—how particular she was about fit. Just like every driver had their own preferences. 

“Have you told them already?” 

She nodded, her dark hair shifting softly with the motion. “They took the measurements this morning.” 

A brief silence settled between them. 

Not uncomfortable. Not entirely easy either. 

Oscar didn’t rush to fill it. He rarely did. Ísis had always been quieter around him—more contained, more deliberate. Not that she was overly friendly with other drivers either. 

She preferred it that way, and he never seemed to take it personally. 

But he noticed. 

“You’re looking forward to it?” he asked after a moment, tilting his head slightly. “This season, I mean. Car feels good. Team’s in a good place.” 

An easy question. A standard one. 

Ísis held his gaze a second longer than necessary—chocolate against hazel—aware of the cameras positioned around them, capturing everything for YouTube clips or the next season of Drive to Survive. 

She couldn’t simply walk away. Couldn’t ignore him. 

“I’ll do what I need to.” 

Not yes. Not of course. 

Because she didn’t have the option not to. 

Oscar’s brows drew together slightly. 

“That didn’t sound like a yes.” 

“It wasn’t meant to.” 

Another pause. 

Most people would have laughed, deflected, softened the moment. 

Oscar didn’t. 

He studied her instead—subtly, carefully—as though trying to reconcile something that didn’t quite fit with the version of her he had in his head. 

He hadn’t been able to figure her out last year. 

As if that would suddenly change over winter break. 

“You’re still going to be quick,” he said finally, almost under his breath. Not reassurance. Not encouragement. Just a conclusion he had already reached. 

Ísis exhaled softly. 

“I know.” 

Simple. Certain. 

No humility. No arrogance. 

Just fact. 

And for the first time, she saw something shift in his expression—subtle, but real. Not discomfort. Adjustment. Recalculation. 

Across the hall, someone called her name. 

Ísis glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. Dark hair swaying with the movement, a few loose strands catching briefly against her cheek before settling again. 

“I should go.” 

“Yeah,” Oscar nodded. “See you in the briefing.” 

She gave a small nod in return and stepped away. 

But then she paused. 

Not because she wanted to. Because something about the moment felt incomplete. 

She looked back at him. 

Really looked. 

At the way he stood—loose, grounded, at ease in a space that had clearly become second nature to him. At the quiet focus in his posture. At the ease with which he occupied the environment, as though it had simply adjusted around him rather than the other way around. 

A space he had chosen to belong to. 

Something tightened briefly in her chest. Not visible. Not acknowledged. 

“Good luck this year,” she said. 

Simple. Controlled. 

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. 

“What?” 

Not because he hadn’t heard her. 

Because he hadn’t expected it to sound like that. 

But she was already turning away, already moving toward her engineer, hands lifting to peel the upper half of her suit down as she walked, movements practiced and automatic. 

Leaving him with it. 

He watched her go. 

Frowning slightly. 

Drivers said things like that all the time—casual, throwaway phrases exchanged between competitors who would spend the next nine months trying to outperform each other. 

Good luck. Have a good season. See you out there. 

But the way she had said it— 

It felt deliberate. 

Measured. 

Like she meant it—and something else alongside it. 

And that didn’t align with how she presented herself. Not on track. Not off it. 

Oscar’s gaze dropped briefly to the polished floor, the faint reflections of the overhead lights stretching beneath his shoes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as the ambient noise of the MTC—footsteps, distant voices, the low hum of activity—blurred and receded around him, narrowing his focus to the weight of what she actually meant behind it. 

Then he looked up again, toward the corridor she had disappeared into. 

The high walls of the McLaren Technology Centre seemed taller than they should have—closing in with quiet precision. The hum of activity carried through the space, echoing faintly, making it feel at once expansive and confined, as though the building itself held its breath around what had just passed between them 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. 

Something about her. didn’t align. 

And he had the distinct feeling— 

This season wasn’t just going to be competitive. 

It was going to matter. 

❯❯❯❯ 

Ísis was everything you wanted in a driver. A marketable driver. 

Composed. Media-trained. Carrying a name that opened doors before she even spoke. With it came expectation, attention, infrastructure—a narrative already forming around her long before she had done anything to earn it on track. 

She didn’t have to fight for relevance. 

She arrived with it. 

And she was good. More than good. 

Consistent where others were volatile. Controlled where others cracked. The kind of driver who made performance look inevitable—even when it wasn’t. Clean inputs, measured risk, no wasted motion. She didn’t overdrive; she extracted. Lap after lap, session after session, she delivered exactly what the data promised—and more. 

Easy to position. Easy to build around. 

Too easy, sometimes. 

Formula 1 knew it. McLaren knew it. Zak knew it. Ísis knew it. 

And Oscar did too. 

He just didn’t like thinking about it. 

Because while she was being positioned as a story, a presence, a face of something larger—he was not. 

He didn’t come with a legacy name that drew immediate attention. He didn’t have sponsors waiting in line before he had proven himself. No pre-written narrative, no inherited spotlight, no expectation that preceded results. 

He had results. 

He had discipline. 

He had to earn every inch of recognition the hard way—through consistency, through performance, through showing up and executing better than the next person, over and over again. 

And it worked. 

But it never looked like hers. 

Never arrived as easily. Never carried the same inevitability. 

He wasn’t who people searched for first in the paddock. Not for interviews. Not for headlines. Not for narratives. 

He wasn’t legacy. 

He just was. 

So when he looked at her, it wasn’t admiration that came first. 

It was calculation. 

Because drivers like Ísis didn’t just compete. 

They altered expectations. 

They shifted focus. They changed how people spoke, how teams planned, how the season itself would be framed. They came with gravity—subtle, but constant—pulling attention, shaping conversations before a single lap was driven. 

And now she was on his side of the garage. 

Or rather— 

In the same fight as him. 

Which made her less of a teammate… 

And more of a problem he would have to outperform. 

Any—and everywhere they went. 

Starting in Barcelona. 

“So,” the interviewer began, offering a polished, practiced smile as he looked between them, “you’ve just finished your first proper laps in the car—how are you feeling?” 

The air was sharp. 

Barcelona in January carried a cold that didn’t demand attention—it took it. Quietly. Persistently. It settled into joints, fingertips, and the space between breaths, threading itself through layers of fabric and finding whatever warmth there was to take. 

Even layered in thick team jackets, it lingered. 

Ísis flexed her fingers subtly around the microphone, chasing warmth that didn’t quite return. The metal grille felt colder than it should have, the chill biting faintly into her skin with each small shift of her grip. A strand of hair brushed her cheek in the breeze, and she resisted the urge to tuck it back immediately, keeping her posture composed, still, controlled for the cameras angled in their direction. 

Beside her, Oscar stood still. 

Not rigid. Not braced. 

Just… unaffected. 

Shoulders loose. Posture relaxed. As though he had already adapted to the conditions rather than resisting them. 

Her gaze drifted toward him. 

His was already on her. 

A brief pause. 

Not accidental. Calculated. Measured. 

“Do you want to?” she asked quietly, just low enough not to carry. A courtesy. A formality. A quiet handover offered instead of taking the lead the way it was so often handed to her by default—without question, without hesitation, without anyone stopping to ask if she wanted it in the first place. 

Oscar shook his head once, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. 

Easy. 

Unbothered. 

He always looked unbothered. 

And that, more than anything, was beginning to get under her skin. 

Ísis turned back to the interviewer, the transition seamless. Whatever flicker had existed a moment ago was gone, replaced by something practiced and controlled. 

“The car feels good,” she said. “Does what it should.” 

A soft laugh followed—light, measured, revealing nothing but doing exactly what it shoud outwardly. 

The interviewer smiled. Oscar’s expression shifted—slightly. 

Not amusement. Recognition. 

“Can you already tell us anything about the car?” the interviewer pressed. “We’ve seen a few laps—it looks quick.” 

Ísis shook her head, lips curving faintly. 

“Can’t tell you anything,” she replied, tone easy but deliberate. “Wouldn’t want our competition to know.” 

“But,” she added, “it feels good. And we’re looking forward to getting more laps in Bahrain.” 

A clean, controlled answer. 

Exactly what was needed—and nothing more. 

A gust of wind cut across the paddock before the interviewer could continue. 

Sharp. Sudden. 

Ísis instinctively pulled her jacket closer, shoulders drawing in as her hair lifted slightly, loose strands brushing against her lips and cheek. She exhaled quietly through her nose, steadying herself, fingers tightening for a brief moment at the edge of the fabric before settling again. Her stance adjusted almost imperceptibly, grounding her weight against the cold as she maintained composure for the cameras. 

Oscar noticed. 

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t comment. 

He simply shifted— 

A fraction closer. 

Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that his presence disrupted the wind’s path where she stood. Subtly breaking the direct edge of the gust before it could fully reach her. 

Subtle. Unremarkable. 

Unless you were paying attention. 

But she felt it immediately. 

The difference. 

And something in her chest tightened. 

Not gratitude. Not irritation. 

Something worse. 

Something that made it harder to keep him where he belonged— 

On the other side of the line she had already drawn. 

The interviewer turned to him. 

“Oscar, from your side—how was the car?” 

Oscar adjusted his grip on the microphone, the movement small and unhurried. His thumb brushed once along the handle as he settled it more comfortably in his hand, exhaling lightly through his nose before he spoke. 

“Yeah, it’s been good,” he said. Calm. Measured. “Still early, obviously, but the balance feels reasonable. There are areas we can improve—that’s what testing’s for.” 

Structured. Predictable. Reliable. 

He spoke like someone who trusted the process completely as though uncertainty wasn’t something to react to, but something to work through. 

“And compared to last year?” 

A pause. 

Not hesitation—consideration. 

His gaze shifted briefly, unfocused for a second as he gathered the right phrasing, choosing his words with the same precision he would later apply on track. 

“Different,” he said. “A step forward in some areas. We’ll understand it better over the next few days once we start pushing it more.” 

Ísis stood beside him, expression neutral. 

Listening. 

But not entirely. 

Watching. 

Measuring. 

For a brief moment, her attention shifted—not to what he said, but to how he occupied space. 

He moved like someone who belonged within the system. 

She stood like someone the system had already decided to revolve around. 

Two different advantages. 

Both real. 

Neither equal. 

She looked away before the thought could settle. 

“And how did you spend the off-season?” the interviewer continued, tone lighter now. “Did you stay in England, or go home?” 

Ísis’ expression softened slightly. The shift was subtle but visible—something easing at the edges of her composure, a quiet warmth returning to her features. The dark chocolate of her eyes caught the light differently now, less guarded, more open, as if the distance she usually maintained had momentarily thinned. 

“I went back to Brazil,” she said. “Spent time with my family. My sister. My mum.” 

A pause. 

“It was good.” 

Simple. Genuine. 

Everyone in the paddock knew this version of her. 

The family-oriented one. 

The grounded one. 

The one that made sense in interviews—clean, relatable, easy to frame within a narrative. 

Even if it wasn’t the whole truth. 

“Will we see them more this year?” 

Ísis let out a quiet laugh, a small breath of amusement escaping as she shook her head. 

“I’ve been trying to convince my sister,” she admitted, a hint of warmth threading through her tone. “We’ll see how successful I am.” 

A brief glimpse of something softer— 

Then gone again. 

“And you, Oscar—back to Melbourne?” 

His smile came easier than hers did, she thought. It always did. Less controlled, more at ease, like it surfaced without effort rather than being carefully placed. There was a naturalness to it that didn’t feel rehearsed for cameras, even if he was fully aware they were there. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Spent some time at home. Family, my sisters… bit of sun, barbecues.” 

There was a faint lift in his expression as he spoke—something almost unguarded in the way his voice softened on the word home. His gaze flicked upward for a moment, tracking the grey sky above them, as if comparing it to something remembered rather than observed. 

“This,” he added quietly, almost to himself, “is a bit of a shock.” 

A small laugh followed—brief, understated, carried out with the same ease as the rest of his response, acknowledging the contrast without leaning into it. 

Ísis didn’t turn. 

But she noticed. 

Of course she did. 

Different worlds. 

Different rhythms. 

Same stage. 

Same stakes. 

The interviewer continued, moving effortlessly between personal and racing-related questions—anything to keep the segment engaging while he had the rare opportunity to speak with two drivers at the very start of a new season. 

Around them, cameras clicked. Crew members moved with purpose. The paddock continued its rhythm—efficient, structured, relentless. 

And while questions were asked and answers passed back and forth between them, 

something between them— 

Lingered. 

Not tension. Not yet. 

Something quieter. 

More dangerous for it. 

Awareness. 

Unspoken. Unavoidable. 

The kind that didn’t need acknowledgment to exist. 

And neither of them were pretending it wasn’t there anymore. 

For a moment, nothing shifted. The cameras moved, voices carried, the paddock remained indifferent to anything that didn’t appear on a timing sheet. 

But something had already changed. 

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. 

Still, it sat there—in the space between them, in the pauses that lasted a second too long, in the way their attention kept returning, instinctively, no matter how often it drifted away. 

Awareness. 

Uninvited. Unresolved. 

And impossible to ignore now that it existed. 

Ísis adjusted her grip on the microphone, her expression settling back into composure as the interviewer concluded. 

Oscar handed his mic back without hesitation, already stepping half a pace away—like even a small increase in distance mattered more than it should have. 

Neither acknowledged it. 

Neither needed to. 

Their eyes met once more—brief, measured, enough. 

Then it broke. 

Ísis turned first, already moving toward her engineer, focus narrowing back into something controlled and precise. 

Oscar remained for a second longer. 

Watching. 

Not openly. Not obviously. 

Just enough. 

Then he looked away. 

Because that was easier. 

Because that was safer. 

Because whatever this was— 

It wasn’t something he could afford to indulge. 

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯

Let me know what you thought and what you really want to read in this story!

xoxo babygirl

Early Life and Junior Career 

Senna began karting at age five in Brazil, winning multiple regional and national titles with strong backing from her grandparents. She continued to dominate Brazilian karting circuits through her early teens, before relocating to Europe in 2015 at age 14 to compete in the highly competitive European karting scene. 

In 2016, Senna made her single-seater debut in the ADAC Formula 4 Championship, finishing fourth in the standings — an impressive result for a rookie. In 2017, she remained in Formula 4 for a second season and finished second overall. 

In 2018, she competed in the Italian Formula 4 Championship, topping the standings and claiming the championship title, earning recognition as one of the brightest young talents in junior motorsport. 

Formula 3 and Formula 2 

In 2019, Senna stepped up to the FIA Formula 3 Championship and won the championship in her debut season — becoming the first female driver to win an FIA F3 championship in over 40 years. Her dominant performances, including multiple race wins and podiums, highlighted her rapid progression and exceptional talent. 

Senna progressed to FIA Formula 2 in 2020, where she again won the championship in her rookie year. With this achievement, she became the first female driver to secure back-to-back F3 and F2 championships in motorsport history, cementing her status as a groundbreaking talent and a role model for women in racing. 

At the end of 2020, it was announced that she would graduate to Formula One with the Haas F1 Team, partnering Mick Schumacher for the 2021 season — making her one of the first female drivers on the Formula One grid in over four decades. 

Formula One Career 

Haas (2021–2023) 

Senna made her Formula One debut at the 2021 Bahrain Grand Prix with Haas, scoring five points in her rookie season. In 2022, she improved to 16 points, highlighted by strong qualifying performances and consistent points finishes. 

Her best result with Haas came in 2023, finishing fifth at the Canadian Grand Prix, while consistently finishing in the points between P11–P13. 

McLaren (2024–present) 

Senna joined McLaren F1 Team for the 2024 season after Lando Norris’ sudden retirement, racing alongside Oscar Piastri. 

Senna’s 2024 season included three victories, eight podiums, and a third-place finish in the Drivers’ Championship — behind Charles Leclerc and ahead of teammate Oscar Piastri by 34 points — firmly establishing her as one of F1’s top talents. 

She immediately made history: 

First female driver to win a Grand Prix in over 40 years (Miami 2024). 

First female driver to finish in the top 3 of the Drivers’ Championship since Lella Lombardi (1970s). 

First female driver to achieve multiple wins in a single season. 

Racing Style and Legacy 

Senna is known for her precision driving, adaptability, and strong performance in wet conditions. Her style has often been compared to that of her father, particularly in terms of control and racecraft under challenging conditions.

She is regarded as one of the most prominent figures in modern Formula One, and her success has contributed to increased visibility for female drivers in motorsport.

Selected Career Summary 

Car Number

Senna competes under car number 21, which she selected as a tribute to her father’s number 12, reversed.

Appearance

Senna has frequently been noted for her strong resemblance to her father, Ayrton Senna, particularly in her facial structure, expressions, and dark brown eyes. Her hair is a similar shade of brown, though often described as slightly cooler in tone.

Her features are largely comparable to those of her father, with the exception of a narrower nose, which more closely reflects that of her mother. She is also noted for faint freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

Standing at approximately 1.70 metres (5 ft 7 in), Senna has a lean, athletic build shaped by the physical demands of Formula One, with notable strength in her lower body and core.

[Faceclaims: Bruna Marquezine, Lea Elui, JAra Valbracht and other brunette Pinterest faces]

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯

Tell me more about Ísis:

what is her style? (send me your pinterest)

Her quirks?

Who's her best friend?

Which driver is she closest to? (apart from OP81)

Which WAG is she closest to?

What's on her Playlist?

The third time that week. 

Ísis let the silence sit—brief, controlled, just long enough to decide it didn’t require a debate. 

“There isn’t a mistake there, Oscar,” she said finally, her voice calm, measured—almost dry—as she looked up from the screen. 

He had pointed it out again. A different lap. A different corner. The same conclusion. 

She had to suppress the smallest exhale, more out of restraint than frustration. 

Bahrain was there to test the car—to understand it, to identify where it gave and where it held. To assess the competition from a distance, not invite it closer. To make small adjustments, refine inputs, and exist within the data, within the process. To look outward for weaknesses. 

It wasn’t meant to be about showing off. 

It wasn’t meant to be about competing. 

Especially not with your own teammate. 

But Oscar didn’t seem to have gotten the memo. 

At least, that was what Ísis told herself. 

Because every time she looked, he was searching for another tenth—closing gaps, refining exits, quietly chasing her times. 

Not the field. 

Her. 

She exhaled slowly, arms folding loosely across her chest, the fireproof stretching faintly over her elbows as her dark gaze flicked once more to the timing screens. 

Still there. 

Her name. 

Near the top. 

Where it kept appearing. 

A faint tension settled in her chest—not satisfaction. Not relief. Something quieter. Sharper at the edges. 

Because he kept chasing it. 

And she kept holding it. 

And neither of them was pretending that didn’t matter. 

“I just take the corner differently than you do.” 

A brief pause settled between them. 

Not heavy. Not obvious. But present. 

Around them, the room remained active—engineers shifting in their seats, murmuring to one another, keyboards clicking softly, data streaming across multiple screens. But at their table, the space felt contained. Defined. 

Ísis leaned forward slightly, attention shifting to his data tablet on the table between them. The glow of the screen caught the movement of her hand as she reached across, her finger hovering before tracing the line of his lap, following the arc of corner entry. 

“If you brake later,” she added, tone steady and factual, “you can carry more speed into the exit.” 

A small tap against the display. 

“You’re losing time there.” 

Exactly where his delta dropped. 

Exactly where hers didn’t. Where she consistently found just a little more. 

It wasn’t framed as a challenge. 

But it landed like one anyway. 

Oscar didn’t respond immediately. 

He rarely did. 

Instead, he studied the data. Then her trace. Then the screen again, as though verifying it twice before allowing himself to accept it. 

Not because he doubted her. 

But because he preferred to understand it fully before acting on it. 

Because she was difficult to ignore. 

Not in the obvious ways—pace, presence, the way she carried herself in a room like this—but in something more consistent. More complete. 

“…I’ll look into it,” he said finally, his tone controlled and even. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just composed. 

It was the kind of response that ended the exchange without truly closing it. 

Because neither of them treated this like a casual conversation. 

Not anymore. 

Their first year had been different. A new pairing. A clear structure. A natural hierarchy that hadn’t needed to be argued over. 

It had settled itself. 

But this season wouldn’t be the same. 

The car was different. 

The pace was closer. 

The margins were smaller. 

Ísis nodded once at his answer, her dark hair shifting over her shoulder with the motion. She didn’t immediately adjust it back into place, letting it fall as she watched him instead. Her gaze lingered briefly—taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the focus in his expression, the quiet intensity he carried even in stillness. 

“You should,” she said. 

Not sharp. Not mocking. 

Just certain. 

And that, more than anything, made it land. 

A brief silence followed. 

Long enough to be felt. Not long enough to be broken. 

Oscar’s gaze dropped back to the screen, but the numbers didn’t hold him in the same way anymore. 

Because now it wasn’t just data. 

It was her. 

The way she spoke. The way she corrected him without hesitation. The way she didn’t soften her words or wrap them in anything unnecessary, as if clarity alone was enough to stand on. 

As if she didn’t need to explain herself twice. 

As if she didn’t have to. 

His jaw tightened—barely, almost imperceptibly. A subtle shift, more instinct than reaction. He adjusted his posture, leaning forward again, shoulders angling in, hands repositioning over the tablet as he forced his focus back onto the telemetry. The lines, the deltas, the sector splits—anything that wasn’t her voice still echoing in his head. 

There was always something to improve. 

Always something to fix. 

A braking point to refine. An exit to clean up. A fraction hidden in the data that hadn’t revealed itself yet. 

And he would find it. 

He always did. 

Across from him, Ísis had already settled back into her chair, presence composed, attention redistributed. Her gaze moved between screens, following inputs from her engineer, responding with small, precise comments when adjustments were needed—spring rates, balance shifts, tire behavior under load. Her fingers occasionally tapped the armrest in a quiet rhythm, not impatient, just engaged. 

She wasn’t chasing the lap in front of her. 

She was building toward it. 

Methodically. Calmly. Like the time would arrive as a result of everything else falling into place. 

No urgency in her movements. No visible strain in the way she processed the information. Just steady focus, as if she trusted the process enough not to force it. 

Like she didn’t have to chase it the same way. 

Like it would come regardless. 

Something about that lingered. 

Not loud enough to confront. Not small enough to ignore. 

It would have been easier if she weren’t as good as she was. 

If she relied on the name. 

If she leaned on it—let it do the heavy lifting. 

If there was something obvious to point at and explain her away. 

But there wasn’t. 

He saw how hard she worked—how nothing about her pace looked accidental, how every improvement seemed earned rather than inherited. The early mornings that bled into long sessions, the quiet debriefs where she asked sharper questions than anyone expected, the way she absorbed feedback and returned with answers instead of excuses. 

He saw the way she carried everything else alongside it too—the expectations that followed her into every room, the constant attention, the scrutiny that rarely left space for error, the weight of a name that preceded her and demanded proof of its own. 

And the way she still moved through all of it without bending. 

Without softening herself to make it easier for others to accept. 

That, more than anything, made it worse. 

Because she didn’t just have the advantage. 

She made it real. 

She justified it with consistency, with control, with execution that didn’t leave room for doubt. She didn’t stay within the boundary people expected of her—she pushed past it, quietly and repeatedly, until the boundary stopped mattering altogether. 

The meeting moved on. 

Other laps. Other notes. Other drivers.  

Voices filled the room again as engineers shifted conversations, data screens updating in real time, telemetry graphs refreshing, comparisons being pulled up and adjusted with quick, practiced motions. 

Names were called. Numbers were challenged. Small discrepancies were debated, annotated, rechecked. 

But the space between them didn’t reset. 

It stayed—quiet, intact—beneath the surface of the room’s activity, like a thread that hadn’t been acknowledged but hadn’t snapped either. Even without direct interaction, their awareness of each other persisted in the background of every decision, every glance that almost happened and didn’t. 

Ísis listened to her engineer, responding when needed, her attention moving fluidly between strategy and setup, her posture relaxed but precise. She didn’t look across the table again, not immediately—but her focus never fully drifted away from that axis. 

Oscar, for his part, remained angled toward the screen, contributing when prompted, offering observations in a controlled cadence. His eyes tracked data first, conversation second—but every so often, without fully intending to, his attention would pause at the edge of the table, as if checking something he wasn’t consciously admitting to. 

Nothing was said. 

Nothing needed to be. 

Because whatever had settled between them wasn’t part of the meeting. 

It existed alongside it. 

Unspoken, unchanged— 

and still very much there. 

It didn’t interfere with the conversation, didn’t surface in any obvious way, but it threaded quietly through the moments between words, present in the way their attention occasionally aligned without intention, then drifted apart again just as naturally. 

“Alright,” he said, tone even. “Let’s talk balance.” 

Mark Temple didn’t raise his voice when he entered the conversation. 

He didn’t need to. 

His presence alone shifted the rhythm of the room—subtle, but unmistakable. Engineers straightened slightly. Conversations tightened. Screens seemed to matter a little more. 

He stopped at the edge of the table, hands loosely clasped behind his back, eyes already moving between the two of them before anyone spoke. 

“What are you feeling?” 

His gaze landed on Ísis first. Of course it did. Not favoritism—habit. Pattern recognition built over years, where experience often spoke before novelty had fully earned its voice. 

“It’s stable on entry,” she said without hesitation. “Predictable under braking. But mid-corner, I’m having to wait on rotation. It holds a little too long before it comes around.” 

She paused briefly, not searching for the words, but confirming the precision of them. 

Then added, measured and exact: 

“I’d prefer a touch more oversteer. Not aggressive—just enough to help the car rotate naturally without having to force it on throttle.” 

Her tone stayed level, clinical even, as if she were describing a controlled adjustment rather than a preference. 

Mark nodded once, slow and deliberate, absorbing the nuance rather than reacting to it. 

“More front-end bite through the apex,” he summarized quietly. “Let the rear come alive a bit earlier.” 

Ísis gave a small nod. “Yes.” 

Then Mark shifted his attention; New blood. 

“What about you?” 

Oscar adjusted his posture slightly, shoulders settling as he leaned in a fraction, eyes flicking once to the screen in front of him before returning to Mark. His response came after a brief, considered pause—not uncertainty, but calibration. 

“It’s consistent,” he began. “It’s good as it is, actually.” 

He kept his tone even, grounded. 

“I’d rather have a slight understeer bias. Something that keeps the rear planted under load.” 

Mark’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened—just slightly, enough to indicate he was no longer just listening, but evaluating the divergence more critically. 

“So, as it stands, it’s perfect for you?” 

Oscar met his gaze. “Exactly.” 

For a moment, Mark said nothing. 

Not because he was unsure—but because he was weighing it. 

Two drivers. 

Same car. 

Two different instincts. 

Two different ways of extracting time. 

His gaze moved between them again, slower this time, as if measuring not just their answers, but what those answers implied. 

“That’s interesting,” he said finally. 

Not approving. 

Not dismissive. 

Just… noted. 

Because it was interesting. 

“You’re asking the car to behave in opposite ways through the same phase of the corner.” 

A brief pause, his attention momentarily shifting toward the engineers nearby as if including them in the reasoning. 

“Which means we’re either going to compromise the platform… or decide which direction we want to prioritize.” 

The words landed cleanly, without emphasis, but their weight was understood. 

This wasn’t just setup preference. 

It was a direction choice. 

Mark looked at the engineers, then back at the two drivers. 

“Good,” he added. “That’s what testing is for. We’ll explore both directions in the next runs.” 

Then, after a beat: 

“See which one actually goes faster.” 

His eyes lingered on Ísis first—on the name, on the legacy threaded into it, something that couldn’t simply be reasoned away. 

Then Oscar. 

New blood. 

Rookie once—yet never looked like one. Held his ground against Lando Norris from the beginning. No adjustment period. No easing in. 

Not confrontational. 

But not neutral either. 

Because now the comparison wasn’t theoretical. 

It was about to be proven in lap time. 

And whoever came out ahead here— 

wouldn’t just be faster. 

They’d have the car with them. 

Not something to fight. Not something to learn around. 

Something that fit. 

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯

❯❯❯❯ 

China. Weekend two. 

Ísis’s breath hitched the moment she hit the brakes. 

Heavy. Committed. Late. 

The front end just about bit—tires still slightly cold from the outlap, only just beginning to wake into their optimal window. Grip wasn’t fully there, not yet—but she trusted the car enough to rotate it cleanly through the corner. Barely inches of margin. Any later, any less precise, and it would have been contact. 

“Car ahead, car ahead,” Will’s voice came through—calm, controlled—but the warning was already too late. 

She had been on a push lap. A clean one. One that had been building perfectly—sector one strong, rotation improving through the medium-speed sequence, braking points nailed, delta steadily improving through each mini sector. 

Pole was within reach. 

And then— 

traffic. 

A McLaren sitting exactly where it shouldn’t have been. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell was that?” she snapped over the radio, frustration cutting through her otherwise measured tone. “Doesn’t he have eyes? Mirrors?” 

Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, but the tension in her grip betrayed her. Fingers tightened around the carbon rim, inputs still precise, but no longer fluid in the same way. If it weren’t for the gloves, her knuckles would have gone pale. 

She had been building the lap perfectly. 

And now— 

compromised. 

“Are you okay?” Will’s voice came through, calm as ever. 

Always calm. 

Never reacting to her tone, never escalating, never adding heat to something already burning. 

“Yes,” she replied quickly, though her breathing was still sharp inside the helmet. “Is there still time?” 

She was already trying to reset mentally—calculating, salvaging, searching for whatever remained of the lap window. Even if the perfect one had gone, she was certain there had been more in it. A clean final sector, a slightly better exit here or there—enough to threaten the front again. 

“Negative,” Will answered after a brief pause. 

That landed harder than the near-miss. 

No recovery attempt. 

No second push. 

No pole. 

“You’re P3, Senna. P3.” 

The words were neutral, factual—but they didn’t soften the impact. 

She exhaled sharply inside the helmet, a low, frustrated sound she didn’t bother to hide but at least her finger wasn’t on the radio button, so no one really heard her. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel again as she completed the cooldown lap, threading through the final corners with less aggression now, but no less precision. 

Sector data, gaps, margins—none of it mattered anymore. 

Not the way it had moments ago. 

She guided the car back into the pit lane, speed bleeding off under the limiter as she followed the narrow entry line with practiced control. The rhythm shifted from attack to procedure—downshifts, alignment, positioning. 

Then into parc fermé. 

The car came to a stop in front of the P3 board. 

Engine off. 

Silence followed—sudden and absolute, the contrast to the intensity of the lap almost disorienting. 

Ísis didn’t move immediately. 

She sat there for a second longer than usual, hands still on the wheel, visor down, breathing steady but tight. The adrenaline hadn’t fully drained yet. It sat behind her ribs, unresolved. 

Then— 

release. 

Belts off in one motion. The steering wheel detached cleanly, handed down and reattached to the car with practiced efficiency. HANS unclipped. She climbed out with controlled urgency, movements efficient rather than rushed. 

No lingering. 

No acknowledgment beyond minimal nods toward her crew. 

She stripped the helmet and the baklava off quickly, dark hair falling loose over her back as she stepped down onto the ground, eyes already scanning, already moving past the immediate result. 

And then she turned. 

Straight toward Oscar. 

He was just climbing out of his car nearby, visibly breathing hard, visor already up, sweat visible along his face and neck. The intensity of his session still hadn’t fully left him. 

She walked toward him without hesitation. 

“What the fuck?” she said under her breath. 

Low enough to avoid microphones. 

Sharp enough to land. 

Oscar looked up at her immediately. 

No surprise in his expression—only attention. Awareness. He had heard her tone before she even reached him. 

“I was on a push lap,” she continued, voice controlled but edged, eyes locked onto his. 

Around them, mechanics moved between cars, cameras adjusted angles, subtle shifts in positioning as the moment became something more than just a routine post-qualifying interaction. 

Oscar took a small breath before responding. He reached up, removing his helmet fully and setting it aside, then met her gaze directly. 

“I didn’t see you in time,” he said simply. 

No deflection. No justification. 

Just the fact. 

Ísis’s jaw tightened slightly. 

“You came out right into the line,” she replied, quieter now, but no less firm. “I had to abort.” 

There was no exaggeration in her tone. No dramatics. 

Just precision. 

A few steps away, George Russell stood in parc fermé, leaning casually near his car, bottle in hand, watching the exchange unfold in silence. Observing. Processing. Likely understanding both perspectives better than either of them would acknowledge in the moment. 

Oscar held her gaze. 

“I was told the track was clear,” he added. 

Still calm. 

Still measured. 

That didn’t help. 

If anything, that composure made the moment harder to diffuse. 

Ísis exhaled through her nose, the frustration still there—but now contained, pulled back from the edge of immediate reaction. 

“Then someone got it wrong,” she said. 

Not directed at him directly. 

But not softened either. 

A beat passed. 

The tension didn’t disappear—but it shifted. 

From reaction… into something more controlled. More contained. More professional in shape, even if the underlying disagreement remained unresolved. 

Because in her mind— 

it had been a lap worth pole. 

And in his— 

it had been an instruction followed. 

Two truths. 

Same moment. 

Different outcomes. 

Ísis looked at him for another second, then briefly glanced away, already pulling herself back into composure. 

Not because the frustration was gone. 

But because she knew where she was. 

And what came next. 

Press. 

Interviews. 

Narrative. 

And she would need to control all three. 

Even if, for a moment, she hadn’t controlled that lap. 

“Ísis,” David Coulthard greeted her with a bright smile. One she didn’t quite feel herself, and couldn’t fully mirror even if she tried. “Almost thought you had pole there—P3 in the end. How are you feeling? How was the track?” 

She tried anyway, lifting the corners of her mouth into something that passed for a smile as she adjusted the McLaren cap slightly, the brim shading her eyes from the Shanghai sun. The microphone came up to her lips, her posture composed, shoulders squared the way she’d practiced countless times for moments exactly like this. 

“Yeah… it was close,” she began, voice steady, controlled. “The car felt good overall. Balance was in a nice window—especially through the medium-speed corners. Sector one was strong.” 

A small pause. Not hesitation—just enough to choose her words carefully. 

“Traffic is always part of it in qualifying. Today… we just didn’t get a completely clean final attempt. That’s what made the difference in the end.” 

Her tone stayed neutral, measured—no hint of the frustration that had been boiling just minutes earlier. 

“P3 is still a solid starting position for tomorrow. The race is long here, tyre degradation is going to be important, and we’ve got good pace in the car.” 

Coulthard nodded, clearly picking up on the restraint but not pushing too hard. 

“Does it change your approach going into the race?” 

Ísis shook her head slightly. 

“Not really. We’ll look at strategy, starts, everything overnight. The goal is still the same—maximize what we’ve got and fight forward.” 

Another practiced smile—smaller this time, but more natural. 

“Thanks.” 

She stepped back into line, where George and Oscar had stood only seconds ago. George was already being called forward now, leaving her momentarily beside Oscar under the harsh, unrelenting sun. 

On the surface, her composure held. 

Posture straight. Chin level. Hands relaxed at her sides. 

But beside her, Oscar could feel it—subtle, but unmistakable. The tension radiating off her in quiet waves, even without a word spoken. 

He glanced at her briefly, then forward again. 

He didn’t fully understand why she was taking it this hard. Incidents like this happened all the time in qualifying. Traffic, timing, misjudgments—it was part of the sport. Something every driver dealt with sooner or later. 

But then again— 

Oscar wasn’t just anyone to her. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment, voice low, meant only for her. 

Not defensive. 

Not rehearsed. 

Just… genuine. 

Ísis gave a small nod in response. 

No verbal reply. 

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him beyond that minimal gesture. 

Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, focused on the interview unfolding in front of them—George speaking with Coulthard, cameras shifting, microphones catching every word. 

If Oscar had been expecting eye contact, explanation, or anything beyond that brief acknowledgment… 

it didn’t come. 

And in the silence that followed, the distance between them felt larger than the physical space beside them. 

❯❯❯❯ 

“Eu pensei que você gostava de dirigir na China?” 

The familiar voice of her grandmother came through the phone, direct in that way only she could be. 

Ísis closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. 

She wanted to sigh. To let the frustration spill into something sharp, something impulsive—throw the phone against the wall, pace the room, scream, let the tension escape in movement instead of restraint. 

But she didn’t. 

She couldn’t. 

“Eu gosto,” she replied instead, voice steady, controlled. “Fui impedida por outro corredor. Não havia muito que eu pudesse fazer.” 

Her tone carried no complaint—only fact. No emotion layered into the words, no attempt to justify beyond what was necessary. 

She sat on the edge of the hotel bed, one elbow resting lightly on her thigh, the other hand holding the phone against her ear. The room around her was quiet, orderly—curtains drawn back just enough to let in the pale light of the city outside. Her gaze drifted downward as she spoke, unfocused but grounded. 

She wasn’t surprised her grandmother had watched qualifying. 

She never was. 

Some things in their family didn’t change. 

Her grandparents had always watched Ayrton. Of course they would watch her the same way. 

“Sua primeira volta na Q3 deveria ter sido melhor, então,” Neide said after a brief pause. 

Ísis didn’t respond immediately. 

Because she was right. 

Her first Q3 lap should have been better. Cleaner. Stronger. Enough to put her comfortably ahead before variables like traffic even had the chance to exist. She had been the first to set a lap, before Oscar went out, before George Russell followed. 

If she had extracted more from that lap, the session might have already been settled. 

Instead, she had left the door open. 

And in Formula 1— 

doors rarely stayed open for long. 

“Eu sei. A senhora está certa.”, she admitted quietly. “Não sei o que deu errado na primeira volta.” 

There was no defensiveness in her voice. Only acknowledgment. 

A brief silence followed on the line. 

“Nem eu, querida,” Neide replied. “Mas faça questão de ser melhor amanhã.” 

Ísis gave a small nod, even though her grandmother couldn’t see it. Her dark hair shifted slightly with the movement as her eyes lowered to her hand—perfectly manicured nails catching the light in the room, of course.  

“Eu vou,” she said, certain. “Não se preocupe.” 

She meant it. 

But meaning it didn’t make it simple. 

Because racing didn’t reward intention. 

It rewarded execution. 

And execution depended on variables she could control— 

and variables she couldn’t. 

“Claro que eu não vou me preocupar,” Neide replied without hesitation, as if the idea itself was unnecessary. “Você é filha do seu pai. Sabe muito bem disso.” 

The words landed heavier than intended. 

Or perhaps exactly as intended. 

Ísis nodded silently.  

Her throat tightened, a brief, familiar pressure she didn’t acknowledge outwardly. It came fast—unexpected in its intensity—but not unfamiliar. 

Her eyes lowered, blinking once—then again. A thin layer of tears gathered along her waterline, catching the light before she could look away. For a fraction of a second, her vision softened at the edges. 

She inhaled quietly through her nose. Held it. Let it pass. 

Her lashes dipped slightly as she forced her expression back into place, resetting it with the same discipline she applied on track after a compromised lap. 

She didn’t let them fall. 

Didn’t let her voice change. 

The emotion surfaced—briefly, sharply— 

and she contained it. 

“Eu sei,” she said instead. 

Her fingers moved subtly beneath the phone, brushing at the corner of her eye, a small, almost imperceptible motion to clear what hadn’t quite fallen. 

No pause. No lingering. 

She pushed herself up from the bed, already transitioning. 

“Preciso voltar ao paddock para dar os últimos retoques,” she added, her voice shifting back into its professional cadence. “Falaremos amanhã.” 

“Deixe-nos orgulhosos.” 

And with that, the line went quiet. 

Call ended. 

Silence filled the room again—thick, immediate, almost complete—broken only by the faint hum of the hallway outside and the distant, constant movement of Shanghai beyond the windows. 

Ísis stood still for a moment. 

Then she inhaled. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three controlled breaths—deep enough to steady, not so deep that they unsettled anything. 

She gathered her hair, tying it up and away from her face with practiced efficiency. Her expression reset as she moved—focus returning, edges sharpening. 

Control. 

Back where it belonged. 

She stepped toward the door, one hand already on the handle. 

The other reached for her phone again. 

A contact. 

Already familiar. 

She hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second— 

then tapped. 

The call began to ring. 

And as she pulled the door open, she spoke quietly into the phone: 

“Can you stay longer?” 

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯

Japan. Weekend three.  

The email had sounded simple enough. 

McLaren PR. Cultural feature. A short video discovering Tokyo. Light, relaxed, easy to watch. 

Nothing complicated. Nothing demanding. 

Nothing she couldn’t handle. 

“You’ll be paired with Oscar for this one.” 

That part hadn’t been in the email. 

She only learned it when she stepped into the private room beside the hotel lobby, asked to arrive at 8 a.m. sharp—already dressed and styled. Soft makeup. Hair done just enough for camera. An outfit chosen to look effortless rather than branded, though still anchored by the McLaren leather jacket her stylist had suggested. 

No McLaren polo today. 

No obvious team colours. 

Because this wasn’t about racing. 

It was about being relatable. 

Relatable—almost laughable. They made millions a year, travelled across the world, and drove at 300 km/h. And yet somehow, still meant to feel relatable. 

She almost liked how absurd it was. 

Almost. 

“Okay,” Ísis nodded slowly, the word arriving a beat after it registered. 

Charlotte gave her an encouraging smile, clipboard tucked under her arm, as Estelle from the camera crew stepped forward and clipped a small mic to Ísis’s shirt. 

“He’ll be down any minute,” Charlotte added. 

Ísis just nodded again. 

No resistance. 

No point. 

This was still work. 

And then, as if on cue— 

the doors opened. 

Oscar stepped in. 

Casual. Jeans. A Reiss jumper. No papaya, no branding—just like her. 

Charlotte’s face lit up. “Ah, great—perfect timing.” 

She guided him toward Estelle, who began fitting his mic as Oscar greeted the room with easy familiarity—smiling, shaking hands, slipping into place as if he belonged there without effort. 

He didn’t look surprised to see Ísis. 

If anything, he looked like he’d expected it. 

Or maybe… it simply didn’t matter to him. 

“Alright,” Charlotte clapped her hands once, drawing everyone’s attention. “Quick rundown before you head out.” 

A couple of crew members lingered nearby—minimal, efficient. Just enough to make it work without making it feel like a full production. 

“Estelle and Robby will follow you around Tokyo,” she said, gesturing to them. “They’ll film and ask a few questions between locations. Otherwise—ignore them.” 

A small smile. 

“Pretend it’s just the two of you.” 

Ísis shifted her weight slightly, folding her hands loosely in front of her. Oscar stood beside her, posture relaxed, one hand brushing briefly over the mic wire before letting it settle. 

Charlotte glanced at her notes. 

First stop—Sensō-ji, Asakusa. Fortunes, a few opening questions.” 

Ísis nodded, pressing her lips together briefly, the gloss catching the light as she smoothed the movement into something controlled. 

“Then lunch—sushi. We’ll do a ‘who knows the other better’ segment.” 

That made Oscar glance sideways at her. 

Subtle. Quick. 

Because that could get interesting. 

How much did she actually know about him? 

And how much of what he thought he knew about her was real? 

Ísis didn’t react—but she felt it. Registered it.. 

“After that,” Charlotte continued, “arcade. Either GiGO or HEY in Ikebukuro. We’re still finalizing the exact location, but we'll confirm by lunchtime.” 

She said it easily—like it wasn’t a moving piece behind the scenes, like vendors didn’t change plans last minute, like coordinating schedules in Tokyo with two Formula 1 drivers wasn’t a logistical nightmare. 

Ísis knew better. 

Tokyo didn’t bend. 

You adjusted around it. 

“And then,” Charlotte finished, looking back up, “Shibuya crossing at night, and we finish with rooftop interviews. Location TBC.” 

A slight pause. 

“Any questions?” 

Ísis’s gaze flicked sideways to Oscar. 

He was already looking at her. 

Same timing. Same thought. 

For a second, it hovered—unspoken. 

Then she looked back to Charlotte. 

“All clear,” she said. “We’ll reach out if anything comes up.” 

Beside her, Oscar nodded once in agreement. “Yeah, sounds good.” 

“Perfect,” Charlotte beamed. “Have fun with it.” 

Fun. 

Right. 

Ísis adjusted her jacket softly and then turned toward the hotel exit. She took half a second longer than necessary to follow the movement of the crew ahead. Then matched it. 

Oscar fell into step beside her. 

Not too close. Not distant. 

Just… there. 

For a few steps, neither of them spoke. 

The city waited outside—loud, fast, alive in a way that didn’t care who they were or what they were here for. 

Finally— 

“You knew about this?” Ísis asked, tone neutral, eyes forward. 

A beat. 

“Yeah,” Oscar admitted. “Found out yesterday.” 

She nodded once. 

Of course. 

Silence returned as the doors slid open and the Tokyo air met them—warmer, heavier, filled with movement and noise and the low hum of a city already in full motion. 

Cameras lifted. Mics adjusted. 

Security crew ready. 

The day had started. 

And for the next few hours— 

it wouldn’t just be about racing. 

It would be about pretending it wasn’t. 

❯❯❯❯   

The taxi stopped near Asakusa. 

Even before the doors opened, the shift was clear. 

The noise softened. Not gone—but muffled by distance and space, as if the city itself had stepped back. 

When Ísis stepped out, the contrast hit first. 

Modern Tokyo behind them—glass, steel, movement. 

And ahead— 

wood, stone, tradition. 

The large red gate stood at the entrance, unmistakable even from a distance. Visitors moved beneath it in steady streams—tourists, locals, small groups pausing for photos before continuing deeper into the grounds. 

Ísis adjusted her jacket again slightly as she looked up. 

It was… grounding. 

Different. 

Oscar stepped out beside her, glancing around with the same quiet observation. His hands slipped into his pockets, posture relaxed as he took in the space without comment. 

The crew followed at a respectful distance. 

“Take your time,” Estelle called softly. “Start at the gate, then walk through.” 

Ísis gave a small nod. 

They moved forward together. 

Not side by side in perfect sync, but close enough that their pace naturally matched. 

At the base of the gate, visitors paused before passing underneath. Ísis slowed slightly as she reached it, tilting her head up again. 

Oscar did the same. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Then they stepped through. 

The atmosphere shifted again. 

Inside the grounds, the path widened, lined with trees and traditional structures. The sound of footsteps on gravel replaced the city’s hum. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang softly—distant, resonant. 

Ísis let her gaze move across the space. 

There was something deliberate about it. 

Calm. 

Structured. 

Almost like the opposite of the race weekend waiting ahead. 

Estelle’s voice came in gently from beside Robby. “You can start by picking a fortune if you want.” 

She gestured to a small table a bit to the side, filled with omikuji slips arranged neatly in wooden boxes. 

Ísis walked first. Oscar followed a step behind. 

She reached into the box without hesitation, fingers brushing over the thin wooden sticks before selecting one and drawing it out. 

Then he did the same. 

No rush. No competition. 

Ísis unfolded her paper slowly, eyes scanning the text. 

A slight pause. 

Then a faint shift in her expression—not quite a reaction, but something close. 

Oscar glanced over at her before looking back at his own fortune. 

“So,” Estelle prompted lightly, “good or bad?” 

Ísis held the paper a little higher, lips pressing together briefly as if considering how to answer.  

“Neutral,” she said. 

Oscar let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, unfolding his own. 

“Same,” he added. 

That, at least, seemed to land between them. 

Not identical—but close enough to acknowledge. 

Estelle stepped in slightly closer now, lifting her notes, signaling the start of the segment. 

“Alright,” Estelle continued, stepping in, “first question—while you’re here, what’s something important to wish for?” 

Ísis glanced once toward Oscar again, then back at the shrine in front of them. 

The space around them remained calm, visitors moving quietly in the background, the faint clatter of wooden plaques and soft voices blending into the atmosphere. 

With one finally glance at the fortune in her hand, she finally looked at the camera, brushing loose strands of hair back.  

“I think health is always something good to wish for,” Ísis answered smoothly, her voice steady, composed. A soft, practiced smile settled on her face, paired with a quiet shine in her eyes that had a way of drawing people in without effort. 

She nodded once, as if weighing her own words even as she spoke them. 

“Yes—health, mostly,” she added, a touch more thoughtful now. “For my family, my friends… and myself. I believe it’s one of the most important things in life.” 

There was a brief pause after she finished. 

Not uncomfortable. Just complete. 

Behind the camera, Estelle didn’t interrupt, letting the moment breathe. 

Oscar, standing slightly to her side, glanced toward her as she spoke, then back toward the shrine. 

He didn’t comment but her absorbed her words and the way she spoke. So calm and certain, while also seeming so humble. 

And his attention lingered a second longer than necessary. 

“Perfect. Oscar?” 

Oscar shifted his weight slightly, stepping just enough into frame to share the space naturally. 

“Same question,” Estelle confirmed. 

He looked toward the shrine first, then back toward the camera. 

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I’d probably say health as well. It’s… kind of the foundation for everything else.” 

A small pause. 

“Without that, the rest doesn’t really matter.” 

His tone was calm, straightforward—no embellishment, no performance. 

Ísis listened without turning her head. 

Only her eyes flicked briefly in his direction. 

Then back to the shrine. 

Before a silence could build between them—the kind McLaren were used to, because neither driver was one to fill space unnecessarily—Estelle continued softly: 

“Japan has quite many traditions.” 

Both of them nodded toward the camera, acknowledging her without breaking focus. 

“Do you also have traditions with your families? And what would they be?” 

This time, Ísis looked at Oscar expectantly—subtly inviting him to go first. 

Oscar caught it. 

He hesitated for a moment, then took a quiet breath, considering his answer. 

“I guess we’ve already established it,” he said, a small laugh escaping him. “We don’t really have a tradition as a whole family.” 

A pause. 

“But my nana started one—she always brings lamingtons to the Australian GP.” 

His mouth curved slightly. 

“So I’d say… eating those.” 

A soft chuckle followed, more to himself than anyone else. 

For a second, it lightened the space between them. 

And—unexpectedly—it pulled a faint, almost reluctant half-smile from Ísis. 

He noticed it. 

But couldn’t tell if it was real or just for the camera. 

He never could with her. 

“Ísis?” he prompted, smoothly passing it back to her. 

She shifted her gaze to the shrine for a second—just long enough to gather her thoughts—before answering. 

“We have a few,” she said, a soft smile forming as she thought about it. 

Something in her expression changed—subtle, but warmer. 

“But I think my favorite is… my sister and I, we always eat cake together on our birthdays.” 

She paused, letting the words settle. 

Then added, almost as if correcting herself: 

“Even if we’re not together. We always make it happen. FaceTime, whatever it takes. We both get a piece of cake from whatever shop we can find one, and we eat it at the same time.” 

A small breath of amusement slipped out of her. 

“And she always sings,” she added, a real smile now breaking through. “Even when I tell her she absolutely doesn’t need to.” 

A quiet laugh followed—light, unguarded. 

“I’ve never managed to stop her.” 

For a moment, she just sat with it. 

Letting the memory linger. 

And Oscar noticed it immediately. 

It was never something obvious. Never something she would show in any other setting. 

But whenever she spoke about her sister, something in her changed. 

Not fully. Not enough for most people to notice. 

But enough for him to. 

She softened. 

Just slightly. 

The edges of her—so controlled, so precise in everything she did—eased without her seeming to realize it. 

And in those moments, she didn’t feel like a driver. 

Or a name. 

Or a legacy carefully maintained under pressure and expectation. 

Just— 

human. 

Natural. 

And somehow, that version of her lingered longer than it should have. 

“…We should move on,” Estelle says gently. 

Isis realizes only too late she’s still smiling. 

For longer than she maybe should’ve. 

Ísis blinks once. 

The softness is gone before anyone else can register it. 

“Right,” she says. 

Already back in control. 

Already displaced again. 

Not because she changed. 

Because she reset. 

❯❯❯❯ 

Japan was a lot. 

Noise, people, electricity—billboards burning above intersections, trains slicing through the city like clockwork, traffic flowing without pause. Even the air felt busy. Layered with scent that shifted every few steps: street food, fuel, rain on concrete. 

It should have felt exciting. It didn’t. 

So when they finally stepped into a quiet, modern sushi restaurant, both Ísis and Oscar almost exhaled at the same time. 

Not that they weren’t used to intensity. Formula 1 never gave silence. Never really stopped. 

But Tokyo didn’t transition between moments—it collided with them. 

Inside, everything softened. Warm lighting. Clean lines. The precise rhythm of staff moving behind the counter, unhurried but exact. 

“You both eat fish, right?” Estelle asked, glancing between them. 

A question slightly late—considering where they were sitting. 

Both drivers nodded. 

“We grew up by the beach,” Oscar said simply, as if that should’ve answered everything. “So yeah. Fish is normal.” 

Ísis gave a small nod beside him. No embellishment. No need. 

Keeping it contained. 

And privately noting neither of them were exactly Lando Norris types when it came to food. 

The thought flickered—and stayed unspoken. 

Of course it did. 

They were led into a private lounge just off the main floor. Far enough away for Robby to set up the camera, and for Estelle to adjust microphones with practiced efficiency while the first plates began to circulate on the conveyor. 

“Are you good?” she asked. 

Not really a question. A start line. 

A signal. 

If Oscar had been here with Lando, it would’ve been effortless—light, automatic, already halfway to a joke. 

And if Ísis had been with Mick, she would’ve slipped into it without thinking. 

But it wasn’t Lando. 

And it wasn’t Mick. 

It was just them. 

And neither of them were known for filling silence for the sake of it. 

“Let’s start easy,” Estelle said brightly as the sushi belt began its slow loop. “Warm-up round. No pressure.” 

Her eyes moved between them. 

“Who is more likely to be late?” 

Ísis looked at Oscar immediately. Instinctive. Clean. 

The camera caught it perfectly. 

Oscar just smiled to himself. 

“Me,” he said. 

Ísis nodded once. 

“Absolutely,” she agreed, a small laugh slipping through. 

Natural. Controlled. 

Estelle moved on. 

But Oscar noticed it—still not entirely sure if the sound had been genuine or just for the camera, but he noticed it nonetheless. 

“Who is more likely to overthink a debrief after a race?” 

“Him,” Ísis said without hesitation. 

Oscar exhaled through his nose, amused. “Yeah. Fair.” 

“You don’t deny it?” Estelle asked. 

“I just like understanding things properly,” he said. 

Ísis glanced at him briefly. 

“That’s a polite way of saying yes.” 

A faint smile. “Maybe.” 

They finally moved on to the food, started eating. Small plates passing in steady rhythm—carefully prepared sushi, quiet precision in every detail. A contrast to everything they lived. 

“How is it?” Estelle asked. 

“It’s great,” Oscar said, swallowing politely. 

“Amazing,” Ísis added once she’d finished chewing, tone softer for the camera. 

For a while, they simply ate—only the belt moved. 

Then— 

“Who takes longer to choose what to eat?” 

Oscar didn’t even look at Estelle. 

He looked at Ísis. 

Then pointed at her. Immediately. 

She blinked. “No.” 

But he didn’t budge. 

“I’ve seen you,” he said, a quiet laugh in his voice, “studying a menu like it’s telemetry. The day before you even go out.” 

That made her pause. “That was one time.” 

Not offended—just caught. 

“That was every time.” He said it like he had been paying attention longer than he should have. 

Oscar just looked back at her, expression calm in a way that said I told you so without needing words. 

A beat. 

Then she exhaled through a laugh. 

“…Fine. Me.” 

Estelle smiled, moving on. 

“Who is more likely to accidentally learn basic Japanese faster?” 

Ísis didn’t even hesitate this time—she simply pointed at Oscar. 

Oscar laughed. “I already know some.” 

“Show off,” Estelle said. 

“Useful,” he replied. 

The rhythm settled. Easier now. Less friction in the air. 

“Who thinks less before they talk?” 

The question hung for a beat.  

Not comfortable. But not uncomfortable either exactly. 

It was a stupid question to ask them. 

Then Isis asked, flatly, “Can I say Lando?”  

The table broke instantly. Estelle laughed out loud, shaking her head as the tension snapped cleanly. 

Because neither of them really fit the question anyway. 

Both too controlled. 

Too calculated. 

Too aware. 

Estelle recovered first. “Who is more competitive?” 

A pause—longer this time. 

Oscar glanced at her briefly. 

“You.” 

Ísis didn’t react straight away. 

Then, evenly: 

“No.” 

Oscar tilted his head slightly. “That sounded defensive.” 

“It isn’t,” she said calmly. “You’re just as competitive. Simulator, for example.” 

Her tone stayed steady—measured, deliberate. Carefully open for the camera, but still controlled in a way that didn’t give too much away. 

Estelle leaned in slightly. “So disagreement?” 

Ísis shook her head. 

“He’s just wrong.” 

That time she laughed—clean, camera-perfect. 

Oscar watched it. Not the sound. The precision of it. 

A performance that was good enough to pass as natural—but still a performance. 

He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. 

“We’ll call it data uncertainty,” he said. 

Ísis nodded immediately, smile still in place—clean, practiced, effortless for anyone watching. 

But Oscar noticed the fraction of delay before it settled. 

Just enough to be intentional. 

Just enough to still be control. 

Estelle smiled at that, clearly satisfied with how easily they had settled into the rhythm now. 

“Alright,” she said, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Next one.” 

The sushi belt continued its quiet loop beside them, plates sliding past like a steady metronome—unbothered by the way the conversation had started to shift slightly under the surface. 

“Who is more likely to ignore messages for hours?” 

Ísis didn’t even pretend to think about it this time. 

She just looked at Oscar. 

Oscar, already sensing it, lifted his brows slightly. ”…Me.” 

“Definitely,” Ísis added. 

“I do reply,” he defended himself. 

“Eventually,” she replied instantly. 

A soft laugh came from Estelle. 

Oscar shook his head lightly, but there was no real protest in it. 

“Sometimes I’m just focused,” he said. 

“Mm,” Ísis hummed, unconvinced. “For eight to forty-eight business hours.” 

That earned a quiet laugh from him this time—short, genuine. 

Estelle moved on quickly, enjoying the flow now. 

“Who is more likely to say ‘I’m fine’ when they’re not?” 

The question landed a little differently. 

Not heavier exactly—but quieter. 

For a moment, neither of them answered. 

No shifting. No immediate glance. No deflection. 

Both of their gazes stayed on Estelle, fixed just enough to look natural—just enough to avoid the alternative. 

Because looking at each other would create a story neither of them wanted written for them. 

Something too easy to misread. 

Too easy to inflate. 

The space between the question and the answer stretched—barely a second, maybe two—but long enough to register. 

Long enough to feel intentional. 

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, a near-invisible movement as he exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking down for a fraction of a moment before returning forward. 

Ísis kept her gaze forward, but her breathing didn’t quite settle back into rhythm right away. 

Not enough for anyone else to notice. 

Just enough for her to feel it. 

“…Both of us,” he said. 

Ísis nodded once. “Yes.” 

A pause followed—not awkward, but compressed. 

Contained. 

The question lingered in the air longer than the others had. 

Ísis wondered—briefly, privately—how something like that had made it into a segment meant to be light. Relatable. Human. 

It wasn’t wrong. 

Just dangerous in its precision. 

Too close to truth for comfort. 

Estelle smiled softly, sensing the shift but choosing not to lean into it. 

“Alright then—who is more likely to remember something small the other person said weeks ago?” 

This time, Oscar didn’t answer straight away. 

He looked at her properly now.  

Not the camera. 

Not the table. 

Her. 

Ísis felt it—but didn’t turn. 

“I think…” he started slowly, “it depends.” 

“On what?” Estelle asked. 

“If it matters.” 

Silence flickered between them again—not uncomfortable, but focused. 

Ísis finally glanced at him. Brief. Controlled. 

“That’s a diplomatic answer,” she said. 

“It’s an accurate ,” he replied. 

Estelle smiled. “No consensus?” 

“There is,” Ísis said, picking up a piece of sushi carefully. 

Oscar’s eyes stayed on her. 

She met his gaze for a second longer than necessary. 

“...We just define ‘small’ differently.” 

A pause. 

Then Oscar gave a slight nod. 

“Fair.” 

Estelle clapped her hands once lightly, moving things along before the moment could settle too deeply. 

“Who would survive longer without coffee?” 

“I don’t drink coffee,” Oscar said instantly. 

Ísis tilted her head slightly, a faint smile forming. 

“I’m Brazilian,” she said. “There is no such thing as a good day without coffee.” 

Oscar let out a quiet laugh—this time not for the camera, but for something that clearly pulled a memory with it. 

“You should see her before coffee,” he added, shaking his head slightly. 

He laughed. “You should see her before coffee.” 

She turned slightly. “Don’t.” 

But the memory surfaced anyway. 

It was early in the 2024 season—pre-briefing, far too early, far too structured. The coffee machine in the McLaren motorhome had broken down that morning, leaving her to sit through the entire meeting without caffeine. 

Noticeably quieter. Sharper edges dulled just enough for people to notice, but not enough for anyone to comment. 

Later, she had briefly escaped to the Mercedes motorhome after a quick exchange with Lewis, returning with coffee like it was a tactical solution rather than a beverage. 

Even Estelle smiled at that. 

“Who looks better in papaya?” 

Oscar almost choked on his drink, laughing at the absurdity of the question. 

“Ehm—” 

He stalled, eyes flicking sideways toward Ísis instinctively, as if she might rescue him. 

She didn’t. 

Instead, she just looked at him. 

Calm. Expectant. Slightly amused. 

Waiting. 

No help coming. 

No escape route offered. 

Just the question hanging there between them, heavier than it should have been for something so trivial. 

Would he answer honestly—or deflect it back into nothing? 

Would he give her a compliment—or let it dissolve into something safer? 

❯❯❯❯ 

Whenever the cameras weren’t rolling and it was just the two of them moving through the chaos of Tokyo, it was quiet. 

Not comfortable. 

Not uncomfortable either. 

Neither of them really knew what to say. 

They didn’t spend much time together on track unless they had to. Off track, even less. 

Once a Grand Prix weekend ended—and neither of them needed to be at the MTC—they simply… didn’t cross paths. 

Which said more than either of them ever acknowledged. 

Especially considering they lived on the same street in Monaco. 

Oscar knew, in theory, what her life looked like outside the car. 

Debriefs. Simulator. Preparation. 

And then everything else. 

Campaigns. Shoots. Airports. Another city. 

Or at least—that’s what he assumed. 

Assumed based on what he saw online—another billboard, another campaign image, another version of her face in places he didn’t expect it to be. 

“Do you have another campaign lined up when you get home?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence that had stretched a little too long. 

He noticed Robby had started filming again once they jad stepped away from the metro exit, camera subtly tracking their movement. 

Ísis’s head turned toward him slowly. 

Measured. 

Like she was taking him in for a second before deciding whether to respond. 

Then— 

“No,” she shook her head. “But I’ll have to check with my manager.” 

The answer was simple. 

But it carried more underneath than it revealed on the surface. 

Oscar nodded slightly, like he understood. 

But he didn’t look away immediately. 

The street around them stayed loud—horns, footsteps, voices spilling out of shops—but between them it stayed strangely contained, as if the city had decided to move around the space they weren’t filling. 

Robby’s camera continued to track them a few steps behind. 

Estelle’s voice floated in somewhere behind them. Light. Instructive. 

Keep moving. Stay natural. 

As if that was something you could switch on. 

Oscar tried again. 

“So nothing planned straight away?” 

It was casual. 

Careful. 

Not quite neutral. 

Ísis glanced at him. 

A fraction too long to be nothing. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

Oscar let out a quiet breath through his nose. 

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifted forward again, but her voice came anyway—measured, controlled. 

“I said I need to check with my manager.” 

A slight emphasis. 

Not defensive. 

But deliberate. 

“So it’s not fixed?” he pressed, just a touch. 

Ísis adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder before answering. 

“No,” she said. “Schedules change.” 

Simple. 

Clean. 

Closed. 

Oscar nodded once. 

“Right.” 

Silence returned. 

But it wasn’t the same silence as before. 

It had weight now. 

Because he’d heard it—not what she said, but what she avoided. 

They turned a corner, passing a group of fans who recognized them late and hesitated too long before raising phones. Security gently guided the distance back open. 

Ísis didn’t react. 

Not to them. 

Not to the camera. 

Oscar did notice, though. 

Not the fans—but the way her hand tightened briefly on the strap of her bag. Barely visible. Gone almost immediately. 

Like instinct. 

Like practice. 

He slowed half a step to match her. 

“You travel a lot,” he said, carefully now. “More than most drivers.” 

She looked at him again. 

Short. 

Measured. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

Nothing else. 

Oscar exhaled lightly through his nose. 

“That must get… exhausting.” 

That landed differently. 

Not aggressive. 

Not intrusive. 

Just honest. 

Closer. 

For the first time, there was a fraction of delay before she answered. 

“It’s fine,” she said. 

But her voice didn’t rise to reassure him. 

It didn’t soften either. 

It just stayed exactly where she placed it. 

Fine. 

A word that could mean anything—or nothing at all. 

Fine – just like how both are likely to say ‘I’m fine’ when it wasn’t. 

Oscar nodded again, but slower this time. 

He was trying to read her. 

But she didn’t give him anything to hold onto. 

They stopped at a crossing. Cars moved past in quiet streams, headlights cutting through the early evening. 

Robby’s camera lifted again. 

Filming. 

Always filming. 

Oscar looked ahead. 

Then— 

quieter this time— 

“Do you actually get time off?” 

She laughed at that. 

Almost too quickly. 

Almost. 

“Of course I do.” 

And he almost believed her. 

Almost. 

He knew she expected him to. 

The light turned green. 

They moved again. 

Side by side. 

Still not quite in step. 

❯❯❯❯ 

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯