Summary: You attend Monaco GP along with Rosa and her siblings, in the incognito mode, because world doesn’t need to know yet about your love connection with the Wolff. Meeting Susie opens something unspoken between you two…
Warnings: age gap, angst, playful banter, curse words, siblings being siblings, Jack is cute, Toto is trying to have it all together but Susie is watching from the sidelines
Word count: 3.2k
A/N: being on vacation by myself means plenty of time to think and I managed to somehow FINALLY finish this one. Hope you enjoy it :)
“What?” You were awestruck by his words.
Toto looked at you as if it wasn’t so surprising.
“I want you to attend the Monaco GP, as my VIP guest. With a paddock pass, you’d have access to the entire lounge, best drinks, food. My presence…” he said the last thing with a smug smile.
You pushed away from the table, still in disbelief.
“Does it mean that you want to make our relationship public? It’s still fresh, you know.” You tried to be reasonable.
But he shook his head. “I’m sure about you. And there are very few things I'm sure about…”
You inhaled sharply, taking a walk to the floor to ceiling window. This man wanted to acknowledge you as his.
It sounded so stupid, but you were scared. Fear creeped into the pits of your stomach.
Toto got up to hug you from behind, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.
“I understand if you’re not comfortable with it. Think it through.”
Rosa stood beside you, smiling eagerly, while you clutched the VIP pass in your clammy palm. She noticed your discomfort, giving you a sympathetic smile.
“Breathe in and out. It can be overwhelming, but you’re strong, we’re gonna enjoy it.”
“Please don’t leave my side, Rosi.” you whimpered, walking beside her through the main gate of the paddock.
Waking up beside Toto that morning felt unreal, you were nauseous and he wasn’t just sure if it’s a good idea overall.
But you insisted that it’s okay, that Rosa will be there while he'd be on his duties.
“Unusual to see you here, sis.” Benedict, Rosa’s brother, appeared out of nowhere all of sudden, not adding to your nervousness. His eyes took you in and he just gave you a soft nod of acknowledgement.
“Same goes for you, Ben. I guess Monaco is kinda a family gathering.” Rosa chuckled jokingly, she enjoyed herself so much, basking in the way you were squirming.
Trying to look interested, you put so much effort into your facial expressions that you lost control of your surroundings once you were met with a few members of Mercedes, showing you everything just in case something changed since the last time.
Nobody cared about you, they took it as you were a friend of the Wolff siblings and your body visibly relaxed.
Then you turned your head more to your left, catching the tall figure you adored so much and your heart did a flip.
Toto was speaking to George and Kimi, his brows knitted seriously, he did that when he had to put out his stoic and dominant energy.
“Rosi! Ben!” a gentle boyish voice lingered through the air, and Rosa almost knocked you when she tried to lift up a little boy. You averted your gaze from Toto to that little one in question and your stomach kicked you violently.
“Jack! Always a wild one, huh?” Rosa laughed, hugging him tightly as he giggled into her hoodie.
“Guess Susie is here too somewhere…” Ben shot you an amused look, that little smirk couldn't escape your attention.
Fate decided to screw you.
Jack eyed you curiously, cocking his small brow. The eldest of the siblings took a hint and turned to face you.
“This is my very best friend.” she looked at you with the softness she didn’t let you see before. It meant so much to her. And you already felt so grateful.
“Hi.” you pressed a genuine smile.
“I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.” Then he jumped back on his feet, running towards Toto.
“Well. It seems you’re up for the whole Wolff pack today.” Rosa smiled smugly, nudging your ribs, causing you to grunt.
With the second practice going, your eyes scanned the screens, you were really invested into it.
Then Benedict suggested for you all to grab something to drink and have some snacks.
Downing a huge gulp of a lemonade, a blonde head swished around you.
“Ahhh, here are my favourite people! Long time no see.”
The voice of Susie Wolff, the one you admired in some kind of a way before you even had a chance to meet with her ex husband, only known her from Rosa’s stories, quickened your heartbeat to the limits.
Greetings with the siblings were in some blurry haze for you when Susie stopped to look at you.
“And who this young lady might be?” Her focus was clearly on you.
Having your cheeks hot, parting your lips to speak, Benedict was the one to help to ease your distress of meeting your lover's ex wife.
“Rosa’s best friend. They play tennis together.”
His older sister gave him a look that screamed “that was all you could muster?”.
“Ah, yeah, that’s me, the tennis player.” you choked out with what was a chuckle.
Susie wasn’t the one to be fooled with nonsense, but she let it go, not diving into it. Jack leaned into her leg, tugging her jacket to take him to the candy stand.
With them gone, Rosa stepped closer to Ben. “They play tennis together…”
Ben rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic. What was I supposed to say? Hey, my former step mom, she’s the one who’s sleeping with our dad now?”
“Hey, I love him, I’m not some kind of–” you tried to interfere but you were interrupted by Rosa again.
“You don’t have to apologise. Nobody’s gonna say anything to Susie. It’s the adult's problem.”
“Oh, so you’re saying we’re kids, then?” Ben huffed, taking a bite of a cookie.
“You're an idiot.” Rosa threw her hands to the side dramatically.
Leaving them both to their banter, you came back to the garage, taking a seat in one of the boxes from where you watched the practise again.
Just when you scrolled through your phone, reading a message from Toto saying you look ravishing today, liebes, someone sat beside you and your nose was hit with a familiar perfume.
“You’re not just some friend, hm?”
Susie was leaning so close to you, you could easily see the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and it kicked the air from your lungs.
After a while she let out a small laugh, shifting more into her seat.
“Relax. I’m not gonna bite. Actually you surprised me. I didn’t expect somebody… This matured? Even for a young girl. Toto really has this skill to surprise people in his life.”
Her words confused you, but your mind was easing a little. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t that kind of the ex wife to bite off your head because you were dating her ex.
“Uh, thanks, I guess?” you mumbled.
You were met with his gaze when the day was over, you came up to him carefully in the empty garage, to not be seen by the nosy reporters around.
“So, how was your day, liebes? I missed being able to touch you.” Toto breathed into your hair, pulling you close to his solid body.
Your arms wrapped around his waist, your head resting on his chest, a soft breath fanning over his collarbone.
“Hectic… But I wouldn’t change a thing.” you mumbled into his shirt, he smelled like himself and motor oil.
“My family is a pretty package, right? I’m sorry I wasn’t with you, that you went through that greeting misery alone.” he was genuinely sorry.
“That’s okay, I had Rosa and Ben with me. But meeting with Susie was really scary, she literally waited for me to be alone. She was nice, I must admit.” You felt the shiver running down your spine.
“I think I have to make up for you facing all of this alone. Come on, let’s go home.” Toto took your hand gently and led you out by the back entrance towards his car.
Through the ride you felt your phone buzzing, taking it out of your purse, it was Rosa.
Rosa: you made a real impression on Sus ;)
You: oh my, really or are you making fun of me?
Rosa: I’m serious, she likes you
You: you have no idea what a relief it is to know that
Rosa: and Jack was ecstatic about you too, expect him to hang out with you tomorrow
You: thank you, Rosa :) for everything today
Rosa: ;)
Toto captured your soft smile when you put your phone away, eyes back on the road.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“Rosa texted me that Susie actually likes me.”
Toto was focused on the road, just letting out a hum. That made you turn your head to look at him.
“Nothing else to add up?”
“No?” He glanced quickly at you and then back at the road.
“You always have something to say.” You shrugged, folding your arms over your chest.
“Look, I’m glad that Susie likes you, but I don’t want you two to be friends.”
You wanted to ask why, but at that moment he pulled over and got out of the car to open the garage at his house.
Then he hopped back, parking the car safely. With the engine off, there was a silence between you.
“Why?”
Toto rubbed his temple, huffing a little.
“I don’t want you to be influenced by some… talk.” And then he turned to look at you, his eyes not at all honest.
You furrowed your brows a little.
“You know what Toto? I think I deserve a little bit more truth when we’re sharing a life together. I may be young but I’m not stupid. I don’t want to play your games of you being the old and wise, protecting me from the big bad world. I want the truth and I want it raw. I’m not interested in some bullshit.”
You surprised yourself with your speech but it was Toto who had his eyes wide and mouth open agape.
“Eh… oh? Okay. That’s fair. No more bullshit, liebling.” He hummed, tapping the leather on the steering wheel.
“So? I’m not going anywhere from this car until you tell me the reason why I shouldn't be more open to knowing Susie.”
Toto lifted his head to look forward into the wall in front of the car, biting his lip. Then he shook his head. “Okay then.”
“She might appear like a polite and kind person, and to be honest she’s a great mother and friend, but… there are some opinions of hers on my life after our— or maybe before our divorce— ugh—“ he started to spiral into his own words.
“You cheated on her?” It blurted out of you quickly.
Shooting you a weird look, he pursed his lips.
“Um… how do I put it— well—“
“Say it as it is, Toto.”
“…yeah.”
That was it.
Truth has been spoken, you sucked in a breath and then you let it out shakily.
“Oh my. Okay.” You whispered, climbing out of the car.
Toto was out of the car in an instant and he was trying to stop you in the tracks in the garage.
“Look, I—“
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You glanced up at him. It was silly, to feel hurt by things that didn’t happen to you, but still.
“Why? Maybe because it doesn’t matter. It’s not important for us.” He scoffed, holding you by your shoulders.
“Not important? I would rather hear it from you in a better way than like this just because you’re scared of your ex wife talking shit about you. Or are you scared that she’d tell me more things you don’t want me to know?” Your voice was like a venom, your eyes full of disbelief.
“I— uh— look. Okay, well, I should’ve told you, but what would you think about me?” His brows fell.
“You’re unbelievable. People make mistakes, but you can’t assume the worst when you don’t know how I would react to that.” You moved past him, walking into the house.
“I was scared.” His voice was full of emotion, he stood there in the doorway that was dividing the garage and the hallway. Turning to look at him, his expression was a defeated one.
“Scared?”
“That you would leave me. You’re the first person I fell in love genuinely, I… I was more into games and unattached things before, but with you it’s real. And that scares me, that I fuck it up and you leave me. And that I will lose you. I can’t imagine a day without your bright smile, without your sweet presence. I… I wasn’t even into younger women before you. Many people would say that it’s not true but…” he sighed.
“You weren’t? What about Susie? She’s like ten years younger than you?” You were in the defensive position.
“You know what I mean, liebes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Hm… okay.” Leaving him standing there, you went upstairs to the bathroom.
Toto sat against the headboard in the bedroom, duvet pooled in his lap as he took a shower in the spare bathroom, washing off the stress of the day. Wearing only pajama pants, he looked comfortable, but not really as you still didn’t come out.
Having his readers on, he was going through the telemetry data on his iPad, making some notes along the way.
Finally a door clicked and you came out, not sparing him a look as you slid under the duvet, snatching it more to your side to leave him without it.
“Are you gonna punish me for the rest of my life?” He hummed.
“Maybe.” You whispered, but after a while you turned to face him.
“It’s stupid.”
Toto glanced at you by the corner of his eye and nodded. “It is, but if it matters to you… I understand.”
“Come here. I hate this. I hate when there is something between us that makes us sad, angry or distant.” You reached for his hand to get him closer, under the duvet with you.
He quickly tossed the iPad to the nightstand along with his reading glasses and he wrapped his arms around you tight, kissing your forehead.
“I love you.” A whisper of feelings you needed to hear.
You cupped his face into your palms, staring into his eyes. “I love you, silly.”
Toto chuckled at the nickname, turning his head to kiss your hand. “Silly, huh?”
“Would you be upset if I didn't go back this weekend?” Your face was serious all of sudden, but he understood.
Resting his forehead against yours he sighed softly. “No. It’s up to you, princess. I want you to feel okay with everything that happens in our lives. And if you need to have some peace and comfort, I get it. My world isn’t exactly calm, so I understand if it was too much for you today.”
“It was overall nice to catch up with Rosa and Ben, also meeting up with Jack. But I’m not ready to be fully in it, if you know what I mean.” Your thumb mapped his wrinkles at the corner of his mouth.
He pulled you closer, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I totally know. On Sunday, after the race, what about dinner with my kids? My treat.”
You grinned jokingly. “Your treat? Deal.”
Susie spent the weekend in the back of the Mercedes garage, along with Jack and dealing with her business.
She noticed you weren’t there after your Friday meeting, her smile curling up at the memory of your expression.
Rosa wasn’t blind, her gaze glued to her ex stepmom, she watched her like a hawk. The way she was walking through the paddock since you weren’t there, like the Wolff goddess she used to be, now only with the last name still present after the divorce.
Benedict buckled Jack into the backseat when Toto discussed something with Bradley and Paul outside, Rosa bidding her goodbye to Susie.
“Make sure Jack doesn’t eat anything sweet, he’s like a menace after.” Susie patted the back of the car as Rosa placed her purse on the passenger’s seat.
“Don’t worry.”
“And he should be sleeping by eight, you know—“
“It’s okay, Sus. We know. It’s not the first time for us.” Rosa gave her an amused look.
“Not for you, but for—“ Susie was interrupted again.
“For dad’s new woman? She’s great with kids, so really, don’t worry about that. Also, dad won’t let anything bad happen to his child. You know that pretty well.” Rosa rolled her eyes with a wide smile, getting into the car.
Toto gave Susie one of his respectful expressions along with a nod and he disappeared behind the wheel.
Ben just sighed, waving at Susie. “Bye.”
You had nothing to worry about when Toto said it’s gonna be his treat, because he hired the best people to serve them the various meals and desserts for the rest of the evening in the house.
Sitting around the table in the dining hall, you let out a small laugh, full of nerves.
Toto placed his hand over yours, giving you reassurance.
“Relax, you know us, you can enjoy yourself. It’s okay.”
“I know, but we weren’t like this before. It’s the first time to sit here like… like a family?” You choked out the last words, without being embarrassed by your own tears.
“You’re taking it very well.” Rosa chuckled, chugging the lemonade.
Benedict turned his head to look at Jack, who was stuffing his mouth with a chocolate mouse.
“No, man, your mom—“
“Come on, bro, he can have a little fun.” Rosa scolded Benedict who shrank into his seat, giving her a look full of daggers.
“I’m not your bro.”
“You sure ain’t my sis.”
“Enough.” Toto’s voice echoed through the dining room and a giggle escaped your mouth.
“Something’s funny?” He gave you a look.
“Pretty much everything.” You leaned closer to him to peck his lips.
Benedict cleared his throat, but Rosa stomped on his feet under the table to keep him in line.
Jack was giggling, enjoying the playfulness of the moment.
Ben and Rosa went to their rooms and Toto was about to tuck Jack into his bed.
You placed the last plate into the dishwasher, wanting to at least clean up the mess in the kitchen when he appeared in the doorway.
“Someone’s requesting your presence.”
“Oh?” Your brows raised and you wiped your hands into a towel, following him into the room upstairs.
Jack was snuggled under the covers, a small bedside lamp illuminating the space, and he had this sleepy look on his face that got a little eager when he spotted you entering the room.
“Can you read me a bedtime story?” His voice was soft and it tugged on your heartstrings.
“Of course, little one.” You gave Toto a glance and he nodded with a smile.
Once you were settled beside Jack, you opened the book and read him a story about a little rabbit.
He seemed to snuggle closer to you, feeling the heat radiating off you, his eyes closing slowly.
And in an instant, he was out, sleeping soundly.
Toto was watching it from the doorway, quietly and carefully. He knew that Jack wasn’t open to meeting new people, so this was a big one.
Summary: In this one you swear to yourself to not fall for Toto, ever. But he takes his time, patient with your avoidance and then he suggests you should get on sailing trip with him.
Warnings: none, independent and self aware reader, falling in love, kissing
Word count: 1.6k
A/N: this actually came out of nowhere and I’m quite surprised I was able to finish it in one sitting. Enjoy :)
𓊝
You didn’t fall for him immediately.
It was a process.
Toto tried ever since he laid his eyes on you.
You were a strong woman, having your own life, happily living the best you could.
One night changed it forever. When one of your friends introduced you to him. The powerful man, who held everything under control, you knew that type of men.
Being unfazed by him, you politely spoke to him through the gala night, and then disappeared without leaving your number or anything else.
Toto was a man on a mission to get to you. He had his ways to contact you, sending you flowers, even dared to text or call you on your cell phone.
You could block him, say no.
But at the same time you were annoyed, you were amazed by his relentless effort to woo you.
Playing some games with him, you accepted some coffees there and there. Not giving him much, but each time you gave him a little bit of yourself, he became more hungry.
“Come with me on a sailing trip.” He asked you one day while you were about to hang up.
“What? Like, you have a boat?” Your sarcastic chuckle rang through his ears.
“Of course I have a boat. A yacht, car collection… I can continue but I know that doesn’t move you.”
It made you smile that he knew that any of his rich things weren't worth your attention.
“Hm.”
“I guess you’re thinking about it. That’s a start.” Toto grinned a little too giddy.
“I’ll think about it. Don’t get too excited.” And with that you finally pressed the red button and ended the call.
A deep sigh left your mouth, your hand ran through your hair as you leaned against the counter in your kitchen. If you were about to say yes, you knew you were doomed and that you’re gonna fall for him all at once. But maybe it was for the best.
The very next day a car took you to the docks along with your suitcase, Toto already waiting there for you with a wide smirk and pleased expression.
Stepping out of the car, you took a glance at the boat, it looked like maybe a small yacht but this one really had a sail on it. You were no expert with boats so you just shrugged and walked towards Toto, your suitcase following you beside.
“Excited for the adventure?” He smiled, his features now softened and you hummed with a nod.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Come on, don’t be this uptight. It will be fun.” His arm wrapped around your shoulder as he guided you onto the deck.
𓊝
Being settled in the small cabin you understood that there is only one bed, spacious enough for two people but you didn’t expect for something to happen. You were sure you won’t let Toto get the best part of you, because that would be so freaking early.
Getting up by the small stairs you were on the top of the boat, watching Toto how he’s handling the wheel. One must admit that he looked hot as hell like that, his strong arms flexed while he was fighting the strong currents of sea water underneath this colossal monster, those veins under his skin pumping the blood for his muscles. Oh no.
You were down real bad.
Clearing your throat, you took a few steps to stand beside him, unsure if you’re gonna keep your balance, getting a little sick already from how it was rocking your stomach.
Finally Toto made some moves and steadied the boat to move by itself and he averted his attention to you.
“Feeling good?” His fingers touched your bare shoulder where your cardigan was supposed to be but the wind had other plans, exposing your skin.
“Well, I’m not used to sailing so…” your face said it all and he ushered you to the small sunbed further on the deck.
Resting there, you sighed softly, while he took a seat next to you.
“Let’s get some rest, it will help you to get accustomed to the sways of the ship.” Toto handed you a can of soda, you gladly accepted, your fingers brushing against his.
His lips pursed and he bit back some remark while staring into his can.
“Thank god I put sunscreen on me, it’s so freaking hot.” You huffed under your breath and Toto genuinely laughed.
“Then why are you wearing that cardigan?” He poked your side playfully.
With a groan, you poked his thigh. “Because it felt chilly before.”
“You’re adorable.” He breathed out, smiling widely.
You rolled your eyes and averted your gaze to the sky.
“I bet the sunset will be nice.”
He was amused by your change of topic but he let that slide.
“Not more than you are.”
“Ugh.” You grunted, taking a sip of soda and not caring about his comments that made your heart leap and stomach flutter with butterflies.
𓊝
Sharing some meals and snacks, you started to melt around your edges for him. It was getting addictive to see him smile, you even counted his wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed. He was completely different from that posh persona he played in front of everybody else. With you he was just Toto. The man who would go to hell and back for you.
“You’re staring.” He chuckled when he caught you ogling his side profile. Shaking your head with an annoyed pout, you walked carefully to the pillar that held the sail strongly. The sunset was fully in, illuminating your cheeks with its gold and you stood there taking it all in. You were happy. The most you could be in your life. A shaky breath escaped your throat, the idea of having this for a lifetime with a man who actually cared for you…
Turning your head to see over your shoulder, you caught Toto already having his eyes only for you. It was unspoken silence, only crashing waves were heard and he gave you the most sincere smile.
He never saw something more beautiful than you standing in the golden hour. Your eyes said it all, even though you never had.
Without any word, he took slow steps to where you stood, gently cupping your cheeks with his large hands, still staring into the depths of your soul.
“May I kiss you now? Because if you say no, I’m gonna drown myself in this stupid sea.” His voice was nervous, he was scared and hopeful at the same time.
Your hands went to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt a little and then you decided, with a hitch in your chest.
“Yes, please.”
It was all it took for him to lean close to capture your lips in the soft kiss, taking his time to taste you, then you let him in with his tongue and you almost fell into his arms from how you were melting.
This man let out small moans, that’s how he was completely under your spell, basking in your sweet taste.
After a while, you parted and both were panting from the lack of oxygen.
“It’s getting dark, we should get to the cabin and get some sleep.” His thumb brushed your jaw, eyes scanning your lips.
“Mhm. Sounds great.” Your body was slightly trembling from the adrenaline rush you just experienced.
Getting down into the small cabin, you just rummaged through your suitcase trying to find a shirt and shorts you packed for the night and the toiletry bag. Toto was awkwardly slouched down as he finally sat on the bed.
“You can go shower first, I’ll go after you. Towels are in the small wardrobe under the sink.”
You nodded and disappeared into a tiny shower corner that offered a very decent amount of intimacy you needed.
An hour later, you both lay down in the bed, the boat rocking gently, water touching the sides of it with delicacy.
A small bedside lamp dimmed the space, while you clutched the sheets a little.
Toto reached for you to bring you closer to him and the panic slightly arose in your chest.
“Toto— I—“ you stuttered, and he knew what you must have been thinking.
“No, oh no, I’m sorry, I just want to have you here close to me, I’m not gonna do anything else. I promise. I… I wouldn’t. If you don’t want to, I won’t try anything.” His words made you smile, causing you to relax and lean into his solid chest. Your head lay under his chin and you breathed slowly.
“Thank you.” You whispered and he wrapped his arms around you tightly.
Placing a kiss into your hair, he inhaled the scent of your shampoo, humming softly.
“I’ve been respectful for everything you’ve said and done through all this time. I wouldn’t want to ruin it by some stupid move.” His low voice was vibrating through your body.
A deep sigh fell from your lips and you nodded, enveloped by his warmth and spicy scent.
“I know, and I appreciate that… there will be plenty of time to get to— some wild things.” You almost blushed with a chuckle.
“So, that means you want to keep me around?” He leaned back to tip your chin for you to look up at him.
“Absolutely, Mr. Wolff.” You grinned and he kissed your forehead with a relieved, maybe dramatic, sigh.
And that’s how somewhere in the middle of nowhere, on the sea, you finally opened your heart to the man who won’t be moved.
Toto Wolff x reserve!driver!reader ; Lando Norris x reserve!driver!reader (flirting)
Summary: Miami turns into emotional chaos: you avoid Toto after the banquet, Lando flirts, Rosa notices everything, Kimi wins, and one private conversation with Toto finally exposes the whole truth about his marriage — and your feelings.
Saturday morning arrives with sunlight, heat, and the kind of emotional hangover that has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol. Which is unfair. If you are going to feel this destroyed, you should at least have had three cocktails and made a questionable karaoke decision. Instead, you have one sleepless night, one banket disaster, and one very vivid memory of Toto Wolff’s hands on your hips. Fantastic.
You stare at yourself in the hotel mirror for a full minute. Your face looks normal. That feels offensive. Because internally, you are a collapsed building. A smoking ruin. A woman who should be wrapped in caution tape and removed from the paddock for public safety.
You touch your cheeks. Still warm. Ridiculous. “Get it together,” you tell your reflection.
Your reflection looks unconvinced. Fair. Because what are you even supposed to do now? Walk into the Mercedes garage and act normal? Smile? Drink coffee? Pretend you did not spend half the night remembering the way Toto held you against him, the way his voice dropped when he said your name, the way your body reacted before your brain had even filed a formal complaint?
No. Absolutely not. You grab your bag from the chair. “You are going to work,” you say firmly. “You are going to focus. You are going to avoid him.”
A pause. “And maybe move to another continent.”
That part sounds reasonable.
*
The paddock is already alive when you arrive. Miami does not wake up slowly. Miami wakes up loud, glossy, overheated, and far too pleased with itself. Cameras are everywhere. Fans are pressed against barriers. Sponsor guests float around in expensive sunglasses, acting like they know the difference between qualifying and a tire blanket. Somewhere near hospitality, someone is laughing too loudly.
You walk straight into the Mercedes garage with one goal. Do not see Toto. Naturally, the first person you see is Rosa. She is waiting near one of the workstations with a coffee in hand and the expression of someone who has been collecting evidence. “Oh good,” she says. “You’re alive.”
You stop. “Barely.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
She steps closer. Slowly. Suspiciously. “You’ve been weird all weekend.”
“I’m always weird.”
“No,” she says. “Usually you’re fun weird. This is panic weird.”
You look away. “Jet lag.”
“Try again.”
“Miami heat.”
“Cute.”
You sigh. “I’m tired.”
Rosa crosses her arms. “You landed in Miami acting like someone had punched your soul. Then yesterday you disappeared from the banquet like the building was on fire.” Her eyes narrow. “Did Lando do something?”
Your head snaps toward her. “What? No.”
“Because if he did—”
“He didn’t.”
“I can fight him.”
“You cannot fight Lando Norris.”
“I can emotionally damage him.”
“That I believe.”
She watches you for a second longer, softer now. “So what happened?”
Your throat tightens. Nothing. Everything. Your father. His hands. My dignity leaving my body.
You force a shrug. “I was tired.”
Rosa gives you a look that says she believes this about as much as she believes Paul owns only one camera. Before she can push further, the air in the garage shifts. You feel it before you see him. Toto walks in from the paddock entrance, shirt sleeves pushed slightly up, face calm, focused, unreadable. He says something to Bradley, then glances toward the garage. Toward you.
Your stomach drops. For one second, his eyes meet yours. And everything from last night flashes back so fast you almost forget how to breathe.... His hand on your waist. The kiss. His breath near your neck. Your fingers curled into his shirt. Your own voice, broken and embarrassed. His voice saying your name like it cost him something.
You look away immediately. Coward. “I have something to do,” you say quickly.
Rosa blinks. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Things.”
“What things?”
“Important things.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means goodbye.”
You turn and walk away before she can stop you. Behind you, you hear her mutter, “Oh, this is very bad.”
Correct. For once, Rosa Wolff is absolutely right.
You hide near the back of the garage for ten minutes. You pretend to look at data. You pretend to read notes. You pretend your entire inner world is not currently held together with duct tape and fear. Because here is the truth you do not want to say, even to yourself: you cannot keep doing this. You cannot keep standing near him, laughing with him, letting him look at you like that, letting him touch you like that, letting your heart build a whole stupid little fantasy out of half-sentences and dangerous silences.
You know how this ends. You know you will be the one hurt. Because Toto is married. Because Susie exists. Because the world sees them together and believes in them. Because even if their marriage is “not what people think,” it is still something. A history. A life. A home. A child. A thousand shared things you cannot compete with and should not even want to. And now, after last night, you have also added a wonderful new item to the list.
You made a total idiot of yourself in front of your married boss. Great career move. Five stars. Would recommend to emotionally unstable drivers everywhere.
Yes, he had been there too. Yes, his hands were on you. Yes he kissed you. Yes, his mouth had been at your neck. Yes, his control had cracked enough for you to feel exactly how much he wanted you.
But still. You were the one who panicked. You were the one who ran. You were the one who did not reply to his messages. And now you are here, hiding behind race data like a professional coward. Wonderful.
But sprint day does not care about your emotional breakdown. Sprint day cares about tire temperatures, track limits, start procedures, and the fact that Lando Norris is starting from pole. Which, frankly, feels personal.
Kimi is P2. George is P6. Both Mercedes drivers are already in their purple Miami edition race suits.
You would usually have material for at least twenty minutes. But today, you are silent. George notices immediately. He stands in the garage with his helmet tucked under one arm, looking at you like you have personally disappointed him. “You’re not going to say anything?”
You glance up. “About what?”
He gestures at himself. “This.”
You look at the suit. Then at him. “It suits your complexion,” you say flatly. “And your dreamy eyes.”
Kimi, standing beside him, lets out a laugh so sudden he almost drops his gloves.
George stares at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No Milka joke? No grape joke? No insult about us looking like nightclub furniture?”
You shrug. “I’m maturing.”
George narrows his eyes. “No. Something is wrong.”
Kimi nods, serious now. “Yes. She is broken.”
“I’m not broken.”
“You did not insult us properly,” Kimi says. “That is concerning.”
George points at you. “Exactly.”
You sigh. “Fine. You both look like limited-edition chocolate wrappers.”
Kimi smiles immediately. “Better.”
George nods. “There she is.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile barely reaches your face. George sees it. His expression softens a fraction, but before he can ask, an engineer calls both of them over. Sprint preparations. Final checks. No room for personal questions now. Thank God.
You watch them go. Then feel someone’s gaze on you again. You do not turn. You know. Toto is on the other side of the garage, speaking with Bradley and one of the engineers, but his attention keeps finding you anyway. Quietly. Carefully. Like he is waiting for the moment you stop running.
You do not give him one. You escape into the paddock ten minutes later under the excuse of needing air. That is technically true. You need air. You also need a new personality and maybe a medical professional.
The paddock is packed. Miami does not understand the concept of space. People flow around you in waves: team staff, media, influencers, sponsors, drivers, fans beyond the barriers screaming names every two seconds.
You keep your head down. Bad idea. Because you nearly walk straight into orange.
“Careful,” a familiar voice says, amused. “Would be a shame to take out a Mercedes driver before the sprint.”
You look up. Lando is standing in front of you, race suit tied around his waist, McLaren shirt fitted perfectly, grin bright enough to annoy you on principle. Oh. Fantastic. Because apparently Miami has decided subtlety is illegal.
“Hi,” you say, already suspicious.
Lando tilts his head, still smiling. “That’s all I get?”
“You nearly caused a collision.”
“You walked into me.”
“You were standing there in papaya. Hard to miss.”
He laughs, easy and warm, like you have just given him exactly what he wanted.
“You disappeared last night,” he says.
Your stomach tightens. Of course he starts there. You fold your arms. “Did I?”
“Yes,” he says, grin softening a little. “We danced, we talked, you insulted my entire team color palette, which I was honestly starting to enjoy, and then suddenly— gone.” He snaps his fingers. “Like Mercedes had activated emergency extraction.”
You look away for half a second. “I was tired,” you say.
Lando studies you with that bright, curious expression of his. “That’s the official statement?”
“Yes.”
“Very PR trained.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Mercedes?”
“No. Panic.”
He laughs again, and you hate that it helps. Just a little.
“Well,” he says, stepping half a pace closer, “I thought maybe I scared you off.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You?”
“Could happen.”
“You’re five percent dangerous at most.”
“Ouch.”
“Seven if you’re holding a padel racket.”
His grin widens. “Speaking of that…”
You close your eyes briefly. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” He leans slightly against the barrier beside you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Did you think about my invitation?”
You look at him. “You invited me last night while holding a glass of champagne and explaining why McLaren orange is actually fashionable.”
“It is.”
“It is a safety warning.”
“It’s iconic.”
“It’s traffic cone couture.”
He points at you. “That’s exactly why you should come. You need to relax.”
“I relax.”
“You ran away from a banquet.”
“I strategically exited.”
“You vanished.”
“Efficiently.”
“Exactly,” he says, smiling. “Padel. Tonight. No banquet. No sponsors. No weird speeches. Just a game.”
You hesitate. Because honestly? That sounds… nice. Normal. Light. Something that is not Toto’s hands on your waist, his voice against your skin, or the unbearable silence that followed when you ran.
Before you can answer, two voices appear behind you. “Oh, absolutely not.”
You close your eyes. George and Kimi. Of course. You turn slowly. George stands there with his arms crossed, looking personally betrayed by the entire concept of McLaren interaction. Kimi stands beside him, holding a bottle of water and wearing the expression of someone who knows this is about to become entertainment.
Lando looks between them. “Do you two always arrive like security?”
George points at him. “Only when enemies approach.”
Kimi nods solemnly. “Very suspicious orange activity.”
You sigh. “We were talking.”
“With McLaren,” George says.
“With Lando,” you correct.
“Same thing.”
Lando lifts a hand. “I do have a name.”
George gives him a dry look. “Unfortunately.”
Kimi leans toward you. “Careful. He is trying to lure you away.”
“To padel,” you say.
“Exactly,” Kimi replies. “Gateway sport.”
Lando laughs. “Gateway to what?”
“Secrets,” George says immediately.
“Ah yes,” Lando nods. “I’ll extract Mercedes strategy between serves.”
“You joke,” George says, “but I don’t trust papaya.”
Lando looks offended. “Papaya is friendly.”
“Papaya is suspicious.”
“Papaya is fast.”
George’s smile turns thin. “For now.”
Kimi takes a sip of water. “This is fun.”
You look at him. “You’re not helping.”
“I know.”
Lando turns back to you, still amused. “See? This is why you need to come. Your team is overprotective.”
George straightens. “We are not overprotective.”
Kimi nods. “We are normal protective.”
“You’re acting like bodyguards,” Lando says.
George folds his arms tighter. “She’s Mercedes.”
“I’m a person,” you cut in.
George points at you. “A Mercedes person.”
“That sounds worse.”
Lando’s grin softens when he looks at you again. “So? Tonight? I’ll pick you up from the hotel.”
George makes a choking sound. “Pick her up?”
Kimi’s eyebrows lift. “Bold.”
Lando shrugs. “I’m confident.”
George snorts. “Win the sprint first.”
“I plan to.”
“Then get pole again?” Kimi asks dryly.
“That too.”
George looks at you like this should be enough evidence for immediate rejection. “He’s unbearable.”
Lando winks at you. “Only when it works.”
You should say no. You know you should. Because this is already messy. Because George and Kimi are staring at you like you’re about to defect. Because Toto exists somewhere behind this whole thing like a storm you are trying very hard not to look at. But maybe that is exactly why you say yes. Because you need air. You need something simple. You need one evening where your heartbeat is not being held hostage by a married Austrian with impossible control and very dangerous hands.
So you shrug. “Fine,” you say. “Padel.”
George stares at you. “Fine?”
Kimi whispers, “Betrayal.”
Lando’s smile turns victorious. “Good.”
You point at him immediately. “No weird McLaren recruitment tactics.”
“I make no promises.”
“Lando.”
“Fine. Minimal recruitment tactics.”
George groans. “I hate this.”
“You hate everything orange,” Lando says.
“Correct.”
Kimi nods. “Consistent.”
Lando steps back, still smiling at you. “I’ll text you the time.”
“You don’t have my number.”
He grins. You blink. “How do you—”
“Paddock,” he says simply.
You narrow your eyes. “That is deeply concerning.”
“It’s efficient.”
George looks horrified. “This is how espionage starts.”
Lando laughs, then gives you one last look, bright and playful.
“See you later, Mercedes girl.”
Then he walks off toward McLaren like he hasn’t just added another active fire to your weekend.
George watches him go, jaw tight. “No.”
You look at him. “No?”
“No.”
“You’re not my father.”
“I’m older than Kimi, so I’m the responsible adult here.”
Kimi frowns. “Why am I involved?”
“Because you’re enabling this.”
“I said betrayal.”
“That’s enabling with commentary.”
You rub your forehead. “It’s just padel.”
George gives you a look. “With Lando Norris.”
“And?”
“And he flirted with you yesterday.”
You shrug, trying very hard to look unaffected. “Everyone flirts in this paddock.”
George’s eyes flick, just for a second, toward the Mercedes garage. “Some more dangerously than others.”
Silence. Your whole body goes still. Kimi looks at George. George immediately regrets having a mouth. You force a small smile. “Good luck in the sprint,” you say.
George clears his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Kimi gives you a softer look. “You okay?”
You lift your chin. “Perfect.”
None of you believes it. But for once, nobody says it out loud. You stay in the paddock for a moment longer, exhaling slowly. You close your eyes briefly. “…great.”
*
You spend the rest of the day avoiding Toto. With the kind of strategic precision that, honestly, Mercedes should consider putting into a race plan. Unfortunately, Toto Wolff is not an easy man to avoid. He has the deeply inconvenient habit of being everywhere. Garage. Briefing room. Media area. Hospitality. Standing near screens. Talking to engineers. Appearing in doorways like some very tall, very expensive ghost sent specifically to destroy your emotional balance.
At least two times, he tries. But not obviously, not in a dramatic cornering-you-against-a-wall way. Toto has too much control for that. Too much discipline. Too much annoying elegance. But he tries.
Once near the garage entrance, when he steps beside you and says, low enough only for you to hear, “Can we talk?”
And you immediately pretend to be needed by an engineer who is, unfortunately, not even looking in your direction.
“Later,” you say quickly. “I have to— data.”
Toto’s eyebrow lifts. “Data?”
“Yes.”
“Very specific.”
You leave before he can say anything else.
The second time is after a sponsor meeting, when you are both walking out at the same time and his hand almost touches your elbow. You move away first. His expression changes for half a second. You hate that you notice. Then Bradley appears with a tablet, and suddenly Toto is being pulled toward another obligation while you are dragged into media content. Which is wonderful. For once, you love schedules. Beautiful schedules. Protective schedules. Blessed schedules that keep you from standing in front of your married boss while remembering exactly how his hands felt on your hips. Fantastic.
Paul finds you near the Mercedes hospitality area twenty minutes later. He appears with a camera, sunglasses, and the energy of a man who has never respected anyone’s peace in his life.
“There she is,” he says. “Miami’s most emotionally unavailable Mercedes driver.”
You glare at him. “I’m available for violence.”
“Good. Strong brand.”
“Paul.”
“What?” He lifts the camera slightly. “Say something for the fans.”
“Go away.”
He grins. “Perfect. Authentic.”
You walk past him. He follows. “You’re quiet today,” he says after a moment.
You glance at him. “Jet lag.”
He hums. “Everyone in Formula 1 uses jet lag as emotional camouflage.”
“That sounds like something you made up.”
“It sounds true though.”
“Barely.”
He studies you more carefully now, camera lowering slightly. For once, he is not smiling as much. “Seriously,” he says. “You okay?”
That almost gets you. Because beneath all the teasing, Paul notices things. Too many things. The exact kind of things you wish people would politely ignore.
You shrug. “I’m fine.”
He looks unconvinced. “You’re not insulting me properly.”
“I told you to go away.”
“Yes, but without passion.”
You huff a tired laugh despite yourself.
“There she is,” he says softly, then immediately ruins it by adding, “My favorite hostile content subject.”
“Don’t get attached.”
“Too late.”
Before you can answer, Rosa appears from behind him like she has been summoned by gossip. “There you are,” she says, pointing at you. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
Paul steps back slightly, immediately interested. Rosa’s eyes sparkle. “I heard something.”
You already hate this. “What?”
She folds her arms. “You agreed to go on a date with Lando.”
Your soul leaves your body very calmly. “It is not a date.”
Paul’s head snaps toward you. “Oh?”
You close your eyes. “No.”
Rosa grins. “Padel with Lando Norris sounds like a date.”
“It is sport.”
“Sport can be a date.”
“It’s padel.”
“Exactly. Flirty tennis.”
You stare at her. “That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Unfortunately, Rosa is not quiet. Rosa has never been quiet. Rosa says this with enough cheerful volume that two people standing a few meters away definitely hear. One of them is Paul. The other is Toto. Toto is standing beside Bradley, mid-conversation, but his gaze shifts immediately. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled. He does not interrupt. He does not ask. He just listens. And that is somehow worse.
Paul turns slowly toward him, delighted beyond all reason. “Oh,” he says. “Boss probably won’t approve of fraternizing with the enemy.”
You groan. “Paul.”
He lifts one hand. “Unless this is a tactical operation. Sabotage Lando with emotional distraction, weaken his form before tomorrow’s race…” He nods seriously. “In that case, I support it with my whole black Mercedes heart.”
Rosa laughs. You do not. Because Toto is still silent. His face gives away very little, but not nothing. There is something tired there. Something heavier. He looks at you, and for one second, the whole paddock seems to narrow down to that quiet, unreadable sadness in his eyes.
Your chest tightens. You look away. “It’s not a date,” you repeat, sharper this time. “Lando is just nice.”
Paul raises both eyebrows. “Nice,” he echoes.
Rosa hums. “Dangerous word.”
You give her a look. She smiles sweetly. Toto says nothing. Nothing at all. Then Bradley says something to him, and Toto nods once, turns, and walks away toward the garage. Your stomach drops with him. Which is ridiculous. You are allowed to play padel. You are allowed to talk to Lando. You are allowed to do something normal with someone who is not your boss, not married, not wrapped in complications thick enough to require legal review. So why does it feel like you just did something wrong?
*
The sprint arrives before you have time to spiral properly. The garage sharpens. Engineers settle into position. Mechanics clear the area. Headsets go on. Voices drop. Screens glow. Lando starts from pole. Kimi P2. George P6.
You stand near the back with Rosa on one side and Paul hovering somewhere nearby, unusually quiet for once, which almost makes you more nervous.
The lights go out. The sprint is messy from the start. Lando gets away well and keeps control. Too much control, in your personal opinion. Kimi loses position early, the purple Miami suit suddenly looking less “questionable fashion choice” and more “tragic grape.” George fights hard but gets boxed in, losing rhythm just when he needs it most.
You watch with your arms folded tightly across your chest. “Come on,” you mutter under your breath.
Rosa leans closer. “This is not ideal.”
“No.”
Paul exhales. “Papaya is annoying today.”
“Papaya is always annoying,” you say.
Still, Lando drives well. Clean. Confident. Too good. He wins the sprint. George finishes P4. Kimi P6. Not catastrophic. But for Mercedes? With this car? With this season? It feels weak. The garage applause is polite. Controlled. Thin around the edges.
George climbs out looking frustrated. Kimi looks quiet in that dangerous way drivers get when they are already replaying every mistake in their head.
Even the purple suits look like they have lost confidence.
You cross your arms tighter. “…well,” you murmur, “that was not pretty.”
Rosa sighs. “No.”
Paul looks toward the Mercedes garage. “I’m going to hide before Toto starts looking at people.”
“Good instinct,” you say. But you do not move fast enough. Because soon after, everyone is called into the briefing room. And Toto is angry. Not shouting-angry. Toto rarely needs to shout. This is worse. Calm anger. Controlled anger. The kind that sits low in his voice and makes the whole room straighten without thinking.
He stands at the front of the room, arms crossed, face unreadable. “We are not here to be distracted,” he says.
The room goes still.
“We have a car capable of winning. We have drivers capable of winning. We have a team capable of executing at the highest level.” His gaze moves across the room, but somehow never quite lands on you. “So I expect full focus. From everyone.”
Your stomach twists. Everyone. The word feels too pointed. Maybe it is not about you. Maybe it is about the sprint. About execution. About mistakes. About Lando winning when Mercedes should have been fighting harder. Maybe. But you feel it anyway.
“Not nonsense,” Toto continues, voice clipped. “Not noise. Not distractions.”
Your throat tightens. There it is. You look down at your notes, though you are not reading anything. Because suddenly you feel exposed. Small. Stupid. Like everyone in the room somehow knows. Like every joke from earlier, every mention of Lando, every time you dodged Toto’s gaze has built into this one sharp moment.
He still does not look at you. That makes it worse. The meeting continues. Technical points. Tire behavior. Track evolution. Adjustments for qualifying. Focus for Kimi. Recovery for George. By the end, everyone looks grim. George’s mouth is a flat line. Kimi stares at the table. You glance at them and feel something sink in your chest. Even their horrible purple suits look like they have given up. The meeting ends. Toto takes his phone from the table and walks out without another word.
You sit there for a second too long. Then Kimi quietly says, “That was not fun.”
George exhales through his nose. “No.”
You force a weak smile. “Well,” you say softly, “at least the suits can’t get worse.”
George looks at you. “Even your insults are sad today.”
You look down. “Sorry.”
That makes both of them go quiet. Because you never apologize for insulting the suits. Not unless something is wrong.
*
Qualifying saves the day. A little. The garage feels tense at first, like everyone is holding their breath and waiting to see whether Mercedes can reset properly after the sprint.
You stand with Rosa and Paul near the back, while Toto sits forward, headset on, eyes locked on the screens. You try not to look at him. You fail once. Only once.
He looks exhausted. Focused. Cold around the edges. Still beautiful, which is frankly rude considering the circumstances. You look away quickly.
Qualifying builds slowly. Q1 is clean. Q2 sharper. Then Q3 arrives with that familiar tightness in the air, the kind that makes every movement feel important. Every lap matters. Every sector lights up like a verdict. Lando is quick. Too quick. George struggles slightly, not bad, but not where he wants to be. And then Kimi. Kimi delivers. Purple sectors. Smooth lap. Controlled aggression. Pole position. The garage erupts. Properly this time. Applause. Cheers. Mechanics clapping each other. Engineers smiling with the kind of relief that looks almost painful.
Rosa grabs your arm. “Pole!”
You grin despite everything. “Pole.”
Even Paul looks genuinely impressed. “That kid is ridiculous.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
George ends up P5. Lando P4. Not ideal for George. Dangerous with Lando that close. But after the sprint? This is better. Much better.
Toto stands, nodding once, accepting congratulations from engineers and team members with that reserved satisfaction of his. Then he turns. Toward you. For one second, you think about looking away. But he steps closer and lifts his hand. A high five. Simple. Public. Safe. You give it to him. His palm meets yours, warm and firm. Your chest tightens so fast you almost hate yourself.
“Good recovery,” he says quietly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You avoid his eyes. Again. His hand drops. The moment passes. But not for you. Never for you.
You leave the paddock later than planned.The air outside is still warm, the evening light turning everything gold and pink, the noise of the paddock softening behind you. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and head toward the parking area, ready for the hotel, a shower, and pretending you are not about to play padel with a McLaren driver mostly because your own feelings terrify you.
You get maybe ten steps before Rosa catches up. “Hey.”
You glance over. She falls into step beside you, unusually quiet. That alone makes you nervous. “What?” you ask.
She watches you for a moment. “What is going on between you and Papa?”
You nearly trip. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
You keep walking. “Do what?”
“Treat me like an idiot.”
You stop. She stops too. For a second, the paddock moves around you, people passing, laughter, distant engines, camera crews, all of it blurring at the edges. Rosa looks at you directly. “Did you fight?”
“No.”
“Is it Lando?”
“No.”
“Because you’ve been acting strange since you landed. And today you looked at my father like you were trying to avoid a crime scene.”
You exhale sharply. “Rosa—”
“And before you deny it, please don’t. I have eyes.”
You look away. That is apparently enough answer for her. Her expression softens, but not with pity. With understanding. Which is somehow worse.
“You like him,” she says quietly.
Your head snaps back. “No.”
She gives you a flat look. “I said don’t treat me like an idiot.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She crosses her arms. “You and Papa spent the last few weeks teasing each other nonstop. Half the time it looked like flirting with extra steps. And now suddenly you can’t even look at him.”
Your throat tightens. You want to protest. You really do. But nothing comes out.
Rosa sighs softly. “It’s okay,” she says.
You blink. “What?”
“It’s okay if you like him.”
You stare at her. “He’s your father.”
“Yes.”
“He’s married.”
Her expression shifts slightly. “I know.”
That lands differently. You swallow. “Then it’s not okay.”
Rosa looks away for a moment, toward the line of team cars waiting near the parking area. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “I know my father affects women.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh. “Rosa.”
“What? It’s true. I grew up with it. Women act normal around him for about three seconds and then suddenly everyone forgets language.” She shrugs. “It’s annoying, but not exactly a state secret.”
A tiny laugh slips out of you. Weak. Tired. She smiles a little. Then her expression becomes more serious again. “But with you… it’s different.”
You shake your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know him.”
That stops you. Rosa breathes in, slower now, like she is choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know how much you know about Papa and Susie,” she says.
Your heart starts beating harder. “Not much,” you admit quietly.
Rosa nods. “They’re… complicated.”
You say nothing. She looks down briefly, then back at you. “Susie is good. She’s brilliant, actually. And she’s been kind to me. She’s my stepmother, and I respect her.” A small pause. “But that doesn’t mean everything is happy.”
Your chest tightens. Rosa’s voice drops even more. “My father isn’t happy the way he used to be.”
The words settle between you. Heavy. Too heavy. She seems to realize that too, because she looks away again. “I mean—” She exhales, closes her eyes for a second. “I shouldn’t say too much.”
“Rosa…”
She opens her eyes and gives you a small, sad smile. “All I know is that since he started joking with you, teasing you, being completely ridiculous with you…” Her smile grows faintly. “That spark came back.”
You go still. She shrugs, trying to make it lighter, but her voice gives her away. “He smiles more. Real smiles. Not press smiles. Not polite smiles. Real ones.”
You feel something crack quietly inside your chest. Because that is the worst thing she could have said. The sweetest. The most dangerous.
“Rosa,” you whisper, “that doesn’t mean—”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I know it doesn’t solve anything. I know it’s messy. I’m not saying you should do anything. I’m not giving you permission like this is some weird family council.” She makes a face. “God, that sounds awful.”
Despite yourself, you huff a tiny laugh. She smiles. Then softly, “I just don’t want you to think you imagined it.”
You look at her. And for a second, you cannot breathe properly. Because that is exactly what you have been afraid of. That you imagined it. That you built something out of glances and warmth and teasing because you wanted it to be real. That you were stupid. That you were alone in it.
Rosa’s expression softens. “You didn’t,” she says.
Before you can answer, a loud voice cuts through the moment. “Ladies!”
You both turn. Paul is walking toward you from the paddock entrance, camera bag over one shoulder, looking far too cheerful for someone who has definitely interrupted something important. “Can I ride with you to the hotel?” he asks. “My car disappeared. Or I lost it. Hard to say.”
Rosa stares at him. “You lost a car?”
Paul shrugs. “Emotionally, yes.”
You drag a hand over your face. “Of course.”
Paul looks between you. “Did I interrupt a secret meeting?”
Rosa smiles sweetly. “Yes.”
“Excellent. I love those.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I rarely am.”
Rosa glances at you then, a small, knowing smile touching her mouth. You do not know what to do with that smile. Or with anything she just said. So you start walking again toward the parking area, where the Mercedes cars are waiting under the fading Miami light. Rosa falls into step beside you. Paul follows, already talking about dinner, content, lost vehicles, and something involving a flamingo inflatable that you refuse to acknowledge.
You barely hear him. Because your head is spinning again. Toto. Susie. Rosa’s words. That spark came back.
You close your eyes for one second while walking. Great. Just great. As if your heart needed more evidence. As if Miami was not already doing enough damage.
The car ride back to the hotel is quieter than it should be. Or maybe you are quieter than you should be. That seems more accurate.
You sit by the window, staring at the Miami lights sliding past the glass in bright, blurred streaks, while Rosa and Paul talk across the back seat like two people who have personally decided silence is illegal.
Paul is telling some dramatic version of the day’s events, which somehow includes him “saving Mercedes media strategy with pure instinct.”
Rosa snorts. “You took photos.”
“I captured emotion.”
“You filmed my father looking annoyed for six minutes.”
“Exactly. Emotion.”
You would normally say something. Something sharp. Something about Paul confusing content with harassment. But tonight, the words don’t come. You only watch the reflections in the window and try not to think. Which, of course, means you think about everything. Toto’s face during the briefing. Toto’s silence when Rosa mentioned Lando. Toto looking at you after Kimi’s pole. Rosa’s words.
Fantastic. Truly. Your emotional stability is now being handled by a your boss daughter with excellent eyeliner and zero fear.
The car stops outside the hotel. Paul climbs out first, still talking. “I’m just saying, Miami content is going to be insane tomorrow.”
Rosa follows. “Please don’t make anyone wear sunglasses indoors again.”
“It was artistic.”
“It was criminal.”
You step out last, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, and follow them toward the entrance. The hotel lobby is all polished floors, glass walls, palm arrangements, and lighting so warm it makes everyone look like they’re starring in a luxury watch commercial. You hate how pretty it is. It feels personally offensive.
By the elevators, Paul waves dramatically. “I’m going to my room before someone gives me work.”
“You mean your job?” Rosa asks.
“Exactly. Terrible concept.”
He disappears toward the other hallway. You and Rosa step into the elevator together. For a few seconds, there is silence. Suspicious silence.
Then she turns to you. “So.”
You close your eyes. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You said ‘so.’ That’s worse.”
She leans against the elevator wall, watching you carefully. “Are you actually going to play padel with Lando?”
You open your eyes again. “Yes.”
“And is that serious?”
You stare at her. “It’s padel.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is very much an answer.”
She hums. “Okay.”
The elevator doors open on your floor. You both step out, walking side by side down the quiet corridor.
Rosa doesn’t let it go. “And whatever happened with Papa,” she says more softly, “whatever you two fought about… I hope you get back to normal.”
Your steps slow. Normal. What a ridiculous word. Because what are you supposed to say? That you kissed her father only a few meters away from the banquet where she, Susie, and half the paddock were still smiling under sponsor lights? That you lost yourself in his arms like the world had narrowed down to his hands, his breath, his mouth, his voice? That you used him? Or maybe he used you? Or maybe neither of you used anyone and that somehow makes it worse?
That you ran away afterward because the second the heat faded, shame hit you so hard you couldn’t breathe? That now you are afraid to look him in the eye because you are not sure if you want to apologize, cry, scream, or walk straight back into his arms? Yes. Very casual hallway conversation.
You force a small shrug. “We’re fine.”
Rosa stops walking. You stop too. She looks at you for a long moment. The teasing is gone now. Completely. “Did something happen?” she asks.
Your stomach drops. “Rosa—”
Her voice becomes quieter. “Did he… did Papa do something? Did he take advantage of you?”
Your reaction is immediate. “No.” Too fast. Too sharp. Too honest.
Rosa exhales, like she had been holding that fear somewhere in her chest all day. “Okay,” she says softly. “Good.”
You swallow. “He didn’t. I swear.”
She nods, relief clear on her face. “I know my father. I do. But…” She looks down for a second, then back at you. “I still had to ask.”
Your chest tightens. Because that is the thing about Rosa. Under the jokes, the teasing, the chaos — she cares. Deeply. Fiercely. In a way that catches you off guard.
“I wouldn’t want him to break your heart,” she says.
You look away. Too late, you think. But you don’t say it. Before either of you can say anything else, your phone starts ringing.
You pull it out. Lando.
Rosa sees the name. Her expression shifts. Not judgment exactly. Something softer. A little sad.
You answer. “Hey.”
Lando’s voice comes through bright and easy. “Hey, Mercedes girl. Still alive?”
“Barely.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes from the lobby.”
“You sound very confident I’m coming.”
“You said yes.”
“I make terrible decisions under pressure.”
“Perfect. Wear comfortable shoes.”
“I’m a racing driver, Lando. I understand footwear.”
“Great. See you soon.”
He hangs up before you can insult him properly. You lower the phone.
Rosa gives you a small smile. “Have fun.”
Something about her tone makes your chest ache. “It’s just padel.”
“I know.”
She steps closer and squeezes your arm lightly. “Still. Have fun.”
Then she walks to her room, unlocks the door, and disappears inside.
You stand in the hallway for a second longer. Alone. Phone still in your hand. Head full of her words. I wouldn’t want him to break your heart.
You laugh once under your breath. Small. Miserable.
“Fantastic.”
You shower quickly. Too quickly. Because if you stand under hot water for too long, you will start thinking again, and thinking has been a dangerous activity for the last forty-eight hours. You change into sportswear — leggings, a loose top, trainers — then tie your hair back and stare at yourself in the mirror.
You look fine. You hate that. You feel like you should look like the inside of your head. Messy. Overheated. Slightly on fire.
Instead, you look like a woman going to play padel with Lando Norris. Which is, apparently, a sentence your life has decided to contain. “Normal evening,” you mutter. “Completely normal.”
You grab your phone and head downstairs. The lobby is calmer now, though still annoyingly glamorous. Soft music. Warm lights. Glass walls reflecting palm leaves outside. People moving in little polished groups, dressed for dinner, drinks, sponsor nonsense, whatever wealthy people do when left unsupervised in Miami. You step out of the elevator and head toward the entrance. Then stop. Because near the far side of the lobby, half-hidden between tall indoor palms and the glass wall leading to the terrace, you see them. Susie. And Lewis. At first, your brain refuses to understand the image. Then it does. Susie is standing close to him. Very close. Lewis has one arm around her, his head lowered toward hers. They are speaking quietly, almost whispering. She smiles at something he says, not the bright public smile from the stage, but something softer. Private. Familiar. Then she leans into him. Enough for your stomach to drop. Oh. Oh. What the hell is happening?
You freeze near one of the columns, your hand tightening around your phone. Your mind grabs at pieces. Toto in the car after Silverstone. My marriage with Susie… it’s not what people think it is. Rosa in the hallway. I don’t know how much you know about Papa and Susie.
Susie and Lewis now, tucked away in the golden shadows of a Miami hotel lobby, looking like people who know exactly where the cameras are not.
Your pulse picks up. Is this what he meant?.Is Susie with Lewis? Does Toto know? Of course he knows. He has to know. Toto notices everything. So what is this? An arrangement? An open secret? A marriage held together for Jack, for image, for legacy, for the clean public story?
Your thoughts spiral so fast you almost feel dizzy. And then, because the universe has wonderful timing, Lando appears near the entrance. He spots you immediately. “There you are.”
You turn too quickly. “Hi.”
He looks at you for half a second, smile softening. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Convincing.”
“I’m always convincing.”
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Miami decor is aggressive.”
He glances around. “Fair.”
Then he steps closer, bright again, easy again, simple in a way you desperately need. “You ready?”
You nod. “Sure.”
As you walk toward him, movement on the other side of the lobby catches your eye. Toto. He is standing a little farther back with Bradley, Rosa, and Paul, probably heading out for dinner. Bradley is saying something, Paul is gesturing with both hands, Rosa is half-listening, half-scanning the room. Toto sees you. Then he sees Lando. And then Lando, because apparently every man in this paddock has been sent to test your survival instinct, leans in and kisses your cheek. Light. Friendly. Warm. Still enough.
His arm slips briefly around your shoulders as he says, “Come on, I booked the court before some influencer steals it for a photoshoot.”
You force a laugh. It sounds almost normal. But your eyes flick toward Toto before you can stop them. His expression does not change. Still calm. Still controlled. Still the man who could sit through a board meeting, a race disaster, and possibly a small explosion without blinking. But his eyes... Something flickers. Pain? Hurt? Jealousy? Maybe all three. Maybe none. It is gone almost instantly. But you see it. And it lands in your chest like a stone.
You look away first. Again. Then you follow Lando out of the lobby.
Behind you, Paul’s voice floats faintly through the space. “Oh, that was interesting.”
Rosa says something you don’t catch. Bradley probably regrets every choice that led him to this job. And Toto says nothing.
*
Padel with Lando should be fun. Technically, it is fun. The court is beautiful. Miami apparently refuses to provide ugly locations for emotional distractions. Lights overhead. Warm evening air. Palm trees beyond the glass. A faint breeze moving through the space.
Lando is charming. Annoyingly charming. He makes jokes. He teaches you the scoring system like you are not capable of understanding numbers. You threaten to hit him with the racket. He looks delighted.
“You’re competitive,” he says after you nearly send the ball straight at his shoulder.
“I drive race cars.”
“That doesn’t answer my point.”
“It absolutely answers your point.”
He grins. “You’re fun.”
You almost smile properly. But your thoughts keep drifting. Toto in the lobby. Susie and Lewis. Rosa’s words. Toto’s eyes when Lando kissed your cheek. Toto’s hands on your hips.
The ball flies past you. Lando stops. “Okay.”
You blink. “What?”
He rests the racket against his shoulder. “You’re not here.”
You grimace. “Sorry.”
“You keep apologizing. It’s very suspicious.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s your official statement for everything, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He walks closer, expression gentler now. “You don’t have to tell me. But if this was supposed to distract you, I’m clearly doing a terrible job.”
That makes you laugh softly. “There it is,” he says, smiling. “Tiny victory.”
You shake your head. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“Usually.”
“You should work on that.”
“Maybe next season.”
You do play after that. Badly, at times. Better at others. Lando wins, which he handles with exactly the amount of smugness you expected.
“Graceful in victory,” you say flatly.
He bows. “Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I accept it anyway.”
When he drives you back to the hotel later, the mood is lighter. Not fixed. Nothing is fixed. But lighter.
At the entrance, he walks you inside. “I had fun,” he says.
You nod. “Me too.”
It is not a lie. It is just not the whole truth. He studies you for a second. Then leans in and kisses your cheek again, softer this time. “Try to sleep, Mercedes girl.”
You huff. “Bossy.”
“Only with enemies.”
You shake your head, but you smile. Then he leaves. And the second he is gone, the lobby feels bigger. Quieter. Less simple.
You go upstairs alone. Your phone buzzes before you even reach your room. Rosa.
You open the message in the hallway.
Rosa: Hope you had a nice evening with Lando.
Rosa: Also… sorry for earlier. I know that conversation was a lot. I love my father and I want him to be happy. But I don’t want you to feel pushed into anything because of that. I saw you with Lando in the lobby. You looked kind of sweet together, honestly. So just… follow your heart, okay? Yours. Not mine. Not Papa’s. Yours.
Rosa: Goodnight. Kisses. See you tomorrow morning
You stop outside your door and stare at the screen. For a long moment, you do not move. Then you unlock your room, step inside, and close the door behind you. The silence is immediate. Heavy.
You drop your bag near the chair, kick off your shoes, and sit on the edge of the bed with your phone still in your hand. Follow your heart.
You almost laugh. Your heart is currently an unreliable idiot with a death wish. Following it sounds like how people end up in documentaries.
You set the phone down. Then pick it up again. No message from Toto. Maybe that is better. Maybe it is worse.
You lie down eventually, still dressed in your sportswear, staring at the ceiling while the Miami lights bleed softly through the curtains.
You should sleep. You really should. Tomorrow is race day. The team needs focus. Kimi starts from pole. George needs a strong recovery. Lando starts too close for comfort. Toto will be in the garage. Susie will probably be there too. Rosa will see too much. Paul will say too much. A perfectly normal Sunday. You turn onto your side. Then onto your back. Then onto your other side.
Nope. Sleep does not come. Again. Because your thoughts keep circling. Susie and Lewis, hidden between palms and glass. Toto’s voice and hands. Rosa’s sad little smile. Lando’s kiss on your cheek. Toto’s eyes when he saw it. The way you ran from him. The way you still want to run back.
You drag a pillow over your face and groan into it. “This is getting ridiculous.”
The pillow does not answer. Rude. You drop it beside you and stare at the ceiling again. And somewhere between exhaustion, confusion, shame, jealousy, curiosity, and one very inconvenient ache in your chest, you realize Miami has done exactly what you feared it would do. It has made everything worse. And somehow, somehow, the race has not even started yet.
*
Sunday morning arrives too early. Which is impressive, because technically you arrive even earlier. By choice. A terrible choice, maybe. But still a choice.
You leave the hotel before anyone sane would be properly awake, because the race start has been moved three hours earlier due to a weather alert, and also because you have absolutely no desire to accidentally run into Toto over hotel breakfast while trying to look normal holding toast.
You are not emotionally equipped for toast with Toto Wolff. So you escape. The car takes you through Miami while the city is still half-asleep, all glass towers, empty roads, and palm trees standing black against the growing light. The sky slowly changes from deep blue to soft gold, the sun rising over the horizon like it has no idea your life is currently a romantic disaster with sponsor branding.
You watch it through the window, silent. For a few minutes, everything feels peaceful. Too peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful. The sunlight spreads across the streets, brightening the edges of buildings, catching on windows, turning the whole city warm and glowing. It is beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful.
You exhale softly, resting your head back against the seat. “Okay,” you murmur. “That’s… actually nice.”
The driver does not answer. Good. Perfect conversation. By the time you reach the paddock, the place is still quieter than usual, though not empty. Formula 1 never fully sleeps. It just becomes less loud for a few hours and pretends that counts as rest.
You step out of the car, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and walk toward the Mercedes area. Race day. Kimi on pole. George P5. Lando P4. Weather alert hanging over everything like an unwanted dramatic subplot.
And your personal life? A disaster. Excellent. Very balanced.
About an hour later, the paddock has properly woken up. The quiet is gone, replaced by the usual race-day buzz — people moving faster, radios crackling, cameras appearing from nowhere, mechanics already locked in, engineers walking with tablets like they contain holy texts.
You are standing near the Mercedes hospitality entrance, holding coffee like it is a medical device, when Rosa appears. “There you are,” she says, looking far too awake.
You glance at her. “You look suspiciously functional.”
“I slept.”
“Disgusting.”
She grins and pulls you into a quick hug. “Good morning.”
“Debatable.”
Then Susie arrives beside her. Elegant, of course. Fresh, warm, calm, wearing sunglasses pushed into her hair and looking like she has never once stared at a hotel ceiling at 3 a.m. wondering if her emotional choices should be investigated by a committee.
“Good morning,” she says, smiling at you.
It is a lovely smile. Soft. Genuine. And immediately your brain supplies the image from last night. Susie tucked close to Lewis between the palms and glass. Lewis lowering his head to whisper something. Susie smiling in that private, quiet way.
Your coffee suddenly becomes fascinating. “Morning,” you say, slightly too fast.
Susie tilts her head just a little, like she notices. Apparently everyone in the Wolff family and surrounding emotional ecosystem is built to notice too much.
Before she can say anything, salvation arrives. Loudly. “There she is!” Paul shouts from somewhere behind you. “My favorite underpaid content weapon.”
You close your eyes for half a second. Thank God. You have never been so grateful to be harassed by a man with a camera. You turn toward him. “Paul, I swear to God, if you point that thing at me before I finish this coffee—”
He lifts the camera immediately. “Perfect. Threatening. Very authentic.”
“I will throw the coffee at you.”
“Hot or iced?”
“Boiling.”
“Great energy.”
Rosa laughs. Susie smiles, clearly entertained. Paul steps closer, circling slightly like an extremely annoying documentary filmmaker stalking a tired animal.
“Race day content,” he says. “Big day. Kimi on pole. George recovery. You pretending not to hate social media. Beautiful narrative.”
“I don’t pretend.”
“You do. Badly.”
“Fuck off, Paul.”
He beams. “And there she is.”
You point at him. “Your timing is the only reason you’re alive right now.”
He places a hand over his heart. “I accept this emotional tribute.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“It was.”
“It really wasn’t.”
Behind you, Rosa snorts. “I missed this.”
“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter.
Then your attention shifts. Toto has entered the area. He walks in with Bradley beside him, already in race-day mode, controlled and focused enough to make the entire space tighten around him without him saying a word. Your stomach does something pathetic.
He approaches Susie first, leaning down slightly to say something close to her ear. You see Rosa watching them. Her expression is difficult to read. Not sad. Not surprised. Not happy either. Just… still. And suddenly her words from yesterday echo in your head. They’re complicated. My father isn’t happy the way he used to be. That spark came back.
You take a slow sip of coffee. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. As if Mercedes itself were not already a dysfunctional family with expensive headsets, now you have apparently been emotionally dropped into the Wolff household subplot too.
Just perfect. What is this family? What is this marriage? What is happening? Why is Susie charming? Why is Lewis involved? Why does Rosa know everything? Why does Toto look at you like that and then stand beside his wife like the world still makes sense?
Your brain gives up and throws a tiny internal clipboard into the sea.
Toto turns then. His eyes find you. For a second, the noise around you softens. His smile is small. Almost shy. Careful. Because you are still keeping distance. Because he knows it. Because unlike everyone else, he is not pushing. He just nods. A quiet good morning. You nod back. It is the safest exchange two people can have. It still makes your chest ache. Then he shifts slightly, like he might come closer. Your pulse jumps. But before he can take more than one step, Paul’s hand lands on your shoulder.
“Come on,” Paul says, already dragging you lightly away. “You can flirt with the boss later. Right now we have social media to disgrace.”
You choke. “Paul.”
He keeps walking. “What? Race starts early. Weather alert. Condensed schedule. No time for emotional tension.”
You glance back once. Toto has stopped moving. His expression does not change much, but his eyes follow you. You look away first. Again.
Paul keeps pulling you toward the filming area. “Kimi and George get serious briefings with engineers. You get me and a camera. Beautiful reserve driver curse.”
You sigh. “I hate how accurate that is.”
“It’s because I’m wise.”
“It’s because you’re annoying.”
“Same thing in media.”
The next twenty minutes are pure humiliation. Or as Paul calls it, content. You stand near the Mercedes show wall while he and one of the admins make you record race-day clips. Predictions. Quick reactions. A stupid “Miami race day mood” shot. A transition where you pretend to adjust your sunglasses and look confident. You refuse three times. They make you do it anyway.
“This is not why I became a racing driver,” you say flatly after take four.
Paul checks the camera. “No, but you’re weirdly good at it.”
“Insulting.”
“Compliment.”
“Still insulting.”
The admin laughs behind the phone. “Fans love you.”
“Fans should raise their standards.”
Paul points at you. “Say that again but with a smile.”
“I’m going to delete your memory card.”
“Great. Threat number two. We’re building a reel.”
You are about to insult his entire profession when a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well, this looks serious.”
You turn. Orange. Again. Lando walks toward you with that stupidly easy grin, race suit tied around his waist, hair slightly messy, sunglasses hooked at his collar, looking entirely too relaxed for a man starting P4 in a race that may be disturbed by weather chaos.
“Morning,” he says.
Paul immediately lifts the camera. You glare at him. “Don’t.”
He whispers, “Gold.”
Lando reaches you and, because apparently boundaries in this paddock are merely decorative, leans in to kiss your cheek. Light. Warm. Friendly. Still enough to make your brain shout: Ah yes, consequences.
“Had fun last night,” he says, stepping back with a grin. “We should do it again.”
You fold your arms.“You mean when you beat me at padel and spent fifteen minutes being unbearable?”
“Exactly. A bonding experience.”
“I bonded with regret.”
He laughs. “You weren’t as terrible with balls as you claimed.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Paul makes a strangled sound behind the camera.
“Lando,” you say slowly, “please think before you speak.”
His grin turns wicked. “I did.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
He winks. Full flirt mode. One hundred percent. No mercy. “Well,” he says, backing away toward the McLaren side, “cheer for me today, Mercedes Star.”
You snort. “I think you’ve confused teams.”
“Maybe.” He grins wider. “Or maybe I’m expanding my fanbase.”
“Win something first.”
“I won yesterday.”
“Annoying.”
“That too.”
He gives you one last wink, then disappears toward the McLaren garage like he has not just left a fresh pile of emotional explosives in the Mercedes filming area.
You stare after him for a second. Then turn slowly toward Paul. He is smiling. Too much.
“No,” you say immediately.
“Oh yes.”
“Paul.”
He lowers the camera just enough to look at you over it. “You turned Lando Norris into a golden retriever with a world championship and a flirting problem.”
You roll your eyes. “What an achievement. Truly. Put it on my CV.”
He grins and glances toward the Mercedes garage. His expression shifts into something sharper, more knowing.
“You know,” he says casually, “Toto doesn’t look very thrilled about you charming the enemy.”
Your stomach tightens. You keep your face neutral. “I’m not charming anyone.”
Paul gives you a look. “Please. Lando just called you Mercedes Star and looked like he wanted to write it on his helmet.”
“That’s his problem.”
“And Toto’s, apparently.”
You glare at him. “Shut up.”
Paul lifts both hands. “Unless this is still a sabotage strategy. Emotional damage to Lando before the race. Very advanced. Very Mercedes. I support it with my whole black Mercedes heart.”
You point at the camera. “Finish this content before I throw you into a palm tree.”
He looks thrilled. “There we go. She’s back.”
“I’m serious. The race starts three hours earlier. We don’t have time for your nonsense.”
“My nonsense is part of the brand.”
“Your nonsense is a health hazard.”
The admin laughs. Paul turns the camera back on. “Okay,” he says brightly, “one more clip.”
You stare into the lens with a dead expression. “Race day in Miami,” you say. “Everything is fine. Nobody is emotionally unstable. Please enjoy the weather alert.”
Paul lowers the camera. “Perfect.”
You blink. “Really?”
“No. But emotionally, yes.”
You drag a hand down your face. Behind him, through the moving crowd and garage chaos, you catch sight of Toto. He is standing near the entrance with Bradley, headset now on, eyes fixed in your direction for one brief second.
Then he looks away. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. Except you know better now. Or at least, you think you do. And that is the problem. Because in this family, in this team, in this entire ridiculous Miami weekend, nothing seems to mean only one thing anymore.
*
The race gets closer with that strange, electric pressure only Sunday can create. The garage changes before the cars even leave for the grid. Everything sharpens. Voices lower. Engineers stop joking. Mechanics move with that fast, focused rhythm that always makes the room feel like one giant machine with a heartbeat.
You stand in your usual place inside the Mercedes garage. Reserve driver. Headset on. Arms crossed. Eyes on the screens. Right beside Toto. Like always.
Except nothing feels like always.
Rosa is on your other side, watching the screens with bright, nervous energy. Paul hovers somewhere behind you with his camera, because apparently even race-day tension must be documented for the internet. And further back, away from the main camera angles, Susie stands quietly. She is not hiding exactly. Susie Wolff does not hide. But she knows where the cameras are. Everyone does. She is the head of F1 Academy. She is also Toto’s wife. People know that, of course. Everyone knows that. But knowing and seeing are two different things. The optics of her standing too visibly in her husband’s Mercedes garage during a Grand Prix would be discussed by people who like turning air into controversy.
So she stays just out of shot. Elegant. Calm. Present. And you try very hard not to look at her. Which is going about as well as everything else in your life right now. Badly. You stare at the screens, but your awareness keeps drifting left. To Toto.
He is close enough that if you moved your hand just slightly, your knuckles could brush against his sleeve. You do not move. He does not either. The space between you feels louder than the garage. You miss it. That is the worst part. You miss the jokes. The little comments. His dry voice close to your ear. The way he used to tease you until you forgot to be nervous. The way you could answer back without thinking. The way everything between you had been sharp and light and dangerous in a way that somehow felt safe.
Now there is only silence. Professional silence. Polite silence. The kind that hurts more than yelling.
Toto watches the screens, jaw set, headset on, face unreadable. You keep your eyes forward. Rosa glances between you once. Then twice. You pretend not to notice. She definitely notices that too. Fantastic.
The race starts badly for your blood pressure. Which, honestly, feels personal.
The lights go out, and immediately Miami becomes chaos. Charles gets a better launch than expected and slips into the lead. Lando is aggressive from the start, sharp and confident, pushing in a way that makes the whole garage tense. Kimi holds on, loses, fights back. George gets boxed in again, trying to carve something useful from a starting position that already feels like punishment.
You lean forward slightly without realizing it. “Come on,” you whisper.
Toto says nothing. But his posture shifts. Small. Tight. Focused. You know that posture now. The one where he is calculating ten possible outcomes before anyone else has finished reacting to the first.
The first laps are brutal. Charles leads. Then Lando. Then the pit cycle cracks everything open. Weather threatens but never fully commits. The track temperature changes. Strategies split. Ferrari tries something aggressive. McLaren responds. Mercedes holds Kimi out just long enough that you feel your heart climb into your throat.
“Please tell me they know what they’re doing,” Rosa mutters beside you.
You exhale. “They usually do.”
“Usually?”
“Comforting, right?”
She gives you a look. On screen, Kimi exits the pits. The timing tower refreshes. P2. Then Lando pits. Kimi pushes. Kimi leads. The Mercedes garage erupts for half a second, then immediately clamps itself back down because there are still too many laps left to celebrate.
Toto’s hand lifts slightly, palm down. Calm. The whole garage listens, even without him speaking. And from there, Kimi drives like he has ice in his veins and fire in his hands. Lap after lap, he holds it. Lando comes at him hard. Too hard. The McLaren is fast, dangerously fast, and for several laps the gap sits close enough to make you want to physically fight the timing screen. But Kimi does not crack. Not once. George fights too, but it is not clean. He is still stuck in traffic, still dealing with penalties hanging over him like a storm cloud, still forcing the car through places where the race refuses to open for him. P4 on the road, but uncertain. Dangerous. Fragile. He is already doing the math. He already knows Kimi is pulling away in the championship. And that will hurt. It will hurt badly.
The final laps stretch forever. Kimi leads. Lando P2. George P4.
You press your fingers against your headset, as if that will somehow help.
“Come on, Kimi,” you breathe.
Rosa grips your arm. The chequered flag falls. Kimi wins. P1. Lando P2. George P4. For one second, the whole garage holds its breath. Then it explodes. Cheers. Applause. Mechanics hugging. Engineers clapping each other on the back. Paul shouting something triumphant behind the camera. Rosa nearly crushing your arm in excitement.
“He did it!” she laughs.
You grin before you can stop yourself. “He did.”
Toto exhales. That is the first thing you notice. Not the cheers. Not the noise. Not even the win. Toto exhales like he has been carrying the entire weekend in his chest and finally, finally gets to put some of it down.
It was a hard weekend. Messy sprint. Tension. Distractions. Pressure. Weather. McLaren breathing down their necks. George struggling. Kimi carrying the result.
But Kimi won. Again. Nineteen years old and driving like the future has already signed his name. The garage celebrates around you, loud and bright, but you still see George on the screens. P4. Not enough. Maybe not even safe if the stewards decide to make his day worse.
Your smile fades a little. Rosa notices. “George?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“He’ll be angry.”
“He should be.”
Not at the team. Not fully. Not even at himself. At the gap. At the fact that Kimi is slipping further away in the drivers’ championship. At the knowledge that being very good is not the same thing as being the one who wins. That hurts in Formula 1 more than anything.
The post-race chaos swallows everything. Kimi’s side of the garage is pure joy. Cameras. Hugs. Applause. Mechanics lifting fists in the air. Engineers looking like they have aged five years and recovered three in the span of ten minutes.
Susie steps forward just enough to congratulate Toto when the first wave of celebration hits. They hug. It is brief. Warm. Natural.
You see it. Your stomach tightens immediately. Stupid. So stupid. You look away, but not fast enough to stop the feeling.
Then Toto turns toward you. And for one impossible second, you cannot escape.
He approaches slowly, carefully, as if he expects you might run. Which is fair. You have been doing a lot of that.
His smile is small. Uncertain. Softer than you are prepared for. “Good race,” he says.
You nod. “Good race.” A tiny pause. Then he opens his arms slightly. Not demanding, asking. That somehow hurts more.
You step into the hug. Just for a moment. His arms close around you, warm and firm, and your whole body remembers before your brain can stop it. The banquet. His hands. His mouth at your neck. His voice saying your name.
Your breath catches, barely. Toto feels it. You know he does. But he does not hold you too long. He does not push. He only squeezes once, gently, then lets you go. When he pulls back, his smile is still there. Careful. Almost hopeful. Then someone calls his name. He looks over his shoulder, then back at you. Duty wins. It always does. “I have to—”
“I know,” you say quickly.
He nods once. Then he moves on, swallowed by the team again, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, leading like nothing inside him is complicated at all.
You stand there for a second, trying to breathe normally.
Paul appears immediately. Camera up. “Perfect,” he says. “Emotion. Relief. Slight heartbreak. Excellent lighting.”
You glare at him. “I will commit a crime.”
“Say it to camera.”
“Paul.”
“Fine, fine.” He angles the camera anyway. “Quick reaction. Kimi P1. George P4. Lando P2. Go.”
You take the microphone with a sigh. And because, horrifyingly, you are getting better at this, you manage to speak like a functioning person. “Massive result for the team,” you say, smiling into the camera. “Kimi was incredible today. Really controlled drive under pressure, especially with Lando pushing behind. George had a harder race, but still brought important points home. The whole team did an amazing job after a difficult sprint yesterday.”
Paul lowers the camera slowly. You blink. “What?”
He looks almost proud. “That was… actually good.”
You hand the mic back. “I hate that.”
“You’re growing.”
“I’m suffering.”
“Same thing in motorsport.”
*
Podium. Interviews. Celebrations. Photos. More content. More noise. By the time everything begins to settle, you feel wrung out. Your body is tired, your face hurts from smiling, your head is full of things you are trying not to think about.
Rosa finds you near the hospitality entrance. “So,” she says, appearing beside you with suspicious brightness, “you’re flying back with us, right?”
Your whole body tenses. You knew this was coming. That had been the plan. Before Miami. Before the banquet. Before Toto’s hands on you. Before shame turned every thought of being alone with him again into a full internal emergency.
You adjust the strap of your bag. “Actually,” you say carefully, “I think I’ll fly back with the rest of the team.”
Rosa frowns. “What? Why?”
“No reason. Easier logistics.”
She gives you a look. You hate how well she has learned that look from her father.
“It’s already arranged,” she says. “Papa said—”
“I know,” you cut in gently. “But it’s fine. Really.”
A voice behind you says, “You were supposed to come with us.”
Your stomach drops. Slowly, you turn. Toto is standing a few meters away. Of course he heard. Because apparently this entire weekend has been designed so that every sentence you try to avoid saying privately gets overheard publicly. He looks tired. Still calm. Still composed. But there is something else under it now. Something quieter.
You force a small smile. “It’s okay,” you say. “I don’t need to. I can go with the team.”
His eyes stay on yours. “That is not what I asked.”
Your chest tightens. Rosa looks between you both. Paul, mercifully, is not here. Small miracles exist.
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “Really, it’s fine,” you say, lighter now, too light. “I don’t want to be the fifth wheel when you’re flying back as a family.”
The words land badly. You know it the second they leave your mouth. Toto’s face barely changes. But his eyes do. Rosa inhales softly beside you.
You look away. Coward. Again. “I need to grab my backpack,” you add quickly. “It’s in the social room.”
Then you turn and walk. Fast but not running. Very dignified emotional escape.
You make it maybe eight steps. Then his voice follows you. “Wait.”
You stop. Every muscle in your body goes tense. Behind you, he says, quieter but firm, “I want to talk to you.”
You close your eyes for one second. No. No no no. Not here. Not now. Not after two days of avoiding him. Not when your heart is already beating like it has been thrown into qualifying mode. But there is nowhere to go. No meeting to pretend to attend. No engineer to use as emotional cover. No Paul to interrupt. You turn back slowly.
Toto is already walking toward you. Not angry. That would be easier. He looks calm. Sad maybe. Determined. Worse. Much worse.
“This way,” he says quietly.
And you follow. Because what else can you do?
Your feet move after him through the Mercedes hospitality corridor, past team members packing up, past someone laughing in the distance, past the bright polished chaos of a race weekend ending around you.
Your heart is going insane. This is the first time you will be alone with him since the banquet. The first time since his mouth touched yours and your neck. The first time since you fell apart in his arms and ran like a coward because the truth of how badly you wanted him scared you more than any race ever could.
You stare at his back as he walks ahead of you. Tall. Broad. The man who has been in your head for weeks. The man you are trying not to love. The man who may or may not already be breaking your heart.
He opens the door to his office and steps aside. You walk in. The room is quiet. Too quiet. Toto closes the door. Soft click. And suddenly the world outside disappears. No mechanics. No celebration. No Paul yelling about content. No Rosa searching for you. No Miami heat pressing through the windows.
Just silence. Awkward, heavy, impossible silence.
You stand near the middle of his office with your bag still on your shoulder, fingers wrapped too tightly around the strap. Toto remains near the door for a moment, one hand resting against the handle, his back slightly turned.
He breathes in. Long. Deep. Then he turns to face you. “Why are you running from me?”
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You look down. “I’m not.”
His expression barely changes, but one eyebrow lifts. Even now. Even here. The man still has the audacity to look unconvinced with style.
“You are,” he says quietly. “And you need to stop.”
Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
He takes one slow step closer. “If you want a boundary between us, then say it. If I made you uncomfortable, say it. If you want me to step back, I will.” His jaw tightens slightly. “But don’t disappear on me. Don’t change flights, avoid rooms, refuse to look at me, and pretend this is logistics.”
Your throat tightens. He looks tired. Not angry. That would be easier.
He looks resigned. Sad. Like these last two days have worn him down in a way even a difficult race weekend could not.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
His face softens immediately. “No,” he says. “I crossed the line. I wanted to apologize for that.”
A strange laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. He frowns slightly. “What?”
“You crossed the line?” You look at him, face already heating. “Toto, I was basically climbing you like a complete idiot.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you wish the floor would open and swallow you whole. Your cheeks burn. “Oh my God,” you mutter, covering part of your face. “Forget I said that.”
For the first time since you entered the room, his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost. “I don’t think I can.”
“Please try.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
You drop your hand and glare at him weakly. There it is. The smallest crack in the tension. Tiny. But enough for both of you to breathe.
Toto steps closer, stopping just far enough away that it is still safe. Still careful. Still giving you a choice. “That night,” he says more softly, “was not only your fault.”
You swallow. “I ran.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t answer your messages.”
“I noticed.”
“I made everything awkward.”
“You are very talented in that.”
You stare at him. He almost smiles. You hate that it helps. Then his expression grows serious again. “But I was there too,” he says. “I held you. I kissed you. I let it go further than I should have.” A pause. “And then you were gone, and... I didn’t know if I had hurt you.”
Your chest aches. “You didn’t hurt me.”
His eyes stay on yours. “Then why did you look at me like I had?”
You cannot answer immediately. Because that question lands too close. Too honest. You breathe out slowly. “Because I was embarrassed.”
His brows draw together slightly.
“And scared,” you add, quieter.
“Of me?”
“No.” Your answer is immediate. “Of myself.”
That stops him. You look down again, fingers twisting around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t recognize myself,” you admit. “I don’t lose control like that. I don’t do things like that. And then it was you, and you’re…” You laugh weakly. “You’re you.”
“That is very specific.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Yes.”
“You’re older.”
“Yes.”
“You’re married.”
His expression shifts. There it is. The word sits between you like something sharp. He looks away for half a second. Then back. “Yes,” he says quietly.
You breathe in. “And then there was Lando, and everyone joking, and you looking at me like—”
“Is it serious?”
You blink. “What?”
He holds your gaze. “Between you and Lando.”
For a second, you just stare at him. Then you let out a breath. “Seriously?”
His face remains calm, but his eyes are not calm at all. “I’m asking.”
“It was padel.” you say.
“He likes attention.”
“So do you.”
Toto’s eyebrow lifts.
You cross your arms, defensive now because it is easier than being honest. “You’re warning me that Lando likes turning girls’ heads?” you ask. “Really?”
His jaw moves slightly. “I’m saying be careful.”
“Because you care?”
“Yes.”
“Or because you don’t like him?”
A pause.
“Both can be true.”
You huff a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “So what, he’s dangerous because he flirted with me? Is that the concern?”
Toto says nothing. You take a step closer now, because suddenly the sadness has turned into something braver. “Because that’s rich coming from you.”
His eyes sharpen. You lift your chin. “You turned my head, Toto. You did. You looked at me like that, teased me, touched me, called me your little she-wolf, made me feel like I was losing my mind, and now you’re warning me about Lando?”
His face stills. The room goes quiet again. This time, it is different. Less awkward but more dangerous. More honest.
Toto looks at you for a long moment. Then he exhales. “I know.”
Your anger falters. “I know,” he repeats, quieter. “And I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
That hurts. More than you expect. You look away quickly. “Right.”
“No.” He steps closer. “That is not what I mean.”
“It sounded pretty clear.”
“I mean I should have been wiser.”
You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “You always are.”
“Not with you.”
That shuts you up. Toto looks at you now with something open in his face. Something raw enough that your throat tightens.
“I have not felt this good with anyone in a very long time,” he says quietly.
Your heart starts pounding. He gives a small, helpless smile.
“I like our teasing. I like that you answer back. I like that you never looked at me like I was untouchable. You were never afraid to call me out, never afraid to be difficult, never afraid to make me laugh when I had no intention of laughing.”
His eyes move over your face. “And your smile,” he adds softly. “God, your smile...”
You stop breathing properly. He looks away for a second, like he needs to gather himself.
“I know what it looks like,” he says. “I know I am your boss. I know you are much younger. I know you have your whole career ahead of you. And yes…” His voice lowers. “I have a wife.”
Your chest tightens.
“But I care about you,” he says. “A lot. Too much, maybe. More than I intended. More than I should.”
You feel your eyes sting.
“I tried to keep it harmless,” he continues. “A joke. A flirtation. Something light. But after that moment at the banquet…” His gaze returns to yours, and there is no hiding now. “After you lost yourself with me like that, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Your breath trembles. Everything inside you goes soft and terrified at once. And you say it — the truth slips out before you can stop it.
“I love you, Toto.”
He goes completely still. Focused on you. You barely recognize your own voice.
“I fell in love with you like a total idiot,” you whisper. “And I tried not to. I really did.”
For one second, he only looks at you. Then his expression breaks. “Oh,” he whispers, voice rough. “My little she-wolf...”
He steps closer, slowly closing the space between you, and for once you don’t move away. You can’t. His hands rise to your face, warm and careful, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he touches you too quickly. His eyes search yours for one last second. A question. A warning. A choice.
You barely breathe. “Toto…”
And then he kisses you. Not carefully this time. Not like the dangerous, half-controlled heat from the banquet. This kiss is softer at first, almost unbearably tender, like he is trying to tell you everything without scaring you. His mouth moves against yours slowly, deeply, and your whole body forgets every reasonable thought it has ever had.
Then you answer. And that is when the kiss changes. His fingers slide into your hair. Your hands find his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt because your legs are suddenly not cooperating with the basic concept of standing. He pulls you closer, not roughly, just firmly enough to make it clear he wants you there. And God, you want to be there. You melt into him like an idiot. A complete, hopeless idiot. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it. Maybe he can, because he makes a low sound against your mouth, almost a breath, almost your name. That ruins you a little. You kiss him back harder.
For a few seconds, there is no Miami. No team. No Susie. No Lando. No cameras. No impossible questions waiting outside that door. Just him. His warmth. His hands. His mouth.
Then he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead almost touching yours.
You stare at him, stunned. “I said it,” you whisper. “I actually said it.”
His thumb strokes your cheek. “Yes.”
“And you kissed me.”
“Yes.”
You swallow, trying to catch up with your own life. “This feels like something HR would want to discuss.”
A tiny laugh breaks out of him. “Probably.”
You nod weakly. “Great. I’ll put it on my list. Right under emotional collapse and accidental love confession.”
His smile fades into something warmer. Deeper. “You are not accidental to me.”
Oh. That is unfair. Deeply unfair. Your throat tightens. “So,” you whisper, because if you don’t make a joke soon, you may actually start crying, “what now?”
Toto’s hands stay on your face, steady and gentle. “Maybe,” he says quietly, “we start with you not running from me.”
The laugh that escapes you is small and broken. He pulls you closer again, not kissing you this time. Just holding you. His lips brush lightly over your temple, then the edge of your hairline, soft enough to make your chest ache.
Your hands rest against his chest. And there it is. His heartbeat. Fast. Fast like yours.
Something about that almost undoes you. Because Toto Wolff, terrifying team principal, walking strategy machine, man who can silence a room with one look, is standing here with his heart racing under your palm. Because of you. And then the memory of the banquet returns. Your face heats again. Your body goes stiff with embarrassment.
He feels it immediately. His fingers slide gently under your chin, lifting your face. “Look at me.”
You hesitate.
“Please,” he adds. That does it. You look. His eyes are calm now. Soft. Serious.
“Everything depends on you,” he says. “If you are not comfortable, we set boundaries. If you need space, I give you space. I expect nothing from you. Nothing.” His thumb brushes once along your jaw. “But please don’t treat me like air again.”
Your throat tightens. “That hurt?” you ask quietly.
His eyes stay on yours.
“More than anything this weekend.”
You blink fast. He exhales softly.
“That is the worst part,” he admits. “The weekend was difficult. The sprint was poor. George is frustrated. The team needed focus. And still my thoughts kept coming back to you.” His voice drops. “To whether I had scared you. Whether I had hurt you.”
You can’t help it. You step into him again and wrap your arms around his middle.
He holds you immediately. Like he was waiting.
Then... a knock hits the door. You both freeze. Of course. Of course.
“Boss?” Paul’s voice comes from outside. “We leave for the hotel in twenty minutes. Also, have you seen our star? She vanished and Rosa is about to organize a search mission.”
You lift your head slowly. Toto looks down at you. You are still in his arms. Your face is flushed. Your hands are on him. His hands are on you.
The situation is deeply not workplace compliant. Toto’s expression shifts into something very calm. Suspiciously calm. “No,” he calls back. “Maybe check with the mechanics.”
You press your lips together. Paul pauses. “Mechanics? She hates being filmed with greasy lighting.”
“Paul.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll look.”
His footsteps move away. For three seconds, silence. Then you burst into a quiet laugh against Toto’s chest. He looks down at you, mouth twitching.
“Well, well,” you whisper. “The boss is already hiding me.”
His arms tighten slightly. “You are not my secret.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice softens. “You are my little she-wolf. And I want to protect you.”
That melts something inside you so quickly it is almost embarrassing.
He guides you toward the sofa then, and you let him because apparently your bones have resigned. He sits first and pulls you gently with him until you are tucked into his side, your shoulder against his chest, his arm around you.
“Five minutes,” he murmurs. “Please. Give me five minutes.”
You close your eyes. His hand moves slowly over your back. The other rests carefully against your thigh, still, warm, nothing more. Just contact. Just grounding. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then the question comes out quietly. “How is it, really?” you ask.
His hand stills. You open your eyes, staring at the fabric of his shirt. “With you and Susie.”
Toto says nothing for a second. So you continue, softer. “I saw her with Lewis. A few times. Yesterday in the lobby too. It looked… intimate.”
His arm tightens around you slightly. He breathes in. Long. Heavy. Then he pulls you a little closer. “What I said after Silverstone and on the banquet is true,” he says quietly. “My marriage with Susie has not been what people think for years.”
Your heart beats faster. He looks toward the window. “It is mostly PR now,” he says. “And care for Jack. And respect for what we were once. We built a life together. We still protect that life.” A faint, tired smile touches his mouth. “From the outside, it looks perfect.”
“And inside?”
“Inside, we are friends who know each other very well and sleep in different rooms.”
You absorb that slowly. All the photos. The book event. The smiles. His hand around her waist.
Your stomach twists again. “So all those things you said about her during the book promotion,” you say, lifting your head slightly, “that she is your hero, that she’s brilliant, all those beautiful words…”
His smile is weak. “Good PR can still contain truth.”
You frown. He sighs softly. “I respect Susie. I admire her. She is brilliant. She is strong. But the way people read those moments…” He shakes his head. “Yes. That part is directed.”
You look at him. “And Lewis?”
There is a long pause. His face changes. A sadness settles over him like a shadow. “Susie and Lewis are lovers,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“She told me herself. It began before he moved to Ferrari.” His mouth curves, but there is no humor in it. “The dream of driving for Ferrari made a beautiful explanation. And maybe part of it was true. But mostly, he could not stay at Mercedes and look at me every weekend while sleeping with my wife.”
You say nothing. Because what do you even say to that? There is no joke for it. No sharp comment. No easy escape. You look at his face, at the tired lines around his eyes, at the calm he wears like armor because maybe if he stops wearing it, everything underneath will finally show.
Your heart aches. “You must have felt so lonely,” you whisper.
His gaze returns to you. Soft. Too soft. He lifts a hand and touches your cheek. “Don’t pity me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m sad for you.”
“That is dangerously close.”
You cover his hand with yours. “I mean it.”
His thumb brushes your cheek once. “We made decisions,” he says. “Together. For Jack. For the life we built. For the work. For the public version that protects everyone.”
“And you?”
He gives a faint smile. “I have moments.”
“Lonely moments?”
“Yes.”
Your throat tightens again. “If Susie has Lewis,” you ask quietly, “why didn’t you find someone?”
Toto lets out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I could.”
“Oh, you definitely could.”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t exactly a compliment. More like an objective warning.”
Now he does smile. A real one. Small, sad, beautiful.
“I have never wanted only bodies,” he says after a moment. “Not really. I need depth. Trust. Someone who understands silence and pressure. Someone who challenges me. Someone who comes close not because of what I am, but despite it.”
You go very still.
“And then,” he continues, voice lowering, “you appeared. With your sharp tongue. Your terrible timing. Your complete lack of fear.”
You huff softly. “I have fear.”
“Not of me.”
You look down.
“No. Not of you.”
He pulls you a little closer and rests his face briefly against your neck. The gesture is tired, intimate, almost fragile. You hold him instinctively, fingers curling into the back of his shirt.
“I fought it,” he murmurs. “Of course I did. You are so young. You have your career ahead of you. I am your boss. My life is complicated. Everything about this is complicated.” He lifts his head and looks at you. “And I know how this may sound now. After everything I have told you. Like I am lonely and you appeared at the right time.”
You look at him carefully. “Are you afraid I’ll think that?”
“Yes.”
You touch his face then, softly. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
His eyes close for half a second. Then he turns his head and kisses your palm. “I owed you that.”
The tenderness of it nearly ruins you. For a while, neither of you speaks.
Then you ask the question that has been sitting quietly in your chest since the beginning. “Have you thought about separation? Divorce?”
Toto looks at you. You continue, softer. “If neither of you is happy like that. If Susie loves Lewis. If you…” You hesitate. “If you’re lonely.”
His gaze lowers for a moment. Then he says, almost too quietly, “Every day.”
Before you can answer your phone vibrates. Both of you look down. Rosa.
Toto sees the name and smiles faintly. “You should answer,” he says. “Knowing my daughter, she is about to search every room in the motorhome and find us in a very questionable position.”
You look at yourself. Curled into him. His hand on your back. Your legs tucked close to his. His face still much too near your neck.
You press your lips together. “Fair.”
You answer. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” Rosa demands immediately. “Paul and I are looking for you.”
You sit up slightly, though Toto does not let you go completely. “I felt a little sick,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “I got stuck in the bathroom for a bit. I’ll come down now.”
Toto lowers his face against your neck again. Your brain stops. His breath warms your skin. You close your eyes briefly. Cruel man.
“Meet me at the parking lot in five?” you add, somehow still sounding human.
Rosa pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Just tired.”
“Okay. Five minutes.”
She hangs up. You lower the phone slowly. Toto lifts his head, looking far too innocent for someone who absolutely is not.
You take his face in both hands. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He smiles, but it is sad around the edges. Then he kisses your temple.
“Don’t disappear from me again,” he says softly. “You don’t have to decide anything. You don’t have to promise me anything. Just… don’t cut me out.”
Your eyes sting. “Toto…”
He brushes your hair back from your face. “Your presence gives me happiness I haven’t had in years,” he says softly. “You are my little she-wolf. And somehow… my little light too.”
Oh. That does it.
Your eyes fill before you can stop them. His expression changes instantly. “Hey,” he whispers, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “No, no. Don’t cry, my little she-wolf.”
You lean forward and kiss him. You do not think. You just do it. Toto responds immediately, pulling you close, his hand firm at your back as the kiss deepens for a few breathless seconds. You end up closer than before, half in his lap, half against him, your hands tangled at his shoulders while his hold stays careful but strong. He breaks the kiss first. Barely.
His breath is uneven now. “You should go,” he murmurs. “Before Rosa starts inspecting toilets.”
You let out a shaky laugh against his mouth. “Probably.”
He studies you for a second. “Are you still flying back with the team?”
You look at him. Then, despite everything, despite the tears still in your eyes, you manage a tiny smile.
“Well,” you say softly, “the boss may have convinced me to return on his ridiculously fancy jet.”
His face warms. “Even with my chaotic daughter?”
“Even with your chaotic daughter.”
“And Paul.”
You grimace. “That is a sacrifice.”
“And Susie.”
Your smile falters slightly. Then he adds, carefully, “And Lewis.”
You choke. “Wonderful.”
Toto’s smile becomes so gentle it almost hurts. “It will be all right.”
You believe him. Which is probably dangerous. Before you leave, he kisses you once more Soft at first. Then you deepen it, because you cannot help yourself. Because in this moment, with his hand at your cheek and his heartbeat still too fast under your palm, there is no pretending left.
You are completely in love with him. Completely. Terribly. Beautifully. You pull away before you forget the parking lot, Rosa, Paul, the plane, the entire outside world.
“I really have to go,” you whisper.
“I know.”
He lets you stand. Reluctantly. You pick up your bag, smooth your hair, and then point at him weakly.
“You look too normal.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“Yes. It’s offensive.”
That makes him laugh quietly. A real laugh. Yours. You hold onto that sound as you slip out of his office and into the corridor, closing the door gently behind you.
The noise of the paddock returns all at once. People. Bags. Radios. Laughter. The end of a race weekend. But everything feels different now.
You walk toward the parking lot with your heart still racing and your lips still warm from his kiss.
Rosa is already waiting near the cars. She spots you immediately. “There you are,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You do not look like someone who was sick in a bathroom.”
You stop in front of her. Think fast. “I recover beautifully.”
She stares. Then her gaze drops very briefly to your mouth. Back to your eyes. A slow smile starts to form. Oh no.
You point at her. “No.”
She grins. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Keep not saying it.”
Paul pops up beside the car. “Who are we not saying things about?”
“You,” Rosa says instantly.
He looks pleased. “Good. My favorite topic.”
You roll your eyes and climb into the car before either of them can look too closely at your face. As the door closes, you glance back toward the Mercedes hospitality. Through the glass, just for a second, you see him. Toto. Standing in the corridor. Watching you leave. This time, you do not look away. And when he smiles, small and quiet and only for you, your heart does that stupid, hopeless thing again. But now you know what it means.
*
The private jet is quieter than you expected. Not silent, of course not. Paul is here, so silence would require medical intervention. He sits opposite Toto, talking with his whole body, hands moving through the air while explaining some “genius content strategy” that probably involves humiliating you in high resolution again. Toto sits back in his seat, legs crossed, documents open on his lap, listening with the calm patience of a man who has survived board meetings, media storms, and Paul Ripke before breakfast.
Rosa sits beside you, curled into her seat with her phone in hand, but you can feel her watching you more than the screen.
Across the cabin, George and Carmen sit close together, their heads leaned against each other. George looks exhausted. Worse than exhausted. Hollow around the edges. Carmen’s hand rests gently over his, thumb moving slowly, quietly. No words needed. Miami has taken something from him today, and you know he will carry it all the way back to Europe.
A little farther away, Susie and Lewis sit side by side. Close. Not too close for anyone who doesn’t know. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly friendly. Two old friends, maybe. Two people with shared history, warmth, and easy conversation. But now you know. Now you see everything differently. The angle of Lewis’s body turned toward her. The softness in Susie’s smile. The way their hands almost touch and then don’t, like they have practiced restraint for rooms full of people.
You look away. Straight toward Toto. Mistake. Because the second your eyes land on him, heat rises in your cheeks. Again. Fantastic. Truly fantastic. At this point your face should invoice him for overtime.
He does not look up immediately, but somehow you know he feels it. He always does. His eyes lift from the documents for one brief second, find yours, and soften. Small. Quiet. Only yours.
Your heart trips over itself. You look down at your hands. Because what else can you do? This weekend ruined you. The banquet. His hands on your hips. Your body falling apart against him. Your shame afterward. His office. His voice. His confession. His loneliness. His mouth on yours. The way he said you gave him happiness he hadn’t felt in years.
Your throat tightens. God. For years, the world has looked at him and Susie like a perfect power couple. Motorsport royalty. Elegant. Strong. Untouchable. And the truth is sitting here in this cabin, breathing quietly between expensive leather seats and carefully chosen public smiles. A marriage that became PR. A wife in love with someone else. A man who stayed lonely because duty, image, Jack, history, and loyalty tied him in place.
And now you. You, sitting beside his daughter, falling in love with him so completely it terrifies you.
What are you supposed to become? His secret? His affair? Another hidden thing tucked between flights, offices, hotel corridors, and careful glances? Like Susie and Lewis? Are you ready for that? Could you survive it?
Your career is just beginning. Toto is your boss. He is older. Powerful. Married. Complicated in ways no young driver should ever be stupid enough to touch.
And yet. You already touched him. You already kissed him. You already love him.
If this comes out, it will explode. Headlines. Gossip. Sponsors. Team politics. Every person in the paddock suddenly deciding your heart is public property.
You exhale quietly. There is no easy answer. No clean one. No painless one.
Beside you, Rosa shifts. “You’re quiet,” she says softly.
You glance at her. “I’m tired.”
She gives you a look. A very Wolff look. Dry. Unimpressed. Slightly lethal.
“Sure.”
You sigh. “It was a long weekend.”
“It was,” she says. Then, after a beat, quieter, “Did you and Papa make peace?”
Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap. Across from you, Toto turns a page. Too slowly. He heard. Of course he heard.
You keep your face neutral with heroic effort. “We talked,” you say.
Rosa studies you. Then she smiles. Not teasing this time. Soft. “Good.”
You look at her, and something in your chest aches again. Outside the window, the night stretches black and endless beneath the wing. Inside the cabin, Toto’s gaze finds yours once more. This time, you do not look away immediately. You can’t. Because whatever happens next, whatever this becomes, whatever price this asks from both of you, you already know one thing.
Miami changed everything. And there is no going back now.
Since fifty shades of grey is kindaaa trending again, and the song “love me like you do” too is going viral may I request ‘toto taking the reader on a helicopter ride’ smth like that.
(I never fully watched fifthy shades of grey tbh..🥲)
Up to you if you’re interested in writing it >:D
I have to admit I’m not really into trends at all, but yes, I do know Fifty Shades of Grey. It’s not really my vibe, but I have to say the idea has a very romantic feel, so thank you for it 😘 And Toto… well, he fits perfectly here — ah, a billionaire romantic who loves to spoil his girl ❤️
Under the Monaco Sky
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Toto Wolff x girlfriend!reader
Summary: You’re Toto Wolff’s much younger girlfriend, the Adidas PR girl from Munich who somehow walked into his life after a brutal divorce and made him believe in softness again. Now he’s hopelessly in love, determined to spoil you at every turn, and apparently expressing that love with a helicopter flight over Monaco and a star-lit conversation that changes everything.
Warnings: age gap (27/54), fluff, rich boyfriend Toto, soft and romantic vibes, post-divorce healing, Monaco glamour, deeply in love!Toto
Music theme: Love me like you do – Ellie Goulding
Word count: 3.9k
You are in Toto’s kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his T-shirts and stealing olives straight from the little bowl on the counter, when he says, far too casually, “I want to show you something.”
You glance up from your crime. “That tone is suspicious.”
He is leaning against the island with a glass of water in one hand, looking unfairly good in dark joggers and a simple black shirt, like billionaires should honestly be banned from casual clothing.
His mouth twitches. “It’s not suspicious.”
“It is,” you say. “That is your I have had an idea voice.”
He lifts one shoulder. “Sometimes my ideas are excellent.”
“Sometimes your ideas involve trying to convince me to move into your penthouse by describing the wardrobe space like it’s a religious experience.”
“It is a very good wardrobe.”
You pop another olive into your mouth. “Toto.”
He sets down his glass and walks toward you with that calm, deliberate way he has, all broad shoulders and quiet confidence and just enough softness in his eyes to ruin you a little every time.
“Come with me,” he says, reaching for your hand.
You narrow your eyes, but let him take it. “If this is another attempt to buy me a car, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not.”
“If it’s an apartment in Monaco, I’m running.”
“It’s not that either.”
“If it’s a horse—”
He laughs. “You think I bought you a horse?”
“With you, I never know.”
His smile widens. “That is fair.”
He leads you through the penthouse, past the floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with the last deep blue of evening, and toward the private rooftop access.
You slow a little. “Toto.”
“Yes?”
“Why are we going upstairs?”
He glances back at you, eyes warm and annoyingly unreadable. “Because what I want to show you is not in the living room.”
“That is somehow not comforting.”
He only smiles and keeps going.
You have learned, over the course of loving Toto Wolff, that he contains multitudes.
There is the public version of him — the sharp one, the impossible one, the man who walks through a paddock like he owns gravity.
Then there is your version. The one who eats pizza from the box at midnight. The one who drinks cheap red wine with you on your tiny Munich balcony and insists it tastes better because you’re there. The one who knows how to touch you like you are something precious. The one who never pushes when you say no, never makes you feel small for wanting simple things, and still, hopelessly, persistently, looks for new ways to make you smile.
Which is why you are already nervous. Because when Toto gets that look in his eye, it usually means romance is about to happen at you.
And romance, when delivered by a 54-year-old billionaire who is embarrassingly in love with you, is never normal.
He opens the rooftop door.
And you stop dead.
There is a helicopter. An actual helicopter. Just sitting there under the Monaco night sky like this is somehow a reasonable thing for a man to casually have on his roof.
You stare. Then stare harder. Then turn slowly to look at him.
“Toto.”
He is trying to look calm. He is failing a little. There is a very small, very pleased smile pulling at his mouth, and you know that expression. He has been waiting for this exact moment.
“You bought a helicopter,” you say blankly.
He inclines his head. “Yes.”
“You bought. A helicopter.”
“Yes.”
You point at it. “That one.”
“That one, yes.”
Your hands go to your hips. “Why do you sound like this is perfectly normal?”
He folds his arms, far too relaxed. “For me, it is somewhat more normal than for you.”
You laugh once, in disbelief. “Oh, that clears it up. Silly me.”
His eyes soften immediately at your expression, that mix of shock and amusement and what the hell have I gotten myself into.
“I wanted to tell you earlier,” he says, stepping closer, “but I thought it might be more fun this way.”
You look between him and the helicopter again. “More fun than what, Toto? Casually mentioning over breakfast that you developed a midlife crisis and purchased aircraft?”
He actually laughs at that.
“After the divorce,” he says, “I may have had a… small phase.”
“A small phase.”
“I needed something that was mine. Something difficult. Something that required focus.”
You blink at him. “So you became a pilot?”
His expression turns almost sheepish, which on Toto is so rare it always hits you right in the heart.
“I got the license,” he says. “And then… this happened.”
You look at the helicopter again. Then at him. Then back at the helicopter.
“This happened,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
You walk a few steps toward it, half in awe, half expecting someone to jump out and tell you this is a prank.
No one does. Of course no one does. Because your boyfriend really did deal with emotional devastation by becoming hotter and more absurdly competent in a new category.
You turn back to him slowly. “You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met.”
He smiles. “And yet you adore me.”
“Tragically.”
He comes closer until his hands settle lightly at your waist, grounding, warm, familiar.
“I wanted to take you up,” he says more quietly now. “Night flight. Along the coast. Over Monaco.”
Your eyes widen. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
You look up at the helicopter again, then back at him. “I have never even been in one.”
“I know.”
“You’re saying this like that helps.”
“It can,” he says, smiling softly. “First times can be beautiful.”
The way he says it makes your chest tighten a little.
Because that is the thing about Toto. He can be teasing one second, and the next he says something so gentle it sneaks past your defenses before you even realize you had any.
You study him for a moment. “You really got the full training?”
“I did.”
“You’re not just rich and overconfident?”
He lifts a brow. “I am also those things. But in this case, I am trained.”
You laugh despite yourself.
He leans in, forehead brushing yours. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
And there it is. That quiet care. No pressure. No wounded ego. No performance. Just Toto, offering you something extravagant with the exact same tenderness he uses when handing you a slice of pizza or tucking a blanket around your legs on the sofa.
Your hands slide up his chest slowly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.
“I do want to,” you admit.
His eyes warm instantly. “Yes?”
“Yes,” you say, smiling now. “I just also want it on record that this is the weirdest date anyone has ever taken me on.”
“We’ve had stranger.”
“You once fed me supermarket strawberries and called it a picnic.”
“And you loved it.”
“I did.”
“Then my strategy is flawless.”
You roll your eyes, but he catches your face in both hands and kisses you before you can argue further.
Soft at first. Then deeper, slower, like he has all night and every intention of making this feel like something you will remember forever.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes over your cheek.
“Come on, Schatz.”
He leads you to the helicopter, and every part of this feels surreal.
The night air is warm. Monaco glitters below you, all gold and silver and impossible luxury. The sea is a dark, endless velvet beyond it.
And here you are, standing beside a helicopter with the man you love — a man who can buy almost anything in the world and still somehow looks happiest when you laugh at him.
He helps you climb in with surprising gentleness for someone built like a very elegant wall. Then he crouches beside you to fasten your harness.
You watch his hands work. Large, careful, practiced.
When he looks up, he catches you staring and smiles faintly.
“What?”
“This is insane.”
He laughs softly. “In a bad way?”
“In a very you way.”
“That is not an answer.”
You tilt your head. “It’s romantic.”
His whole face changes at that.
That little softness in his mouth, in his eyes. That almost disbelieving tenderness he still gets sometimes when you say things like that, as if some part of him still hasn’t fully accepted that this is real. That you are real. That this happened to him after everything.
“Well,” he murmurs, adjusting the strap once more, “I was hoping it might be.”
“It is.”
He lingers there for a second, one hand still resting near your hip. Then he lifts it to your face and smooths a strand of hair back behind your ear.
Under the rooftop lights and the open Monaco sky, it feels cinematic in the most dangerous way. Like one of those scenes people would accuse of being unrealistic. Too much wealth. Too much tension. Too much tenderness.
And yet none of it feels cold. Not with him. Not when Toto looks at you like this — not like something he owns, but like something he is still quietly amazed to have been trusted with.
“You know,” you say softly, “most men buy flowers.”
“I buy flowers.”
“You do.”
“Frequently.”
You smile. “And apparently aircraft.”
He huffs a laugh. “Only occasionally.”
“Good. I’d hate for this to become a habit.”
He leans in and kisses your forehead. “You’re very funny when you’re trying not to look affected.”
“Oh, I’m affected,” you admit. “I’m just trying not to encourage you.”
“That is impossible. You smiled at me once in Munich and I emotionally never recovered.”
You laugh, and God, he looks pleased with himself for getting that sound out of you.
Then he kisses you again. This one is slower. The kind of kiss that starts sweet and turns into something warmer, deeper, until your fingers are curled around his wrist and his hand is resting against your jaw and for a moment the helicopter, the roof, the whole glittering city disappear.
When he finally pulls back, his voice is lower. “You trust me?”
Your heart stumbles a little. Not because you doubt him. Because of the way he asks it. Not like a pilot. Like a man who is still, even now, careful with your heart.
You touch his cheek. “Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Easy. True.
He holds your gaze for one long second, then smiles.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I really want to show you Monaco from the sky.”
A little while later, when you are airborne and the city falls away beneath you in lights and shadows and ribbons of gold along the water, you forget to breathe for a second.
“Oh my God,” you whisper into the headset.
Toto’s voice comes through, warm with unmistakable delight. “Good?”
You look out at the coastline, the dark sea, the glittering line of the harbor, the buildings like jewels scattered into the night.
“Good?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Toto, this is insane.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question.”
You turn to look at him. He is focused, calm, one hand steady, the city reflecting in the glass and across the sharp line of his profile. He looks younger like this somehow. Freer. Lighter.
And then he glances at you. Just for a second. Enough for you to see the smile.
“Yes,” you say, unable to stop smiling back. “It’s good.”
He seems absurdly satisfied by that.
You spend the flight half in awe, half staring at him when he isn’t looking. At the way his voice softens when he points things out. At the care in every movement. At the fact that somehow, underneath all the money and the view and the impossible elegance of the whole thing, what touches you most is still him.
Just him.
The same man who sat on your little Munich floor eating takeaway with you because the table was covered in work papers. The same man who kisses your temple when you’re tired. Who never laughs at your old car. Who keeps trying to spoil you not because he thinks you need things, but because loving you seems to come out of him in gestures, in offerings, in little acts of devotion he does not know how to contain.
When you land again, the city still glittering all around you, he helps you out, one hand steady at your waist.
For a moment neither of you says anything. The rotor slows. The night hums softly around you.
Then you look up at him and smile. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You win.”
His brows lift. “Win what?”
“The argument you’ve been having with yourself for months.”
He looks genuinely confused. “What argument?”
“That letting you plan romantic things for me might ruin me for normal men forever.”
A laugh escapes him, deep and warm. Then he pulls you into him, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other sliding up your back, and kisses you under the Monaco sky with the helicopter behind you like this is the most ridiculous movie scene either of you has ever accidentally wandered into.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.
“There are no normal men in this story, Schatz.”
You smile, lips brushing his. “No,” you murmur. “Just you.”
And honestly? That has always been more than enough.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The helicopter is finally still behind you, the night air soft against your skin, Monaco glittering below like it is trying far too hard to impress you both. But all you can really see is him.
Toto.
Close enough that your foreheads still touch. Close enough that his breath mingles with yours. Close enough that when he exhales, you feel it like something careful and unguarded.
His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, but there is something different in his expression now. Softer. Quieter. The kind of look he gets only when he is about to say something real enough to scare himself.
You wait.
And eventually, he smiles a little — not his usual confident, composed smile, but something smaller. More fragile.
“After the divorce,” he says quietly, eyes searching yours, “I didn’t think I would ever feel this way again.”
Your heart tightens instantly.
His thumb brushes once over your side, almost absentmindedly, like he needs the contact to keep going.
“I thought maybe that part of my life was finished. That maybe I had…” He exhales softly, the corner of his mouth lifting with something self-aware. “Not broken, exactly. But closed.”
You don’t interrupt. You just stay there, close, letting him speak.
“And then,” he murmurs, “you appeared.”
A tiny smile tugs at your lips. “That does sound dramatic.”
“It was dramatic,” he says, dead serious. “You walked into my life with that ridiculous golden retriever energy and your little motorbike and your very clear opinions about absolutely everything—”
You laugh softly. “My golden retriever energy?”
“Yes.” His eyes warm. “You smile at people. You make friends with waiters. You get excited over coffee and sunsets and bad pizza. You look at the world like it still has good things in it.”
Your expression softens.
“And somehow,” he says, voice quieter now, “you looked at me like I might be one of them.”
That one lands right in the middle of your chest.
“Toto…”
He gives a tiny shake of his head, like he is not done yet. “You stole my heart completely. Do you know that?”
A breath catches in your throat.
“I am so, so in love with you,” he says, and now there is no humor in it, only that deep, steady certainty that always undoes you. “Hopelessly. Embarrassingly. Completely. I think if you asked for a star, I would genuinely start looking for a way to steal one.”
You let out a little laugh, watery around the edges, because of course he says something unbearably romantic and then somehow makes it sound like a business plan.
“You don’t have to spoil me,” you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest. “You know that, right? You don’t have to keep giving me all these big things. You don’t have to buy helicopters or plan impossible dates or try to put half of Monaco at my feet.” You smile softly. “You’re enough. Just… you. You being there. That’s what matters.”
For one second he just looks at you. Then his face changes. Enough that the smile he gives you is shaky around the edges. Enough that his eyes go bright. And then, to your complete devastation, there are actual tears in them.
You blink up at him. “Oh no.”
He laughs under his breath, embarrassed and fond and completely caught. “Yes. Very attractive, I know.”
“You’re getting emotional on a helipad.”
“I am trying not to.”
“That’s not going well.”
“No,” he admits.
You lift a hand and touch his cheek, and he leans into it instantly, eyes closing for just a second.
When he opens them again, he is smiling in that helpless, disbelieving way he sometimes does when you say something that gets under all his carefully built walls.
“Where did you come from?” he murmurs. “Honestly. Where were you hiding, girl?”
That gets a grin out of you.
You shrug lightly. “Well. A village in Bavaria. With goats and cows.”
He stares at you for half a beat. Then barks out a laugh so sudden and warm it echoes across the rooftop.
“With goats and cows,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“You say this like you were raised by a very wholesome farm cult.”
“Maybe I was.”
He laughs harder, forehead dropping back to yours, and soon you’re both standing there under the Monaco sky, laughing like idiots next to a helicopter because apparently this is your life now.
It fades slowly. The laughter. The softness stays. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. More careful.
“Schatz.”
You look at him. He looks… nervous. Which is almost unsettling, because Toto Wolff nervous is like seeing a mountain hesitate. It does not happen often, and when it does, you instinctively understand it matters.
You straighten a little. “What is it?”
His hands tighten just slightly at your waist.
“We’ve been doing this for months now,” he says. “Flying between race weekends and Munich and Monaco and Austria and stealing whatever time we can.” He smiles faintly, but there is something uncertain beneath it. “And I love every second I get with you. But it’s never enough.”
Your chest aches a little. Because you know exactly what he means.
You know the train rides, the flights, the rushed mornings, the weekends stolen from packed calendars. Your little Munich apartment. His penthouse in Monaco. His place in Austria. Hotel rooms. Airports. Paddocks. Always moving. Always leaving again.
Toto takes a breath.
“I want more than this,” he says quietly. “Not more in the grand sense. I don’t mean bigger. I mean…” He glances down for a second, then back at you. “I want you with me. Properly. Not just in fragments.”
Your heart stutters.
He keeps going, a little faster now, like he is afraid if he stops he will lose the courage.
“I know Monaco is not your natural habitat,” he says dryly, and you huff a small laugh. “I know you don’t care about any of the luxury, and I know you hate being pushed. I know your life is in Munich, and your work is there, and I know you would rather eat takeaway on your little sofa than attend half the events people invite us to.”
“That is true.”
“It is one of your better qualities.”
You smile despite yourself.
He exhales and goes on more softly. “But I would like us to live together.”
There it is. Simple. Direct. Terrifyingly sincere.
You go very still. Not because you don’t want it. Because you do. And suddenly it is real. He sees your expression and immediately rushes to soften it.
“Only if you want that too,” he says quickly. “And I know Adidas is based in Munich. I know that complicates things.”
“It does,” you admit quietly.
A tiny smile touches his mouth. “That can be solved.”
You narrow your eyes a little. “Toto.”
He lifts both brows. “I know. I know exactly what that look means.”
“It means don’t billionaire your way through this conversation.”
That gets a quiet laugh from him.
“I’m not,” he says. “Or at least I am trying very hard not to.”
“Trying?”
“Trying heroically.”
You smile.
He brushes his thumb over your waist again. “I know you don’t like nepotism. I know you wouldn’t want anything handed to you because of me. And I would never ask you to give up something you’ve built for yourself just to make my life easier.” His expression softens. “It has to be your decision. Entirely.”
You look at him then. At the uncertainty he is trying to hide. At the hope he is failing to. At the man who could have almost anything and is still standing in front of you asking, not demanding.
And the truth hits you so simply it almost makes you laugh.
You love him.
You love his impossible height and his ridiculous tenderness and the way he still buys supermarket strawberries like they are a declaration. You love the softness he only shows when the world is not looking. You love that he sees you exactly as you are and never once tries to turn you into something shinier, richer, quieter, easier.
And you want this. Not the penthouse. Not Monaco. Not the view.
Him.
You smile slowly. “Okay,” you say.
For a second, he just blinks at you. “…okay?”
You nod, and now your own heart is racing. “Okay. We can live together.”
He stares at you like the sentence needs translating. Then: “You mean that?”
You laugh softly. “No, I enjoy making major life decisions as a bit.”
That finally gets through to him. The expression on his face. God. It is so open, so relieved, so happy it almost knocks the air from your lungs.
“You’re serious,” he says, sounding like he still doesn’t fully believe his own luck.
“I’m serious.”
A breath leaves him like he has been holding it for months. Then he smiles. And that smile is devastating. This one is all joy. All love.
All you said yes.
Before you can tease him even a little, his hands slide up, he pulls you flush against him, and kisses you hard beneath the Monaco stars. Just full of relief and gratitude and so much feeling it nearly takes your knees out.
You laugh against his mouth because he is kissing you like a man who has just won something enormous, and his hands cradle your face like he still cannot believe you’re real.
When he finally lets you breathe, his forehead drops to yours again.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done to me,” he murmurs.
You grin, breathless. “Agreed to share your wardrobe space?”
He laughs, low and warm, and kisses you again.
“God, I love you.”
You smile against his lips. “I know.”
“And for the record,” he says, still smiling, “the goats and cows detail only made this more endearing.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m going to be unbearable now.”
“You already were.”
“True.”
You both laugh softly, wrapped around each other under the starlit Monaco sky, the helicopter behind you, the city glittering below. Ridiculous. Romantic. A little insane.
Very him.
And when he kisses you again, gentler this time, hands warm at your waist, all you can think is that somehow, in the strangest and sweetest way possible — you are finally on your way home.
Summary: You are very young, gorgeous, controversial, and permanently glued to Toto Wolff’s side after his divorce. The paddock has opinions. The media has headlines. Toto has zero shame.
Warnings: age gap (20/54), paddock gossip, divorced!Toto, jealous drivers, chaotic Mercedes family energy, people being annoying about your relationship, Toto being embarrassingly in love, reader being a menace.
Word count: 2.8k
a/n: Well… I had a free afternoon yesterday and an idea.
The first article called you a mysterious young blonde seen leaving the Mercedes motorhome.
The second one called you Toto Wolff’s midlife crisis in heels.
The third one was brave enough to call you the paddock’s most expensive accessory.
That one made you laugh so hard you almost spilled coffee over Toto’s white shirt.
“You find this amusing?” he asked, standing in front of the mirror in his hotel suite, fixing his cufflinks.
You sat on the bed in one of his shirts, bare legs crossed, phone in hand, grin wide.
“Very. They called me an accessory.”
Toto glanced at you through the mirror.
“With your personality? They clearly haven’t met you.”
“You mean I’m too loud to be jewelry?”
“You argued with a journalist yesterday because he mispronounced my name.”
“He said Wolf. Like the animal. It is Wolff. With two Fs. Respect the brand.”
His mouth twitched.
There it was. That look. The one that started most of your problems. The one that made people whisper behind garage walls and pretend they weren’t staring when Toto placed his hand on your lower back.
The one that said: yes, she is twenty; yes, I am old enough to know better; yes, I have completely lost my mind; no, I do not care.
And he really did not care. After his divorce from Susie, everyone expected Toto to become colder. Sharper. More impossible.
Instead, he found you.
A twenty-year-old chaos machine with pretty eyes, fast comebacks, and a dangerous talent for walking into rooms like you owned them.
Nobody understood it. You did.
He made you feel safe.
You made him feel alive.
Unfortunately, the entire paddock had decided this was a group project.
By the time you arrived at the circuit that morning, the photographers were already waiting.
You stepped out of the Mercedes car first, wearing sunglasses, a black dress, and boots that made you look like trouble with a VIP pass.
Toto followed. His hand found your waist before the first camera clicked.
The paddock exploded in flashes.
You leaned slightly toward him.
“They’re going to write that you bought me the dress.”
“I did.”
“Toto.”
“You liked it.”
“That is so against the feminist image I’m trying to build.”
He looked down at you, deeply amused.
“You also made me buy the boots.”
“You offered.”
“You looked at them for six seconds too long.”
“That is a normal shopping behavior.”
“That is your version of begging.”
You gasped.
“Torger Wolff, I am an independent woman.”
“Yes. An independent woman currently using my Amex.”
You tried to glare at him. It failed because he smiled. That was unfair. Toto’s smile should have required FIA regulation.
Inside the paddock, people turned. Some openly. Some pretending to check emails. Some whispering into coffee cups.
You were used to it by now. At first, it had hurt. The comments. The looks. The assumptions.
She’s with him for money.
He’s with her because she’s young.
Classic divorced man behavior.
She’ll leave when she gets bored.
He’ll move on when the novelty fades.
They had no idea how many nights you spent curled beside him while he worked late, your cheek pressed to his arm, half-asleep while he read reports.
They had no idea how gently he held your face when you got overwhelmed.
They had no idea how often you told him he was impossible, and how often he answered, “And yet you are still here.”
They saw the age gap. They saw the scandal. They saw a headline.
You saw him. Your Toto. The man who always remembered how you liked your tea, who complained when you skipped meals, who let you sit in his office during strategy meetings with your legs tucked under you like the world’s least professional team mascot. Which, according to George, you had officially become.
“You’re here,” George said when he spotted you in the Mercedes garage. “Good. Morale has improved by 74%.”
You removed your sunglasses.
“Only 74?”
“Kimi was sulking about simulator feedback.”
Kimi looked up from across the garage. “I was processing.”
“You looked dead inside,” George corrected.
“That is my processing face.”
You nodded seriously. “Very Mercedes of you.”
George pointed at you. “See? Mascot.”
You turned to Toto. “Fire him.”
Toto, reading something on his tablet, did not even look up.
“I cannot fire my driver because he called you a mascot.”
“You can. Be romantic.”
George choked on his drink.
Kimi muttered, “I want no involvement.”
Toto finally looked up. His eyes moved over your face with open affection.
“I can make Bradley write a statement that you are a strategic emotional support asset.”
You blinked.
George whispered, “That’s worse.”
“It sounds official,” Toto said.
“It sounds like you found me in a spreadsheet,” you replied.
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.
“If I found you in a spreadsheet, you would be the only number worth checking.”
The garage went silent. George stared at the ceiling. Kimi physically turned around.
An engineer dropped a pen.
You felt your cheeks warm.
“Toto,” you whispered.
“Yes?”
“That was disgusting.”
“You smiled.”
“I am suing you for emotional damage.”
“You can use my lawyer.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
No. You did not. That was the problem. You loved him so much it sometimes scared you. Especially in moments like this, when he stood in the middle of chaos, team radios crackling, mechanics moving around him, cameras watching from every angle, and still looked at you like you were the only person in the paddock.
Across the garage, James Allison appeared with a mug in hand and the tired expression of a man who had already seen three different PR disasters before breakfast.
“Morning,” he said. Then he looked at Toto’s hand on your waist. “Ah. The scandal has arrived.”
You grinned. “Good morning to you too, James.”
James took a sip of coffee. “I assume we are ignoring the latest article?”
Toto’s face barely moved.
“Yes.”
“It says you’ve lost your mind.”
“I have won eight Constructors’ Championships. I am allowed one recreational breakdown.”
You burst out laughing.
James sighed. “At least she laughs at your jokes. Someone should.”
Toto’s thumb rubbed softly against your side.
“She has excellent taste.”
“In men?” James asked.
“In everything.”
James looked at you. “Blink twice if he paid you to say that.”
“I would,” you said, “but then he’d start negotiating.”
Toto tilted his head. “You enjoy my negotiations.”
“That sounds illegal in a garage.”
George made a wounded noise. “Some of us are trying to have a career here.”
The chaos only got worse near the hospitality area.
Fred Vasseur was standing with a coffee, sunglasses on, looking like a man who had personally survived ten Ferrari strategy meetings and had the emotional scars to prove it.
He spotted Toto, then you, then Toto’s hand at your back.
Fred smiled. Dangerously.
“Toto,” he said. “Good to see you. And your… motivation program.”
You pressed your lips together. Toto looked bored already.
“Fred.”
Fred looked at you kindly. “You are very brave.”
You frowned. “For dating him?”
“For listening to him talk about tyre degradation voluntarily.”
You laughed. Toto gave Fred a flat look.
Fred continued, delighted with himself. “At least now we know Mercedes found performance. He smiles. Very suspicious.”
“Toto smiles,” you said.
Fred looked at you like you had announced Ferrari had made a calm strategy call.
“No.”
“He does.”
“When?”
“When people are scared of him.”
Fred nodded. “Ah, yes. Romance.”
Toto’s arm tightened around you.
“You are very funny today, Fred.”
“I know. I am thinking of changing careers.”
“To comedy?”
“To relationship counselling. First advice: try someone your own age.”
There it was. The tiny needle. Wrapped in humor. Delivered with a smile.
Your stomach tightened before you could stop it. Toto noticed. He turned his head slightly, gaze sharpening.
“Careful,” he said.
One word. Quiet. Enough.
Fred lifted both hands, still smiling, but his eyes softened when he saw your face.
“Only teasing,” he said. “She is good for you. Annoying, because you are already unbearable, but good.”
Toto’s expression eased.
You looked at Fred. “Thank you. I think.”
Fred leaned closer to you. “If he becomes too much, Ferrari has espresso.”
Toto answered immediately. “She is allergic to poor strategy.”
You nearly wheezed.
Fred placed a hand over his heart.
“That was personal.”
“Yes.”
You walked away with Toto while Fred called after him in French.
You did not understand all of it. But you understood enough.
“Toto,” you said once you were out of earshot.
“Hm?”
“You don’t have to defend me every time.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No. You really don’t.”
He stopped walking. That was dangerous too. Because when Toto Wolff stopped in the middle of the paddock, people behaved like a royal decree had been issued.
He turned to you fully.
“You think I defend you because I believe you cannot do it yourself?”
You looked up at him. At 196 cm, he had the unfair advantage of making eye contact feel like a weather event.
“No,” you said quietly. “I know I can defend myself.”
“Good.”
“I just hate that they keep saying it.”
His face changed. Softened. Only for you.
“That you are with me for money?”
You nodded once.
“And that I am with you because you’re young.”
His jaw tightened. Behind him, the paddock kept moving. Mechanics, journalists, drivers, cameras, noise. Around you, the world kept trying to turn your love into entertainment.
Toto reached for your hand.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“I know why you are with me.”
Your throat tightened.
“Do you?”
“Yes.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Because you are insane.”
You stared at him.
He continued, completely serious. “You enjoy arguing with me. You steal my hoodies. You eat half my food after saying you are not hungry. You make my life impossible.”
You tried very hard not to smile.
“And,” he said, voice lower, “you love me.”
Your smile faded into something softer.
“I do.”
“I know.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
“Arrogant.”
“In love.”
Oh. That shut you up.
Toto Wolff had many talents. Making you speechless was one of his favorites.
Before you could answer, a voice came from your left.
“Tragic.”
You turned.
Lando Norris stood there with a grin wide enough to get him banned from three team principals’ offices.
“Oh no,” you said.
“Oh yes,” Lando replied. “I just witnessed romance in broad daylight. In a paddock. During a race weekend. Disgusting.”
Toto looked deeply unimpressed.
“Do you need something?”
Lando looked at you. “Yes. I’m here to rescue her.”
You laughed. “From what?”
“From wasting her youth.”
Toto’s eyebrows lifted.
Lando continued with the confidence of a man who had chosen violence before lunch.
“Respectfully, Toto, you’re a legend. Icon. Terrifying. Great hair for your age.”
“For my age,” Toto repeated.
You covered your mouth.
Lando gave you a charming smile. “And you are way too pretty to spend every weekend listening to him say ‘we need to analyze the data.’ Come to McLaren. We have fun colors.”
Toto’s hand settled at your waist again. Possessive. Calm. Very public.
“She likes black.”
“I like black,” you confirmed.
Lando sighed. “Of course you do. Corrupted by Mercedes.”
Toto leaned slightly toward him.
“She also likes winning.”
Lando touched his chest. “That hurt.”
“It was meant to.”
You gave Lando a sympathetic smile. “You’re very sweet.”
“I know.”
“And very pretty.”
“I know.”
“And absolutely not my type.”
Lando looked offended. “What is your type?”
You pointed at Toto.
“Corporate villain with commitment issues and a terrifying calendar.”
Toto looked down at you.
“I have no commitment issues.”
“You divorced a woman and then started dating a twenty-year-old who steals your team hoodies.”
“That is commitment.”
Lando stared between you both.
“You two are weirdly cute and I hate it.”
“Good,” Toto said.
“Still, when he starts talking about quarterly projections, call me.”
You grinned. “He already does.”
“And you stayed?”
“I love him.”
The words came out easily. Too easily.
Lando’s expression softened, just a little. The teasing stayed, because he was Lando, but the edge disappeared.
“Well,” he said. “That ruins my whole rescue mission.”
Toto gave him a dry look. “Devastating.”
Lando pointed at him. “Be nice to her, old man.”
Toto’s eyes narrowed.
You grabbed Toto’s arm before he could murder a McLaren driver with silence.
“He is nice to me.”
Lando nodded. “Good. Because if he isn’t, half the grid will form a queue.”
Toto’s smile was sharp.
“They can queue.”
Lando wisely left. You watched him go, laughing under your breath.
“You’re jealous,” you said.
“I am observant.”
“You looked like you were calculating how to buy McLaren and shut it down.”
“Only briefly.”
“Toto.”
“He called me old.”
“You are old.”
He looked offended.
You patted his chest. “My old man.”
“That is worse.”
“My rich old man?”
“That is what the media says.”
“My handsome rich old man?”
His mouth twitched.
“Better.”
“My terrifying handsome rich old man who owns too many black shirts and thinks flirting is a risk assessment?”
He bent his head closer.
“You love my black shirts.”
“I love taking them off you.”
His eyes darkened. You smiled innocently.
Behind you, someone coughed. Bradley Lord stood two meters away with an iPad and the haunted face of a PR man experiencing live cardiac decline.
“I heard nothing,” Bradley said.
“Good,” Toto replied.
Bradley looked at you. “Please stop saying things that become headlines.”
“I didn’t say it to a journalist.”
“You said it near air. That is enough.”
You leaned into Toto’s side. “Bradley hates love.”
Bradley looked at Toto. “I hate preventable reputational incidents.”
Toto nodded. “Understandable.”
“Also,” Bradley added, “there is a camera team waiting for you both near hospitality.”
You frowned. “Both?”
“Yes. Apparently your presence increases engagement.”
You turned to Toto slowly.
“I am the mascot.”
Toto looked smug.
“I told you. Strategic emotional support asset.”
Bradley closed his eyes.
“I am begging you not to put that on a T-shirt.”
You gasped. “We are putting that on a T-shirt.”
“No,” Bradley said.
“Yes,” Toto said at the same time.
Bradley opened his eyes in betrayal.
“You are supposed to be the adult.”
“I am.”
“You are encouraging her.”
“She is charming.”
“She is a liability.”
“She is mine.”
The words landed before you were ready. Bradley went quiet. You looked up at Toto.
His gaze stayed on you, steady and open. No shame and no hesitation. No little glance around to see who had heard.
He wanted them to hear.
You swallowed.
“You can’t say things like that in the paddock,” you whispered.
“I just did.”
“People will talk.”
“People already talk.”
“They’ll say you’re insane.”
“I am.”
Your lips parted. He brushed his thumb along your cheek.
“For you,” he added.
Oh, that was unfair. Completely illegal. You tried to save yourself with sarcasm.
“Careful, old man. You’re getting sentimental.”
“I am divorced. Apparently this is expected.”
You laughed, and he smiled. Real smile. Soft smile. Your smile.
A camera flashed from somewhere nearby. Then another. You glanced toward the photographers. For once, you did not move away. Neither did Toto. Let them write. Let them guess. Let them turn your love into jokes, scandals, think pieces, and badly cropped photos.
They could say you were too young. They could say he had lost his mind. Maybe he had. Maybe love looked ridiculous from the outside when people were too boring to understand it.
Toto leaned down, close enough that only you heard him.
“You are quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“I know.”
His fingers squeezed your waist.
“What are you thinking?”
You looked up at him, at the man everyone feared, judged, wanted something from. The man who let you steal his coffee and ruin his schedule. The man who kissed your forehead before meetings and texted you from across the garage just to ask if you had eaten. The man who had gone completely, publicly, hopelessly soft for you.
“I’m thinking,” you said, “that if I’m your midlife crisis, you’re handling it very well.”
Toto’s laugh was low and warm.
“Thank you.”
“And I’m thinking,” you added, “that I love you.”
His expression shifted.
The paddock blurred. The noise faded. For one second, it was only him looking at you like you had just handed him the world.
“I love you too,” he said.
Simple and honest. Just truth.
Then George walked past holding a banana and said, “Are you two being emotionally inappropriate again?”
You sighed.
Toto did not even look away from you.
“Yes.”
George nodded. “Cool. Just checking.”
Kimi appeared behind him. “Bradley says no kissing near sponsor walls.”
You smiled sweetly.
“Toto?”
“Yes, Schatz?”
“Where are the sponsor walls?”
Bradley shouted from somewhere in the distance, “NO.”
Toto smiled. The dangerous one. The one that meant the PR department had lost.
Then he took your hand and led you straight toward hospitality, cameras flashing, paddock staring, drivers gossiping, Fred probably preparing another comment, James definitely needing stronger coffee.
And you?
You walked beside him like you belonged there. Because you did. Young. Controversial. Madly in love with him.
Hi, love your writing! Could you please do a soft!Toto story where he takes care of his wife during a panic attack? Thx!
Thank you Anon!
Hold On to Me
🐺 main masterlist
Toto Wolff x wife!reader
Summary: A polished public event goes very wrong when the room gets too loud, too bright, too full — and by the time Toto realizes what’s happening, you’re already slipping under. He gets you out before anyone can turn it into gossip. The rest of the night belongs only to the two of you.
Warnings: panic attack, overstimulation, anxiety, public event stress, protective and soft!Toto, grounding, crying, strong hugs, soft kisses, married life, comfort fluff, loving reassurance.
Word count: 2.1k
The event is supposed to be easy. Smile. Nod. Survive small talk. Don’t let anyone hand you another glass of something expensive and suspiciously warm.
Basic things.
You’ve done bigger events than this. Worse ones. Louder ones. More public and more exhausting. And yet tonight, for some reason, everything feels… off.
The ballroom is too bright. The music is not loud exactly, but it’s there, constant, pressing against the inside of your skull. The air feels too warm. The perfume in the room is too heavy. Too many voices. Too many people standing too close. Too many cameras flashing at the edge of your vision like tiny explosions.
You keep smiling anyway. Because that is what you do. Because you are Toto Wolff’s wife, and by now you have mastered the art of looking calm even when your feet hurt and your social battery died forty-five minutes ago.
A hand settles lightly at your lower back. Warm, familiar and steady.
Toto.
“You’re doing that smile,” he murmurs near your ear.
You glance up at him. “What smile?”
“The one that says you are being charming against your will.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitches. “That is my most elegant smile.”
“It is your help me before I commit a crime smile.”
You let out a tiny breath that almost becomes a laugh.
He looks infuriatingly good tonight. Immaculate, dark suit, composed expression, the kind of man who can discuss corporate strategy and make it sound vaguely threatening.
Unfair, really.
“I’m fine,” you say.
He studies your face for half a second longer than necessary. More than enough to let you know he’s noticed.
“Mm,” he says.
That is husband language for: I do not fully believe you, but I will allow you to continue your nonsense for now.
You squeeze his arm lightly. “Go. You were being hunted by three sponsors and one board member.”
He sighs dramatically. “And you send me back into battle. Cruel.”
“You’ll survive.”
He bends just enough to kiss your temple, quick and soft, before stepping away.
You watch him go. Which is your first mistake. Because once the warmth of him is gone, the room feels bigger. Colder. Wrong.
You try. You really do.
You talk to people. You smile. You nod. Someone says something about travel schedules and someone else laughs too loudly and a camera flashes from somewhere behind you and suddenly your heartbeat stutters. Then speeds up.
You swallow. Okay. That’s fine.
You just need a second. You shift your weight, trying to breathe normally, but your dress feels too tight around your ribs now. Your throat feels strange. Dry. Narrow.
A woman in front of you is still speaking. You can see her lips moving. You’re not hearing a single word.
Another flash. Another burst of laughter from somewhere to your left.
Your pulse jumps higher. Too fast. Too hard. Your fingers curl around your clutch.
Breathe.
You know this.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
Easy. Except it isn’t.
Because the room is getting smaller and bigger at the same time. Your skin feels too tight. The voices are blending together into one terrible wall of sound. Someone brushes past your bare arm and you nearly flinch out of your skin.
Your chest pulls tight.
No. Not here. Not now.
You blink quickly, trying to focus on one thing. One shape. One sound. One point in the room. But there are too many. Too much.
You inhale sharply, and it catches.
That’s when fear really hits. Because now you know. And knowing somehow makes it worse.
Across the room, Toto is halfway through a conversation he does not care about when he sees you.
At first it is nothing. Just the angle of your shoulders. Then the stillness. Then the way your hand grips that little bag like it has personally offended you.
His entire body goes alert. He doesn’t even hear what the man in front of him is saying anymore.
You’re staring ahead but not looking at anyone. Your breathing is wrong. Too shallow. Your face has gone pale in that specific way he knows means trouble.
“Excuse me,” he says abruptly.
And then he’s already moving. Fast. Purposefully. The kind of walk that makes people instinctively step aside.
By the time he reaches you, you’re visibly struggling now, blinking too quickly, chest rising in short, uneven breaths.
“Schatz.”
His voice is low. Calm.
You look at him, and the relief in your face breaks his heart a little.
“Toto,” you whisper, but it comes out thin. Strained.
He’s in front of you in an instant, blocking part of the room from view.
“Look at me.”
You try.
Your eyes shine immediately, panicked and frustrated and a little apologetic, which makes him want to start a fight with the entire event.
“I c-can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice stays steady. Firm. Gentle. “You’re with me. I’ve got you.”
One hand closes around yours. The other comes to your waist. Not drawing attention. Just anchoring.
“You’re having a panic attack,” he says quietly. “You are safe. I’m taking you out of here now.”
You nod, or maybe just move vaguely in a way that means yes. It is enough.
Toto turns slightly, his expression cooling into something sharp enough to keep the world back.
“Sorry,” he says to no one in particular and everyone at once. “My wife needs air.”
And that is the end of that. Nobody stops him. Nobody would dare.
He gets you out through a side corridor, away from the ballroom, away from the music, away from the lights and perfume and voices and all of it.
The moment the door closes behind you, the silence is almost shocking. Not total silence. Just… less. A quiet hallway. Soft lighting. Cool air.
You stumble a little in your heels and Toto catches you immediately, both hands on you now.
“Easy. Easy, I’ve got you, Schatz.”
Your breathing is still wrong. Too fast. Every attempt to slow it seems to fail on impact, which only makes panic flare harder.
“I can’t breathe—”
“Yes, you can.” He cups your face gently. “You’re breathing now. It just feels wrong. Look at me.”
You try.
His eyes lock onto yours. Brown. Steady. Familiar. Only him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, because he knows exactly what that does to you, how it cuts through noise and fear and sends something warm through your ribs. “That’s it. Stay with me.”
Tears spill before you can stop them. Embarrassing. Stupid.
You shake your head, frustrated. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I’m ruining—”
“No.” The word is immediate. Absolute. “You are not ruining anything.”
His thumb brushes beneath one eye, catching a tear.
“Breathe with me. Not fast. Follow me.”
He demonstrates. Slower than your body wants. Steadier than your panic allows.
You try to match him.
Fail.
Try again.
He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t tell you to calm down. Doesn’t give you a speech. He just stays. Hand on your cheek. Hand around yours. His body between you and the world.
“In,” he says softly.
You drag in a breath.
“Good. Again.”
Another. Not perfect, but better.
His forehead touches yours lightly.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
Your fingers clutch at his jacket, wrinkling expensive fabric. He does not care even a little.
After a minute — or ten, or fifty, time has become fake — you feel the worst of it begin to loosen. Not gone. Just not swallowing you whole anymore.
Your breathing still shakes on the way out. But it is breathing.
Your legs feel weak.
Toto notices instantly.
“Come here.”
Before you can protest, he guides you to a small bench tucked against the wall and sits beside you, then pulls you into him without hesitation.
Your face ends up pressed against his chest, one arm between you, his hand cradling the back of your head as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his shirt.
He lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale.
“For what?”
“For this.”
He leans back just enough to look down at you. “Absolutely not.”
Your eyes are still damp. Your cheeks are hot with leftover humiliation.
“Everyone’s going to notice.”
“Let them.”
You snort weakly. “That sounded very dramatic.”
“I am Austrian. It is my birthright.”
That earns a small laugh. A tiny one, but real.
His expression softens immediately, like you’ve handed him something precious.
“There she is,” he says.
You close your eyes again. “I feel ridiculous.”
“You look beautiful.”
“That was not the point.”
“It is still true.”
You make a little face against his chest. He kisses the top of your head. Then again. Then once more, because apparently he has decided your hair is his emotional support object tonight.
After a moment, he says quietly, “Do you want to go home?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Done.”
“What about the event?”
He gives a tiny shrug. “I no longer care about the event.”
You tilt your head back enough to look at him. “You were talking to very important people.”
“You are a very important person.”
The answer is so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that your throat tightens for an entirely different reason.
“Toto…”
He brushes his thumb over your cheek. “I meant what I said. Nothing there matters more than you.”
And really, that’s the problem with being married to this man. He says things like that in a tone usually reserved for discussing engine performance, and somehow that makes it worse.
Because he means every word.
*
The ride home is quiet. Not heavy, just soft.
His hand stays on your thigh the entire time, thumb moving back and forth absently, like he still needs contact to reassure himself you’re there.
At home, the second the front door closes behind you, Toto’s entire demeanor shifts from controlled public calm to full domestic husband mode.
“Shoes off,” he says gently.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Those things are instruments of war. Off.”
Despite everything, you smile.
You let him help you sit. He kneels in front of you, an absurdly elegant billionaire on the floor of your hallway, and carefully slips off your heels one by one like this is an entirely normal Thursday ritual.
“There,” he says. “Already less tragic.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“Yes. And yet you married me.”
He stands, takes your hand, and leads you toward the bedroom.
A few minutes later you are changed into one of his shirts, curled up beneath the duvet, hair loose, face scrubbed clean, the edges of the evening finally beginning to fade.
Toto appears with water, your favorite blanket, and the sort of focused expression that suggests he would also bring you the moon if properly asked.
He sets everything down, then climbs in beside you and opens his arms.
You go to him immediately. His arms close around you and stay there. One hand on your back. One tucked under your jaw.
His heartbeat is slow now. Steady.
You trace two fingers lightly over the front of his shirt.
“Sorry I scared you.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You did.”
You wince slightly. “That honest?”
“I am too tired to lie.”
You huff softly.
He tilts your chin up. His expression is tender now. Open in that rare, private way he keeps hidden from most of the world.
“But listen to me,” he says quietly. “You never have to apologize for needing me.”
Your eyes sting again, but this time it’s not panic. It’s him. It’s always him.
You whisper, “Okay.”
He kisses you. Soft and slow. Just love. Just home. Just I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I’ve got you, Schatz,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“Always.”
This time you actually smile. “Mr. Control,” you whisper.
He narrows his eyes slightly. “That nickname is getting out of hand.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it because you’re cute and fragile.”
You gasp softly. “Fragile?”
“Temporarily dramatic, then.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugs. “And yet accurate.”
You bury your face in his chest to hide your laugh, and he holds you tighter, clearly pleased with himself.
The room is dark and quiet now. No lights flashing. No music. No strangers. Just his arms around you. His lips in your hair. His hand rubbing slow, absent circles over your back until your breathing is easy again.
And when sleep starts pulling at you, you hear him murmur one last thing into the top of your head, “Next time you feel even a little off, you come find me immediately.”
You smile against him, already half-asleep. “Yes, boss.”
He sighs. Then kisses your forehead again. And keeps holding you like letting go was never an option in the first place.
i would love to see hella tension/teasing with Toto Wolff x engineer!reader, smth abt toto just screams teasing
Foreplay in PowerPoint
🐺 main masterlist | The Wolff’s Engineer — Universe
Toto Wolff x engineer!reader
Summary: A routine post-race debrief in Brackley takes a sharp detour into a full-blown flirt war when an unbearably pleased Toto decides teasing you in front of the team is apparently excellent leadership. You? Deeply irritated. Him? Thriving, because he knows exactly how to get under your skin. Everyone else? Quietly enjoying the show. Basically: foreplay, but corporate.
Warnings: fluff, humor, tension, teasing, banter, workplace romance, boss!Toto, engineer!reader, public flirting disguised as arguing, introvert!reader, soft possessive undertones.
Word count: 2.4k
The meeting room in Brackley is too warm. That is your first thought.
Your second is that somebody has made the projector too bright again, because the telemetry slide currently burning itself into the wall looks like it was designed by a sadist.
Your third thought, unfortunately, is Toto.
Because he is standing at the front of the room in a black quarter-zip, sleeves pushed up, one hand resting against the table, the other lazily tapping a pen against a stack of notes, and he looks entirely too composed for a man who, twenty minutes ago, stole a kiss in the corridor like he was making a point.
You are trying very hard not to look at him. You are failing in a dignified, engineering-adjacent way.
“China exposed a few issues in our response time on the second stop,” Toto says, clicking to the next slide, all business, calm and focused, the picture of a team principal who absolutely did not murmur you look pretty when you’re irritated into your ear before the meeting started.
You fold your arms tighter over your chest.
Across the table, someone clears their throat. No one says anything. Not because they are shy. Because everybody in this room has worked with you both long enough to understand there are only two possible modes when you and Toto are in the same space.
Efficient silence. Or verbal fencing.
Today, apparently, is fencing.
You glance down at the printed notes in front of you, then lift your hand just slightly.
“The issue wasn’t only response time,” you say, your voice even. “The predictive model overestimated degradation after lap thirty-one, which made the undercut window look stronger than it actually was. We were reacting to bad confidence data.”
Toto turns his head toward you. Just slightly.
And there it is. That look. Interested. Sharp. Mildly amused. Dangerous.
“Yes,” he says, “but we were reacting to bad confidence data too slowly.”
You lift an eyebrow. “Because the updated correction came in late.”
“It came in late,” he agrees.
“From strategy.”
A pause.
Somewhere to your left, one of the engineers suddenly becomes very fascinated by his water bottle.
Toto’s mouth twitches.
“Are you suggesting,” he asks smoothly, “that strategy made a mistake?”
You look at him over the rim of your glasses.
“I’m suggesting,” you reply, “that data should not be expected to perform miracles after other departments have already made emotionally driven decisions.”
There is a very visible effort in the room not to react. Someone coughs. Someone else looks down like the table has become spiritually important.
Toto slowly nods.
“Emotionally driven,” he repeats. “Interesting choice of words.”
“It felt accurate.”
“Mm.”
You already know that sound. You hate that sound.
That sound means he is enjoying this. Which is annoying. Mostly because he is.
He sets the pen down and leans back slightly against the edge of the table, crossing his arms.
“You’re very brave today.”
You blink once. Then again.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all cool precision, “was that not the environment we’re cultivating? Honest feedback, accountability, continuous improvement?”
A few people around the table suddenly find the ceiling riveting.
Toto, the traitor, looks like he may actually laugh.
“No, no,” he says. “Please. Continue. I’m fascinated.”
You narrow your eyes. And that, apparently, is the exact response he wants.
Because his expression softens into something far too pleased for a professional setting, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long, and now there is a shift in the room, subtle but unmistakable, the kind that happens when everyone collectively realizes the meeting is no longer entirely about race operations.
You sit up straighter.
“This slide is still misleading,” you say, pointing toward the screen. “The delta is averaged too broadly. It hides the instability in sector three.”
Toto glances at the screen. Then back at you. “I know.”
You pause.
“…you know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is it up there?”
He shrugs, casual as sin. “I wanted to see if you’d notice.”
The room goes silent. Your jaw tightens.
He did not... he absolutely did not...
“You put up a flawed slide,” you say slowly, “just to test me?”
“No,” he says, that smile now threatening around the edges. “To annoy you.”
A beat. Then, against all your better instincts, several people in the room laugh.
You turn to stare at him in disbelief.
He has the audacity to look delighted.
“You are impossible,” you mutter.
“And yet,” he says, not even pretending to lower his voice enough, “you’re still in love with me.”
This time the laughter is impossible to suppress.
You close your eyes for one long second. Because this is your life now.
You, who love order and data and clean models and problems that can be solved with enough intelligence and caffeine, are in a relationship with an almost two meters Austrian menace who enjoys poking you in public because he likes the way you look when you’re trying not to smile.
You open your eyes again and fix him with your calmest expression.
“That is not relevant to the Japan package.”
“Everything is relevant if you think hard enough.”
“Oh my God.”
The man from performance engineering at the far end of the table mutters, “This is better than Netflix.”
You hear it. Toto definitely hears it.
And neither of you acknowledge it, because some things are better left to team folklore.
You turn back to the screen and take a measured breath.
“The point,” you say, reclaiming the room with the practiced tone of someone who has had to do this often, “is that if we want cleaner decision-making in Suzuka, we need a narrower variance band in the live model, or the race wall will keep chasing ghosts.”
Toto watches you for a moment. And just when you think he might, for once, let you have the last word...
He smiles. Soft. Slow. Terrible.
“Good,” he says. “That’s why you’re coming with us.”
You freeze. A very small silence opens in your chest.
You had not known that. Or rather, there had been rumors, casual mentions, half-finished logistics talk, but nobody had actually confirmed it.
You look up from your notes.
“What?”
Toto glances down at the papers in front of him as if he hasn’t just detonated a small device in the center of your nervous system.
“Suzuka,” he says, maddeningly calm. “You’re on the traveling roster. We finalized it this morning.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“In a meeting.”
“Yes.”
You stare at him.
He stares right back, perfectly relaxed.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I chose to hear it as one.”
A soft laugh moves around the room, but you barely register it, because your mind has already split into seventeen directions at once — travel logistics, workload, simulations, garage schedule, media risk, the fact that the paddock is still not always kind, the fact that some people still look at you and see his girlfriend before they see your work.
Maybe he sees part of it on your face. Maybe he always does.
Because his expression changes, only slightly, the teasing softening at the edges.
“We’ll talk after,” he says, quieter now.
And that should help. It should. Instead it makes your heart trip over itself in a thoroughly unhelpful way.
You straighten in your seat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes.
The meeting continues.
Or at least, technically, a meeting continues.
People speak. Slides change. Someone brings up brake cooling. Someone else mentions updated simulator correlation. You contribute when necessary, sharp and clear and entirely competent, which you always are, and yet through all of it there is a line stretched between you and Toto, invisible but very much alive, every glance another tug on it.
And he knows. Oh, he knows. The bastard.
At one point, while another department lead is speaking, you glance up and catch him already watching you. Not professionally. Not accidentally.
Watching you with that lazy, knowing look that says he has identified precisely how flustered you are and intends to enjoy every second of it.
You mouth, very distinctly, stop that.
His eyebrows lift. Then, slowly, he tilts his head and mouths back, what?
You want to throw a pen at him. Violently. Romantically. Both.
By the time the meeting ends, your patience is hanging on by a single very overworked thread.
Chairs scrape back. Papers gather. Conversations restart. The room begins to dissolve into smaller groups, but you stay seated for a moment longer, organizing your notes because unlike some people, you believe in structure and dignity and not causing emotional property damage before lunch.
You are halfway through stacking the pages when a shadow falls over the table.
You do not look up immediately.
“This was deliberate,” you say.
“Most of my best work is.”
You close your folder with careful precision and finally lift your eyes to him.
He is standing close enough now that nobody would mistake the nature of this conversation, but far enough to remain technically respectable, which is unfortunately exactly the sort of thing Toto excels at when he wants to.
“You told me in front of everyone.”
“Yes.”
“You teased me for half an hour.”
“A little more than half an hour.”
“You are insufferable.”
He smiles.
“You like when I pay attention to you.”
You open your mouth, ready with a cutting response, but he steps closer, just enough for his voice to drop.
“And,” he adds, “you were brilliant.”
You pause.
That is the problem with him. That just when you are ready to be properly annoyed, he says something real.
Your expression shifts despite yourself.
“Toto…”
“No.” He shakes his head once, gentler now. “I mean it. You were right about the model. And you were right to push back.”
You exhale slowly.
The edge in your shoulders loosens, just a little.
“I don’t want them thinking I’m there because of you,” you say quietly, because there is no point pretending with him. “I know what people say. I know how it sounds when someone calls me the boss’s girlfriend like that’s the most important thing about me.”
Something flares in his face then, not anger at you, never that, but a sharper, older irritation at the world in general.
“They know exactly why you’re here,” he says. “Because you’re excellent. Because you see things other people miss. Because you’ve earned it.”
You hold his gaze.
He steps even closer.
“And yes,” he says, lower now, “you are also my girlfriend. That is not the reason. That is the privilege.”
Oh. Well. That was rude, actually.
Rude of him to say something like that in the middle of Brackley and expect your heart not to collapse into a dramatic little heap.
You look down for a second, because annoyingly, you can feel yourself warming.
When you look back up, he is watching you with infuriating fondness.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
“There who is?”
“The one who blushes when I say exactly what I mean.”
“I do not blush.”
“You absolutely blush.”
“I’m irritated.”
He leans down slightly, close enough that if anyone walked back in, they would get an eyeful.
“Liebling,” he says, voice velvet-soft, “you’ve been irritated for months. This is different.”
You hate how right he is. You hate even more that he knows it.
Your chin lifts. “You enjoyed that far too much.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m always honest with you.”
“That is factually untrue. Ten minutes ago you pretended that cursed slide was about strategy.”
He laughs then, low and warm, and the sound does terrible things to your ability to remain severe.
“You should see your face when you’re offended on behalf of data.”
“You are flirting with me in the meeting room.”
“Yes.”
“Shamelessly.”
“Yes.”
“In front of your staff.”
“Our staff.”
You blink.
He smiles wider.
God, impossible man.
Then he reaches past you, taking the folder gently from your hands and setting it aside, his fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary.
“Come with me to Suzuka,” he says quietly.
You stare at him.
“That is not the persuasive line you think it is. I am already assigned.”
He leans in.
“Then let me rephrase.”
His mouth hovers close to your ear, not touching, just enough to make every thought in your head stumble.
“Come to Suzuka,” he murmurs, “and try not to argue with me in front of the whole team unless you want me distracted for the rest of the day.”
Your breath catches. You turn your head sharply.
He is already pulling back, looking unbearably pleased with himself.
“Toto.”
“Yes?”
“That was manipulative.”
“A little.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A lot.”
You stare at him for one long moment, then stand, gathering what remains of your dignity around you like a lab coat.
“Well,” you say coolly, “that sounds like a you problem.”
And you step around him.
Or at least, you try to. Because his hand catches lightly at your wrist, stopping you just for a second.
Not enough to trap. Only enough to keep you there.
When you look back, his expression is softer again.
More private. More him.
“For the record,” he says quietly, “I wanted us public because I love you. The jealousy was just an additional motivation.”
You laugh. You actually laugh.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The honesty.”
He lifts your hand and brushes his knuckles against it, a touch so small it almost hurts.
“I do love you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Even when you attack my slides.”
“They deserved it.”
“They did.”
You smile then, finally, unable not to.
And his face changes like he has won something. Which, judging by the look in his eyes, he fully believes he has.
“You’re impossible,” you say again.
“And you,” he replies, letting your wrist go at last, “are coming to Japan with me.”
You tilt your head. “For work.”
“Of course.”
A beat. Then his mouth curves.
“And for the deeply important cultural experience of watching your boyfriend suffer when you wear that fitted black team polo.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious.
Or pretending to be.
Which is worse.
“You are a menace.”
“Yes,” he says lightly, stepping back toward the door, “but I’m your menace.”
And the truly irritating part, the part that will haunt you for the rest of the afternoon, probably into next week, is that he says it, then walks away, leaving you standing there in the empty meeting room with a racing heart, a betrayed nervous system, and the deeply unfair knowledge that by the time Suzuka arrives, you are absolutely going to let him get away with it again.
Summary: After a brutal Abu Dhabi night and a “strictly no phones” team party, you wake up expecting a quiet morning, maybe a hungover Toto, maybe some coffee. What you do not expect is to discover that your nearly fifty-year-old, deeply serious, very expensive boyfriend has apparently spent the night crowdsurfing through Mercedes like a frat boy with a champagne problem.
Warnings: drunk!Toto, hangover!Toto, lots of banter, domestic chaos, PR nightmare, social media chaos, secondhand embarrassment, soft relationship vibes, teasing, post-21season emotional crash, fluff.
Word count: 2.6k
a/n: Well… this one-shot idea has been bouncing around in my head for months 😁 What could Toto’s morning after that infamous party, and the video leak, have looked like? 💀🤣
You wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating itself into a nervous breakdown on the bedside table.
At first, you groan and bury your face deeper into the pillow.
Then it keeps buzzing... and buzzing... and buzzing.
Something beside you makes a pained noise.
“…make it stop,” Toto mutters into the pillow, voice rough with sleep and regret.
You blink slowly into the dim hotel room in Abu Dhabi, your head a little heavy but nowhere near terrible. Mostly because, unlike the giant Austrian currently dying next to you, you had left the team party early with a headache and enough common sense to drink water before bed.
You roll over and squint at him.
He is face-down, one arm hanging off the bed, hair a mess, sheet twisted around his waist, and somehow radiating the exact energy of a man who has personally fought the concept of alcohol and lost.
Ah. Hangover. Beautiful.
You try not to smile. Fail instantly.
Last night had been… complicated.
The race had been brutal. Lewis losing the title on the final lap had left the entire garage somewhere between stunned, furious, and emotionally deceased. The constructors’ championship should have felt like a victory, and in some ways it did, but it had also been one of those nights where celebration came wrapped in grief and adrenaline and far too much alcohol.
There had been the private end-of-season team party afterward, the kind with strict rules.
No phones. No leaks. No nonsense. A sacred Mercedes ritual.
You had kissed Toto on the cheek before leaving, told him to behave, and given him a pointed look after seeing how much he was already drinking.
He had smiled, kissed your forehead, and said, “Schatz, please. I am a grown man.”
Which, in hindsight, should have worried you more.
You reach for your phone and squint at the screen.
Twenty-three unread messages. Eight from PR. Four from Bradley. Three from someone saved in your contacts only as Do Not Let Him Near A Microphone.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Beside you, Toto groans again and drags a pillow over his head. “Why is the room so loud?”
“The room is not loud,” you say, sitting up carefully. “Your poor decisions are loud.”
“I made none.”
“You were drinking tequila.”
A pause.
Then, from beneath the pillow, “That does not sound like me.”
You snort and stand, grabbing your phone. Before leaving the bedroom, you glance back, spot the water on his bedside table, the aspirin beside it, and feel a small wave of domestic satisfaction.
Excellent. The idiot has supplies.
You pad into the suite’s little kitchen, start the coffee machine, and finally unlock your phone.
The first message from PR reads:
Call me the second you’re awake. It’s bad.
The second:
Please tell me you’re with him.
The third:
Before he sees anything online, we need a plan.
Oh, this is already delicious.
You open the latest message. It contains one short video. No caption. No explanation. Just a file sent with the digital equivalent of a thousand-yard stare.
You tap play. And nearly drop your phone into the coffee machine.
The video opens to chaos. Not mild chaos. Not classy, expensive end-of-season celebration chaos.
No.
This is full, unfiltered, someone has absolutely lost control of the adults chaos.
Music is blasting in the background. People are shouting, singing, laughing. The room is full of Mercedes team members in various stages of emotional release after one of the most exhausting seasons of their lives.
And in the middle of it — Toto. Drunk as hell.
Your nearly fifty-year-old, usually composed, terrifyingly competent boyfriend is in the center of the room.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Onscreen, Toto is singing. Loudly. Not well. With conviction usually reserved for legal disputes and championship appeals.
Then it gets worse.
He starts dancing. Not elegant dancing. Not subtle dancing. Not “slightly loose after a few drinks” dancing.
No.
He is dancing like a finance bro at a wedding and a university student on his third vodka Red Bull merged into one deeply athletic disaster.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
And then...
“No,” you whisper, already laughing. “No. No, no, no—”
Because suddenly the video shifts and there he is, being lifted.
Actually lifted.
Your giant boyfriend is horizontal above a crowd of screaming team members, lying on his back with his arms spread wide like the patron saint of bad decisions, while at least eight people attempt to crowd-surf a two-meter Austrian through the middle of a closed Mercedes event.
Someone in the background is chanting his name. Someone else is crying with laughter.
Toto, meanwhile, looks like he is having the spiritual experience of a lifetime.
Then a bottle of champagne appears.
And before you can even process that, someone absolutely drenches him with it.
He disappears in a sparkling wave of alcohol, comes back soaked, shirt clinging to him, hair wet, laughing like a man who has never known sorrow in his entire life.
Then the video cuts.
You stare at the screen. The coffee machine hums quietly. Your phone vibrates again and again and again.
You open TikTok.
Bad idea. Very bad idea. Because somehow — somehow, the video is already everywhere.
One clip. Three clips. A slow-motion edit. A version with dramatic cinematic music. A version zoomed in on Toto being launched into the air with the caption: when your boss says “good job team” and means it with his whole body.
You put your coffee cup down before you spill it. Then you make the catastrophic decision to open the comments.
I need Mercedes to stop pretending they’re a serious organization immediately
HE’S CROWD SURFING LIKE A DIVORCED EUROPEAN ROCKSTAR
This man spends all year looking like he could fire me with one eyebrow and now he’s being marinated in champagne
Lewis lost the title but Toto lost his dignity
No because why is this the hottest and funniest thing I’ve seen today
PR team found dead in a ditch
This is not a team principal this is a frat president with a budget
I just know HR is screaming in German
You laugh so hard you actually have to lean against the counter.
A message from Bradley pops up.
Please tell me he hasn’t seen it yet.
You type back:
He is currently half-dead and blaming the room for being loud.
Bradley replies instantly.
Good. Keep him that way for ten more minutes while we assess.
You are still wiping tears from your eyes when you hear a tragic groan from the bedroom. Then a thud.
Then, “Schatz?”
You bite your lip hard enough to hurt. “Yes?”
“Am I dying?”
You pick up your coffee and wander back toward the bedroom with all the composure of a woman about to witness the downfall of a dynasty.
He is sitting up now, barely. And “sitting” is generous.
He is slumped against the headboard with the expression of a man who has discovered suffering on a molecular level. His hair is even worse. His eyes are narrowed against the light. He has the water in one hand.
“Morning,” you say sweetly.
He squints at you suspiciously. “Why do you sound happy?”
“No reason.”
That immediately alarms him. His voice goes hoarse with dread. “What happened?”
You sit at the edge of the bed and take a very calm sip of coffee. “Toto.”
“Yes?”
“How much do you remember from last night?”
He thinks about it.
“I remember the party.” He winces. “The music was very loud.”
“Mhm.”
“I remember George trying to convince someone he could outdance an Italian.”
“Also true.”
“I remember someone bringing shots.”
You raise a brow.
He looks briefly offended. “I did not ask for them.”
“That does not surprise me.”
He frowns harder, dragging a hand over his face. “Then I remember… singing?”
You do not answer.
His eyes narrow. “Why are you not answering?”
“I’m enjoying the process.”
He goes very still. “What process?”
“The one where you slowly realize your life is about to become much more difficult.”
Now he looks genuinely awake. Not healthy. Not stable. But awake.
“What did I do?”
You hold up your phone.
He stares at it like it might be a weapon.
“…why are you holding it like that?”
“Because,” you say, voice trembling with barely contained laughter, “Mercedes PR is currently on fire.”
A beat. Then another. “No.”
“Yes.”
His face drains. “No.”
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes. “Tell me I did not say anything to the press.”
“Oh, Liebling.” You pat his knee. “You would have needed to remain vertical long enough for that.”
His eyes snap open. “What does that mean?”
You show him the video.
There is silence. Complete silence. The kind that usually follows a major accident or a truly catastrophic legal discovery.
Onscreen, Drunk Toto reappears in all his glory, singing into a champagne bottle like it is a microphone sent from heaven.
Present-day Toto watches himself in absolute horror.
Then comes the crowd-surfing.
His expression changes in stages. Confusion. Recognition. Shock. Offense. Spiritual evacuation.
“Oh my God,” he says faintly.
You are no help whatsoever.
By the time the champagne shower happens, you are laughing so hard you are physically bent over.
He watches the screen in complete silence.
Then the video ends.
He keeps staring at the black screen.
Finally, with the hollow voice of a man seeing the ruins of his own empire, he says, “I was… crowd surfing.”
“Yes.”
“I am forty-nine years old.”
“Yes.”
“I run a Formula One team.”
“Allegedly.”
He turns to look at you with betrayal in his eyes. “Why are you like this in my hour of need?”
You gasp. “Your hour of need? Toto, you are trending.”
“That is not a good sentence.”
“It is for me.”
He rubs both hands over his face. “Tell me it’s not widespread.”
You open TikTok and hand him the screen.
He reads one caption. Then another. Then one comment.
Then closes his eyes again like the human body should not have been made to endure this kind of humiliation.
“Oh, excellent,” he mutters. “The whole world has seen me become a wet Austrian trampoline.”
You lose it completely. A proper, helpless laugh tears out of you, and now even he cannot help it — he glares, but his mouth twitches.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just—” You snort. “You looked so happy.”
“That does not help.”
“It helps me.”
He points weakly at you. “You kissed me goodbye and told me to behave.”
“I did.”
“And I clearly failed you.”
“Oh, catastrophically.”
He slumps further down into the pillows. “I should retire.”
“You absolutely should not retire over this.”
“I crowd-surfed.”
“You were well-supported.”
“I had champagne poured on me like a nightclub mascot.”
“That part, I admit, was art.”
He stares at the ceiling. “Lewis lost a championship and I apparently responded by becoming a freshman.”
You hum thoughtfully. “A very tall, expensive freshman.”
His phone starts vibrating on the table beside him.
He looks at it like it is a bomb. “Who is it?”
You glance over.
“Bradley.”
He makes a pained sound. “I cannot speak to Bradley like this.”
“You say that as if he hasn’t already seen you soaked in alcohol while horizontal.”
He presses a hand over his eyes. “Kill me.”
“Not before I read you more comments.”
His hand drops immediately. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I forbid it.”
“You are on a hangover probation. You forbid nothing.”
Before he can protest further, you clear your throat dramatically and begin.
“Comment one: ‘This is not a team principal, this is a European frat leader with trauma and a tailoring budget.’”
He looks offended. “That is wildly inaccurate.”
“Comment two: ‘I just know the PR intern started levitating.’”
He groans.
“Comment three: ‘Why is drunk Toto Wolff somehow exactly what I needed today?’”
His face does something infuriatingly smug despite the pain. “You see? The people love me.”
You smack his thigh lightly. “Do not become arrogant in the middle of your public collapse.”
He winces. “Please do not hit the victim.”
“You are not the victim. Mercedes communications is the victim.”
Right on cue, your phone rings.
Bradley.
You answer on speaker.
His voice is tense, clipped, and carrying the kind of exhausted panic only motorsport PR can produce. “Please tell me he’s alive.”
Toto clears his throat weakly. “Unfortunately.”
Bradley exhales. “Toto.”
“Bradley.”
A pause.
Then Bradley says, with devastating professionalism, “I’m going to ask this once. Do you recall who filmed it?”
Toto looks personally insulted. “Do you think I recall my own name?”
You choke on a laugh.
Bradley ignores you both and continues. “The clip is everywhere. TikTok, Instagram, Twitter, group chats I did not know existed. We are trying to contain it.”
“Contain it?” you repeat, grinning. “Bradley, I’ve seen three edits already. One has cinematic color grading.”
From the speaker comes the faint sound of a man reconsidering all his life choices.
Toto rubs his temple. “What is the official concern?”
Bradley takes a breath. “Officially? Brand image. Unofficially? You are crowd surfing while screaming the chorus of an ABBA song absolutely drenched in champagne.”
You freeze.
Very slowly, you turn to Toto.
“ABBA?”
He looks at the wall. “I have no defense.”
You laugh so violently you nearly slide off the bed.
“Toto!”
“It was a difficult season!”
“That is not a legal argument!”
Bradley, clearly done with both of you, says, “Please do not let him post anything. Please do not let him respond to comments. Please especially do not let him apologize on LinkedIn again.”
Then he hangs up. The room is silent.
You wipe your eyes.
Toto stares into the middle distance.
“…what did I apologize for on LinkedIn?”
You grin wickedly. “Oh, Liebling. That’s a different story.”
He looks at you then, and despite the misery, despite the hangover, despite the social media wildfire currently burning through the internet, his mouth softens.
“Why do you look so delighted by this?”
You smile and set your coffee aside, then lean over and kiss his forehead.
“Because,” you say gently, “you spend most of your life carrying the whole world on your shoulders and being terrifyingly competent.”
“That sounds handsome.”
“It is. But this?” You hold up the phone with the video paused on him mid-air over a crowd of screaming employees. “This is deeply embarrassing.”
He sighs. “Thank you.”
“And weirdly adorable.”
That gets a tiny laugh out of him.
“And,” you add, softer now, climbing back beside him, “I’m glad you had one night where you just… let go.”
His expression shifts. The tension leaves him a little.
He leans his head against your shoulder like a man who has been through war, scandal, and eight tequila shots.
“I still hate that it leaked.”
“I know.”
“I am never drinking again.”
You raise a brow. “That is a lie.”
He thinks about it. “I am never drinking that much again.”
“Better.”
He slides an arm around your waist and presses his face against your neck with a groan. “If one of the drivers references this, I will fire everyone.”
“You cannot fire everyone.”
“I can make their lives very bureaucratic.”
You laugh and run your fingers through his hair.
His voice comes out muffled. “Are you very disappointed in me?”
You smile into his temple. “A little.”
He sighs.
“But,” you add, “I’m also never letting you live this down.”
He makes a weak, tragic sound. Then, after a beat: “Did I at least look athletic?”
You pull the phone back up, rewatch two seconds of him being launched over the crowd like a large, expensive missile, and grin.
“Baby,” you say, already laughing again, “you looked like a champagne-sponsored Viking.”
The duality of man is thinking “children cannot help themselves and we all need to be patient with them as they explore what it means to be human in public” and also “damn, I wish this crying baby was not on the plane rn :/“
Just as courage is not the absence of fear but doing the brave thing in spite of it, patience is not the absence of irritation but doing the kind thing in spite of it.
"What if my friends secretly hate me?"
What if they pray for you before bed? What if they hear a song come on and it makes them immediately think of you? What if when times are hard for them, they close their eyes and think of the memories they've shared with you? What if they study your face closely to see how you're feeling? What if they listen to your stories? What if they smile when you text them first? What if
Hey first of all I wanted to tell you that I love your writing.
And I wanted to ask you if you’re taking request, if you can write something, fluff, angsty were wife reader get involved into a car accident and toto get to know it way later during the day because of work/ meeting… Or anything like that, you can turn it as you want. I’m sure it will be goodly written with your talent :)
Thank you Anon! The request waited two months, but here it is!
Nothing Else Matters
🐺 main masterlist
Toto Wolff x wife!reader
Summary: A normal workday turns into a nightmare when Toto finds out that you were in a car accident. By the time he reaches you at the hospital, he’s already imagined every possible outcome. You? You’re mostly fine. Him? Not even a little.
Warnings: angst, fear of losing you, hospital setting, protective!Toto, emotional vulnerability, soft comfort, strong hugs, forehead kisses, married couple dynamic, “I almost lost you” energy, fluff.
Word count: 1.7k
It’s supposed to be a normal day. Which, in your life, means slightly chaotic, mildly exhausting, and filled with messages from your husband that range from “Did you eat?” to “Don’t forget the jacket, it’s cold” to “Also I love you, in case you forgot.”
You didn’t forget. You never do.
The accident itself is… stupid. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. No slow motion, no heroic soundtrack.
Just a distracted driver, a split second too late on the brakes, and the sharp, violent jolt that snaps your body forward before the world goes still again.
For a moment, there’s silence. Then, “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
You blink. Your hands tremble slightly on the steering wheel. Your heart is racing too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to escape your chest.
“I… yeah. I think so.”
And you do. Mostly. A bit shaken. A headache blooming slowly behind your eyes. Your neck stiff. But you’re conscious, breathing, moving. And most important, alive.
By the time you’re in the hospital, it all feels… oddly distant.
You text Toto.
Hi Schatz! Had a small accident. I’m okay. Now at the hospital just to check. Don’t worry. Love you!
You hesitate before sending it. Then you press send anyway.
You know him. If he sees accident without context, he’ll lose his mind. But if he doesn’t see it at all and finds out later... he’ll lose his mind worse.
So you send it. And then, nothing. No reply.
You frown slightly, staring at your phone.
“Probably in a meeting,” you murmur to yourself.
Of course he is. Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team doesn’t exactly run itself.
Brackley | Conference room
A long table. Screens lit up with data. Engineers talking. Numbers, strategies, projections.
And at the head of the table — Toto. Focused. Sharp. Controlled.
“—we need to consider the long-run degradation, otherwise Miami—”
His phone vibrates. Once. Twice.
He ignores it. He always ignores it during meetings.
Until George glances at him. “Toto, your phone has been buzzing for a while.”
“I’ll check it later.”
Another vibration. This time… longer. Something about it feels off.
Toto exhales quietly, already slightly irritated, and reaches for his phone. Unlocks it. Reads. And everything... stops.
*
You’re sitting on the hospital bed, swinging your legs slightly, trying to ignore the dull ache in your neck.
A nurse just left. You’re waiting for the doctor.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. You repeat it in your head like a mantra.
Your phone suddenly lights up. Toto calling.
You blink. “Well, that was fast.”
You answer. “Hey—”
“Are you hurt?”
No hello. No softness. Just, that voice. Low and tight. Controlled in a way that means he’s anything but.
“I’m okay,” you say quickly. “Really, it was minor, I just—”
“Which hospital?”
“Toto—”
“Which hospital?”
You sigh softly, giving him the name.
There’s a pause. A breath. Then he says, “I’m coming, Liebling.”
The line goes dead.
*
Back in Brackley, the meeting is very much still happening. Or it was. Until Toto stands up so abruptly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “We’re done.”
Everyone freezes.
“Meeting’s over,” he repeats, already grabbing his jacket.
“Toto, we still need to—” Bradley starts.
“No. We don’t.”
His tone leaves no room for argument.
George watches him carefully. “Everything okay?”
Toto doesn’t even look at him. “No.”
And then he’s gone.
The drive feels like torture. Every red light is too long. Every car too slow. Every second... unbearable.
Your message replays in his head over and over. Small accident. I’m okay.
He knows you. You downplay things. You always do. And the fact that he didn’t see it immediately, that he was sitting in a meeting, talking about tire degradation while you were... His grip tightens on the steering wheel.
His jaw clenches. Stupid. You should’ve checked your phone. You should’ve known.
By the time he pulls into the hospital parking lot, his heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might crack his ribs.
*
You don’t expect him this fast. So when the door to your room opens, and there he is, you freeze. He looks, not angry. Not exactly. Worse. Pale. Tense. Eyes scanning you like he’s trying to confirm something his brain refuses to trust.
“Toto…”
You barely get his name out before he’s crossing the room. Fast. Too fast.
His hands are on your face, your shoulders, your arms — checking, searching, grounding himself in the fact that you’re actually there.
“Liebling, you’re okay?” he asks, voice low and rough.
“I told you, I’m fine—”
“Doctor.”
You blink. “What?”
“I want to speak to the doctor.”
“Toto—”
“Now.”
There’s no edge of anger in his voice. Just fear. Raw. Unfiltered. Barely contained. And suddenly you don’t argue.
*
The doctor is calm, professional and reassuring, “No serious injuries, Mr Wolff. Mild whiplash, some bruising, but nothing concerning. We’ll keep your wife for observation for a bit, but she’s going to be fine.”
Toto listens. But he doesn’t relax. Not yet.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
The doctor nods. “Yes.”
“Nothing internal?”
“No.”
“No delayed complications?”
“Very unlikely.”
A pause. Then, “Okay.”
When the doctor leaves, the room is quiet. You’re sitting on the bed. Toto is standing in front of you. Still. Too still.
You tilt your head slightly. “See? I told you—”
And then, he pulls you into his arms. Hard. Not careful, not measured. Just desperate.
Your breath catches slightly as his arms wrap around you, one hand pressing against the back of your head, holding you close against his chest. Like if he lets go, you might disappear.
“Toto—”
“I didn’t know.” His voice is muffled against your hair. “I didn’t see your message. I was in that meeting and I didn’t—”
You soften immediately, your arms slipping around his waist. “It’s okay—”
“No.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes, God. You’ve never seen them like this.
“I was driving here thinking—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Every scenario. Every possible—” He stops. Can’t even say it.
Your chest tightens. “Toto…”
“I thought I lost you.”
The words are quiet, but they hit like a punch.
You reach up, cupping his cheek gently. “You didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his skin.
“But for those twenty minutes—” A breath. Heavy and unsteady. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
And this is a man who has seen crashes. Real ones. High-speed. Life-threatening. And still, this? This shook him more.
You swallow softly. “I’m really okay,” you say, quieter now. “Just a bit sore. Nothing serious.”
He studies your face like he’s memorizing it. Like he needs proof.
Then he leans down, presses his forehead against yours. Closes his eyes. Breathes.
“Don’t do that again.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “I didn’t exactly plan it—”
“I don’t care.”
His thumb brushes lightly over your cheek. “Just… don’t.”
You smile faintly, softer this time. “I’ll try my best.”
He exhales, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Good.”
You stay like that for a moment. Forehead to forehead. Breathing the same air.
Your fingers absentmindedly trace along his sleeve, grounding him just as much as he grounds you.
After a while, you murmur, teasing lightly, “You left your meeting, didn’t you?”
A pause.
“…yes.”
“Mid-sentence?”
“…yes.”
You grin faintly. “You, Mr. Control?”
He opens one eye, giving you a look. “You were in a hospital.”
“So?”
“So,” he says simply, “nothing else matters.”
And there it is. That soft, dangerous thing he does, where he says something that sounds casual but lands straight in your chest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Your engineers are going to be terrified.”
“They’ll survive.”
“And if they don’t?”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping just a little, “I’ll hire new ones.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Of course you will.”
*
Later, when the room quiets again and the evening light starts to fade, you feel his fingers intertwine with yours. Still holding. Still there. Still not quite ready to let go.
You glance at him. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
He looks at you. Then leans in, presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I know.”
His hand tightens around yours just slightly. “But I’ll still check.”
You huff softly, shaking your head a little, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Of course you will,” you murmur. “Mr. Control.”
His lips twitch. “That’s not funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“It’s not,” he repeats, but there’s no bite in it anymore, only that quiet warmth, that softness he only ever lets you see.
You shift slightly on the bed, wincing just a little, and immediately his attention snaps back to you.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, already closer.
“A bit,” you admit.
His hand is on your cheek again, gentler this time. Careful. Like you’re something fragile he refuses to break.
“Then lie down,” he says quietly. “Come here, Liebling.”
You don’t argue. You slide down onto the pillow, and a second later he’s right there, sitting close, one arm wrapping around you, pulling you carefully against his side.
Your head rests against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat. Still a little too fast.
“You’re shaking,” you whisper.
He exhales slowly, his chin resting on top of your head. “I know.”
His fingers move absentmindedly along your arm, grounding himself, grounding you.
“I don’t like this,” he adds, quieter. “Not knowing. Not being there.”
You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. “You’re here now.”
His gaze softens instantly. “Yes,” he murmurs. “I am.”
You study him for a second, the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his hand hasn’t left you once. Then you smile faintly, “Hey.”
He hums softly. “Hm?”
“I’m okay.”
He looks at you. And this time, he believes it. You see it in the way his shoulders finally drop just a little. In the way his thumb brushes your cheek instead of gripping your arm.
In the way he leans down, and kisses you. Slow, soft and careful. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again, breath warm, steady now.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
You smile, eyes closing for a second. “I know.” A beat. Then you add softer, “I love you too.”
His arm tightens around you just a little more, pulling you closer, like he still needs to feel you there. And this time, he finally relaxes, holding you completely in his arms.
Summary: You belong to the world above — light, warmth, careless laughter. And yet, somehow, you chose him. The King of the Underworld. The man everyone fears… except you. Now the gods are watching, waiting, whispering — and Hades is ready to burn Olympus itself before he lets them take you away.
Warnings: 18+, Greek mythology AU, Hades!Toto x Persephone!reader, age gap, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, creampie, praise kink, body worship, established relationship, protective/possessive Toto (but soft for you), flashbacks, slow-burn love, light power imbalance, angst, intimacy, devotion, I will destroy the world for you energy.
Music theme: Take Me to Church – Hozier
Word count: 10.4k
a/n: this is based on this request. let me know what you think!
Crowned by The Dark
Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life
If I'm a pagan of the good times
My lover is the sunlight
To keep the Goddess on my side
She demands a sacrifice
Take Me to Church – Hozier
The Underworld doesn’t feel like death. Not really. That’s the first thing you notice every time you return.
It’s quieter, yes. Heavier. The air clings to your skin like a secret, like something sacred. Shadows stretch long and soft across black marble halls, lit by flickering torches that never quite burn out. But it’s not cold. Not where he is.
You step into the throne room without announcement, because you don’t need one. You never did.
He already knows you’re there.
“You’re late.” His voice is calm and masured. Deep enough to echo through stone and bone alike.
You lean against one of the pillars, arms crossed loosely, “You sound like you’ve been counting the minutes.”
“I have.”
A beat and then, finally, he turns to you. And there he is.
The King of the Underworld.
Hades.
Your divine husband.
Dressed in black, as always — not for show, not for symbolism. It simply belongs to him. Shadows cling to him like loyal servants, wrapping around broad shoulders, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His dark eyes find you instantly. And soften, just slightly. Only for you.
You smile to him. “There it is,” you murmur. “I was starting to think you forgot how.”
His lips twitch. “I remember selectively.”
You push off the pillar and walk toward him, slow, unhurried, the way mortals never dare to approach him. But you’re not a mortal. Not anymore, not really.
“Bad day?” you ask.
He watches you like you’re the only real thing in a world made of ghosts. “Define bad.”
You hum, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Did anyone try to overthrow you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone insult you?”
“Yes.”
“And are they still alive?”
A pause.
“…define alive.” he says.
You grin. “Ah. So a medium day.”
That earns you a quiet exhale, almost a laugh... almost.
Your fingers find his sleeve, brushing lightly against the fabric before sliding up to his wrist. Grounding. For both of you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just… stand there. Together. Like this is where you were always meant to be. But it wasn’t always like this.
You still remember the first time you saw him, and even though time has dulled the sharpest edges of those memories, even though centuries could pass and still not erase them, they remain carved into you with a precision that feels almost cruel.
Because your story didn’t begin with love.
It began with death...
////// Flashback //////
You remember the stillness more than anything. Not silence, because there was noise. Voices. Movement. Chaos wrapped in sterile order. But inside you, everything had gone… still.
The hospital lights were too bright, almost blinding, reflecting off cold surfaces that made everything feel unreal, like you had stepped into a place that didn’t belong to your life. People were talking around you, hands were touching your arms, trying to guide you away, but you couldn’t feel any of it.
Because he, your fiance, was lying there. Too quiet. Too unmoving. Too… gone.
You remember gripping his hand, desperately, as if your touch alone could anchor him back to you, as if your voice, shaking, breaking, pleading, could pull him out of whatever place had taken him.
“Wake up,” you whispered, then louder, then louder still. “Please… please, just— this isn’t funny, you promised—”
Someone tried to pull you away. You fought them.
You remember that too. The desperation. The way your entire body resisted, like instinct alone refused to accept what your mind couldn’t process.
Words reached you eventually. Accident. Instant. Nothing we could do.
Lies. All of it felt like lies. Because love like that doesn’t just… end. It doesn’t just stop breathing. It claws. It begs. It refuses. And you... you refused with it.
You don’t remember how long it took before grief turned into something else. Something sharper. More dangerous. Into obsession and hope. Desperation that twisted into belief.
Because somewhere, somehow, you heard the stories. Whispers of old gods. Of bargains. Of a place beneath the world where death was not an end, but a passage. And if there was a passage, there had to be a way back.
You didn’t question it, you didn’t hesitate. Because what is reason to someone who has already lost everything?
--
The entrance didn’t announce itself. No storm, no divine sign. Just, a fracture. In the earth, in reality. In you...
A place where the world seemed thinner, weaker, like it could be torn open if you just… pushed. And you did. You stepped through it without looking back. Without fear. Because fear had already taken everything from you.
The fall should have hurt, but it didn’t. Instead, it felt like being caught. Like something unseen refused to let you shatter further.
When your feet touched the ground, it was not soil beneath them, but black stone, smooth, ancient and impossibly still.
The air was different here. Heavier. Not suffocating, but dense, like every breath carried weight.
You stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling too fast, heart pounding not from fear, but from hope so fragile it felt like it might break you all over again.
And then a voice, “You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice was low. Controlled. Not loud, but it didn’t need to be. It filled the space effortlessly.
You turned slowly, and you saw him. He wasn’t what you expected. Not a monster. Not a nightmare. Not some grotesque ruler of the dead.
He was... a man. Very Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in darkness that didn’t obscure him, but seemed to belong to him, like shadow and substance were one and the same. His presence was overwhelming without being loud, like gravity pulling everything subtly toward him.
His dark eyes found yours instantly. Sharp. Ancient. Unreadable.
He looked at you the way no one had ever looked at you before — not with pity, but with a kind of quiet, unsettling focus, as though he were trying to understand how something like you had ended up in a place like this.
And then, for the briefest moment, he looked surprised.
“You’re not dead,” he said at last, his voice low and controlled, each word measured with almost unnerving precision, as if he were stating a fact that displeased the order of his world.
Your pulse was racing so hard it made your whole body feel too tight, too fragile, but still you lifted your chin and forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Then send me back.”
Something shifted in his face. Not enough to call it a smile. Not enough to call it annoyance.
Just the smallest flicker of interest, as if your answer had amused him in spite of himself.
“Most people,” he said slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, “don’t ask to leave once they realize where they are.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. “I’m not most people.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Stretching.
He took another moment to look at you, more carefully this time, and you could feel it, that you were no longer just an interruption, no longer just a misplaced living thing in the land of the dead. He wasn’t looking at you like prey, or like something weak that had wandered where it shouldn’t.
He was looking at you like you were something strange. Something unexpected. Something he had not planned for.
“Why are you here?” he asked again, quieter this time, slower, as if he wanted the truth and already knew you were too broken to give him anything else.
You swallowed hard, and for the first time since the world had collapsed beneath your feet, your voice betrayed you.
“I want him back.”
The words came out cracked and raw, stripped bare by grief. They echoed in the dark space between you — simple, desperate, devastating in their honesty.
Something changed in his gaze then. Not pity. Something deeper. He stepped closer, and the air seemed to shift with him.
“Do you understand what you’re asking?” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you came anyway.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Longer, more deliberate.
“You’re asking to undo death.”
“I’m asking you to give him back.”
“And what makes you think I would?”
Your hands clenched at your sides. “Because if you don’t, then there’s nothing stopping me from staying here and making your life significantly more difficult.”
That... that made him pause. Properly. And then, unexpectedly, his lips curved, just slightly, “You threaten me in my own kingdom?”
“I’m desperate,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He exhaled softly, something almost like a quiet laugh slipping through, “Interesting.”
He circled you slowly, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the presence of him, the weight of something ancient and controlled.
“You would bargain with me,” he said, more to himself than to you.
“Yes.”
“And you would pay any price.”
“Yes.”
He stopped in front of you again. Close. Too close.
“You shouldn’t say that so easily.”
“I don’t have anything left to lose.”
Again, that lie. And again, he let it stand.
“Very well,” he said at last.
Your breath caught.
“Your beloved will return to life. Heart beating. Breath restored. No memory of death. No consequence that touches him.”
Hope surged through you so sharply it almost hurt.
“And in return?” you asked, barely able to keep your voice steady.
His gaze darkened slightly. “You give me one year.”
You frowned, confusion flickering through your grief. “One year of what?”
“Your life,” he said simply. “You stay here. In my realm. You do not leave. You do not return to the world above. For one year… you belong to the Underworld.”
Your brows pulled together. “That’s it?”
His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “You think that’s insignificant?”
“I think I’d give you far more than that without hesitation.”
And that caught him off guard. For the first time.
“You won’t see him,” he added, quieter now.
“I know.”
“You won’t be… entirely human here.”
A pause. That one lingered, but only for a moment.
“I said yes.”
Silence. Then, a slow nod, “Then we have an agreement.”
--
The first days felt like suffocating. Not because of him. But because of everything else.
The absence of sunlight pressed against you in ways darkness on earth never had, because this was not the simple, familiar darkness of night, softened by moonlight or broken by distant lamps in a sleeping city. This was older. Deeper. Endless. A darkness that did not threaten you, but did not comfort you either. It simply was, vast and patient and everywhere.
There were no birds. No wind moving through trees. No rustle of leaves. No warmth of a morning that arrived whether you asked for it or not.
The Underworld did not overwhelm your senses. It did something far crueler than that. It took things away. Quietly. Methodically.
Until you realized how much of life you had only ever understood through sound and color and warmth, and how empty your hands felt when all of that was gone.
At first, you hated the silence most. Not because it was loud. Because it left too much room for memory.
Too much room for grief. Too much room for the life you had lost to come creeping back into your chest when you least wanted it to.
And yet, somehow, through all of it, he was there. Not constantly beside you. Not smothering. Not watching your every breath in a way that felt invasive or cruel. Just… present.
Like the Underworld itself had many shadows, but somehow the one shadow that always remained was him.
You would find him in long black corridors lined with stone older than kingdoms, in halls lit by quiet blue fire that never flickered, in vast chambers where the weight of eternity seemed to settle in the cracks of the floor. Sometimes he was reading scrolls, sometimes giving orders in that low, steady voice of his, sometimes simply standing still with the kind of stillness only truly powerful men possessed.
And somehow, no matter where you were in that vast and terrible place, he always seemed to know. When you had not eaten enough. When your breathing had changed. When your silence was anger, and when it was sorrow.
He never asked too many questions. Perhaps because he knew you would not answer them. Perhaps because he understood grief better than most.
One day, after what felt like an eternity but could just as easily have been a week, you had already begun losing your sense of time down there, you found him in one of the long central halls of the palace.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high above, swallowed by shadow, and pale light from braziers along the walls painted the sharp lines of his face in silver and blue. He was standing near a stone table covered in scrolls and tablets, one hand braced against its edge, the other moving slowly as he read. Focused. Still. Entirely too composed.
You lingered near one of the pillars for a while before he acknowledged you, though you were almost certain he had noticed you the moment you entered.
You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning your shoulder against the dark stone as you watched him from across the hall.
“You’re staring again,” you said at last, your voice echoing softly in the large, quiet space.
He did not look up immediately. Instead, he finished the line he was reading, set one scroll aside with infuriating calm, and only then answered. “I find you fascinating.”
You blinked. Then narrowed your eyes.
“That,” you said slowly, “is a deeply concerning statement.”
That finally made him lift his gaze. There was no smile on his face, not really, but there was something dangerously close to one in his eyes.
“It should be.”
You let out a disbelieving breath, half a scoff, half a laugh that had no business existing in this place.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all.”
“No,” he agreed, returning his attention to the scroll in front of him. “It was meant to be.”
You rolled your eyes.
Any other man saying things like that, saying them in this place, with that voice, with that unreadable expression, would have unsettled you more than he already did.
But there was something about him that made it worse. Or maybe better.
You still hadn’t decided.
“You know,” you muttered, pushing off the pillar and wandering a little closer, “most people try to sound less threatening when speaking to frightened women.”
At that, he glanced up again, properly this time.
“You are frightened,” he said, not as a question, but as an observation.
The honesty of it irritated you instantly.
“I’m in the land of the dead,” you replied dryly. “What exactly gave it away?”
A faint pause. Then, to your surprise, “Your breathing changes when you enter a room you don’t know.”
Your brows pulled together slightly. “You’ve been listening to my breathing?”
“I listen to everything in my kingdom.”
“That,” you said, pointing at him accusingly, “is somehow not less concerning.”
This time, there was no mistaking the slight curve of his mouth. It was faint. Brief, barely there. But real.
And because you were already raw and tired and trying very hard not to notice that the terrifying god-king of the Underworld had something dangerously close to dry humor, you looked away first.
You wandered closer to the table, glancing at the scrolls spread across it, though most of them made little sense to you.
“What do you even do all day?” you asked after a moment. “Besides lurking in shadows and unnerving me.”
“I do not lurk.”
You looked at him flatly. “You absolutely lurk.”
He considered that. Then, with maddening seriousness, “I govern.”
You snorted softly. “Right. Very different.”
He set another scroll aside and turned toward you more fully now, his full attention settling on you in a way that should not have felt so heavy, and yet did.
“You mock a great deal for someone in my care.”
Your gaze snapped back to his. “In your care?”
A beat. He did not correct himself.
“You are here because of an agreement,” he said instead, smooth and measured. “Until that agreement ends, your well-being is my responsibility.”
Something in your chest twisted at that. You didn’t want it to. You especially didn’t want him to notice.
So naturally, you covered it with sarcasm. “How romantic.”
His expression remained infuriatingly calm. “I wasn’t attempting romance.”
“Good,” you muttered. “That would’ve made this much weirder.”
And there it was again, that flicker in his eyes, like you had said something that interested him far more than it should have.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, exactly. Not empty, either. Just… strange.
You stood at opposite sides of the table, the distance between you not large, but noticeable. You could hear the quiet crackle of the braziers. The faint rustle of parchment beneath his hand. Your own breathing, slower now than it had been when you walked in.
And then, because you were too aware of him and not aware enough of how dangerous honesty could be in a place like this, you asked:
“Why?”
He looked up. “Why what?”
You gestured vaguely between yourself and the palace around you.
“Why am I fascinating?”
A pause.
You immediately regretted asking. Not because you didn’t want the answer. Because suddenly you did.
His gaze held yours, steady and unsettlingly direct. “Because,” he said at last, “everyone who enters this place fears me.”
You swallowed, but didn’t look away. “And I don’t?”
“You do,” he replied calmly. “But not enough.”
That drew a reluctant huff from you. “That’s either an insult or a compliment.”
“I haven’t decided.”
You stared at him for a second, then laughed despite yourself, a small, unwilling sound, brief enough that it barely existed.
But he heard it. Of course he did. And the strange thing was, he didn’t look displeased. If anything, he looked… quieter. Softer, though only by the smallest degree.
Like the sound had startled him too.
You noticed. He noticed that you noticed. And before the silence could sharpen around it, you crossed your arms again and muttered, “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
You shook your head, looking away, but you didn’t leave. Even though some part of you knew you probably should.
Because the truth was, the hall didn’t feel quite as cold when he was in it. And the silence didn’t suffocate quite as much when it was shared.
And that, more than anything else, was the first truly dangerous thing about him.
--
Days and weeks passed in a way that only the Underworld could allow — without sunrise, without sunset, without the ordinary markers that tell a human body what to feel and when to feel it. Time there did not move kindly. It did not soften itself for grief or pause for healing. It simply unfolded in long, quiet stretches of darkness and stone and flickering blue flame, until one day you realized you were no longer counting.
At first, you told yourself that was survival. Then you started to suspect it was something far more dangerous. Because he became part of the rhythm of your days before you fully understood that he had.
Not in some grand, theatrical way, not with flowers blooming from black earth or with lavish displays of divine power meant to seduce or impress, but with something steadier than that. More insidious. He showed you truths.
He showed you the souls passing through his realm, not as faceless specters to be feared, but as remnants of lives once fiercely lived, some dim and quiet, some restless, some shattered even in death, all of them moving through a system so ancient and precise that it felt less like judgment and more like inevitability. He showed you the rivers, the silent paths, the distant fields where peace looked pale and solemn rather than joyful. He showed you the halls where disputes were settled, where burdens were measured, where mistakes of the living still echoed long after the body had failed them.
And beneath all of it — beneath the rituals, the order, the endless procession of souls — you began to understand the shape of his responsibility.
It was not glorious. It was not worshipped. It was not even fully seen. It was simply necessary.
One day he took you to a high stone terrace overlooking one of the lower passageways, where a slow current of souls moved in silence beneath you, pale as smoke and twice as fragile. The air was still, the kind of stillness that seemed to belong only to places where eternity had settled long ago and decided never to leave. You stood with your hands folded loosely in front of you, watching one spirit drift by a fraction slower than the others, flickering around the edges as if even death had not yet fully steadied it.
“You don’t judge them?” you asked once, watching a soul drift past like a fading echo.
“I don’t judge,” he replied.
You turned to look at him then. He stood beside you with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the path below, profile carved in cold light and shadow, beautiful in the severe, unfair way only gods seemed allowed to be. But there was no arrogance in him as he said it. No pleasure in power. Only fact.
“Then what do you do?”
His jaw shifted slightly before he answered, like the truth itself had weight. “I make sure everything continues as it should.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. “That sounds worse.”
This time, the smallest flicker crossed his expression, something dry, almost amused, but gone before it could become anything real.
“It is.”
And you looked at him then. Not at the King of the Underworld. Not at the god everyone feared because fear was easier than understanding. Not at the dark, untouchable ruler from whispered stories and warnings.
You saw someone… alone.
Not in the tragic way poets liked to dress loneliness up and parade it around as something noble or beautiful. No. This was older than that. Quieter. The loneliness of someone who had carried too much for too long and stopped expecting anyone to notice the weight of it. Someone who kept the balance of a realm no one else wanted to touch, and had done so for so long that even his own family had made peace with misunderstanding him.
Something in your chest shifted then. Not dramatically. Just enough to matter.
After that, you started noticing little things. The way he slowed when you walked beside him, though he never admitted it. The way he began explaining parts of his kingdom without you asking, not because he needed your approval, but because somewhere along the way he had started wanting you to understand it. Him. The way servants bowed to you more naturally with each passing week, because he never corrected them when they looked to you with growing deference, and in this place his silence on a matter often meant more than a declaration ever could.
You began following him without fully meaning to.
Sometimes to the great halls where petitions from the dead were delivered in endless scrolls and records. Sometimes to the silent edges of his kingdom where the dark felt almost soft, almost holy. Sometimes simply because the Underworld felt less suffocating when he was in it with you.
And, disturbingly enough, sometimes because he made you laugh. Not often. Not loudly. But enough.
One day you found him in one of the long administrative halls, standing over a broad stone table littered with scrolls, seals, and records written in hands so old they barely looked human anymore. You had been watching him for longer than necessary from the doorway, your shoulder pressed to the archway, your expression probably far too thoughtful for someone who had once sworn she would never be comfortable here.
He did not look up at first. He never hurried.
And perhaps that was why his next words startled you more than if he had turned and caught you at once.
“You laugh more now.” he said one day quietly.
You blinked, glancing at him, a faint smile already forming despite yourself. “That’s your fault,” you reply.
That finally made him lift his gaze from the scroll in his hands, and there it was again — that infuriating, subtle shift around his mouth that never fully became a smile unless you worked for it.
“I’ll accept that responsibility.”
You huffed a quiet breath, stepping a little closer, trailing your fingers along the edge of the stone table as though you had approached for the sake of the documents and not for him. “You should. You started it.”
The silence that followed was brief, but full. Not empty. Not cold. Just full of all the things neither of you had yet named.
Then, softer, with your eyes lowering for only a second before you forced them back to his, “You don’t look at me like others do.”
This time he did not answer immediately. He simply watched you. Steady. Intent. Unusually open.
It was rare, that look. Rare enough that when it landed fully on you it made your pulse shift in a way you resented immediately, because grief had once occupied that part of you and now something else was trying very hard to move in.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. “Because I don’t see you the way others do.”
Your heart stumbled at that. Not because of the words themselves, simple as they were, but because there was no performance in them. No seduction. No manipulation. No divine grandeur. Just truth, spoken plainly, offered without demand.
And that was the moment. Not loud. Not dramatic. But irreversible.
Love did not arrive like thunder.
It did not split the earth open beneath your feet or announce itself with violins and destiny and all the foolish things stories promised. It arrived quietly, almost rudely, by slipping into places grief had hollowed out and deciding to stay there.
You didn’t notice when love replaced grief. Only that one day, it was there. And it refused to leave.
You noticed it in stupid, treacherous moments. In the way you began searching for him first in every room. In the way silence felt different depending on whether or not he was near. In the way your chest tightened not when he touched you, but when he didn’t. In the way his voice began to feel less like a sound in the Underworld and more like something your body had learned to answer on instinct.
And, cruelly, it was only after you understood what had happened to you that time began to move again.
The year ended too quickly.
You felt it before he said anything. Like something tightening around your chest. Like time, which had once felt endless, suddenly became painfully finite. The last days seemed to sharpen around the edges, every glance more dangerous, every quiet shared space more fragile, every almost-touch weighted with the knowledge that soon there would be none at all.
When he finally spoke, he did not hide behind distance.
“You’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain,” he said quietly.
No performance. No distance. Just truth.
You looked at him and knew, before the next words came, that they would ruin you.
“He will return. Your beloved.”
Your throat tightened, “And you?”
There was no hesitation in him, which somehow made it worse.
“I remain.”
Something inside you broke at the simplicity of that. Because he said it the way one speaks of gravity, of death, of laws that do not bend simply because your heart begs them to.
“You knew this.”
“I did.”
Your hands curled at your sides. “Then why does it feel like you’re… sending me away?”
He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know how not to. Because if he let himself cross the space between you then, if he let himself say what was truly written in the terrible stillness of his face, then neither of you would survive the dignity of it.
For a long moment you just stood there, looking at each other across a distance neither of you dared close.
Then, at last, “You should go,” he said finally. Softer.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
And maybe that was the worst part. That he would not reach for you. That he was loving you, even then, by refusing himself the comfort of making you stay.
Then, “Go,” he repeated.
So you did.
--
The world above felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too alive.
Light pressed against your skin like an insult. The sky seemed offensively open, the air too thin, the world too full of motion and sound and color after the solemn depth of the place you had left behind. Life resumed around you with infuriating ease, as though a year had not just been carved out of your soul and buried beneath the earth.
And him, your beloved, he was there. Alive. Smiling. Everything you had asked for. Everything you had sacrificed for.
And yet, your heart didn’t respond the way it should have.
You looked at him and felt tenderness, memory, gratitude even. You remembered the shape of what you had once believed your life would be. You remembered mourning him. Wanting him back so badly that you tore your way into the kingdom of death to bargain for his breath.
But what you felt now was not the wild, unquestioning certainty that had once sent you running into darkness. Because it no longer belonged here.
It had stayed behind. With black stone halls and blue fire and a man whose gaze had learned every shade of your silence.
--
The attacks came without warning.
At first it was only a feeling. A wrongness in the air. A sense that the world around you had begun to tilt in ways other people either could not perceive or refused to admit. Shadows lingered a fraction too long where no shadows should have been. Whispers brushed the edge of your hearing with a slick, hateful intimacy that made your skin crawl. You would turn your head and see nothing, but the nothing itself felt occupied.
Then came the creatures.
Not beasts in any earthly sense. Not wolves, not serpents, not anything a human mind could name cleanly and be done with. These things were made of malice and hunger and the cracks between worlds. They moved wrong, all jerking limbs and half-formed shapes and eyes that seemed to open where no eyes should be.
One night one found you alone.
It emerged from a fold of darkness at the edge of the courtyard, all smoke and claws and whispering mouths, and the sound it made slithered directly beneath your skin.
“You’ve been touched by him,” something hissed from the dark. “And now… you’re ours to take.”
You ran.
Instinct took over long before thought could catch up. Your breath tore in your throat, your pulse thundered, your feet slipped once on stone and then found themselves again. Behind you, the thing followed, too fast, too wrong, its voice multiplying into a chorus of mockery that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Closer, closer... until, it almost reached you.
And then, the world shifted. The air grew heavy. Familiar.
Terrifying in the way only something powerful enough to destroy everything could be.
The dark did not part for him. It welcomed him.
He stepped out of the shadows like they were part of him. And perhaps they were.
There was no softness in him then. No dry wit. No careful stillness. Only wrath held in perfect control, which was somehow far more frightening than rage ever could have been.
“Touch her,” Hades said, voice low and lethal, “and I will erase you so completely that not even memory will remain.”
The creature didn’t argue. It fled. Just like that. Gone in a stuttering tear of shadow and silence, as though the threat of him was more final than any blow he might have dealt.
You stared at him, breath uneven. “Hades…”
He was already in front of you, hands on your face, checking, searching, grounding himself in your existence, “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
A pause. The lie sat thinly between you, useless and obvious.
Then, he said, “I thought I lost you.”
Your chest tightened, because there it was, raw and unguarded and more frightening than anything that had chased you.
“You told me to leave.”
“I was wrong.”
Silence. Heavy. Real.
Everything you had held back, everything you had swallowed for the sake of promises and bargains and duty and the lie that returning above had fixed anything, it all rose at once and tore free before your mind could stop it.
“I love you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Before fear could interfere. Before reason could catch up.
His expression shifted. Deep. Unmasked.
He looked at you then not like a king, not like a god, not like a man who had already decided how much he could bear.
Like someone standing on the edge of ruin and no longer interested in stepping back.
“I know.”
Your breath caught.
The corner of his mouth tightened faintly, and then his hand slid from your cheek into your hair, holding you there as though you might still vanish if he loosened his grip.
“And... I love you.” he said finally.
The world stilled. Not metaphorically. Not to your grief-soaked, overdramatic mind. It truly seemed to still, as though even the dark itself had paused to listen.
“But this only works,” he added quietly, “if you stay.”
“With you,” you whispered.
“Yes... forever.” A pause, he continues, “... You won’t be human.”
There should have been fear in you then. There wasn’t. Only clarity.
“I don’t want to be without you.”
Something in his gaze broke and softened all at once.
“You won’t leave me.”
The question beneath the words was almost invisible. But you heard it. You heard the ancient ache hidden under control and power and certainty, and it shattered whatever hesitation remained in you.
“I already chose not to.”
His thumb brushed once beneath your eye, though you had not even realized tears had gathered there.
“You will belong to the Underworld.”
You stepped closer. “I already do.”
Silence. Then, he took your hand.
And this time, it wasn’t a bargain.
It was a choice.
The power burned at first. It moved through you like liquid fire and cold starlight, like something ancient forcing your body to break and remake itself around a truth it had never been built to hold. You gasped, your knees nearly failing, but he caught you before you could fall, one arm around your waist, the other hand still locked with yours as if refusing to let you pass through this transformation alone.
The burn did not last.
It deepened. Settled. Became something stranger and steadier, threading itself into your veins, your breath, your bones. The world tilted, then sharpened. The dark no longer felt empty. It felt legible. Alive. Familiar. The Underworld did not loom around you now, it answered you.
And when you opened your eyes, you were no longer the same.
You stood beside him. Not as a visitor. Not as a bargain. But as his equal.
His Queen.
////// End of Flashback //////
“You’re thinking again.” His voice pulls you back to the present, low and steady, like he’s been watching you for longer than you realized.
You blink, your focus snapping back, only then noticing that your fingers are still resting against his wrist, tracing absent patterns against his skin.
“You always know,” you murmur, glancing up at him.
“I always watch,” he replies simply.
You narrow your eyes slightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s either romantic… or deeply concerning.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, stepping closer, closing the already small distance between you until there’s barely any space left, your presence brushing against his like something inevitable.
“You were gone longer today,” you say, softer now, your fingers shifting slightly, still not letting go of him.
“I had to deal with Olympus.”
Your smile fades, just a little.
“Let me guess,” you say lightly, though there’s something more beneath it, “they’re still not exactly thrilled about me.”
His jaw tightens. “They don’t get a say.”
“Hades—” you start, your tone gentler, but also firm.
“They don’t,” he repeats, sharper this time, not loud, but final.
You tilt your head, studying him.
There it is. That edge, that quiet, dangerous tension that sits just beneath his skin whenever they are mentioned.
The gods. The ones who whisper. Who judge. Who wait.
You reach up, your fingers brushing his cheek.
He stills instantly, his eyes slipping half-shut as he leans just a little more into your hand against his cheek.
“They’re not wrong to question it,” you say softly.
“They are.”
“I don’t belong here.”
“You belong where you choose to be.”
Your heart does something stupid at that. Something soft, something reckless.
“Hades…”
His hand comes up, covering yours where it rests against his face. Warm and steady.
“You chose me... and I chose you.” His voice lowers. “That’s the only law that matters.”
You swallow. “You say that like you’d break the rest.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I would.”
No hesitation, no doubt. Just truth. And that should scare you. It should. But instead you are getting closer.
“Good thing I can handle myself then,” you murmur lightly.
A flicker of something in his eyes. Pride. Annoyance. Concern. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have to. I can.”
You press a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. “I’m not fragile.”
“I know.”
His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer. “But you’re mine.”
There it is. You raise an eyebrow. “Careful, Your Majesty. That sounded dangerously possessive.”
His thumb brushes against your hip, slow and deliberate. “I am dangerous.”
You smile, leaning in just enough that your breath ghosts over his lips.
“I noticed.”
And then, you kiss him. Soft at first. Testing. But he doesn’t hesitate. Never does.
His hand tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss, slow and consuming, like he has all the time in the world, because he does. Because with you, he finally wants to.
When you pull back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
“Stay tonight,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, softer, but threaded with something deeper, something that always makes your pulse quicken.
You smile, brushing your nose lightly against his, “I always do… I’m yours, remember?
For a moment, something in his expression shifts, warms, softens in a way that only exists when it’s just the two of you, no throne, no shadows, no gods watching
He exhales quietly, almost like surrender. “Yes…” his thumb traces your cheek slowly. “You are my Queen.”
And then he kisses you — deep, intense, stealing the breath from your lungs so completely that your knees nearly give out beneath you. If not for the firm grip of his hands on your waist, you would have already lost your balance. Your divine husband has that effect on you, every single time.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as if they already know exactly where they belong. His steps are slow, steady, purposeful as he carries you toward your shared chamber, toward the massive bed that waits in the dim, golden glow of the Underworld’s light.
His kisses grow deeper, more consuming. His lips leave yours only to trail along your jaw — slow, deliberate, before moving lower, to your neck, finding that sensitive spot he knows all too well.
A quiet sound escapes you.
Your hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through dark strands, while your lips brush against the shell of his ear, pressing soft kisses that you know drive him just as mad.
He exhales, low, almost a growl.
“You’re beautiful…” he murmurs against your skin. “My Queen… mine.”
By the time he reaches the bed, he sets you down slowly, carefully, as if you are something precious despite the fire between you.
His hands move to your dress, sliding it off your body with practiced ease, while your own hands wander over his chest, strong and warm beneath your touch, pushing his black shirt off his shoulders.
You never get tired of the sight of him, of the power in his body, the quiet strength that belongs only to him.
He doesn’t stop. His lips follow the path down your body, over your collarbone, your chest, until he lowers himself before you, kneeling, his hands steady on your hips as he presses kisses along your stomach, lower and lower.
Your breath catches.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as a soft moan escapes you when his tongue finally finds your cunt, slow and deliberate, tasting, exploring, drawing out every reaction from you like he’s memorizing it all over again.
The King of the Underworld. Powerful. Feared. Untouchable.
And yet here he is — kneeling before you.
Worshipping you.
“My Queen…” he murmurs between kisses, voice low, almost sinful in its devotion. “I will worship you for eternity…”
And in that moment, he doesn’t look like a god. He doesn’t look like a ruler. He looks like something far more dangerous.
Someone who chose you. Completely.
“For as long as I exist,” he says quietly, his hands steady on your hips, grounding himself just as much as you, “you will never question where you belong.”
Your breath catches. Because you already know the answer. With him. Always him.
While he kneels before you, Hades begins to kiss and suck your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body and your moans grow louder, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair as your body reacts to him so openly, so helplessly to him.
“Oh god…” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, your head tilting back. “Don’t stop…”
A low, satisfied hum answers you, something dark and pleased in the way he looks up at you, his gaze filled with hunger and devotion all at once.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Completely undone for me…”
Your breath catches, your body arching slightly toward him, needing more, chasing the feeling he gives you so effortlessly.
“Hades… please…” you add softer now, more desperate, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair.
That does it. Something shifts in his expression, something sharper, more possessive.
And then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he lifts you again.
You gasp softly, your grip on him tightening as he takes a few steady steps before laying you down onto the bed, your body sinking into the softness beneath you, your breath uneven, your chest rising and falling faster now.
Your thighs part almost instinctively. Inviting him. Waiting for him.
He pauses for a moment. Just a moment.
And you see it.
The way his dark eyes move over you slowly, taking you in, admiring, memorizing — there’s hunger there, yes, but something deeper too… something that always makes your heart race just as much as your body.
Your gaze drops for a second. And you see him. His cock. Hard. Ready. Completely undone by you.
A quiet, needy sound leaves your lips.
He leans over you again, his mouth finding your chest, kissing, then lower, his lips closing around your nipple, drawing a sharper breath from you as his hand slides along the inside of your thigh, teasing, building, making you ache for more.
“Hades…” your voice breaks, breathless, desperate now. “Please… take me now, I can’t— I can’t wait anymore…”
That earns you a smile. Not soft this time. Something darker. Sharper. Possessive.
“As you wish, my Queen.”
And then, he enters you. Deep. All at once.
A sound tears from your throat, louder now, your back arching as you feel him fully, impossibly deep inside you, your body tightening around him as if it was made for this, for him.
Your fingers clutch at him, your breath uneven, every movement sending waves through you.
He doesn’t give you time to adjust.
His hands find yours, lifting them above your head, holding them there firmly — claiming, grounding, controlling the moment entirely.
His other hand grips your hip, steadying you as he begins to move. Slow at first. Then deeper. Stronger.
Your moans grow louder with each thrust, your body responding instinctively, your hips lifting to meet him, needing more, chasing the feeling he gives you so effortlessly.
His lips crash against yours again, the kiss intense, consuming, matching the rhythm of his movements, stealing whatever breath you have left.
Your legs wrap tightly around his hips, locking him closer, pulling him deeper, refusing any distance between you.
“My…” he breathes against your lips, voice low, rougher now, each word slipping between thrusts. “Beautiful… mine…”
Each word hits you just as strongly as his movements.
Your fingers tighten in his grip. Your body arches beneath him. Your voice breaks again, louder now, unrestrained.
His pace quickens. Deeper. Faster.
And you meet him with every movement, completely lost in him, in the way he fills you, in the way he claims you without ever needing to say more than that. Because you already know. You’ve always known. You are his. And he is yours.
A wave of pleasure begins to flood through you, overwhelming, unstoppable, you feel your body reacting completely, feel the way you tighten around him, your walls clenching around his cock as the sensation builds too fast, too intense to hold back.
And then, you fall. Your climax crashes over you, your voice breaking into a louder moan as your body trembles beneath him, tightening around him in pulses that pull him with you.
He follows right after.
A low, deep sound escapes him as he comes inside you, buried deep, and you feel it — feel the warmth of him spilling into you, feel the way it only intensifies everything, prolongs the pleasure as your body continues to respond, to contract around him, unwilling to let go.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Just breath. Just heat. Just the aftermath of something powerful, something that still lingers in every inch of your body.
He releases your hands slowly, and they immediately find him, your fingers digging into his back, holding onto him as if you still need to feel him, to be sure he’s there.
He thrusts once more, deeper, slower this time, before finally stilling, his body lowering onto yours, his weight pressing you gently into the mattress — not overwhelming, just enough to feel him everywhere. Close. Connected.
You feel his heartbeat. Fast. Strong. Matching your own.
His hand moves along your thigh, slow, soothing now, while the other slips into your hair, fingers threading gently through it, grounding, calming, soft in a way only you ever get to see.
His lips find yours again. This time, slow. Lingering. No rush, no urgency. Just… feeling.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath still slightly uneven.
“I love you, my Queen,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “Now… and for all eternity.”
Your chest rises slowly as you breathe him in, your hands moving to his face, cupping his cheeks, your thumbs brushing gently over his skin.
Your voice is quieter when you speak, slightly hoarse, but filled with something just as deep.
“And I love you, my King… always.”
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
You stay like this — still joined, still close, your breaths slowly finding the same rhythm, your body gradually relaxing after everything he made you feel. His forehead rests against yours, your noses brushing lightly, both of you caught somewhere between exhaustion and quiet, overwhelming satisfaction.
Eventually, he shifts. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his gaze softer now, grounded, present, no longer the consuming storm from moments ago, but something deeper. Something steady.
When he finally pulls out of you, you feel his seed slowly spill from you, and instead of pulling away, you only sink deeper into the sensation. It doesn’t bother you, not even a little. If anything, you crave it… the lingering proof of him, the intoxicating feeling that a part of him is still inside you.
Your body shifts instinctively toward him, and he responds immediately, his arms wrapping around you without hesitation, drawing you back into him as if distance is something neither of you tolerates for long.
You settle against his chest, your head resting just beneath his chin, your ear pressed to his skin. His heartbeat is still strong. Steady. Familiar. It calms you more than anything else ever could.
His lips brush gently against your hair, slow, absent-minded kisses, while his hands move along your back, your hip — no longer urgent, no longer demanding, just… there. Touching you like it’s something he never wants to stop doing. Like he’s memorizing you all over again.
You sigh softly, your fingers tracing faint, lazy patterns over his chest.
“If anyone saw you like this…” you murmur quietly, your voice warm with amusement, “…they wouldn’t believe it’s the same man they fear.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your hair. “Good,” he replies simply.
You tilt your head slightly, glancing up at him with a faint smile.
“You don’t care what they think at all, do you?”
His hand stills for a moment on your back before continuing its slow, soothing movement.
“I care about very few things,” he says quietly. A pause. Then softer, “You’re at the top of that list.”
Your heart tightens at that, your fingers curling slightly against him.
“You say that like it’s a dangerous thing.”
“It is.”
You smile faintly, your eyes already starting to grow heavy, “For them, maybe.”
“For anyone who tries to take you from me,” he corrects gently.
You hum softly, your body relaxing further against him, your breathing slowing.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, voice quieter now, drifting.
“I know,” he replies, just as softly.
But his hand tightens around you just slightly. Just in case.
Your eyes close. His warmth surrounds you completely, his scent, his presence, his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, it all wraps around you like something protective, something unbreakable. Safe. Loved. Yours.
You barely register the way your fingers loosen against him, the way your body melts fully into his as sleep begins to pull you under, slow and gentle.
The last thing you feel is his lips against your hair. The last thing you hear, is his voice. Low. Quiet. Almost a whisper. Not meant for the world. Not even meant for you. Something between a vow and a prayer, “I will protect you… even from the gods themselves.”
And that, that is what finally carries you into sleep.
*
But Olympus doesn’t stay quiet for long... You should’ve known better. Gods do not forgive easily. Gods do not forget.
And they most certainly do not accept something they did not choose themselves. Especially not something like this. Something like you.
*
When you wake, the space beside you is empty. It doesn’t surprise you. It never does.
Hades rarely sleeps, and when he does, it’s light, fleeting, more a pause than true rest. But for you… he always stays. Always waits until your breathing slows, until your body softens, until you’ve slipped fully into sleep. Only then does he leave.
You shift slightly, the sheets still warm, still carrying his presence, and for a moment you just lie there, eyes half-closed, letting yourself linger in the quiet.
You are not human anymore. Not fully. But you are not entirely divine either. Something in between. Something… his.
And yet, you still need sleep. Maybe less than before. But enough. Enough to remind you that some parts of you still belong to the world you left behind.
You sit up slowly, reaching for the loose robe draped nearby, pulling it over your body as the fabric falls softly around you.
The room is quiet. Still. Safe. On the table nearby, breakfast is already waiting. It always is.
A small smile touches your lips as you reach for a cluster of grapes, then a piece of bread, eating slowly, absent-mindedly, your thoughts drifting, not entirely peacefully.
Because beneath everything… you feel it. That tension in the air. That subtle shift. Like something is coming.
You don’t rush. You never do here. Instead, you move through the halls with quiet familiarity, the Underworld responding to you now in ways it never did before, as if it recognizes you, accepts you.
*
You already know where he is. There is only one place he would be. The throne room.
When you step inside, the first thing you notice is the throne. Empty.
But he’s there. Standing beside it, not sitting, not relaxed — no, this is different. He’s focused. Still.
A stack of scrolls and documents in his hands, his gaze scanning them with that same sharp intensity he carries into everything he does.
King. Ruler. Untouchable.
And then, he senses you. His head lifts slightly. And just like that, everything softens. Only a fraction. Only for you.
A faint smile appears on his lips. “You’re awake,” he says, his voice lower now, steadier, but warmer.
You step closer, tilting your head slightly, studying him, “You left early.”
“I had things to handle.”
You glance at the papers in his hand, then back at him.
“That doesn’t sound like small things.”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary. And just like that, you know. Something is wrong.
“What happened?” you ask, quieter now.
He exhales slowly, setting the papers aside, his expression shifting — not closed, not distant, but… careful.
“Olympus,” he says simply.
Of course.
You cross your arms lightly, leaning your weight onto one leg. “They’re done whispering, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
His jaw tightens just slightly, “They’ve decided to intervene.”
Your expression doesn’t change. But something inside you stills. “And what exactly does that mean?” you ask.
His gaze sharpens. “It means they think you don’t belong here.”
A faint, almost amused breath escapes you, “That’s not new.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But now they intend to do something about it.”
You meet his eyes. Steady. Unshaken.
“And you?”
He steps closer. Slow. Certain. “I told them,” he says, his voice dropping just slightly, that familiar edge slipping in, “that if they try to take you from me—”
Your breath stills.
“—they won’t like the outcome.” he ends.
There it is. That quiet threat. That promise.
You tilt your head, studying him. “They won’t listen.”
“I’m aware.”
“And this doesn’t end peacefully, does it?”
“No.”
Silence settles between you. Heavy. Real.
You step closer, closing the distance, your fingers brushing lightly against his hand.
“I’m not something they can just take,” you say softly.
His hand turns instantly, lacing with yours.
“I know.”
“And I’m not afraid of them.”
“...I am.”
That makes you pause. Because that is rare. You look up at him, searching his face.
“For yourself?” you ask quietly.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, “No... For you.”
Your chest tightens. You step closer. Right into him.
Your free hand comes up to his chest, resting there, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm.
“I chose this,” you remind him softly.
“I know.”
“I chose you.”
His hand tightens around yours.
“I know.”
“Then don’t look at me like I’m something they can break.”
His gaze softens again. Just slightly.
“You’re not,” he says quietly. “...which is exactly why they’ll try.”
Your lips curve faintly. “Then let them.”
That earns you a look. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.
“You’re very confident,” he murmurs.
You smile. “I learned from the best.”
And for a moment, he lets himself smile fully.
But you don’t get to answer. Because suddenly, the heavy doors of the throne room open. A servant steps inside, bowing deeply, his voice careful, controlled, but there’s tension there.
“Your Majesties… we have a guest. Unfortunately… she would not wait.”
You barely have time to react. Because she walks in.
Hera. Majestic. Cold. Breathtaking in a way that feels almost sharp, like something beautiful meant to cut rather than admire.
Her gaze finds you instantly. And lingers. Slowly. Deliberately. From head to toe.
And then, she scoffs. “So this is it?” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “This is the creature for which the great Hades is willing to risk everything?”
Before you can react, Hades moves. Instinctively. His body shifts just enough to place himself slightly in front of you, not blocking you entirely, but shielding you. Always shielding you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around his hand.
Creature? Your brows pull together faintly. But before you can speak, Hera continues. “And more than that…” she adds, tilting her head slightly, her gaze now fixed on him. “You are willing to sacrifice your divinity for her?”
Your heart skips. You turn your head sharply toward him. “…what?”
The word leaves your lips quieter than you expect. Confused. Uncertain. Because that’s not something you knew.
But Hera doesn’t give him time to answer. “Oh, you didn’t tell her?” she says, mock surprise lacing her tone. “You didn’t tell your young queen that you’ve been given a choice?”
Your gaze snaps back to him. “What is she talking about?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. And that scares you more than anything she said.
Hera smiles faintly. Cruel. “Oh, this is even better than I thought,” she murmurs. “He really didn’t tell you.”
Her eyes flicker between you. Enjoying this. Savoring it.
“There is an ultimatum,” she explains slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Either he abandons you… or he is banished from Olympus entirely. No access. No presence. No place among the gods.”
Your chest tightens. You look at him. Waiting. Hoping.
He finally speaks, “It’s not a choice.” His voice is calm. Cold. Certain.
You blink. “…what?”
“I made that decision a long time ago.”
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t even look at Hera.
“Olympus means nothing to me,” he continues, his tone unwavering. “You have ignored me for centuries. I see no reason to start caring now.”
Hera lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“How brave of you,” she says mockingly. “To discard your family. Your place. Your divinity— for this.”
Her hand gestures toward you. Careless. Dismissive. Like you’re something beneath notice.
“...For a pathetic mortal.”
Hades’ grip on your hand tightens. “She is not mortal.”
Hera raises a brow. “Perhaps not anymore,” she concedes, her gaze sliding back to you with something venomous. “But she was... and she is certainly not a goddess.”
Your jaw tightens slightly.
“Just a… diluted version of one,” Hera continues, circling slightly, her voice lowering, more cutting now. “A poor imitation of a queen. Sitting where she does not belong.”
Your chest rises sharply. But before you can speak, she leans just slightly closer, her voice dropping, intimate and cruel.
“Be careful, little one,” she murmurs. “Men like him… they are not gentle.” Her gaze flicks briefly to him. “Especially him.”
Then back to you. “Perhaps not today. Perhaps not in a year… or ten. But they live forever... and his love for you will not.”
Silence. Heavy. Pressing.
“And when that day comes,” she adds softly, almost sweetly, “you will regret ever loving someone like him.”
For a moment, you say nothing. You feel his hand tighten around yours. A warning. A grounding. A silent don’t let her get to you.
But you don’t step back. You step forward. Your hand slips from his. You face her directly.
And when you speak, your voice is calm. Steady. Sharp, “No.”
Hera stills. Just slightly.
“That was my decision,” you continue, your gaze locked onto hers. “He didn’t force me. He didn’t manipulate me. He didn’t take anything from me... I chose him.”
Her eyes narrow.
“And I love him,” you add, your voice firm now, unwavering. “More than anything. More than myself.”
Silence cracks through the room.
“And you,” you finish, your lips curving just slightly — not sweet, not soft, but something far more dangerous, “... get the fuck out, go back to Olympus and stay out of what isn’t yours.”
The room goes still. Even the air seems to pause.
Hera’s expression darkens instantly. Her gaze snaps to him, “You allow her to speak to me like this?”
Silence. And finally, Hades moves. Steps forward. Not fast. But enough to remind everyone in the room exactly who he is.
“You heard her,” he says, his voice dropping into something colder than anything she brought with her. “She is the Queen of this realm... and my wife.”
His gaze sharpens. “You will leave.”
No raised voice. No anger. Just finality.
Hera’s lips press together. Her eyes flicker between you both. And for a moment you see it. Not fear. But something close.
Then she exhales sharply. “This isn’t over,” she says coldly. “In fact…” Her gaze lingers on you one last time. “This is only the beginning of your end.”
And then, she’s gone. Just like that. The room feels different immediately. Quieter. But heavier.
You don’t move. Not at first. Then his hands are on your face. Warm. Steady. Careful. He turns you toward him, his gaze searching yours, as if checking for something unseen.
“I will protect you,” he says quietly, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “Always.”
Your breath catches.
“I will give up anything,” he continues, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. “Everything.”
A pause.
“If I have to, I will burn Olympus itself. I will stand against my brothers. I will tear down everything they built— just to keep you safe.”
Your vision blurs. Tears gather in your eyes before you can stop them.
And he notices instantly. His expression softens. And he leans down, pressing gentle kisses to your tears, one after another, as if even they deserve tenderness.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, quieter now. “My Persephone.”
