lessons in chemistry | george russell social media au
pairing: george russell x fem teacher reader
part time formula one driver and full time student kimi antonelli wonders whether a date with his teammate is an appropriate gift for his favourite teacher
MASTERLIST | TIP JAR
kimiantonelli
liked by olliebearman, georgerussell63 and 367,200 others
tagged: yourusername
kimiantonelli: break from racing :( back with miss y/ln :)))))
view all comments
user1: first 18 year old actually excited to go to school
user2: and it’s the 18 year old who is already a formula one driver and millionaire
user3: probably helps if you’re in love with your teacher
user4: who is a milf
kimiantonelli: don’t sexualise miss y/ln like that :( she is an amazing teacher and makes me excited to learn about history!
yourusername: thank you, kimi!
kimiantonelli: if there are any spelling mistakes in my most recent essays please direct all of your critcism to @georgerussell63 and @charles_leclerc they were the ones who helped me
georgerussell63: of course i might have spelt things wrong your essay had to be in ITALIAN
charles_leclerc: yeah i have no excuse i didn’t really finish school
yourusername: kimi! what have i said about using your teammates and coworkers for homework?
kimiantonelli: i was being resourceful!
yourusername: you got me there… but maybe next time ask oscar, he’s the only one with actual qualifications
oscarpiastri: she’s not wrong but please do not ask me for help on your homework
kimiantonelli: okay just say you hate miss y/ln then
oscarpiastri: i didn’t say that?
kimiantonelli: okay cool i’ll see you in suzuka because i got an essay about the cold war due after the triple header
user5: i did not realise this was the kind of chaos the rookies were going to bring this season
user6: i mean kimi antonelli is just like me i am also emotionally attached to my history teacher
user7: real bitch representation
lewishamilton: i’m glad to see you are making sure to finish school
kimiantonelli: i’m sorry we missed out on being teammates you could’ve been the one i’m going to set up with miss y/ln
yourusername: excuse me?
lewishamilton: what?
kimiantonelli: i guess she’ll have to make do with george …
georgerussell63: rude?
kimiantonelli: well i wanted to set her up with max but he has a girlfriend and a baby on the way - boring!
georgerussell63: even ruder!
maxverstappen1: lol
yourusername: do i get a say in this?
kimiantonelli: well i wanted to give you a nice gift for getting me through school and this is the best i could think of!
yourusername: i appreciate that kimi but i’ll be okay with a bottle of bubbly
kimantonelli: hmmmmm… okay!
user8: he’s defo still going to try and set her up isn’t he?
olliebearman: 100%
f1
liked by estebanocon, dorianepin and 1,203,984 others
f1: happy international women’s day - which women in your life inspire you?
view all comments
user9: love me some susie wolff
user10: for real that’s my FIA president
user11: i know toto can’t handle all of that
estebanocon: my new race engineer laura!
user12: bearnelli this, lestappen that - these two are the best duo
user13: queens !!!
georgerussell63: shout out to doriane pin
user14: mercedes girlies sticking together
user15: will kimi say doriane as well or is he going to do the batshit crazy option …
user16: let’s be real we all know what he’s going to comment
user17: i’m willing to bet money on it
olliebearman: easiest money you’ll ever make
kimiantonelli: miss y/ln!!!
user18: omg someone study this guy’s obsession with his history teacher it’s getting crazy
kimiantonelli: woah who made you the authority on what woman i can find inspiring?
kimiantonelli: CAN YOU MAKE THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION INTERESTING?
kimiantonelli: HUH?
yourusername: okay kimi let’s calm down
kimiantonelli: but you ARE inspiring
yourusername: that is very touching, kimi, thank you
kimiantonelli: no worries!!!!!!!!!!!!
yourusername: the amount of exclamation points is worrying me…
kimiantonelli: NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HERE
georgerussell63: why have you just invited me to learn italian on duolingo
kimiantonelli: no reason…
yourusername: kimi! no meddling!
kimiantonelli: i’m not meddling!!! do you not want more people to learn the beautiful language?
yourusername: i am keeping an eye on you…
user19: i know she hates to see him coming
kimiantonelli: nuh uh i’m her favourite even though she can’t say that
yourusername: kimi please stop arguing with people in comment sections
kimiantonelli: okay! just for you miss y/ln!
georgerussell63: how did you get him to be so nice to you?
yourusername: i’m not sure, but if he’s mean to you i think that might be a skill issue
georgerussell63: this is crazy…
kimiantonelli: this is you guys flirting right?
yourusername: huh?
georgerussell63: huh?
yourusername
liked by kimiantonelli, georgerussell63 and 3,109 others
yourusername: shush don’t tell my students i’m at imola
view all comments
user20: oh i am not ready for kimi’s weird attachment to this woman to be irl rather than just instagram comments
user21: she’ll be in the paddock before she knows it
user22: does she know she’s a niche f1 star like ???
olliebearman: oh i just heard kimi’s scream from here
kimiantonelli: SHUSH
olliebearman: omg it’s like i don’t exist when she’s around… what about OUR SHIP???
kimiantonelli: let me conclude my master plan and we can go back to being vaguely fruity
olliebearman: OMG YAY
yourusername: you done?
olliebearman: what you gonna do? give me detention
yourusername: i can’t give you detention but i can give kimi detention and a little birdy told me you were going on a cycling trip…
olliebearman: I’M SORRY MISS Y/LN
user23: who is this woman and how does she have this much power
user24: one should never underestimate the power of a weird mother bond with a history teacher
user25: i miss mine so bad but it’s not socially acceptable to go see her now
georgerussell63: you just got me called into an emergency meeting because of this post
yourusername: and i should care because?
georgerussell63: because your little man is obsessed with setting us up so i would kinda want to like you before that happens
yourusername: oh so you don’t like me?
kimiantonelli: yOU DON’T THINK MISS Y/LN IS PRETTY ?
kimiantonelli: THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU SAID THE OTHER DAY ???
georgerussell63: kimi ???
yourusername: it’s fine george, i get it
georgerussell63: WHAT ?!
kimiantonelli: i can’t believe i’m doing all of this work for you george and this is how you repay me
kimiantonelli: i knew i should’ve chosen charles
charles_leclerc: why wasn’t i told i was in the running?
georgerussell63: WOAH HOLD YOUR HORSES
georgerussell63: i thought you said i was the best match for miss y/ln kimi?
kimiantonelli: i think you’d be a good match but it’s mostly for convenience because if she’s dating you i don’t have to argue for her to be in the merc garage over somewhere like ferrari
yourusername: i love how i am getting absolutely no say in this ?
kimiantonelli: have faith in me i know what i’m doing - he seems really uncool, annoying, a massive pain the ass, lanky, bitter and nosey but he gets better when you get to know him
georgerussell63: thanks? i guess?
yourusername: kimi i am more than fine to flirt and find a man for myself
kimiantonelli: but this is my gift to you!!!
georgerussell63: you can’t say no to the boy
yourusername: i guess i can’t…
user26: the most enthusiastic yes to a date
user27: kimi has george fighting for his life and i’m kind of loving it
kimiantonelli
liked by lewishamilton, maxverstappen1 and 651,094 others
tagged: yourusername & georgerussell63
kimiantonelli: i got on the podium at home and got to set up my most favourite teacher in the world and george on a date
view all comments
user28: y/n tearily filming kimi on the podium… that’s her kid actually
user29: i feel so bad for her other students omg
user30: as a student of miss y/ln we don’t have to worry - kimi is so bad at history there’s literally no way she could actually favour him lol
kimiantonelli: I TRY
user31: bro just got his first formula one podium and is arguing about school work i can’t
georgerussell63: first of all - i’m just george to you? second of all - i thought this date business was a joke?
yourusername: so i am a joke to you?
georgerussell63: i am so confused
georgerussell63: i thought this was a joke
georgerussell63: but i would love to take you for some pasta and wine if you’re interested
kimiantonelli: SHE’S INTERESTED
georgerussell63: right kimi, you’ve done enough - let the adults flirt in peace now
kimiantonelli: 🤐
yourusername: so where is this british boy taking me, an italian, for pasta
georgerussell63: well… i’ve got some recommendations from some italians
lewishamilton: I AM NOT ITALIAN, IF GEORGE FUMBLES THIS IT IS HIS FAULT AND HIS FAULT ALONE
georgerussell63: why does no one have faith in me?
yourusername: we’ll see whether they’re telling the truth won’t we
georgerussell63: oh really
kimiantonelli: SHE’S SAYING YES DUMBASS
georgerussell63: i am aware kimi
yourusername: he’s just trying to help george!
georgerussell63: as much as i want this to go well… you will always take his side won’t you?
yourusername: well one of you writes me cold war essays and one of you doesn’t
georgerussell63: i’ll write you essays !!!!
landonorris: good lord that’s embarrassing
user32: george is so pathetic i love him
user33: you’d never catch me writing an essay for a girl
georgerussell63: and that’s why you are single …
olliebearman: @lewishamilton what restaurant did you recommend?
olliebearman: for NO reason at all
maxverstappen1: we have completely innocent intentions
kimiantonelli: i don’t, i want to spy
kimiantonelli: but i will wear a fake moustache for your convenience
yourusername: that’s very kind kimi
georgerussell63: no it’s not ???
alexalbon: i also will be spying
yourusername: and what would that be for
alexalbon: well i need to sus out who YOU are
georgerussell63: finally, someone on my side
yourusername: so you think your friends won’t like me? i see…
georgerussell63: wait! no?
maxverstappen1: if this date is a couple hours of george digging a hole i will get you a life time supply of stroopwaffels kimi
kimiantonelli: i am so conflicted right now
georgerussell63
liked by alexalbon, kimiantonelli and 1,094,388 others
tagged: yourusername
georgerussell63: lessons in chemistry
view all comments
user34: the way this doesn’t acknowledge literally like half of the grid crashing the date
user35: i thought they were joking about the fake moustaches …
user36: was alex dressed as sherlock holmes?
alexalbon: there weren’t that many costumes available at the store
user37: you didn’t have to literally use the pipe
alexalbon: it’s called committing to the bit
yourusername: everyone in the restaurant had to leave early because you didn’t realise the plant on the table that you were trying to smoke was PLASTIC
alexalbon: god forbid a guy tries to get a bit goofy
kimiantonelli: @yourusername thoughts? feelings? i will slash his tyres if you didn’t like him
georgerussell63: i feel like this is a bit unfair
kimiantonelli: why? your myers briggs types say you should fall in love and get married so if you don’t it’s clearly your fault george
georgerussell63: thanks for the vote of confidence kimi
kimiantonelli: the science doesn’t lie, george
yourusername: i’m not sure that’s what it’s trying to prove kimi
kimiantonelli: ohhhhhh defending him already….
georgerussell63: i guess i just have that effect
kimiantonelli: ewwww not in front of my eyes
yourusername: i actually can’t win
user38: the fact that both kimi and y/n just go back to class on monday is killing me
user39: how is bro gonna be in the staff room with a straight face
yourusername: by the way i’m a history teacher
georgerussell63: so we don’t have chemistry
yourusername: oh! hahahahaa umm 😳
landonorris: omg girl get a grip it’s only george
yourusername: well i can certainly say he’s more charming than you
landonorris: wait why am i being attacked?
kimiantonelli: miss y/ln lando doesn’t know who stalin is !!!
yourusername: excuse me ???
landonorris: i’m so joe she’s stalin taking this dick
yourusername: i’m going to fight you
landonorris: george ??? kimi ???
georgerussell63: i’m on y/n’s side
kimiantonelli: i love miss y/ln so i wouldn’t spit on you even if you were on fire
user40: this is all so confusing
user41: i’m actually kinda enjoying it
yourusername: i’m enjoying it too
kimiantonelli: is it too soon to say i told you so
yourusername: yes. give me a couple days
georgerussell63: i’m very much enjoying this
kimiantonelli: gross.
charles_leclerc: so a date with me is off the cards now?
georgerussell63: YES
yourusername: sorry charles i’ve been charmed
georgerussell63: you don’t have to be sorry
charles_leclerc: omg mr possessive already
georgerussell63: well yes!
yourusername: oh my …
yourusername
liked by kimiantonelli, olliebearman and 51,0347 others
tagged: georgerussell63
yourusername: please don’t ask me what on earth has happened in the last few weeks because i honestly don’t know but george is cute and mine now i guess? back off!
view all comments
user41: well well well
user42: what a turn around
user43: gal realised that kimi really wasn’t joking and locked the fuck in
georgerussell63: i knew you’d come around
yourusername: you’re very confident
georgerussell63: well kimi loves you so i knew he wouldn’t knowingly set you up with someone you wouldn’t like
yourusername: he knows me better than he should, i think i should be worried
georgerussell63: how did you guys end up so freakishly close anyway
yourusername: well obviously someone got scouted by toto young and has missed a lot of school and in order for him to catch up i tutored him
georgerussell63: oh that’s… actually cute
kimiantonelli: why did you doubt it was cute - i don’t just attach to any adult figure in my life?
maxverstappen1: sure jan
yourusername: well if you could tutor him in geography that would be great
maxverstappen1: this is what i get for being a flag nerd
user44: her preparing to battle the fans is the funniest thing ever, good luck babe
user45: literally works in a public school i think she can handle kids
user46: do george russell fans even tussle like that
yourusername: someone messaged me to say that they made a voodoo doll of me out of a frankenstein beanie baby and sonny angel but they promised it was just to help us create a soul bond ???
user47: the grussell sprouts are an interesting bunch
user48: love how kimi has just inadvertently fucked every student younger than him at that school
yourusername: i will not abandon my kids!
georgerussell63: the way she talks about them? she’s never leaving that school
georgerussell63: and that’s a great thing!
georgerussell63: i’m only slightly jealous…
kimiantonelli: george, be careful she’ll defo dress code you
georgerussell63: oh so she’s strict
alexalbon: HOLD UP BUDDY
landonorris: we’re getting into weird kinky territory now…
georgerussell63: i’ve seen your internet search history you cannot chat to me right now
landonorris: well i’ve also seen yours sooooo i guess you’re a happy bunny
yourusername: right well my students can actually read these so do we want to stop?
landonorris: what? you gonna spank me?
georgerussell63: LANDO?
georgerussell63: not cool
landonorris: i’ve been blocked
georgerussell63: as you should be you scoundrel
user49: i am so scared of them
georgerussell63: all jokes aside, i am very happy to have met you and can’t wait to see where this is going to go
yourusername: you’re such a gentleman, this is definitely better than the bottle of bubbly i asked for
georgerussell63: maybe i can get some champagne for you next race?
yourusername: i’ll only accept if you help kimi get some too
kimiantonelli: real
georgerussell63: i just have to accept him don’t i
yourusername: you wouldn’t have me without him so yeah you do
georgerussell63: I HAVE YOU???
georgerussell63: i mean yeah i guess he did me a solid
yourusername: you’re such a loser
georgerussell63: but your loser
yourusername: yep :P
kimiantonelli: i think that is mission accomplished
olliebearman: setting us up next when?
olliebearman: huh? who said that?
fin.
note: so we all saw that tiktok.... it put this in my brain and i had to write it! also stay tuned... a certain chapter seven is in the works
Summary: Yn, the new driver for a Ferrari, has a ritual before every race. Before the Monaco GP, she finally gets asked about it.
The 2026 season had already earned a reputation for being something special. After Lewis retired at the end of 2025, the world wondered who could ever fill the seat at Ferrari beside Charles. No one expected an eighteen-year-old girl with a sunshine smile, soft voice, and a heart big enough to hold the whole grid.
But Yn did.
And from the first test day in Bahrain, everyone fell in love with her.
She was polite to a fault, the kind of person who thanked mechanics for tightening wheel nuts and apologized to cameras she accidentally bumped into. She brought homemade cookies to the Ferrari garage during pre-season. She called the crew her “big red family.” Charlie practically treated her like a little sister from week one.
But what made fans love her even more was the ritual.
Every single race, right after the national anthem, she would return to her Ferrari, kneel in front of it, place one hand gently on the nose, hold her necklace with the other, bow her head, and whisper something no one could hear. The Ferrari crew always stepped away, forming a loose half-circle around her, guarding the moment like sacred ground.
And somehow, no one ever asked.
Until Monaco.
The press conference room buzzed in that familiar way Monaco always brought—glamour mixed with chaos. Yn sat between Max and George, with Carlos and Fernando on the far side. She looked tiny next to all of them, legs crossed, fingers anxiously playing with the chain of her necklace.
Max leaned over and whispered, “You okay?”
She smiled softly. “A little nervous.”
“Don’t be,” George said reassuringly. “It’s just Monaco. Everyone’s nervous.”
Fernando smirked. “Speak for yourselves, chicos. I am never nervous.”
Carlos elbowed him. “Liar.”
The room laughed, tension easing just as the moderator handed the floor to the first journalist.
Questions came and went—car setups, track evolution, strategy predictions. Yn answered sweetly, always careful, always grateful, always smiling like she didn’t quite believe she deserved to be there.
Then someone raised a hand at the front.
A journalist with a calm voice asked, “Yn, this question is for you. There’s something fans have been curious about. Before every race, you do a ritual. You kneel in front of your car, touch the nose, hold your necklace, and whisper something. Could you share what that means to you?”
The room went very still.
Yn froze. Her eyes widened, and her fingers gripped the necklace slightly. George turned his head toward her. Max’s brows lifted. Carlos and Fernando both leaned in just a bit.
She swallowed.
“Oh… um… that.” She let out a shy breathy laugh, cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t know people noticed it that much.”
“Everyone noticed,” Max said under his breath with a teasing smile.
Yn nudged his arm. “Max…”
“Go on,” George whispered. “Only if you want to.”
Yn nodded, looking down at her hands for a moment before lifting her head.
“It’s… not really anything dramatic,” she said softly. “It’s just… something I’ve done since karting. When I kneel like that, I pray.”
Max blinked. “You pray?”
“Yes.” Yn took another breath. “I pray to… Niki Lauda.”
The room gasped gently.
Fernando’s brows raised in visible surprise. Carlos’ expression softened noticeably.
Yn continued in her quiet voice. “I ask him to watch over all of us. All the drivers. I ask him to keep everyone safe and make sure no one gets hurt.” She fidgeted with the necklace, eyes glimmering. “And sometimes I ask him… if he has a little extra time… to help me get a podium.”
George’s smile melted into something pure and warm. Max leaned back, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“That’s unbelievably sweet,” Carlos murmured.
Yn shrank. “It’s silly, I know—”
“It’s not silly,” Fernando cut in, surprisingly gentle. “Chica, that’s… that’s beautiful.”
She blushed again, staring down at her hands. “I also… um… I also pray to Senna sometimes.”
Max tilted his head. “Sometimes?”
“When it rains,” she whispered. “I ask him to help Niki watch over everyone. Just extra… extra protection.”
A collective soft “aww” swept the room.
Max couldn’t help it. “You’re actually the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”
Yn hid her face in her hands. “Stop.”
George laughed. “No, he’s right.”
Carlos nodded. “You always do your ritual with so much heart. Now we know why.”
Fernando said, “And now we will all think of it every race. Especially when it rains.”
Yn peeked at them shyly. “No one is allowed to make fun of me.”
Max put a hand dramatically over his chest. “I would never. This is sacred.”
George added, “If anyone makes fun of you, they have to deal with me.”
Carlos chimed in, “And me.”
Fernando snorted. “And me. I am scarier.”
Yn giggled softly, and the room collectively melted at the sound.
The next question turned to someone else, but the moment lingered like a warm glow. Even after the press conference ended, the drivers stayed around her.
As they walked out, Max bumped her shoulder lightly. “You know, if you ever need a podium, you can ask me too.”
“Max…” She laughed. “That’s not how it works.”
“Worth a try.”
George nudged her gently. “You okay? You got quiet.”
“I just…” She shrugged, holding her necklace again. “I didn’t think anyone would ask. It felt… private.”
“They asked because they care,” Carlos said. “And you answered honestly. That’s brave.”
Fernando smirked. “And adorable.”
Yn groaned, covering her face again. “Please stop calling me adorable.”
“You kneeled in front of your car and asked legends to watch over everyone,” Max said. “You’re adorable.”
“Max!”
Carlos raised a finger. “But you’re also a Ferrari driver. A fast one. Never forget that.”
Her cheeks flushed again. “I won’t.”
Race day arrived, and after the anthem, Yn walked back to her Ferrari. Cameras watched from a respectful distance. Fans fell silent. The Ferrari crew stepped back.
She knelt.
One hand reached out to brush the nose of the red car. The other curled around her necklace.
She whispered, barely audible even to herself.
“Watch over us. Keep everyone safe. Please.”
Then, after a heartbeat:
“And… if you can… maybe help me get a podium today. Just if you have time.”
When she stood, she found Max a few meters away, helmet already on. He tapped his chest twice, then pointed at her.
She blinked.
He pointed at the sky.
She realized what he meant.
They’re listening today.
She smiled beneath her balaclava and returned the gesture.
son of athena!oscarpiastri x daughter of poseidon!reader
▶︎|||||| Art Deco by Lana Del Rey
: sypnosis : When Y/N arrived at camp,she was a little lost and unsure whether she fit in. However, there was always one thing she knew for sure:
She hated Oscar.
She hated how calm he was.
She hated how he was good at everything.
She hated how he knew how to read her like a damn book.
But what she hated most of all was that she didn't hate him at all.
honourable mentions : lando norris, oliver bearman, kimi antonelli and gabriel bortoleto
faceclaim : Imagine yourself or whoever else you want!
WARNINGS! : Rivalry, teasing, enemies to lovers trope, arguing (A LOT), use of Y/N (you)
ᯓᡣ𐭩 a/n : as a big Percy jackson fan, i enjoyed writing this so much and im even thinking of making a part 2! I hope you all enjoy it as much as i did! x
The sea was never quiet around you.
Even when it looked still—glassy and endless beneath the afternoon sun—you could feel it breathing. Waiting. Watching. It had always been that way, ever since you were claimed.
Daughter of Poseidon.
The words had echoed across the shoreline that night like a promise and a warning all at once.
And ever since then, you had made one thing very clear at camp:
You didn’t need anyone.
Especially not him.
—
Oscar was everything you weren’t.
Calm where you were volatile. Calculated where you were instinctive. Quiet where you burned like a storm threatening to split the sky open.
Son of Athena.
Of course he was.
It made perfect sense—
the way he analyzed everything, the way he moved through the world like he was ten steps ahead of everyone else. The way he never raised his voice, even when someone deserved it.
Especially when you did.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
You froze mid-strike, your sword hovering inches from Ollie's shoulder.
Slowly, you turned your head.
Oscar stood at the edge of the arena, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Your grip tightened around your weapon.
“I didn’t ask,” you said flatly.
Ollie, ever the peacemaker, stepped back immediately. “Uh—maybe we take five?”
“Don’t,” you snapped.
But Oscar had already stepped closer.
“You’re overextending,” he said, like he hadn’t even heard you. “Your left side is completely open. Anyone faster than Ollie would’ve taken you down already.”
Oliver blinked. “Hey—”
You lunged before Oscar could finish.
He blocked easily.
Of course he did.
Your blade clashed against his, the sound ringing sharp through the arena. You pushed harder, but he barely moved—just adjusted his stance, redirecting your force like it was nothing.
“Predictable,” he murmured.
“Oh, I’m predictable?” you shot back, spinning and striking again. Faster this time.
Harder.
He stepped aside.
You missed.
Heat rushed up your neck. Anger.
Embarrassment.
You attacked again—and again—and again.
Every time, he countered. Not aggressively. Not cruelly.
Just… effortlessly.
Like you were a puzzle he’d already solved.
Finally, with one clean movement, he disarmed you.
Your sword hit the sand.
Silence fell.
You stared at it for half a second before looking back up at him.
Oscar tilted his head slightly. “You rely too much on power,” he said. “Against someone who thinks ahead, that won’t work.”
Your chest rose and fell sharply. “I don’t need advice from you.”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “You need to stop letting your emotions control your fighting.”
Something in you snapped.
“I fight just fine.”
“You fight like a storm,” he said. “Loud. Impressive. But easy to read.”
The words hit harder than any blade.
For a moment, you couldn’t speak.
Behind him, you could see the others watching—Lando leaning against the fence with an amused grin, Gabi whispering something to Kimi, who looked more concerned than entertained.
You hated that they were watching.
You hated that he was right.
“I don’t need strategy,” you said coldly. “I win.”
Oscar studied you for a long moment.
Then, quietly—
“Not against me.”
You avoided him after that.
Not that it was easy.
Oscar was everywhere.
At breakfast, sitting with his friends—Lando talking too loudly, Ollie laughing at something ridiculous, Gabi quietly competitive even when eating, and Kimi… Kimi was different. Softer. Always the one noticing tension before it snapped.
And Oscar, right in the middle of it all.
Observing.
Thinking.
Existing like he belonged exactly where he was.
You sat as far away as possible.
At training, you picked different hours.
At the lake, you went alone.
But somehow, he always seemed to find you.
—
“You’re still leaving your left side open.”
You groaned, not even turning around. “Do you ever stop talking?”
You were standing at the edge of the water, toes buried in the sand, the tide curling around your ankles like it knew you.
Behind you, Oscar sighed. “Do you ever stop making the same mistake?”
You spun around. “Why do you care?”
“Because we’re on the same side.”
“Are we?” you shot back. “Because it feels like you’re just waiting for me to fail.”
Oscar blinked.
For the first time since you’d known him, he looked… surprised.
“That’s not—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want you to fail.”
“Sure.”“I don’t,” he repeated, more firmly. “You’re strong. You just—”
“Don’t say it,” you warned.
“—waste it.”
You let out a sharp laugh. “There it is.”
Oscar stepped closer, his voice quieter now.
“You don’t think ahead. You react. And that’s dangerous—not just for you, but for anyone fighting beside you.”
The words settled heavily between you.
For a second, something flickered in your chest—something that wasn’t anger.
But it vanished just as quickly.
“I don’t fight beside anyone,” you said.
Oscar held your gaze.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s the problem.”
The quest came two days later.
Of course it did.
They always came at the worst possible time.
A monster had been spotted near the cliffs—a dangerous one. Fast. Intelligent. Too strong for just one demigod.
So naturally, they sent a team.
And somehow—
You ended up on it.
With Oscar.
And his entire friend group.
You stared at the list nailed to the notice board.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Looks like we’re stuck together,” Lando said cheerfully, slinging an arm over Oscar’s shoulder.
Oscar didn’t look nearly as amused.
Kimi gave you an apologetic look. “We’ll make it work.”
You crossed your arms. “I work alone.”
“Not this time,” Gabi said simply.
Ollie offered a small smile. “Hey, at least it won’t be boring?”
You glanced at Oscar.
He was already looking at you.
“Try not to run off,” he said.
You scoffed. “Try not to slow me down.”
—
The cliffs were worse than expected.
Sharp drops. Narrow paths. The sound of crashing waves far below, violent and endless.
You felt stronger here.
Closer to your element.
But also—
Uneasy.
“Stay sharp,” Oscar said, scanning the terrain.
“I’m always sharp,” you muttered.
“Debatable,” Lando whispered to Ollie.
You ignored them.
The monster found you first.
It came out of nowhere—fast, massive, claws gleaming in the dim light.
Everything happened at once.
You reacted instinctively.
Of course you did.
You charged.
“Wait—!” Oscar’s voice cut through the air, but it was too late.
You struck first.
The monster roared, retaliating instantly.
You dodged—but not completely.
Pain exploded across your side as its claws grazed you, sending you stumbling back.
Before it could strike again—
Oscar stepped in.
He moved differently than you did. Controlled. Precise.
Strategic.
“Left!” he called.
This time—
You listened.
You shifted just as the monster lunged, and Oscar used the opening to land a clean hit.
“Again,” he said.
You hesitated for half a second.
Then—
You followed his lead.
The fight changed.
It wasn’t chaotic anymore.
It was… coordinated.
You moved faster, adjusting to his rhythm. He anticipated your movements, compensating where you didn’t.
For the first time—
You weren’t fighting alone.
And it worked.
Together, you brought the monster down.
Silence fell, broken only by the distant crash of waves.
Your chest heaved as you stared at the fallen creature.
Then, slowly, you looked at Oscar.
He was already looking at you.
Not smug.
Not critical.
Just… steady.
“You okay?” he asked.
You blinked.
“…Yeah.”
A beat.
Then—
“Your left side,” he added.
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t ruin it.”
And for the first time—
He almost smiled.
That night, everything felt different.
The tension wasn’t gone.
But it had shifted.
You sat near the edge of the cliff, watching the ocean below. The others were a little further back—Lando and Gabi arguing over something pointless, Ollie laughing, Kimi quietly listening.
Oscar approached, sitting beside you without a word.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then—
“You did well today,” he said.
You huffed softly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.”
You glanced at him.
He meant it.
“…You weren’t terrible either,” you admitted.
“High praise.”
You smirked faintly.
Silence settled again—but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You fight differently when you’re not alone,” he said after a moment.
You stared out at the sea.
“I’m not used to it.”
“I noticed.”
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”
You swallowed.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve always had people,” you said. “You’ve always… fit.”
Oscar was quiet for a long moment.
Then—
“Not always.”
You frowned slightly, looking at him.
He was staring ahead, expression distant.
“I just learned how to make it look like I do.”
Something about that—
Something honest—
Made your chest tighten.
“…Oh.”
He glanced at you.
And for once—
You didn’t look away.
The second attack came at dawn.
This time, you didn’t charge in blindly.
You waited.
Watched.
Planned.
With him.
“Right side,” Oscar murmured.
You nodded.
And when the monster lunged—
You moved together.
Seamless.
Effortless.
Like you’d been doing it your whole life.
By the time it was over, you were both breathing hard—but standing.
Victorious.
You turned to him, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.
“That was—”
“Better,” he finished.
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
And he—
He smiled.
Fully this time.
—
When you returned to camp, everything felt… different.
Not just between you and Oscar.
But inside you.
You still felt the storm.
But now—
You knew how to steer it.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
You didn’t have to do it alone.
A few days later, you found him in the arena again.
Max Verstappen, multiple-time World Champion, shocks the world by retiring… only to end up whispering in George Russell’s ear as his new — and only — race engineer. What are the Dutchman’s real intentions?
living together was supposed to be temporary. four years later, filled with inside jokes and care that never had to be asked for, that line has long since faded into the background. between race weekends, late dinners, and accidental intimacy, friendship begins to blur into something impossible to ignore.
genre: roommates to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, soft angst with happy ending, and they were roommates.
warnings: non-graphic sexual content, slow burn so slow it needed FIA approval.
word count: 10k
a/n: if you ever doubted the narrative power of a headband and a serum bottle… i hope this changed your mind. even if you’re not a george girl, stay here with me. seriously… i wasn’t either 🫦
You get home two hours later than planned because:
That bitch you call your boss wouldn’t stop rambling about cutting costs on a product that absolutely could not be discontinued.
A coworker needed you to handle something that wasn’t even in your client portfolio.
You got yelled at by said coworker’s client.
And when you finally managed to leave, you were met with what might have been the worst traffic day in recorded history.
To say it had been a difficult evening would be flirting with understatement. But the moment you open the flat door, the smell hits you and your shoulders drop before you even realize they were tense. A tired groan slips from your throat.
The weight of the day loosens, just a little.
In the kitchen, separated from you only by the counter that keeps the space open to the living room, George has his back to you, instantly recognizable. Mostly because of his signature state of undress. Anyone who didn’t know him might assume he simply doesn’t own shirts, the only coverage being an apron tied neatly around his waist.
Soft jazz drifts from the Alexa resting on the counter, and he sways lightly where he stands, distracted, entirely surrendered to the moment.
You smile, setting your bag down.
On your way into the kitchen, you nearly trip over the rug and let out an irritated, “Fuck,” which finally makes George lift his eyes from whatever he’s doing.
“You alright there?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
You let out a quiet laugh, nudging the rug back into place with your foot before walking over to him. When you finally reach him, George takes two steps to the side, making room for you. With a small hop, you settle yourself on the clear stretch of counter beside the sink.
“Hi,” you say, letting your head fall forward as though your body can barely hold itself up.
George tips the chopped onion from the board into the pan, and this time it’s his turn to let out a soft laugh.
“Hello, you,” he says, reaching into the drawer for a spoon. “Rough day?”
You sigh, lips forming a small pout.
“Very, very rough. They’re awful,” you mumble.
In less than a second, he’s beside you, spoon dipped into the pasta sauce he’s making. He holds it out toward you without a word. You open your mouth automatically.
“Jesus,” you say around a mouthful, covering it quickly with your hand out of habit.
It’s so good the reaction slips out before you can stop it. George’s smile slowly spreads.
“Oh? That good?” he asks, nodding slightly, as if encouraging the verdict.
“That’s obscene,” you say, already opening your mouth for more like an impatient child.
With a fresh spoonful, he indulges you. The rich mix of cheese and spices fills your senses.
“Mmm. Wow. You’re actually outdoing yourself.”
He turns to lower the heat before facing you again. His hands come up behind you, and his gaze drops briefly to the back of your neck. Without comment, he unclasps your necklace and slips it into your hands.
“Right,” he says lightly. “Out of my kitchen.”
“Hey!” you protest as he takes your free hand and helps you down from the counter.
“Off you go. Have a shower, put something comfortable on.” He gives your shoulder a light push, steering you out of the kitchen before reaching back for the spoon. “I’ll stay here and set the table for Her Majesty. And later you can tell me all about those horrible people from your work.”
For a second longer than necessary, you just stand there, looking at him, at the kitchen, at the soft jazz drifting through the air, and something in you doesn’t quite want to move yet.
George tilts his head toward the hallway in silent instruction. You roll your eyes, he makes a little shooing motion with both hands. You exaggerate a wounded pout, dropping your head in mock defeat before finally turning to go.
You don’t even see him slip off toward the laundry room behind the kitchen. The next thing you register is a clean towel landing over your head. You catch it with a laugh, tugging it down into place before continuing down the hall.
The next morning, George steps out of his bedroom a little after you, adjusting his Mercedes shirt over his frame and hooking his sunglasses into the collar. You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, finishing off your lip gloss before turning toward him with narrowed eyes, the cap still halfway to closing.
He glances down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.
“What?” he asks, tugging lightly at the fabric of his shirt as if checking for a stain.
You walk over, tipping your chin up and motioning him closer with your hand — a silent come here, because the height difference is absurd.
George leans down without question.
You lift your fingers to his hair, adjusting a few strands back into place.
“Okay. Good,” you declare, giving him an approving thumbs-up.
He shifts in front of the mirror you were standing in front of moments ago and tilts his head from side to side, checking his hair.
“Had breakfast?” he asks.
You nod.
“And you didn’t wait for me? That’s betrayal, that is,” he complains lightly.
“You were sleeping like a rock.” You fold your arms loosely. “I tried waking you. Didn’t work. Nudged you like five times.”
You walk over to the counter and pick up the lunch bag.
“Buuuuut… I packed yours. You can eat at work.”
You hand him his breakfast.
He huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re far too clever for your own good,” he says.
You shrug lightly, the kind of gesture that makes it very clear you’re already aware of that fact. George rolls his eyes.
“Come on. I’ll drive you to work,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket with one hand while holding the lunch bag with the other.
It isn’t exactly a daily occurrence, but it’s something you take advantage of whenever George happens to be around. He catches your bright smile and chuckles quietly to himself as he watches you go grab your things.
When you come back, the door is already open, and the two of you head down to the car together.
“As you know, I’m packing today,” George says, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other shifts gears as the car slows at a light.
“Yeah.”
“I’m off to race. Just four days. I’ll fly back the night after.”
He glances at you briefly before looking back at the road, fingers tapping once against the wheel in that absent rhythm he falls into when thinking ahead.
“You’re not going to rest before coming back?” you ask, turning slightly in your seat to face him.
The indicator clicks softly as he changes lanes.
“I’d much rather rest at home, honestly,” he says, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I’ll let you know.”
He reaches blindly toward the center console, offering you the water bottle without looking — muscle memory more than intention.
“Alright,” you reply, taking the bottle automatically and twisting the cap open.
“You should come as well. They keep asking about you,” he adds, eyes still on the road. “We could stay a few extra days.”
“Everyone at Mercedes is lovely. I’d love to go, you know I would.” You take a sip from the water bottle, eyes still on him for a second before lowering them. “But I can’t pause the project right now.” You twist the cap back on and slide the bottle carefully into the cup holder. “My vacation actually lines up with your triple header, though. So I’ll be at three races in a row.”
His hand stills on the steering wheel. It’s subtle, just a slight tightening of his fingers before he glances at you properly this time, no half-look. A full one.
“You will?”
The light ahead turns red and he slows, the car coming to a smooth stop.
“And you’re only telling me this now?” he says, a laugh slipping into his voice despite himself. “Casually — as though this isn’t absolutely brilliant news?”
You grin.
“I knew you’d like it.”
His mouth curves before he can stop it, the smile breaking through fully now.
“Yeah,” he admits, shaking his head once in quiet disbelief. “I really do.”
The light turns green and the car moves again, the engine humming as George drives the last few blocks in thoughtful silence.
Your workplace comes into view sooner than either of you expects.
He pulls into a spot and parks smoothly, the engine cutting off.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then George unbuckles his seatbelt first, the click sharp in the quiet car. Instead of reaching for the door, he turns toward you fully, waiting.
“You probably won’t be here anymore by the time I get home, so…” you say, unfastening your own seatbelt, the strap sliding back into place with a soft whir.
Your hand lingers on the buckle for half a second before you look at him.
You smile to yourself, amused, knowing he’s still a little affected by the news. It’s been a long while since you last went to the paddock — and he isn’t the only one who’s missed it.
When he smiles back, you pull him into a tight hug, and he returns it instantly. After a moment, you lean away just enough to cradle his face gently between your hands.
“Be careful out there with those cars. The halo protects you from a lot of things, but not everything. Don’t be silly,” you say, your voice carrying a mock severity, like a mother sending her child off to karting practice.
He nods, eyes fixed on yours as if absorbing every word completely. You continue in the same tone:
“And eat properly. There won’t be a little lunchbox waiting for you on the other side of Europe, so you actually have to take care of yourself.”
He nods again, his hand coming to rest lightly at your elbow.
“If there’s any gossip, I expect a full report.” You wink, and he smiles a little sheepishly. “And… well, I guess that’s it.”
He looks at you as if expecting something more, then purses his lips the way he always does when he’s about to deliver a very well-thought-out piece of information.
“You’re not going to remind me to buy the local spices?” George asks, one eyebrow lifting.
Your eyes widen slightly before you release his face, letting your hands rest on his shoulders instead.
“Oh! Right! The local spices,” you say, lifting your index finger as if continuing a checklist. “And a plushie. You haven’t brought one back in ages.”
He laughs.
“Alright,” he says, leaning in to press a careful kiss to your forehead. “Have a good day at work. Take care of yourself as well.”
Your hand moves to the car door handle, lingering there for a moment before you finally push it open.
“Come back soon, George,” you murmur as you step out.
“Always do,” he replies quietly.
You don’t answer, just smile before closing the door.
You walk toward work, and behind you, his car waits a second longer than necessary before slipping back into the flow of the street.
Already on the other side of the continent, inside the Mercedes facilities, George goes about his work with the precision of someone who has been doing this for years. He studies telemetry data, revisits old races where he made serious mistakes and others where everything went remarkably right, analyzing his own movements as though they might reveal what comes next.
Someone approaches from behind — a familiar face from the team. George slips one earphone out and greets them. The conversation flows easily, familiar laughter and easy smiles, and they ask about you the way someone asks after a relative. George answers just as naturally, as if speaking about his own life.
You’re doing well. You couldn’t come because work has been keeping you busy, but you said you wished you were there. And then he adds:
“She’ll be at the triple header. That’ll be nice.”
There’s an obvious smile on his face.
The day goes on, and the next one comes just the same. He does everything — speaks to everyone, takes part in interviews, moves through the intensity of race weekends like someone born for it, because in many ways, he was. It’s the realization of a dream. George loves what he does, loves everything he has worked for and achieved.
You’re at home. A friend came over for the weekend because you always find race weekends unbearably empty. She’s stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn in her hands, while you pace behind it, visibly tense.
Your special-edition Mercedes shirt, signed, like all of them are, hangs loosely over your pajama shorts. Every now and then, you pull the cap down over your eyes, as if that might protect you from what’s about to happen.
The commentator’s voice rises, running through the key details as the final four minutes tick away. Your eyes lock onto the number 63 on the screen. You’ve already chewed every nail you have left.
His car moves to the side and—
He overtakes.
The race ends. George finishes P2.
As promised, George comes home that night. You’re not asleep, of course.
The moment he opens the door, he’s met with a bear hug that nearly knocks him off balance. You practically jump into his arms, legs wrapping around his hips while his arms tighten around you instinctively.
“P2! P2! P2!” you chant, swaying slightly in his hold.
He laughs, burying his face deeper into your neck for a second before carefully setting you back down on your feet.
His eyes lift toward the dining table and take in what you’ve laid out: champagne, proper champagne, not that podium rubbish, two glasses, crisps, and pan-fried courgette.
He loves courgette.
“Would you look at this. Special treatment, is it?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.
You shrug, like it’s nothing at all.
“It’s what my champion deserves.”
“I’m not a champion. I’m P2,” he says, but he’s visibly pleased.
“Oh, hush. Come on. Let’s eat.”
You tug him by the arm toward the table, stepping away only long enough to grab the champagne and pour into both glasses while he takes a seat. You move to your usual spot, the chair along the side, close to him as he sits at the head.
With exaggerated elegance, George lifts his glass and waits for you before making a move. You pick up yours and extend it toward him.
“Alexa, play Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities, please,” he says, looking straight at you, which makes a complicit smile spread across your face.
The device glows blue.
“Playing Melody on 5th Street by Oli Venn from Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities on Spotify.”
“Thank you, Alexa. You’re brilliant,” he adds gravely, before finally tapping his glass gently against yours — a soft clink.
“To your P2 today. And to all the poles still to come,” you say, taking a sip.
“To your project,” he replies smoothly, “and to the dog we’re going to adopt.”
You blink. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’m not sure when yet, but it’s happening.”
The conversation carries on the way it always does: easy, gentle, slipping naturally from one subject to the next. He fills you in on things he had already mentioned over text, paddock updates, small stories, the people who asked about you. You talk about your work too, about the friend who stayed over, about what you’ll need from the supermarket and the best time to go.
Eventually, you both decide that, with the triple header coming up, it’s better to leave the monthly grocery run until after you’re back. Neither of you wants food going bad in the fridge again — the lingering smell from past mistakes is a lesson painfully learned.
When dinner ends, George helps you clear the table. He carries the plates to the sink, and there’s a silent agreement between you that the dishes can wait until tomorrow. You put the champagne away and store the leftovers in the fridge.
Jazz continues to drift softly through the air, and as you walk past George, he catches your hand smoothly. You barely notice it at first, not until your arm stretches behind you and you turn back, confused. He raises an eyebrow and gently pulls you toward him.
“I think this moment calls for a dance. A P2 dance, don’t you?” he says, invitingly.
You laugh and nod, your hands settling on his shoulders. George’s hands find your waist, and with an ease that feels almost rehearsed, the two of you glide through the space between the dining area and the living room, moving together to whatever song Alexa has decided to play next.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says sincerely, his voice soft.
“Of course, George,” you reply. He smiles.
When the song ends and another begins, you both come to a stop. Your hands slide down from his shoulders before you step closer, pulling him into one last hug.
“You need to rest. Tomorrow we’re doing absolutely nothing,” you tell him.
“Can’t wait,” he answers, a smile evident in his voice.
At last, the contact breaks, and he leans down to press a courteous kiss to your hand like a proper lord.
“Good night, fair madam.”
You let out a laugh.
“Good night, George.”
With a wink in your direction, he finally heads off toward his room, and you do the same, retreating to yours.
The first day of the triple header arrives with an excitement George wasn’t expecting.
When he wakes up, you’re already a whirlwind moving through the flat. Clothes are scattered everywhere, waiting to be sorted; toiletries are lined up on the sofa; a tied-up trash bag sits by the door, ready to be taken out before you leave for the airport. Nearly everything is prepared.
“Good morning?” he greets, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Morning, handsome! We’re on holiday!” you announce, stepping out from behind the counter with both arms raised. “Well, I am. You’re not, ha-ha.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose and walks over to the sofa, picking up the neatly stacked Mercedes shirts resting on the armrest.
George shakes one of the shirts out with a small snap, inspecting it like it requires professional evaluation.
“Do I need all of these?” he asks, holding up two nearly identical team polos.
“Yes,” you answer immediately, not even looking at him. “You spill things.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. Sauce. Coffee. That weird oil you use when you’re hovering around the mechanics pretending you know what you’re doing.”
That makes him laugh properly this time.
He folds one of the polos with surprising precision before setting it into the open suitcase. You move past him again, brushing his shoulder without thinking, reaching for your passport on the counter.
“Did you pack chargers?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“The one that only works if you bend it at a specific angle?”
He pauses.
“…I will pack that one now.”
You grin triumphantly and step closer, slipping past him to grab it from the drawer.
“Excited?” you ask suddenly, softer this time.
He considers it.
“For the racing?” he replies.
“For all of it.”
He looks around. The half-packed suitcase, the scattered clothes, you standing there with his faulty charger in hand like you’ve just won a battle.
“Yes,” he says simply.
When you arrive at the airport, Charles and Alexandra are already there. They greet you from afar, and you immediately run toward the girl, who runs toward you as well, the two of you colliding into a tight hug. You’d been so happy when George told you they would be traveling with you.
George comes up right behind, carrying both suitcases. Charles leans casually against Alexandra’s luggage, and the two share a knowing look, the kind that silently says, “these girls…”. When you finally pull apart after nearly fainting at the sight of Alexandra’s engagement ring for the first time, George steps forward to congratulate her. You pull Charles into a hug.
You’re halfway to boarding the jet when Charles glances at George with an expression that spells trouble.
“So,” he begins lightly, “when is George finally going to propose as well?”
Alexandra elbows him immediately.
“Stop it,” she mutters.
He only laughs.
“Well, I don’t know…” George says, his gaze dropping to you conspiratorially, which says everything. “Would you say yes if I asked you to marry me?”
“Absolutely not,” you reply without missing a beat, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
He looks at Charles and gives a small shrug.
“Well. There you have it.”
The only thing you catch is Charles muttering, “My God, will they ever sort that out?” before everyone settles into their seats.
Pretending to be George’s social media manager, you hold your phone right up to his face while the two of you walk through the paddock, competing dramatically with the real media team trailing behind.
It’s easily the most entertaining part of the day.
“Since you’re here…” the actual social media guy says, turning the camera toward you.
You immediately lift a hand to cover your face, laughing.
George lets out a quiet snort.
“We’d like to know… does George give you trouble at home?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I can still back out of this, can’t I?” George says, feigning irritation.
You lower your hand and pretend to think.
“Well… no. But he does autograph the groceries.”
The media guy laughs.
George nods seriously.
“Obviously. Imagine how great it is to eat sweetcorn straight from a tin signed Russell 63.’”
He gestures vaguely.
“You could even resell it at a premium, frankly.”
The social media guy takes another step closer, clearly enjoying himself.
“And does she give you trouble, George?”
George hums thoughtfully. “Oh, absolutely. Makes a slave out of me. Forces me to drive her everywhere.”
You glance at him from beneath your lashes, utterly unimpressed.
“You are such a liar. Honestly. And not even a little ashamed.”
“Look straight into that camera and say it’s a lie,” he says, pointing at the phone. “I dare you.”
You look directly at the camera, planting your hands on your hips.
“George Russell lies.”
He rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture toward the social media guy.
“That’s enough. She’s grounded now. No public appearances until the end of the month.”
You gasp dramatically.
“Unbelievable. This is censorship.”
The social media guy laughs behind the camera. “We’re keeping that in.”
George points at him. “You absolutely are not.”
You lean toward the phone one last time. “See you next month, everyone.”
The social media guy finally turns off the camera and waves goodbye as you both approach the Mercedes motorhome. Toto Wolff is standing nearby with Susie, who lights up the moment she sees the two of you arriving together.
“You came! I thought George wasn’t serious,” Susie says warmly.
George looks personally offended. “What is this? Why does everyone suddenly think I’m a liar?”
Toto laughs, stepping forward. He places a hand on your shoulder in that almost paternal way of his before giving your hand a firm squeeze.
“How are you, young lady? Everything alright?”
“All good, Toto. I’m happy to be here,” you reply with an easy smile. “How about you two?”
“We’re very well,” Susie says. “We’re just off to speak with the Academy girls, but we’ll be back shortly.”
“Make yourself at home,” Toto adds. “They’re waiting for George inside, but you already know your way around.”
The farewell is easy, casual. And then they head off, leaving the two of you standing just outside the motorhome.
“Alex said the girls are getting together in the hospitality. I think I’ll spend some time with them while you’re working,” you say.
“Alright. I’ll find you later,” George replies.
You lean in to kiss his cheek, and his arm wraps around you in a quick, familiar hug before you both turn in opposite directions.
“Have fun!” he calls out just before breaking into a jog the rest of the way inside.
The conversation around the table revolved around Alex’s engagement ring. She was glowing, and everyone was genuinely happy for her. There was a softness to the group — an unspoken familiarity shaped by race weekends, waiting rooms, and the quiet understanding that came from loving people whose lives rarely stood still.
Eventually, after one last lingering look at the diamond sparkling on Alex’s finger and a wide smile, Isabella finally turned to you. She rested her chin on her folded hands, curiosity written all over her face.
“And you and George? How long have you been together?” she asked.
You took a sip of your juice, and the answer came as quickly as it always did.
“Oh, we’ve been living together for… four years? Yeah, I think that’s right.”
She looked impressed and leaned back in her chair.
“Wow. That’s a long relationship.”
Alexandra cut in, slightly uncomfortable after a brief glance shared with Lily — the kind that said more than she meant it to.
“Ah, she and George aren’t… actually a couple,” Alexandra said with a tight smile.
You looked from one to the other, eyes widening.
“Oh! Is that what you meant?” You smile, shaking your head as you trace a finger along the rim of your glass. “No, no. I needed somewhere to stay when I first moved to Monaco for work. A mutual friend introduced us because George had a spare room.”
You pause briefly, almost amused. “I was only supposed to stay there until I found my own place.”
You don’t notice the weight of the silence that lingers at the table for a beat too long until Alicia gently breaks it.
“That’s… really nice,” she says, always careful with her words. “If you ever need to, I’m moving to Monaco to be closer to Ollie. A roommate is always welcome.” She pauses, then adds playfully, “That goes for all of you. Except Alex.”
She delivers the last part in a teasing tone, and just like that, the table slips back into laughter — wedding plans, venues, guest lists, the kind of bright joy that fills the air easily.
It’s only you who doesn’t fully join in.
You smile when expected, nod at the right moments, but your thoughts stay somewhere else — circling what you said, and what Alicia offered. Every now and then, your fingers drift to the bracelet around your wrist, absentmindedly twisting it as the conversation carries on without you.
The weekend unfolds exactly as it should: media duties, dinners with good company, and George walking you to your bedroom door like a proper gentleman before heading to his own. You waking up far too early just to wake him, the two of you strolling through the paddock together, you lingering behind the scenes, chatting easily, completely integrated into it all.
The practice sessions come, the close calls, the tense moments, then race day arrives. And when George finishes P2 again, you celebrate in parc fermé, because this time, you’re there. You can breathe in the sweet, unmistakable scent of champagne soaking into the damp race suit.
The smile on his face is priceless, and it reverberates through your body as if it belongs to you.
And then, just like that, the weekend folds itself away. Flights. Suitcases. A blur of goodbyes and quiet hotel corridors.
You move on to the next week — the penultimate race of the season, but your mind isn’t where it should be. In fact, it hasn’t been for days now. You keep thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
You’re in his room, having just arrived and settled in. George sits at the edge of the bed, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, phone forgotten in one hand, while you lie sprawled across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
He watches you for a moment before speaking.
“Your thoughts are rather loud tonight,” his voice is light, though softened at the edges. He rubs a thumb absently along the side of his phone. “Care to share what’s going on in that head of yours, or shall I wait for you to turn the volume down?”
You let out a small breath of a laugh through your nose, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
“Alicia said that if I ever needed to, she has a spare room.”
His fingers still.
George shifts slightly, setting his phone beside him on the bed before turning his head toward you.
“Did she?” he asks, tone neutral, almost polite.
You nod faintly, one arm sliding behind your head.
“We were just talking. The girls. They asked when we… well, when we… met.” The word comes out a fraction too late. “I told them the story. About the flat. After university.” Your fingers trace an absent pattern over the duvet. “That we agreed it would be temporary.”
A quiet beat passes.
George exhales softly through his nose, gaze dropping to his hands as he rubs his palms together once, thoughtfully.
“Right,” he murmurs.
You shift slightly on the bed but don’t look at him. Your eyes remain fixed on the ceiling because you… don’t quite know where else to look.
“And then?” you ask quietly.
He furrows his brow and turns slightly, giving you his profile. There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression, almost indignation. As if the question itself isn’t entirely fair.
“And then what?” he asks, quieter now. “I don’t really know what you expect me to say.” He looks away briefly. “Are you saying you don’t want to live with me anymore?”
A pause.
“It’s been four years.”
Four years.
You close your eyes.
“It has been four years,” you admit softly.
He notices the question you avoided — but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, George stands and walks over to his suitcase, unzipping it with more focus than necessary as he pulls out his pyjamas.
You understand.
Of course you do.
Even if the weight of it feels new — and strangely unfamiliar.
You slide off the bed, the mattress dipping back into place as if you’d never been there at all. You slip your phone into your pocket and head toward the door, slower than usual.
Halfway there, you pause.
You turn back.
He’s still by the suitcase, shoulders slightly tense, taking things out of the bag he doesn’t really need to unpack, only to put them back again.
“Good night, George,” you say softly, a quiet hesitation threading through the words, bracing for silence.
He stills for a fraction of a second before looking up, giving you only his profile again — because he knows you’re capable of seeing everything. A small smile appears, not automatic, but offered.
“Good night,” he replies.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you mean to. Then you leave, closing the door gently behind you.
The consistency begins to falter. George doesn’t finish on the podium in any of the final races, but you don’t see any sharp shift in him. He’s still George.
He hasn’t been talking to you much, that’s true — but there are reasons for that. Loose ends to tie up. Debriefs that stretch longer than they should. There’s always something left unfinished before you can properly go home. It’s never really the end of a season. You know that.
He just seems more tired. A little less steely. Quieter. Less like the man who signs your shirts and pickle jars with exaggerated ceremony, and more like a driver at the tail end of something long and demanding.
You can’t blame him so you stay.
You board the flight after a particularly difficult meeting for him. They wanted to understand what, beyond the car’s performance, had shifted — why he hadn’t quite managed to reach the same level he’d been operating at before. But George couldn’t offer them anything concrete. Just the promise that preparations for next season would be sharper, heavier, more relentless. That he would be ready to give everything he gave this year — and more.
George sleeps through the entire flight and still, when you reach the front door of your flat, he looks utterly exhausted.
You both leave the suitcases by the door, leaning against the small cabinet in the entryway. There’s an unspoken agreement that you’ll unpack tomorrow. Or the day after… or eventually.
George slips off his jacket and hangs it up, then reaches a hand out for yours. You give it to him, and he hangs it beside his with the same quiet care as always.
“I think I’ll try to sleep a bit more,” he says, already unbuttoning his shirt.
You watch him for a moment, his face, the faint crease between his brows carved by a worry you wish you could smooth away with your thumb until it vanished completely, leaving only that easy, familiar joy behind.
Instead, you nod.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll make some tea. Do you want a cup?”
He shakes his head. That never happens.
And then he leaves you there, with no desire for tea at all.
You can’t sleep, so you stay in the living room with the lights low, trying to read a book only to realize you’ve read the same page five times without absorbing a single word.
Your eyes drift to George’s bedroom door more often than you’d like, then pull away again, as you tug the blanket up to your chin as if it could shield you from whatever it is that still hasn’t been named.
It’s only half an hour later that his door opens.
“You still haven’t gone to bed?” he asks quietly.
The sight almost makes you cry: George wearing only a pair of sleep shorts, his hair a complete mess, eyes faintly swollen with a kind of sleep that never quite came.
You shake your head.
“I’m not sleepy,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek.
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. His tongue brushes over his lips as he looks down at the floor, rocking slightly on his feet. You tilt your head to the side.
“I can’t sleep,” he admits, like it’s a secret. “Would you… well, would you mind lying down with me? Just until I fall asleep, maybe. I don’t know. I suppose that sounds a bit odd.”
You don’t answer right away. Your brows lift because… because this is new. And of course, he takes your silence the wrong way.
“Right. Yes. It is odd. That’s alright, I—”
“George,” you say, cutting him off. He looks up at you. “I’ll sleep with you. Of course I will.”
He stops. Just for a moment. A moment so quiet it doesn’t even stretch. He looks at you as if searching for something, some sign that you only said it to be polite, that it wasn’t real. But you’re already getting up, setting the book down on the sofa.
And then… you’re walking toward him. You take his hand. And lead him to his room.
You lie down first because George doesn’t seem to have fully understood yet that this is actually happening. You know why: this is forbidden territory. You’ve never slept together before. Not on trips, not at home, not even when he was ill or when you were. This is the line that was never crossed. This isn’t normal.
And yet, when he lifts his eyes, you’re already there — lying back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up slightly in a quiet invitation he accepts with hesitation.
He approaches the bed carefully, watching you as though you might vanish if he moves too quickly, and then lies down beside you. You don’t hesitate. Your arms slip around him, guiding him closer until he’s resting against you, using you as a pillow. Your fingers find his hair, stroking slowly.
“You can sleep now,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
George melts. He doesn’t even hug you back, just stays there, resting against you as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
You hum softly, some melody he recognizes from the instrumental jazz playlists you share, and at last his eyes drift closed. With your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair, and the quiet song carried gently by your voice, he finally falls asleep.
George wakes the next morning to the soft sound of your breathing above his head. His eyes take a moment to adjust, the room still dark — blinds drawn shut, the only light coming from the humidifier glowing faintly atop the dresser.
In the next moment, he realizes he can’t move — your arms have caged him in, and your legs are nearly tied around his in a knot. But he doesn’t want to move, so it’s alright. He’s content to stay there, holding you for a few more minutes, or hours, or however long it takes for you to rest completely.
He stays like that a while longer, eyes closed though sleep doesn’t come, thinking about… well, he can’t lie. He’s thinking about the conversation. The same way he had the night before when he couldn’t sleep, and on the plane when it slipped into his dreams, and in the car, during practice sessions and races.
George, who had always known how to separate his personal life, his professional world, and his emotions, now found himself unable to tell where one ended and the other began.
When you wake, it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t notice.
You glance down at the tangled mess of limbs the two of you have become, and your first instinct is to pull away because this… this isn’t how things are. It looks too much like something you don’t do, something you’ve never been.
But then George’s eyes meet yours.
You blink once, sleep slowly fading, and realize he looks like he’s about to cry.
“What is it?” you ask, your voice rough with sleep, still soft enough to sound gentle.
His gaze slips away as he lets his forehead rest against your collarbone.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Your hand moves to the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking lightly — comfort, but also a quiet request for him to look at you.
“Hmm? George…”
He lifts his face again, and now you can see it clearly.
Exhaustion.
“I asked you not to go,” he repeats.
You’re a little startled, a little worried, your mind still hazy from having just woken up. Your fingers move gently through his hair, brushing a few strands back behind his ear.
“Love, go where?” you ask, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally between you, your brow furrowing as your forehead comes to rest against his.
“Go. To Alicia’s. To the flat next door. To nowhere,” he says, eyes still closed.
Oh.
That’s it.
It was always that.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, and he opens his eyes, unable to understand why you’re laughing now.
“George,” you say softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks at you, a little confused. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the question forming plainly on his face.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you repeat in a whisper. “And I definitely won’t manage to if you keep squashing me like this. How am I supposed to make us breakfast when you’re holding me hostage here?”
For a moment, you think George truly isn’t going to let you go. He looks at you as if you’re some sort of Christmas miracle, his post-sleep face still marked with the faint imprint of having rested against something textured, the creases soft but visible along his cheek.
Then he nudges his nose lightly against yours, stealing a quiet laugh from you. And finally, finally, he lets you go, dramatically collapsing back onto the bed.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and, before standing up, add casually,
“You’ve got morning breath. Go brush your teeth before you dare show up in my kitchen.”
On your way to the door, you feel a pillow hit you square in the back. You burst into laughter, not even turning around as you head toward the kitchen.
Something has changed. You’re not sure what it is, but it has.
You’re at the supermarket. The shopping list is in your hands, and you point to the crisps on the very top shelf. George — perfectly suited for retrieving things far, far out of reach — stretches his arm and grabs them for you as if it’s nothing.
Natural. Fine.
Except his other hand rests lightly against the small of your back while he does it.
You don’t quite understand the behaviour, but you don’t question it either. You just stand there, a little stiff, and when he lowers himself again to place the packet into the trolley, his hand doesn’t move away. In fact, he uses both hands to gently guide you aside, clearing the way to the cart.
You blink. And the shopping continues.
In the car, you put on a song. It’s loud, full of twists, with an incredible beat that makes you dance like a child. George knows it too, so he sings along with you — shouting the lyrics and drumming against the steering wheel when the chorus hits. He even does the classic little pout and head-bobbing motion like a turtle.
When the car stops at the light, he looks at you. It’s nothing, really. Just a second too long — and you… you register it.
Then the car moves again.
At night, you both get ready for dinner. Alex and Lily invited you, so of course you’re going. When has George ever said no to Alex in his life?
You rest after the supermarket, watching a film — each of you on your side of the sofa, a large, heavily buttered bowl of popcorn between you to share. When it’s time to get ready, George nudges your leg with his big toe and gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head.
“I’ll go get ready. Otherwise we’ll be late,” he says.
You nod. He stands. You stand too. He turns off the TV; you take the popcorn bowl to the kitchen. Together, you brush away the small crumbs left on the sofa, and then each of you heads off to your rooms.
From the bathroom, he calls out for you to bring his shaving cream. Wandering through the flat in your robe, you grab it from his dresser and take it to him. He thanks you, and you continue on to the laundry room to pick up the bra you want to wear.
An hour later, George is ready, sitting on the living room sofa with his suit perfectly adjusted, scrolling through his phone with his legs crossed, his foot bouncing absentmindedly.
You step out of your bedroom.
“George, can you help me zip this up?” you ask, one hand reaching behind your back to hold the fastening of your dress in place.
He nods, still looking at his phone as he locks the screen, then stands, slipping it distractedly into his pocket. His eyes lift to you.
You don’t notice it — but George blinks once more than necessary before stepping closer, moving with careful, almost measured caution. His hand moves to the zipper, and your perfume reaches him before he even begins to pull it up with ease. He exhales. His finger brushes lightly against the skin of your back, and you have a small, completely involuntary spasm — your ribs tightening for a second, your body swaying without meaning to. He steadies you with one hand at your waist, then finishes pulling the zipper closed.
Done.
“Thank you,” you say, brushing your hair off your shoulder and letting it fall down your back.
He hasn’t quite stepped away yet. He busies himself with his cufflinks, though they don’t seem to need fixing.
“Of course,” he says.
It’s only outside the restaurant, while you’re waiting for Alex and Lily, that he looks at you again — the easy conversation between you thinning for a second. He seems unsure of himself, hands slipping into his pockets before he finally says,
“You look beautiful.”
He’s said it so many times before that you don’t immediately understand why it feels different now. Maybe it’s the pause beforehand. Maybe it’s the hesitation that wasn’t there before. Still, you answer.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He looks at you. You look at him. There’s the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth, and one mirrors it on yours. For a moment, it feels like you’re standing in something quiet and shared — something that belongs only to the two of you.
And then… Voices
You both step apart a little too quickly, like teenagers who think they’ve been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, and turn to greet your friends.
Two nights later, it’s you who calls for him.
You’re in the living room — he’s on the simulator, you’re on the sofa reading your book. Eventually, he finishes his session, saying something through his headset to whoever he’d been playing with, then stretches, arms lifting as he lets out a quiet groan.
“Done?” you ask, glancing up at him.
“Mm-hm,” he replies, tipping his head back.
You set your book aside and trace absent patterns along the fabric of the throw, thinking for a moment. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, eyes drifting around the room until they settle on you — still curled into the sofa with your book.
Something soft crosses his expression.
“George,” you say quietly, even though he’s already looking at you.
“Hm?”
“Do you remember when I slept in your room the other night?” A pause. “I… haven’t been sleeping much.” You glance at him. “Would that be alright?”
“Oh,” he says, concern slipping into his voice. He’s already climbing out of the simulator before the word is fully out. “I… yeah, sure. I just need to grab a few things from my room, alright? Then we’ll go to yours.”
You nod.
He’s gone almost immediately, disappearing down the hallway toward his bedroom.
You sit there for a second longer than necessary. And then — a small smile curves at the corner of your mouth.
Tonight, the walk to the bedroom isn’t dramatic. It isn’t wrapped in hesitation or that fragile tension from the other night. This time, it feels simple. Intentional.
You go ahead of George, slipping off your earrings and setting them carefully on the dresser. You straighten the bed out of habit, smooth the sheets with your palms, then lower the lights until only the soft glow of the bedside lamp remains.
A quiet calm settles over the room.
Then you hear his footsteps in the hallway.
He pauses at the doorway.
You turn toward him.
“You took your shirt off,” you say — and instantly wish you hadn’t.
George glances down at himself, blinking.
“Yeah, I— well… you know I sleep like this. I can… put it back on, if you’d rather.”
You blink, then shake your head quickly.
“No… no, oh my God. Of course you sleep like this. I know that,” you mumble, words tangling together as they leave you.
He watches you for another moment before a quiet laugh escapes him. Your hand comes up to your forehead.
He steps closer, finally entering the room properly and coming to stand in front of you. Your eyes stay on his face, but it’s impossible not to let them drop for a second. He notices, of course.
“See something you like?” he teases, his voice low and amused.
You roll your eyes and give him a light push, suddenly very aware of how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers.
“Come on. Let’s sleep.”
You both climb into bed — him first, you right after. George lifts the covers over the two of you, and you stretch slightly to switch off the bedside lamp before settling properly against the mattress.
In the complete darkness, George slips an arm around your waist and gently pulls you closer. You don’t protest. In fact, you don’t say anything at all — you press one lip against the other, hiding a small smile, and nestle into his body.
And just like that, the two of you fall asleep.
This whole sleeping-together arrangement — always wrapped in slightly awkward requests — goes on for another week before it begins to feel almost normal.
You don’t even ask anymore.
His bedroom, once minimalist, slowly starts to merge with your things: a bottle of perfume appearing on the dresser, a folded pair of pyjamas in the first drawer, then two, then three. Your skincare products follow soon after, lined up carefully beside his things — objects that clearly don’t belong to him, yet somehow already do.
One night, you notice him poking at them with quiet curiosity.
“Find something interesting there?” you ask, stepping into the room, drying your hair with a towel.
He lifts a serum in one hand and a moisturiser in the other, studying them like unfamiliar machinery.
“You have far too many things,” he says, turning the bottles slightly as if the labels might explain themselves. “How does any of this work? I only use three things.”
And then you get an idea.
“Come here,” you say, taking his hand and tugging him gently toward the bathroom.
Still looking slightly bewildered, and somehow still holding the moisturiser, he lets himself be led. You gesture toward the closed toilet lid. He arches an eyebrow.
“Just sit down,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.
He does, slowly, like he suspects this might be a trap. Before he can say anything, though, you hurry back to the bedroom to grab what you’ll need — the little pouch and the things still resting on the dresser.
When you return, you’re already in your pyjamas, a towel wrapped loosely around your hair, strands escaping near your neck where they’ve begun to dry. You step closer without hesitation, as if dragging him into your nighttime routine is the most obvious thing in the world.
“What exactly is happening?” he asks.
“Skincare.”
“I do skincare.”
“I know,” you say, already tying a soft headband around his hair, pushing his fringe back until it sticks up in every direction. The sight makes you laugh under your breath. “But now you’re doing my skincare.”
“You’re laughing at me, but this feels rather serious,” he says, suspicious.
“Oh, it is serious,” you reply, holding up a bottle. “Cleanser first. And absolutely no cheap, ridiculous soap. Close your eyes.”
He closes his eyes. You step closer, and one of them opens again, just a quick check. You’re standing there with the cleanser in hand, mere inches from his face. You shrug. A smile spreads across George’s lips, and he obediently shuts his eyes again.
The moment the first drops of cleanser touch his skin and you bring the little sponge to his face, he pulls a dramatic grimace.
“This thing is freezing,” he complains. “Feels like that gel they use for pregnancy ultrasounds.”
Good Lord, this man’s brain. You frown, a laugh escaping anyway.
“How many ultrasounds have you even been to in your life?”
You keep working the cleanser gently across his skin.
“You’d be surprised,” he says.
You pause just long enough to glance at him suspiciously.
“You’re secretly a father and never told me? Because I feel like that’s something I should know.”
You dampen the towel slightly and bring it back to his face, carefully wiping away the cleanser. George keeps his mouth firmly shut so he doesn’t end up tasting soap.
When you need to reach for something higher on the counter, you use him for balance without thinking, a hand braced lightly on his shoulder. You grab the bottle, then settle back down on his lap, the product now in your hand.
His palm comes to rest on your thigh automatically.
You don’t notice at first. You’re too focused on twisting the cap open. It’s only when you tilt the bottle to pour some into his face that you notice the stillness. His hand hasn’t moved. And he’s… tense.
“You’re breathing weird,” you say softly, before you can stop yourself.
A flicker of embarrassment crosses his features, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You’re sitting on me,” he replies, equally quiet.
That makes your lips part slightly. The joke is right there. You could take it. You usually would. But you don’t.
You let a few drops of serum fall onto his cheeks, closing the bottle before setting it carefully on the sink. Then you begin to spread it gently across his skin.
George watches your eyes for a moment and just before you fully notice, he closes his own.
Your fingers keep moving, slow and careful, smoothing the product along his face. And then your thumb brushes once, accidentally, maybe, along the corner of his mouth.
His hand tightens, just a little.
When you’re done, you reach out to grab the towel to wipe your hands because… well, you’re not going to say it out loud. But you really don’t want to get up.
“George… now we move on to the—”
You stop yourself mid-sentence.
His eyes are open.
His other hand comes to rest against your back, almost absentmindedly, as though steadying you without quite realizing it. You don’t finish what you were going to say. You don’t say anything at all. Your gaze stays caught on his, your lips parting slightly just to let the air pass.
All at once, the bathroom feels smaller.
Closer.
George’s eyes drift slowly across your face, unhurried, searching, until they settle on your mouth. His head tilts upward, almost without intention, like his body moves before he has the chance to think better of it.
Your hand rises to his face again, your thumb brushing slowly over his lower lip.
George looks dangerously close to begging. His lips tremble beneath your touch.
And then you finally shatter whatever restraint still exists between you.
Your hand lifts first, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing the headband up and off without breaking eye contact. It falls somewhere behind him, forgotten. You lean in, your mouth finding his with intention. It isn’t hesitant the way it should be. It isn’t gentle. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened at all, but now… it’s ravenous.
A possessive sound slips from George’s throat as he leans into you, deepening the kiss instinctively. One hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing just enough to pull you closer, while the other slides slowly up your thigh.
A soft sound escapes you, something that could very easily be called a moan.
That undoes him completely. George is ruined.
He rises to his feet with you still in his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The towel that had been wrapped around your hair slips loose and falls to the floor.
He presses you back against the wall, the kiss never breaking, fierce, hungry, his mouth moving against yours as though he truly intends to consume you. Years and years of nothing and everything at once spilling over into a desperate fusion of something neither of you even knew existed.
George breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, only for his mouth to move to your neck instead. He kisses, bites, sucks at your skin, and you simply tilt your head back, granting him access, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your hands cling to his back, searching for something steady to hold onto.
He bites a little harder at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and when a surprised little cry escapes you, he laughs low and pleased before lifting you away from the wall and carrying you toward the bedroom, still kissing you the entire way.
You wake in the middle of the night and, for a brief moment, it feels like nothing has changed.
Then you glance over your shoulder.
George is right there — his lips resting against your shoulder, his hand intertwined with yours in the loose embrace that keeps you tucked against his body.
Completely naked.
Oh my God.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, half-muffled into the pillow — but of course he hears it.
“What’s so funny?” George asks, his voice so sleepy it’s almost ridiculous.
“We’re naked,” you whisper.
He shifts slightly, and you know he’s looking now. A second later, you hear that unmistakable laugh of his, low and warm, and you feel the mattress dip as he lifts himself just enough to brush his nose against your earlobe.
“We are indeed,” he murmurs.
Your head tips back against his chest, and his hand slides up, gently cupping the side of your jaw. Your smile is small, sleepy, and painfully real.
“You alright?” George asks softly, his thumb brushing under your chin.
You nod and purse your lips, waiting for a kiss. He smiles and leans down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to your mouth, his hand finally sliding over your skin until it reaches a particularly sensitive spot.
“Alright,” you murmur, still with your eyes closed, lips lingering just inches from his. “But, hey, careful with that wandering hand. I might want to do everything all over again.”
“Oh, imagine that. What a terrible fate for this poor George.”
You laugh. He laughs. Then you turn fully toward him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, and he nods as if it’s the highest compliment.
Now you’re facing each other, eyes smiling more than your mouths.
“Why doesn’t this feel weird?” you ask quietly.
His lip twists in a thoughtful shrug, and his fingers begin tracing absent patterns along your hip.
“I think it was meant to happen a long time ago.”
You nod.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes. Then, softer, “But it’s good.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Very good.”
“Very good.”
He’s laughing quietly now, and so are you. Then George leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Do you want tea?” he asks.
“Mmm. I do,” you reply.
He shifts as if to get up and gestures toward the door with his head.
“Shall we?”
You glance down at yourself.
“Naked?”
He shrugs lightly.
“It’s our house.”
Your smile grows even wider.
Yeah. It is our house.
You take his hand, and without a single worry in the world, the two of you walk out to the kitchen exactly as you are.
You’re getting ready to travel for Christmas, but before that, there’s one more plan: Alex and Lily invited you both to the cinema to watch a film before everyone heads off in different directions and you won’t see each other again until pre-season.
Now you and George are sitting in the car, you finishing off your ponytail while checking your reflection in the mirror.
“Are we telling them?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“Hmmm… no,” George replies thoughtfully. “I think we should wait until the start of the year. Keep it a secret.”
“Okay. Yeah, I like that,” you say.
You both lean in instinctively, laughing under your breath, your lips brushing in a quick, conspiratorial kiss.
And then—
Tap. Tap.
A knock against the window.
When you open your eyes, Alex’s enormous grin on the other side of the glass makes you let out a small, startled squeak.
“What is that?!” George says, turning sharply.
He spots him, laughs, throws his head back and covers his eyes with one hand.
“Well,” he sighs dramatically, “there goes the mystery.”
You shake your head, but there’s still a smile lingering on your lips as you finally step out of the car.
it’s not just that oscar has a “long way to go” still in his f1 career, but that he’s got “a lot more papaya to be looking at” in his future 😭 GUYS THEYRE LITERALLY GROWING OLD TOGETHER IN PAPAYA
