The last article about him
(“You’re nobody” part VII)
Synopsis: part 7 (which is the last). The ‘hater’ journalist with whom Daniel had an affair texts him again after listening him talk about her in his interview. And a new article drops.
Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Sweet love making, funny insults, fluff, Daniel Ricciardo memories (this is a real warning.)
Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors. This is the end of them.
It’s been three weeks, not that you’ve counted.
Not that you’ve checked his profile at night with your screen dimmed low.
Not that your heart still clenches every time you pass something Red Bull blue.
You’ve written four pieces since but none about him: execpt every single one was about him in its own silence.
And today, like a slow knife between the ribs, you hear his name again.
You’re in your apartment, half-listening to an F1 post-race interview on the TV until you hear it, not his name, yours. From someone else’s mouth.
“I mean, you’ve seen the way she used to write about you. Ruthless. Some would say downright unfair.”
You know exactly what they’re doing: They’re talking to him about you on live broadcast.
And you should shut it off, you know for your mental health you really should.
You freeze halfway to the kitchen, a coffee gone cold in your hand.
When he speaks, he is calm and collected.
“Yeah, she was hard on me,” he says. “But she was usually right.”
“I deserved most of it,” he continues. “Back then, I was cocky. Reckless. She didn’t let me off easy, and I respect that. Honestly, we need more people like her in the sport. She tells the truth, even when it makes people uncomfortable.”
The host clears his throat, trying to keep the tone light. “You don’t think she had some… personal agenda?”
“She saw me clearer than I saw myself,” he says.
Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the floor. You don’t even flinch because he’s still talking. “And when she called me out, it pushed me. She made me better. You can say what you want about her tone or her words but her mind is sharp, and she doesn’t flinch. That’s rare.”
There’s a stunned silence on the panel. You imagine the blinking faces, the cameras the awkward host trying to pivot.
You don’t hear the rest because you don’t need to.
Because he defended you. Not just tolerated you. Not just brushed off the question. But defended you. Softly. Firmly. Like you mattered.
Like he wasn’t ashamed anymore.
And suddenly the last night you saw him, that kiss, those trembling hands, the way he said your name like it hurt, rushes back so hard your lungs twist.
You sit there, heart hammering against your ribs, lips parted, staring at nothing.
You don’t cry but something inside you shifts.
Because you get how you had it all wrong.
You thought he left because he didn’t want more.
Bu maybe, just maybe, he was afraid of how much he did.
You grab your phone and start typing a text into his chat.
You don’t send it immediately. You draft it,delete it, draft it again.
Just a few words, that’s all, just something simple, distant, neutral.
You don’t want him to think too much.
You don’t want to think too much.
But it’s been hours since the interview aired, and the words he said, the way he said them.. still echo in your head.
“She saw me clearer than I saw myself.”
It was too soft. Too real.
So finally, in the dark of your living room, you tap the screen. Fingers still trembling, goddamn it.
Thanks for what you said today I didn’t expect it
Then add, after a breath:
No emoji. No punctuation. No armor.
You lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like it might burn your hand.
Then, five minutes later, it buzzes.
You don’t check it immediately but you feel the weight of the message like it’s sitting beside you.
When you finally open it, his reply is short. Direct. It doesn’t play games.
Then another text follows.
just us. for real this time.
You stare at the words so long the screen dims.
And this time, for once, you don’t run.
You pick a quiet place, you both pretend it’s casual : it’s tucked-away café with tiny tables and too much ivy, somewhere in the hills, far from the center of the city.
Still, a camera finds you, you catch the glint of a lens just before sitting down. He notices too but neither of you mention it.
He’s already there when you arrive. Simple shirt, sleeves pushed up, backwards cap, sunglasses discarded uselessly on the table like he forgot who he is. He stands when you approach.
You raise a brow. “You’ve got manners now?”
He smiles, slow and tired. “Trying to impress the critic.”
You both sit but you don’t touch. Your knees brush under the table and neither of you pull away.
You talk about nothing at first: the weather, the ridiculous new team principal drama, who’s actually going to take the seat next year.
You sip your drink like it’s a shield while he pretends not to watch your mouth when you do.
He leans in after a beat and his voice lowers. “I meant what I said. On the interview.”
Silence lingers. He fidgets with the edge of his glass.
Then you say the thing that’s been bruising your throat for weeks.
“I didn’t mean half the shit I wrote.”
You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I mean… I wrote it. But it wasn’t really about you. Not all of it. Not the important stuff.”
He stays quiet, eyes locked on yours, like he knows you’re not done.
“You weren’t just a mask. You were—are—good. Even when I hated you, I knew that.” You pause. “I just didn’t want you to be that good.” Your voice trembles slightly when you add “Because then I’d have to believe in you.”
His expression shifts, there is no smugness, no victory. Just a kind of aching relief.
He reaches across the table and takes your hand. No games this time.
And that’s when the photographer clicks again and you both glance toward the distamt flash. He squeezes your fingers once and doesn’t let go.
“Let them take the picture,” he says quietly. “Let them know.”
And that’s how you know you’re fucked.
You leave the café together. No ducking, no hiding. His hand in yours, openly, as you walk to his car. He opens the passenger door like a gentleman, and you roll your eyes like you’re not melting.
The ride to his place is silent, but not awkward. Just heavy with something tender.
The front door closes with a soft click. You both stand there for a moment still, breathing the same air.
He looks at you like he’s searching for the part of you he’s missed every single day since you left.
Your fingers reach for his. You slide them between his knuckles without a word.
And when you look up at him, your voice is barely a whisper.
“Don’t go slow unless you mean it.”
His jaw tenses, but his thumb grazes yours.
“I mean every second of this.”
The moment he kisses you, it’s not hurried. It’s not desperate.
His lips part over yours slowly, like he’s learning you again, or maybe memorizing you for the first time. You melt into it, hands in his hair, breath shallow. The taste of him makes your knees weak.
He walks you backward to his bedroom, lips never leaving yours, only pausing to look at you. Just look.
“You’re real,” he murmurs. “You’re here.”
The way he undresses you feels almost reverent. He peels your clothes off piece by piece, eyes never straying from your face.
When your shirt drops to the floor, he exhales like it’s a relief to see you bare again.
His hands skim your waist, palms splayed wide.
“Tell me you missed me too.”
You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “Every night.”
He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes.
He kisses your shoulder. Your collarbone. The space between your breasts.
When his mouth brushes your ribs, you gasp softly and he murmurs something you almost don’t catch:
“I dreamed of this. Of you.”
You reach for him, your fingers trembling as you take his cap off, undo his shirt, push it off his shoulders, run your palms across the solid warmth of his chest. He shivers.
When you’re both bare, he doesn’t touch you at first. He just looks at you. Long. Deep. Like he’s memorizing every inch.
Then he leans in and whispers against your collarbone, “You’re even more beautiful when you let yourself be soft.”
That’s when you close your eyes. Because his words hit deeper than any thrust ever could.
He picks you up and lays you gently on the bed setting himself between your legs.
His hands glide over your hips. Your thighs. He kisses down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach everywhere but where you’re desperate for him. Not because he wants to tease but because he wants all of you.
When he finally comes back up and lines himself against you, he pauses, nose brushing yours, foreheads almost touching.
You nod. Breathless. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
And when he pushes inside you, slow and deep, your breath hitches and your whole body arches to meet him.
It’s different this time. No rough grabs. No slamming hips. No trying to break each other open.
Just him fitting into you like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there.
He moves slowly. Steady. Every roll of his hips is a promise. Every moan against your throat is a confession.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies, until you feel every tremble in him like it’s your own.
Your legs wrap around his waist and your fingers lace with his tight, grounding, real. Neither of you lets go this time. He pushes them slowly above your head, your hands in his hands on the pillow.
He looks at you while he’s inside you. Eyes open, locked to yours.
It’s not about power anymore, or control.
It’s about finally having what you both wanted all along.
LI don’t want anyone else to touch you like this,” he breathes.
Your chest cracks open. “They won’t.”
He thrusts deeper, slower, and you cry out his name into the crook of his neck. He whispers yours like it’s a vow.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
You don’t realize you’re crying until he kisses your cheek and tastes the salt. He doesn’t ask. He just keeps moving inside you, holding you like he’ll never let go.
And when you come, it’s quiet not a scream, not a gasp, but a soft, trembling exhale as you cling to him, fingers curling, thighs trembling, overwhelmed with how full you feel, not just your body, but your heart.
He follows seconds later, groaning against your shoulder, pressing so deep you swear you feel him in your chest. His body shudders and stills, and you hold him through it, whispering it’s okay, I’ve got you, even though he was the one holding you first.
After, he stays on top of you, just resting there. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.
And then he lifts his head, eyes glassy, lips parted.
You kiss him again. Soft. Sweet. Slow.
You’re not pretending anymore.
And this time, you’re going to stay.
Half an hour later, quietly, into the soft dark of his room he says: “So… are we a scandal now?”
You smile against his skin. “No,” you whisper. “We’re a headline.”
He laughs , soft and full, and you close your eyes, fingers still entwined, heart wide open.
This time, you know what to do next.
Your article about him goes live three days later.
For most of my career, I’ve written about speed.
About mistakes. About pressure and glory and the millions of eyes watching from behind the safety of a screen. I’ve written about men who win and men who crumble. I’ve written about egos. Masks. The illusions we all wear when the world demands performance.
And for years, one of my most consistent subjects was a man I thought I understood completely.
Fast. Flamboyant. Frustratingly charming. Always a smile, always a joke, always something maddeningly unserious behind the wheel.
I’ll admit this now: I thought that smile was armor.
I thought he was all show and no depth.
But the thing about hindsight, the thing about actually knowing someone, is that it humbles you.
Daniel Ricciardo (yes, I’m naming him now) is not a mask.
He is grit under pressure. He is grace in failure. He is the teammate everyone wanted beside them in war, the last-lap miracle-maker, the one who reminded the sport — and all of us — that joy is not weakness.
He made people believe again. Not just in racing. But in him. In what it looks like to lose with your chin up, and win with your arms wide open.
He didn’t leave the sport bitter. He left it better.
And while his time on the grid has passed, his presence hasn’t.
Not for the people who worked alongside him.
And not for those of us who now know him… differently.
I could list every podium. Every impossible overtake. Every champagne-fueled shoey.
But what I remember most clearly is a quiet moment: him watching a junior driver’s interview, nodding with pride, eyes soft.
That’s the man who ran lap after lap with the weight of public opinion on his back, and never let it make him cruel.
That’s the man we underestimated.
That’s the man I’ll be standing beside, wherever the road takes him next.
Because behind every driver’s helmet is a person.
And behind his, there was someone worth seeing clearly.
I only wish I had seen it sooner.
Daniel is halfway through his second coffee when he sees his name. Bold at the top of the page.
And right beneath it: your name.
He freezes, cup at his lips. It always hurt knowing you were about to hit him with words.
The morning sun filters in through the kitchen window. you’re still in his bed, hair a mess, your legs tangled in his sheets like you own the place now which, let’s be honest, you do.
At first he thinks it’s a trap. Another one of your sharp essays dressed in elegance.
“He didn’t leave the sport bitter. He left it better.”
His throat goes tight and reads it twice. Then three times.
By the time you wander in yawning, wearing his t-shirt and absolutely zero shame he’s read the whole thing.
You sees the screen in his hand and stop in your tracks. “Oh,” you say, blinking. “You read that.”
He arches a brow. “I did.”
You fold your arms, pretending to brace for a punch. “Well?”
He sets the phone down slowly, deliberately, like it’s sacred.
Then he lean back in your chair and say, deadpan:
“Bit sentimental for someone who used to call me an overrated clown.”
You smirk. “You were an overrated clown.”
“Ah. So we’re doing this.”
“Just because I love you now doesn’t mean you weren’t unbearable.”
You both look at each other.
He stands, slow, crossing to where you’re standing barefoot in his kitchen like you’re not shaking a little.
He stops in front of you and rests his hands on your hips. “Say it again.”
You look up at him, breath caught. “What?”
He lowers his voice: “The part where you said you love me.”
You try to play it off with a scoff. “I don’t remember saying that.”
He smirks. “Well, I heard it. And I’ve got an article now to back it up.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t make this worse.”
He leans in, whispering against your lips, “Make what worse?”
And just before you can threaten to knee you, he kisses you. Soft. Certain. The kind of kiss that anchors.
He pulls back barely an inch, breathing you in.
“I love you too,” he murmurs. “Even when you write mean things. Even when you steal my shirts. Even when you act like you don’t.”
You melt. Literally melt.
And then, just because you can’t help yourself, you mumble into your chest: "You’re still a clown.”
He laughs. And you can see it written on his forehead ‘God, you love this woman.’
He wraps his arms around you tighter, lifting you just enough for you to squeal.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing your neck, grinning, “but I’m your clown now.”
And for once, you don’t argue.
(For all those who got here, I love you all, thanks for the love for these two, I will miss them! Feel free to reach out in the comments or in private! Muah!)
