summary: alex just crashed, everyone is saying it's okay but alex doesn't feel like everything is okay.
pairing: alex albon x pr manager!reader
author's notes: a little short, i know, but i promise i will make it better. also, remember that english isn't my first language.
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ โฆ โ โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
The Melbourne paddock seemed too calm for a day that had already gone so wrong. The Australian sun reflected off the asphalt, the Williams dashboards, the camera lenses. Everything beautiful, everything clean, everything fake. Inside, the atmosphere was different.
Alex Albon sat on the steps of the motorhome, still in his racing suit halfway, the collar open, his hair disheveled from the helmet he had ripped off too forcefully. His hands rested on his knees, motionless, as if his whole body was trying not to collapse.
He had crashed in FP1. He had crashed again in FP2. And every time someone came to talk to him, it was always the same phrase:
"It's okay. We'll fix it."
But he knew that everything wasn't okay.
You walked through the paddock with your tablet pressed against your chest, ready to respond to journalists who hadn't even arrived yet. As Williams' PR, your job was to maintain a stable image even when everything was shaking. But at that moment, you weren't thinking about headlines.
You were thinking about him. Alex looked up when you stopped nearby, but he didn't smile. His face looked tired in a way that wasn't just from the heat or the adrenaline.
"They say it's fine," he murmured, more to the ground than to you. "They always do."
You sat down next to him without asking permission, both of you staring at the flow of people passing by as if the world were functioning normally.
"And you don't believe them," you replied.
He let out a short, almost humorless laugh. "I put the car in the wall twice in one day. That's not 'fine'."
The silence that fell between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy. One of those silences that carries everything that wasn't said.
Alex rubbed his face with his hands. "I keep thinkingโฆ if this were anyone else, they'd be furious. But with me it's always 'don't worry, Alex, it's okay.' Like they're already expecting me to mess up."
You turned your body slightly toward him, observing every micro-movement: the way his shoulders were tense, how his jaw clenched when he spoke.
"Maybe theyโre saying it because they donโt want you to break."
"Or because they donโt care if I do."
He finally looked at you. His brown eyes were dark, tired, full of something he rarely let slip in the paddock: fear.
"I try so hard to be the easy one. The nice one. The one who doesnโt cause problems. And the moment I make oneโฆ I feel like Iโm already replaceable."
The wind swept between the trailers, carrying the smell of rubber and fuel. In the distance, a car roared on the track.
You spoke more softly. "Youโre not replaceable. Youโre just human in a sport that pretends people arenโt."
Alex swallowed hard. He seemed so small there, away from the car, away from the helmet that always made him seem indestructible. โI hate that everyone saw it" he confessed. "The crashes. The replays. The comments. Itโs like my worst thoughts are suddenly public.โ
You didnโt try to fix it. You didnโt try to turn it into something positive. You just stood there.
โYou donโt have to perform for me" you said. "Not right now.โ
He let out a trembling breath, almost a laugh. โThatโs dangerous. I might get used to it.โ
For a few seconds, he just breathed, as if he finally had permission to exist without being analyzed by data, times, or engineers.
โI just want one weekend where I donโt feel like Iโm fighting myself" he murmured.
โYou donโt have to win today" you replied. "You just have to get back in the car.โ
Alex nodded slowly. The radio in his pocket vibrated, calling for the FP3 briefing. Reality pulling him back.
He stood up, but hesitated. "Thanksโฆ for not telling me itโs fine."
You smiled slightly. "Sometimes it isnโt. And thatโs okay too."
Alex took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and began walking toward the motorhome. Still broken. Still insecure. But no longer alone.
And, for a few moments, that was enough.
