Discover Top Posts Tagged with #dr3

𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦 — dr3

daniel ricciardo x !dts crew/f1 presenter reader (smau + written)

every season, drive to survive had its stars — the champion, the underdogs, the chaos merchants. but this year, it wasn’t just a driver stealing the spotlight. it was you — the calm voice behind the camera, the one every driver seemed to adore. your interviews were warm, funny, and just sharp enough to catch the truth hiding between rehearsed answers.

then daniel ricciardo made his return to f1 and red bull racing — and suddenly, every camera caught something else: the way his smile lingered a little too long, the way you forgot your next question, the way the whole paddock started rooting for you without meaning to.

f1 had its comeback kid. netflix had its love story.

fc : lissie mackintosh + some pics of heidi

(day 7 of chef’s tea party series!) (so daniel is back in f1 and is max’s teammate again bc i said so! enjoy!) (sorry for the spacing at the end - got very carried away with words bc this is for my special angel @dontreallylikemyname ! love u my baby)

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f1gossipgirls

1,257,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : drive to survive has returned and so has daniel ricciardo…who seems more interested in @/yourusername than his seat at red bull😭😭

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view 89,000 other comments.

username007 : mans is acting like he is auditioning for the bachelor and not being asked about his return to f1

username90 : max in the background laughing and yelling at daniel to focus had me crying 🤭 maxiel is backkkkk

username50 : lowkey if daniel looked at me like that, i would most definitely forget every question too

username77 : this man literally just came back to f1 to flirt with yn

username008 : oh the producers love this. i just know they are eating it up

username45 : you can literally hear the crew laughing when he says “unfinished business and you” 😭😭😭

username90 : she is so shy and cute and daniel is so…himself. it’s literally sunshine and chaos in human form

username012 : i’ve watched so many of yn’s interviews and she has never been speechless or giggled like that. i’m obsessed.

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yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, lando, maxverstappen1 and 2,100,000 others.

yourusername : drive to survive is live, f1 is back and so am i;)

tagged : danielricciardo

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view 125,000 other comments.

lando : hot laps???? without lando????

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i’ve done like the last 3 with you and i feared for my life each time 🤧

liked by lando

↳ lando : oh and daniel is any safer????

↳ danielricciardo : safer and hotter

liked by lando and yourusername

↳ username000 : omg we’re getting a yn daniel hot laps

f1 : the grid missed you 😍

liked by yourusername

redbullracing : so thrilled to have you as the first guest of the season! ❤️💙

liked by yourusername

lilymhe : you’re so beautiful 🤏🏻 i missed you!!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : missed you more angel

netflix : you were the real main character this season 😉

liked by yourusername

username005 : no way she ended the dump with a picture of her and daniel

↳ username008 : i love them your honor

maxverstappen1 : i’ve requested to only do interviews with you this season. prepare to be sick of me

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : could never be sick of super max

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ lando : you just gotta hope daniel doesn’t get to her first

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and danielricciardo

alexandrasaintmleux : pretty angel💕

liked by yourusername

danielricciardo : i made it in the first instagram post of the season…im honored

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : see…all that flirting got you somewhere 🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by danielricciardo

↳ danielricciardo : i will not stop until the entire post is dedicated to me 🥸

liked by yourusername

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You’ve been doing this long enough to know how to keep your composure. You’ve interviewed World Champions, rookies, engineers, even a few egos too big to fit in the paddock gates — but Daniel Ricciardo? He’s in his own category.

The Netflix crew is setting up the lights in the Red Bull hospitality suite, the air buzzing with that familiar pre-season energy — rumbling in the background, crew members laughing, the smell of espresso and tire rubber mixing in the air. You’re reviewing your notes on the tablet, the question list neat and color-coded as always.

You’ve done post-race interviews with Daniel before, moments here and there — but this is the your first time for Drive to Survive and his first interview since his return. His comeback is the headline.

You hear the laughter first. That unmistakable, bright sound that cuts through everything else.

Then he walks in. Sunglasses hooked on his shirt, smile wider than ever, curls a little messier than you remember. The room seems to lighten just because he’s in it — or maybe that’s just what he does.

“Hey, stranger,” he grins, walking straight toward you like he’s greeting an old friend. “You’re still making everyone nervous with your presence and serious questions?”

You glance up from your tablet, trying not to laugh. “You say that like I have a reputation.”

“Oh, you do.” He nods seriously, grabbing a bottle of water. “Half the grid’s terrified you’ll make them cry on camera.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Tell that to Lando after you made him talk about pressure last year. Poor kid’s still recovering.”

You can’t help the small smile that escapes. “I’m sure he’s fine. Ready?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes crinkling. “Born ready.”

The crew gives the all-clear. Cameras roll. The red light blinks on. You sit across from him, notebook on your lap, mic clipped to your blouse, and suddenly the quiet hum of the set fades away. It’s just him and you.

“Daniel, welcome back. It’s been a long journey for you — how does it feel to return to Red Bull?”

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider it, but the smirk on his face is pure mischief. “Honestly? Feels like coming home. Familiar faces, familiar colors…” His gaze flickers to you. “…and a familiar interviewer. So, really, couldn’t be happier.”

You blink, already feeling your professionalism slipping. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“Not sweet, just true.” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “I saw your name on the call sheet this morning and thought — ‘Oh yeah, today’s gonna be a good day.’”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not a quote we can use in the edit.”

“Why not? I’m giving the people what they want.”

“What they want,” you tease, “or what you want?”

He grins like you’ve walked right into it. “Both. You’ve seen Twitter — they love when we do interviews. I’m just here to keep the fans happy.”

Your cheeks warm, and you look down at your notes quickly, desperate to redirect. “Okay, so, after your time away—”

“Don’t pretend you’re not smiling,” he interrupts, leaning just far enough that you can see the dimple in his cheek.

“I’m trying to be professional.”

“Ah, see, that’s your first mistake.”

You look back up at him, fighting another laugh. “And what’s the right way, then?”

He shrugs lightly, the picture of easy confidence. “Just talk to me. Like we’re having coffee. You can even ask me about my love life if you want.”

“Daniel.”

He chuckles, hands raised in mock defense. “Okay, okay. Back to racing. But for the record—” His voice lowers just slightly, playful. “—you make this job way too easy.”

You can hear one of the producers stifling a laugh off-camera.

“Anyway,” you say firmly, trying to move things along. “After your year away, what’s motivating you most this season?”

He exhales, pretending to think, though there’s that glimmer in his eyes again — the one that means he’s about to say something you’ll never live down.

“Unfinished business,” he says.

Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “And maybe you.”

You choke on a laugh before you can help it. “You’re impossible.”

He beams. “And yet, you’re still sitting here with me.”

“Because it’s my job.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, pretending to believe you. “Let’s just say you’re doing it very well.”

By the time the interview wraps, your cheeks hurt from smiling.The crew starts packing up equipment, and Daniel’s still sitting there, elbows on his knees, just watching you with that soft grin — less teasing now, more genuine.

“You’re good at this, you know,” he says quietly once the cameras are off.

You tilt your head. “Flirting or interviews?”

He laughs — that bright, full sound again. “Both, apparently.”

You stand, shaking your head. “You’re going to get me in trouble with the Netflix editors.”

“Worth it,” he says easily. “They’ll cut the boring bits anyway. Might as well make good television.”

You’re halfway to the door when he calls after you, voice light but warm:

“Hey — it’s really nice seeing you again.”

You pause, turning back. He’s standing now, hands in his pockets, smile a little softer.

“You too, Daniel.”

He grins, nodding once before heading toward the garage. “Don’t be a stranger. I plan on giving a lot of interviews this year.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin on your face doesn’t fade even after he’s gone — and when you glance at your reflection in the glass, your cheeks are still pink.

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The second time you sit down with Daniel Ricciardo, you swear you’re ready. You’ve prepped harder, you’ve practiced deflecting, you’ve told yourself ten different times that this time you’ll stay focused — because the last interview went viral for all the wrong reasons (depending who you ask).

The clip has been circulating everywhere: your laugh, his smirk— sent fans spiraling. You told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. Not today.

But the moment he walks in — wearing his Red Bull polo half unbuttoned, curls still damp from the morning heat, smile bright enough to make the lighting crew curse — you already know you’re in trouble.

“Back for round two?” he asks, dropping into the chair across from you with a grin that could melt titanium.

“More like part two,” you reply evenly, checking your mic connection. “We’re digging a little deeper today.”

He raises a brow. “Deeper, huh? That sounds serious.”

“It is. Try to keep up.”

He laughs, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees again. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

You give him a pointed look. “That’s what you said last time.”

He grins. “Yeah, but then you smiled at me, so really, that’s on you.”

You groan under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

You turn toward the producer and give the thumbs-up for rolling. The red light flickers on. Showtime.

You start with something safe.

“So Daniel, now that you’ve had a few weeks back with Red Bull, how are you feeling in the car? Has the adjustment been what you expected?”

He hums, pretending to think, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “It’s been… good. Really good. The car’s quick, the team’s solid, and I feel like I’m finding my rhythm again.”

You nod, jotting something on your notepad. “Has there been any challenge, mentally, returning after that time away?”

He looks at you for a moment — and for once, doesn’t immediately joke. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “You doubt yourself, you know? When you step away, there’s that voice that asks if you’ve lost your edge, if the sport’s moved on without you. But then you get back in the car, and it’s like…” He gestures vaguely, smiling softly. “Like you remember why you fell in love with it in the first place.”

You catch the honesty in his voice and feel yourself soften too.

“That’s really beautifully said,” you tell him.

“Thanks.” His grin returns — gentler this time. “See? I can do serious too.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, love.”

You roll your eyes, even as a small laugh escapes you. “There it is. I knew it wouldn’t last.”

He chuckles lowly. “What? I was doing so well!”

“Three minutes,” you tease. “That’s your record.”

“Alright, so what’s next? Deep emotional reflection or another chance to redeem myself?”

“Let’s try reflection,” you say firmly. “This one’s for the Netflix editors, not your dating reel.”

He laughs so hard he nearly drops his water bottle. “My dating reel? You think I need help with that?”

“I think you need to stop giving them material.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, leaning closer again, his tone soft and teasing. “You don’t like it when I flirt?”

“Daniel—”

“Because you’re smiling right now.”

You press your lips together, trying to fight it, but the corner of your mouth betrays you.

He catches it immediately. “Knew it.”

You shake your head, laughing now. “You’re so difficult.”

“And yet, here you are interviewing me again. Some might call that destiny.”

“Some might call that my job.”

“Same thing,” he says with a wink.

The sound engineer coughs to hide his laugh, and you take that as your cue to wrap this up before it gets worse.

After the cameras cut, the air in the room softens. The crew starts packing up, leaving the two of you sitting there surrounded by cables and half-empty water bottles.

Daniel stretches lazily, then looks at you with that softer version of his smile — the one that isn’t for the cameras. “You’re really good at this, you know. You actually make people think.”

You raise a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He shrugs lightly. “You make me talk about stuff I don’t usually say out loud but you don’t push.”

That catches you off guard — how quietly sincere he sounds. The flirting always felt like his natural language, but this? This is different.

You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest. “Well… I’m glad. You’re easy to talk to.”

He beams. “See? That’s teamwork.”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.”

For a moment, there’s just a comfortable silence between you — the hum of equipment being packed up, the muffled sound of mechanics in the next room, the faint scent of rubber and coffee lingering in the air.

Then Daniel stands, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt. “Guess I should let you get back to being a professional before I ruin your reputation entirely.”

You laugh softly. “Bit late for that.”

He tilts his head, a glint of playfulness back in his eyes. “Then I might as well finish the job.”

Before you can ask what he means, he steps closer — just enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand brushes your elbow, gentle and unhurried, and then he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. Barely there. But it leaves your entire face burning.

You blink up at him, stunned. “Daniel.”

He grins, dimples deep, eyes shining. “Relax, love. Just a friendly Australian goodbye.”

You laugh — breathless, flustered, but unable to stop smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing toward the door, still grinning. “But you like me anyway.”

He gives a little wave before disappearing down the hall, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and the ghost of his kiss still warm against your cheek.

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If someone had told you a year ago that Netflix and Formula 1 would team up to throw you in a car with Daniel Ricciardo behind the wheel, you would’ve laughed and said, “I value my life too much for that.”

But here you are — standing beside a gleaming Red Bull-branded sports car, the track shimmering in the midday heat, and Daniel grinning like the devil in sunglasses.

The crew is buzzing around, cameras everywhere. You can already hear the sound bites being written in their heads — “The chemistry between Daniel and the beloved presenter hits new speeds.” You swear one of the producers winked at you.

And Daniel? He’s thriving.

He’s been teasing you since the moment you arrived.

“So, you trust me with your life?” he asks, leaning against the car, arms crossed and grin wide.

“I trust Red Bull’s safety standards,” you reply sweetly, clipping your mic onto your pink jumpsuit.

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “Right in the heart. Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll drive nice and easy. Promise.”

“That’s what every driver says right before scaring their passenger half to death.”

He chuckles. “I’m not every driver.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you — fluttering just a little too fast when he tosses you that boyish smile.

They start filming the intro — wide shots, drone shots, sound checks. The crew is eating up the energy between you.

“Alright,” you say, turning to camera, mic in hand. “I’ve done plenty of interviews with Daniel Ricciardo, but today, they have decided to make things… interesting.”

Daniel leans into frame, grinning. “She means dangerous.”

“I mean terrifying.”

“Same thing,” he laughs.

You glance at him, mock-serious. “I have to interview him while he’s driving. Which, for anyone who’s ever been in a car with Daniel Ricciardo, sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Correction,” he says smoothly, “sounds like a fun idea.”

The crew waves you toward the car, and Daniel immediately straightens up, ready to play gentleman. He opens the passenger door for you with a flourish and a little bow.

“Your chariot awaits, milady.”

You can’t help laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” he says proudly. “Hop in.”

You climb in — awkwardly at first, trying not to trip or hit your head. He laughs under his breath and reaches across to help, steadying you with one hand on your arm.

“Easy there, superstar. We can’t have F1’s favorite presenter concussed.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

“Not taking any chances.” He reaches for your harness next, pulling the belts into place with a precision that’s second nature. “Gotta make sure you’re safe.”

The way he says it — soft, sincere — makes your chest tighten just a little.

“Comfortable?” he asks, giving the strap one final tug.

“As I’ll ever be,” you tease, but your voice is quieter now.

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Helmet time.”

He grabs it for you, lifting it carefully and holding it steady while you pull it on. When the chin strap slips, he reaches out, fixing it himself, his fingers brushing your jaw for just a moment.

“There,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “Perfect.”

You exhale slowly, willing yourself not to melt. The camera catches all of it.

“Alright,” Daniel says, climbing in beside you and fastening his own belts. “We’re gonna start slow, yeah?”

“Define slow.”

He glances over, eyes sparkling. “You’ll see.”

The car roars to life, the sound vibrating through your chest. You barely have time to prepare before he pulls onto the circuit — and instantly, you’re pressed back into your seat.

“Daniel!”

He laughs, pure mischief. “You said you trusted me!”

“I did not say that!”

The car dives into the first corner with impossible smoothness. You’re clutching the grab handle with one hand, cue cards in the other, trying to remember how to speak while Daniel looks like he’s on a Sunday drive.

“So!” he says, voice raised over the engine. “You had questions for me, right?”

You try to glare but end up laughing instead. “How am I supposed to interview you like this?”

“Adaptability, love. That’s what makes a great journalist.”

“Fine!” you yell over the noise. “How does it feel to be back on the grid?”

“Like this!” he shouts back, throwing the car into another corner. You shriek, he laughs — full, bright, and completely unbothered.

The crew is howling through their headsets. You can barely breathe for laughing, your heart racing with adrenaline and something softer you refuse to name. After a few laps, he slows down slightly — enough that you can actually hear each other again.

“Still alive?” he teases.

“Barely.”

“You’re a natural. You didn’t even scream that much.”

“That much?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing over, grin softening. “You did great.”

You laugh breathlessly, shaking your head. “You’re insane, Ricciardo.”

He looks at you for a moment — really looks — and his smile shifts, turning gentler. “You’re fun to make smile, you know that?”

Your breath catches.

The car slows to a smooth stop near the pit wall, engine idling low. The crew rushes over, but Daniel waves them off for a second, turning toward you instead.

He unclips his harness, then leans over to unfasten yours, hands steady and careful. “Got it,” he murmurs, undoing the last buckle. “See? Full service experience.”

You’re laughing again — soft, breathless. “I should’ve known you’d make this into a show.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“I didn’t say that,” you admit quietly.

He pauses, still close, his hand resting just beside your seat. The world outside the car is noisy — cameras, crew, laughter — but in here, it’s quiet. Warm.

His smile softens again, dimples deep, eyes kind. “You did great, you know. You’re brave for trusting me with this.”

You tilt your head, smiling back. “You made it easy.”

He grins. “Careful, you’ll make me blush.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed under your helmet. “I think you like it when I do.”

“Guilty,” he murmurs.

Someone outside knocks on the roof, breaking the spell.

“You two lovebirds done in there?” one of the producers yells, half-joking.

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

He climbs out first, then circles around to open your door. When you step out, he offers his hand automatically — steadying you like it’s instinct.

You pull off your helmet, hair a mess, face flushed, still grinning.

The camera catches it: you laughing breathlessly while Daniel stands beside you, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes on you like he’s already forgotten there’s an entire crew watching.

“Still trust me?” he asks.

You meet his eyes — soft, golden, impossibly fond. “Against my better judgment, yeah.”

He laughs, that warm sound that’s starting to feel like your favorite thing. “Guess that means I did my job.”

And as you both stand there, wind tangling your hair and cameras flashing from every direction, it feels like something has shifted — something sweet and quiet is blooming under the surface.

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The paddock is rumbling— a heartbeat of engines, color, and tension humming beneath the surface. You’ve been to countless races before, but this one feels different.

Red Bull invited you personally — not just as a presenter, but as an exclusive partner for the season’s opening weekend. The footage from the Hot Laps had gone viral: tens of millions of views, fan edits, compilations, and captions like “just date already” flooding every platform.

Daniel Ricciardo and you had become the internet’s newest obsession — the banter, the chemistry, the chaos. And now? You’re officially embedded with the team.

You smooth the Red Bull lanyard around your neck as you walk into the garage. Mechanics are moving in rhythm, engineers calling out data, fans cheering from the stands above. The smell of fuel, the hum of the engines, the thrum of adrenaline — it’s all there.

And then you hear it. That laugh. It cuts through the noise like a melody you know by heart.

You turn — and there he is. Daniel Ricciardo. Suit half-zipped, helmet under one arm, curls escaping his balaclava, grin already too bright for anyone else’s good. He spots you instantly, like he felt you arrive.

And the second your eyes meet, his entire face lights up.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, walking over. “Look who Red Bull’s spoiled rotten.”

You laugh, meeting him halfway. “Hey, I’m just here to do my job.”

“Yeah, sure,” he teases, stepping closer. “You just happened to pick the best garage in the paddock. Total coincidence.”

“Completely. Had nothing to do with the driver who begged for me to be assigned here.”

He puts a hand to his chest, pretending to be scandalized. “Begged? I’d never—”

“Daniel.”

He grins, busted. “Alright, maybe I strongly suggested it. But Max did too.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Whatever you say.”

“But you’re here,” he says, voice softer now. “That’s what matters.”

The moment lingers — quiet, for just a heartbeat. Around you, the garage is a blur of movement, but neither of you are paying attention to anything else.

You finally speak, voice barely above the noise. “You ready for this?”

He exhales, the edge of nervous excitement flashing across his face. “Yeah. Feels good, you know? Being back. I just…” He trails off, then looks at you again, eyes warm. “I wanna make it count.”

You smile, genuinely. “You will.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “You’ve got this. Go remind them why you belong here.”

For a moment, he just looks at you — something like gratitude flickering in his eyes. Then, quietly, he says, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause I only believe it when you say it.”

Before you can reply, his race engineer calls out, “Ricciardo, two minutes!”

He gives you one last grin, tugging his gloves on. “See you after the race, yeah?”

“Only if you bring the champagne,” you shoot back.

He winks. “You got it, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he’s gone — climbing into the car, helmet on, engine roaring to life.

You stay in the garage as the lights go out. Max is in his element, Daniel right behind him, the team a storm of focus and precision. You can barely breathe during the last few laps — Daniel’s holding P3, fighting off a charging Mercedes, holding steady.

And when he crosses the line — P3. Podium.

You don’t even realize you’re cheering until you see him coasting back into the pit lane, grinning so hard it hurts. The crew erupts around you, everyone clapping him on the back, helmets knocking together in celebration.

The cameras catch it all — and when he climbs out of the car, the first person he looks for isn’t his race engineer, isn’t Max, isn’t even Laurent.

It’s you.

You’re standing at the edge of the garage, headset around your neck, mic in hand — and he walks straight toward you, helmet still in hand, face flushed and eyes sparkling.

You laugh as he approaches, breathless with excitement. “P3, Ricciardo! First race back and already on the podium!”

“Not bad, huh?” he says, pulling off his balaclava. “Guess I still remember how to drive.”

“Barely,” you tease, and he laughs — that loud, familiar sound that fills the space around you.

You’re supposed to wait for the official post-race interviews, but the camera crew has already turned toward you both. Someone behind the scenes whispers, “Let it roll.”

So you do.

You lift your mic, smile wide. “Alright, Daniel Ricciardo, P3 in the first race of the season. Talk us through it — how are you feeling right now?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? Like a kid again. Like all that hard work finally paid off. The car felt great, the team’s been amazing, and—” He looks at you then, grin softening. “—you showing up might’ve been good luck.”

You laugh, blushing despite yourself. “I’ll take credit for that.”

“Oh, I’m giving you full credit,” he says. “You told me to go remind them why I belong here, right? So I did.”

“That’s all you,” you say, smiling, but he shakes his head.

“Nah. That’s you believing in me. I just followed through.”

The crowd behind the barriers is going feral. You can hear fans screaming, waving banners, phones out.

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, grin widening, “but I’m also feeling pretty brave right now.”

You tilt your head, confused — and that’s when he does it.

He steps a little closer, voice still into your mic, smile nothing short of lethal.

“So, how about we test that good luck again?” he says. “Go out with me tonight?”

Your jaw drops. “Daniel!”

He laughs — full, carefree, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m serious!”

“You just asked me out on live TV!”

He grins, utterly delighted. “Yeah, but at least now you can’t say no.”

The crowd loses it. The Red Bull crew is howling. Cameras are zoomed all the way in, capturing your stunned expression and his shit-eating grin.

You cover your face for a second, laughing so hard your shoulders shake. When you finally look back up at him, you can’t even hide your smile.

“You are impossible, Ricciardo.”

He leans closer, voice dropping — soft enough that only you and the mic catch it. “Yeah, but you like me that way.”

You can’t help it — you laugh again, shaking your head. “Fine. One date.”

He sends a wink to the camera. “That’s the real victory today.”

The crew behind you cheers even louder than they did for the podium. Someone yells, “THAT’S OUR BOY!” and the fans are chanting both your names now, like it’s some sort of movie ending.

You turn back to the camera, cheeks flushed, heart racing. “Well, there you have it. Daniel Ricciardo — P3 on track, P1 in confidence.”

He laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the camera pans out. “Best post-race interview of my life.”

“You say that to all the interviewers?”

He grins, leaning in just enough to make you forget the cameras again. “Only you.”

And as the world watches, the two of you walk off together toward the podium celebrations — your laughter mixing with the sound of champagne and cheering — and for the first time in a long time, Daniel Ricciardo looks like the happiest man on Earth.

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The evening sun sinks low, the golden light melting into violet and rose across your hotel room. You stand by the window, curling an earring into place, your heart thudding a little faster than usual. You’ve been on camera for years — in front of legends, surrounded by chaos — but somehow, tonight feels like the most nerve-racking moment of them all.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

downstairs. don’t rush — but also i’m dying to see you

You laugh quietly, glancing at yourself one last time in the mirror. The blush of excitement on your cheeks is impossible to hide, but you decide you don’t want to.

When you step out of the elevator, the lobby is soft and quiet, golden lighting glinting off marble floors. And there he is.

Daniel Ricciardo — standing by the doors, hands tucked behind his back, curls tamed just enough, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth the second he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then he grins — that grin that’s lit up entire paddocks — and takes a step toward you.

“Wow,” he says softly. “You actually made me forget how to speak for a second.”

You roll your eyes, already smiling. “You promised to be on your best behavior tonight.”

“I’m trying,” he insists, lifting something from behind his back — a small bouquet of flowers, bright and colorful, tied with a simple blue ribbon. “These might help my case?”

You blink in surprise, touched. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs, pretending nonchalance. “You said yes on live TV. I figured I owed you at least that.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “They’re beautiful.”

He steps closer, the faintest trace of cologne and engine oil clinging to him — that unmistakable mix of Daniel and the track. He brushes a kiss against your cheek, just long enough to make your heart trip over itself.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drives himself — of course he does — in a car that gleams under the streetlights. The ride is quiet in the best way, windows down, city air warm against your face. Every so often, he glances over at you, a soft grin pulling at his lips like he can’t help it.

“Still can’t believe you said yes,” he says at one red light, tapping the steering wheel.

“You left me no choice,” you tease.

He laughs, low and happy. “Fair. Still… feels good hearing it again.”

The restaurant is tucked away near the harbor, candlelit tables set beneath strings of fairy lights. The hostess knows him by name and leads you to a quiet corner table with a view of the water.

Everything about the evening feels easy. He’s all warmth — asking about your favorite travel stories, teasing you gently about the chaos of filming, making you laugh so much you have to hide your face behind your hands more than once. You talk for hours — about childhood, about racing, about how surreal it all feels sometimes. He listens, really listens, his eyes soft and steady on you the entire time.

At one point, when the waiter brings dessert, he leans his elbows on the table and tilts his head.

“You know,” he says, voice low and genuine now, “I’ve liked you for a while.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“Every time you interviewed me. Even before Netflix decided to turn this into a subplot.” He grins, a little shyly. “Didn’t think you’d ever notice.”

You laugh softly. “I noticed. I just thought you were like that with everyone.”

“I’m not.” He smiles again, eyes crinkling. “Just you.”

Something in the way he says it makes your heart stutter.

After dinner, he drives you back to your hotel. The streets are quiet now, and when he parks, neither of you moves for a moment. The air hums between you — that same quiet pull that’s been growing all season, now tangible in the small space of the car.

He turns to you. “I had a really good time tonight.”

You smile, fingers brushing the ends of your dress on your lap. “Me too. You’re… kind of impossible not to like, Ricciardo.”

His grin softens into something more tender. “That sounds close to a compliment.”

“It might be.”

For a beat, you both just look at each other — the dim city lights flickering across his face, his thumb tracing idle circles on the steering wheel. Then he reaches across the console, hesitating just long enough for you to nod.

His hand finds yours, warm and careful.

“Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod again.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek — the same spot he touched earlier, only this time he lingers. You turn your head before he can pull back, catching his lips in a quick, shy kiss that steals both your breaths.

When you pull away, he’s smiling that dizzy, heart-full smile that only Daniel Ricciardo can manage.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You are relentless.”

“Yeah,” he says, still grinning. “And you’re smiling. So I’m winning.”

You shake your head, still holding his hand. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

“Goodnight, superstar.”

You step out of the car, flowers in one arm, still glowing. And when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s still there — elbow on the window, chin in hand, grinning like the world’s happiest fool.

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The Shanghai paddock hums with its usual Thursday chaos — cameras rolling, drivers milling around, the smell of fresh rubber and espresso clinging to the air. It’s media day: the one time before a race weekend when everyone’s relaxed enough to joke, gossip, and tease.

And you, as usual, are in the middle of it all.

You’re standing in front of the McLaren backdrop, microphone in hand, finishing up an interview with Lando Norris. He’s been making you laugh for ten straight minutes — all wild gestures and sarcastic stories about his simulator training — and the cameras are eating it up.

You’ve gotten good at keeping your cool on camera, but lately, that’s been… harder.

Because while you’re nodding along to Lando’s story about accidentally hitting a bird on the straight, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t have to check it to know who it is — Daniel’s name flashes through your mind before you even glance down.

He’s been texting you nonstop since your date — sending photos of random things that remind him of you, little voice notes from airports, and, of course, the bouquet of flowers that showed up at your hotel two days ago. You’d smiled for an hour straight after that.

Now, you’re doing your best to keep your head clear, to stay professional — but as Lando continues speaking, something shifts in the crowd behind the cameras.

There’s a commotion — laughter, voices calling out, a few photographers suddenly perking up. You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Daniel Ricciardo, walking down the paddock lane in full Red Bull uniform, sunglasses perched on his nose, curls bouncing, grin lethal. He’s clearly just finished his own press session, still holding a bottle of water, relaxed and glowing in the afternoon light.

But the second he spots you, he changes course.

“Uh oh,” Lando says, catching your glance. “Who are you looking—oh, of course.”

You follow his gaze just in time to see Daniel veer directly toward you.

“Daniel,” you start, a laugh already building in your voice, “don’t you dare—”

He does.

“Sorry, sorry,” he interrupts, striding right in between you and Lando, tossing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’s known you forever. “Just making sure everything’s running smoothly here. You good, YN?”

You blink up at him, biting back a smile. “We’re in the middle of an interview.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says, grinning. “Just thought I’d, uh, offer my expertise. Norris can’t be trusted to tell a story straight.”

Lando scoffs, hands on his hips. “Excuse me? I was doing perfectly fine before you decided to make this about you.”

Daniel laughs. “Mate, everything’s about me. You should know that by now.”

The crew is laughing. Even the cameraman’s shoulders are shaking.

You sigh, giving in, your cheeks warm. “Okay, fine. Since you’ve hijacked my interview, maybe we can ask you a question, too.”

Daniel smirks. “Fire away, gorgeous.”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “He did not just call you that on camera—”

You glare at Daniel, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “Alright, Ricciardo,” you say, slipping back into your professional tone even as your voice trembles with amusement, “how’s it feel to be back on the podium and back in the paddock every week?”

He leans closer, still grinning, pretending to think. “Oh, you know. Pretty great. The podium’s nice, but I think I enjoyed the post-race interview a bit more.”

Lando groans, covering his face. “You two are unreal.”

You try not to laugh, lifting the mic higher. “So, are you feeling confident for this weekend?”

“Confident? Always,” Daniel says. “Though, I do need some motivation.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You tilt your head, smiling cautiously. “And what kind of motivation are we talking about?”

He gives you that lopsided, reckless grin — the one that’s been living rent-free in your head since the first interview. “Well,” he says, pausing just long enough to make everyone lean in, “I was thinking… if I get another podium this weekend, maybe I earn another date?”

The crowd erupts. Lando doubles over laughing. The camera crew immediately zooms in on your face — wide eyes, flushed cheeks, caught perfectly between shock and delight.

“Daniel!” you hiss, whispering but not low enough for the mic to miss it.

He just shrugs, smug as ever. “What? Seems like fair incentive.”

You shake your head, trying to stay composed. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t just ask you out on camera again?” He grins. “I think we’ve established that I can.”

Lando’s wheezing beside you. “You’re gonna get Red Bull’s entire social team fired up again, mate.”

“That’s the goal,” Daniel says cheerfully. Then, turning back to you: “So? Deal?”

You cross your arms, trying to hide your smile. “If — and only if — you get another podium.”

His grin widens. “Oh, I love a challenge.”

“Good,” you say, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing. “Now can I get back to my actual interview?”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. Don’t let me interrupt. Norris, continue talking about… what were you even talking about?”

“Your ego, probably,” Lando mutters.

Daniel winks at you. “Catch you later, sweetheart.”

And then, as if he hasn’t just caused a full-scale social media explosion, he strolls off down the paddock — waving casually to the crew as the mics pick up Lando’s laughing disbelief.

You’re still staring after him, shaking your head when Lando leans toward your mic again.

“So…” he says, grin wide and teasing. “Second date, huh?”

You roll your eyes, trying to contain your smile. “Back to you, Lando.”

But your cheeks are pink, and your heart’s doing that stupid fluttering thing again.

Because you know — and everyone knows — that if Daniel Ricciardo gets another podium this weekend, you’re in serious trouble.

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It’s late — the Shanghai skyline glitters like a scattered galaxy, and the two of you are walking side by side, trying to blend into the small crowd that fills the riverfront promenade. Daniel’s wearing a cap pulled low and a hoodie, hands in his pockets, but there’s still something about him — that aura, that warmth — that makes people turn their heads.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop smiling. You’ve been teasing him about his podium all evening, replaying how he’d given you that cheeky grin on the cooldown lap camera when he pointed straight at the crew and said, “Tell YN I’ll see her tonight.”

“Still can’t believe you said that on international television,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as the two of you stroll beneath the soft glow of lantern lights.

Daniel grins, all teeth and sunshine. “What can I say? Manifestation works, sweetheart.”

“Manifestation?” you echo, raising a brow. “I think it’s called shameless flirting.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich, and it bubbles out of you too before you can stop it. “You didn’t seem to mind it when I asked if another podium meant another date,” he teases.

You look up at him, fighting the grin threatening to break free. “That’s because it was cute,” you admit softly. “And maybe a little bold.”

“Bold’s kind of my thing.” He leans a bit closer as you stop at the water’s edge. The reflection of neon lights ripples across the dark surface, and there’s a quiet moment — one of those that hums with all the words neither of you need to say.

You turn to face him fully, your hand brushing against his. “So, what does a guy do when his manifestation works?”

Daniel tilts his head, his voice dropping just slightly. “Takes the girl on another date… and tries not to mess it up.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but your cheeks are warm. “So far, you’re doing alright.”

He smiles, that slow, soft Daniel Ricciardo smile — the one that makes your heart skip like a missed beat. “Good. Because I was hoping for that.”

The rest of the night is light and easy. He buys you street food from a vendor, even though you insist you’re not hungry — only for you to end up stealing half his skewer. He makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and at one point, he drapes his arm over your shoulders while you’re walking, casual and comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And when you reach your hotel, neither of you seems ready to let go.

You linger in the hallway, both of you laughing softly about something ridiculous he said — and then there’s that silence again. The one that always feels like it’s building toward something inevitable.

You meet his eyes, heart fluttering. “You don’t have to rush off,” you say quietly. “If you want to stay for a bit.”

Daniel blinks, caught off guard for a moment — then that smile creeps in, soft and fond. “Yeah?”

You nod, trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah.”

He steps inside, toeing off his shoes by the door, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. He takes his hoodie off, leaving just a plain black tee that somehow makes him look even better. You sit on the bed, pulling your legs up, watching as he sits beside you.

“I can’t believe you actually let me stay,” he says with a grin, voice soft now, like the night’s taken the edge off his usual energy.

You shrug. “You earned it.”

He laughs — quietly this time — and then reaches over, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is so gentle that your breath catches.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “you make it really hard to focus on racing.”

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Good thing you’re doing both pretty well.”

He laughs again, but this time it fades into something softer. Then, almost instinctively, you both lean in. The kiss isn’t rushed or hungry — it’s slow, sweet, and filled with the kind of warmth that seeps right into your bones. When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his.

“I’m really glad you’re back,” you whisper.

“So am I,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your jaw. “If this is part of the package.”

You laugh, curling into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. He pulls you closer, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his hand tracing lazy circles along your back.

The city outside hums quietly, the faint glow of the skyline painting streaks of blue and gold across the curtains.

Neither of you talk much after that. You fall asleep tangled up together — his hand still in your hair, your leg draped over his, the scent of him — sandalwood and champagne and something unmistakably Daniel — filling the quiet.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like a story for the cameras or a headline waiting to happen.

It’s just the two of you. Warm. Weightless. Right.

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a week later…japan

You wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a freight train.Your throat is sandpaper, your nose is completely useless, and your voice — when you try to croak out a “hello?” to room service — comes out like a dying frog. The sunlight spilling through the curtains feels far too bright, and even your bones ache.

You groan and flop back into bed, clutching the blanket like it might save you. You’d felt it coming the night before — a tickle in your throat during the flight to Japan, a sniffle you brushed off as jet lag. But now, it’s undeniable: you’re sick. Horribly sick.

With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and type a quick message to the crew and your boss :

hey guys, I’m super sick today. won’t make media day :( please let RB know I’ll catch them later this week!

You drop your phone onto the nightstand and pull the covers up to your chin, trying to go back to sleep. Your body feels heavy, hot, and shivery all at once.

But a few hours later — maybe three, maybe four — a soft knock pulls you out of your feverish half-sleep.

You groan, sitting up and sniffling pathetically. “Who—who is it?” you call, voice barely audible.

There’s silence for a second. Then—

“Room service. With extra charm.”

You blink, frowning at the voice. That voice. That lilt.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle to the door, blanket still wrapped around you like a cocoon. When you open it, you nearly drop your jaw.

Daniel Ricciardo stands there, grinning sheepishly, holding two grocery bags and a bouquet of flowers so bright they make the entire hallway glow.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Heard you called in sick.”

You blink, still groggy. “Daniel,” you rasp, “what are you— why aren’t you at media day?”

He shrugs, stepping inside like he’s done it a thousand times before. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You follow him with your eyes as he sets the bags down on the small hotel table, humming like he owns the place. “What do you mean you didn’t feel like it?” you ask, confused.

He glances over his shoulder at you, grin softening. “Didn’t want to answer anything that didn’t come from you.”

Your brain short-circuits. “You— you what?”

He just shrugs again, casual as ever. “Told them I wasn’t doing any press until you were back. They looked pretty confused, to be honest.”

“Daniel,” you croak, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, “you can’t just skip media day because I’m sick.”

“Too late,” he says cheerfully, unpacking his haul. “Now sit down before you fall down.”

You sigh, but the corners of your mouth tug upward despite yourself. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders and sit on the edge of the bed, watching him with dazed amusement.

He pulls out a small pharmacy’s worth of supplies — tissues, cough drops, electrolyte packets, two bottles of water, even a little thermometer. Then he takes out a bag of soup from a local restaurant, still warm, and sets it all out neatly.

“I didn’t know what kind of soup you like, so I got miso and chicken noodle,” he says, focused as ever. “And tea. Lots of tea.”

Your heart twists. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

He looks up at you and grins, that signature lopsided one that makes his eyes sparkle. “I wanted to. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die before I win another race.”

You laugh — or try to, but it turns into a cough. He’s beside you instantly, rubbing your back, murmuring a soft “easy, easy” until you stop.

When you finally catch your breath, you look up at him. “You’re way too nice to me,” you mumble.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just fair. You take care of everyone in that paddock. Figured someone should return the favor.”

He pours the tea, checking the temperature before handing it to you. His touch lingers on your fingers for a second longer than necessary — just enough to make your stomach flutter even through the haze of your fever.

The next few hours blur into something strangely cozy. Daniel insists on keeping you hydrated and fed, tucking your blanket around your shoulders every time you shift. He sits beside you, scrolling through random YouTube videos and showing you clips just to make you laugh — and every time you giggle, he looks so proud of himself it’s ridiculous.

At one point, you’re half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder, and he whispers, “See? Told you skipping media day was worth it.”

You hum tiredly. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, brushing a thumb over your hand, “but I’m the good kind.”

You fall asleep like that — his arm draped loosely around you, your hand still tangled in his.

When you wake up a couple hours later, the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the AC and Daniel’s slow breathing beside you. He’s dozed off sitting upright, your blanket pulled halfway over his lap, hair a mess, a small smile still lingering on his lips.

You watch him for a moment, warmth flooding through your chest despite the fever. He looks peaceful. Safe. Yours.

When you finally whisper, “Hey,” he stirs, blinking sleepily.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “Feeling any better?”

You nod weakly. “A bit. Thanks to you.”

He smiles, and that alone feels like medicine.

“Good,” he says softly, brushing his hand over your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere until you’re completely better.”

You laugh quietly, nestling back into his shoulder. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Maybe,” he hums, pulling the blanket up around you both. “But I like terrible ideas if they involve you.”

And for the first time that day, your chest doesn’t ache — it just feels full. Full of something you’d been waiting for.

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Saturday comes wrapped in sunshine and the comforting hum of the paddock coming back to life. The noise of engines, chatter, laughter, and radios filters through the air like background music — the familiar rhythm you’ve missed all week. You’re back in your element.

You’re dressed in your white blouse and slim black trousers, hair pulled into a neat half-updo that does not betray the fact that you spent most of the last few days buried under blankets and tissues. There’s still a little rasp to your voice, but you can talk again, you can move without dizziness, and you feel human — mostly.

As soon as you step into the Red Bull hospitality, Daniel spots you. He’s leaning against a counter with a coffee cup in hand, chatting with one of the engineers, but his eyes snap to you the second you walk in. That megawatt grin spreads across his face, slow and bright, and he sets his cup down before you can even say a word.

“Well, well,” he says as he walks toward you, his voice full of that playful warmth that always makes you melt. “Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living.”

You laugh softly. “I missed one media day, Ricciardo.”

He tuts, pretending to be scandalized. “One too many if you ask me.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I cannot with you.”

“Yeah, but you still deal with me.”

Before you can even roll your eyes, he presses a bottle of water into your hand, the label already half-peeled from where his thumb must’ve worried at it earlier. “You’ve been talking non-stop for the last hour,” he says matter-of-factly. “Drink.”

You blink at him, amused. “You’ve been watching me?”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “Obviously.” His voice dips just a little, teasing but soft. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t burn yourself out again.”

It’s ridiculous how much that makes your heart flutter.

You take the bottle, raising an eyebrow. “And that somebody is you?”

“Who else?” he grins. “Max? He’d hand you an energy drink and call it a vitamin.”

You can’t argue with that. You take a sip just to appease him, and he looks far too pleased with himself.

Throughout the day, you flit between teams for your pre-quali interviews, mic in hand, producer in your ear, the entire paddock swirling with the usual Saturday energy. And somehow — always — Daniel is there.

When you’re chatting with Ollie, Daniel walks by, tapping two fingers against the water bottle sitting on your nearby stool, mouthing, drink.

When you’re sitting on the pit wall during a segment, he casually leaves a pack of honey lozenges beside your notebook.

And between interviews, you catch him watching you from across the garage — not in an overbearing way, but in that quiet, fond, protective way that makes you feel seen.

You catch him mid-stare once, and he immediately points to his earpiece and mouths working, as if that somehow explains him looking at you like you hung the moon.

By the time qualifying rolls around, your energy’s fading a little — not terrible, but you’re starting to feel that dull fatigue settle behind your eyes. You’re standing near the pit lane, going through your notes, when you hear him again.

“Hey, superstar.”

You turn to find Daniel, helmet in one hand, other hand clutching a small packet of sliced fruit from the catering table.

He waves it at you. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Eat something.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really committed to this whole personal caretaker role, huh?”

He shrugs, his grin softening. “Gotta earn my invite back to your hotel room somehow.”

You blush instantly, eyes wide, but he just laughs, reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Relax, angel,” he teases, voice dropping a touch, “I just meant for soup and tea duty.”

Sure. Of course he did.

You take the fruit from him anyway, fingers brushing his — and you swear you can feel his pulse jump at the contact.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He smiles at you like you’ve just given him a trophy. “Anytime.”

After quali ends — P4 for him, and he looks absolutely thrilled — you catch him for the post-session interview. He’s flushed from the car, sweat gleaming at his temples, eyes sparkling.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” you start, trying to sound professional even as your cheeks heat. “P4 today, strong showing from you and the team — tell me how that felt.”

He takes a breath, glancing up at you with that crooked smirk that should be illegal. “Felt good. Real good. Especially having my favorite interviewer back in the paddock to see it.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You know, some might say you perform better when I’m around.”

“Oh, I’d definitely say that,” he grins. “You’re good luck.”

You shake your head, microphone trembling slightly from how hard you’re trying not to giggle. “I think that’s enough credit to last me the weekend.”

“Nah,” he says, still grinning as he looks at you like you’re the only person there, “need you back in the garage to win the race.”

The camera crew snickers. You bite your lip, eyes darting to your producer off-screen, who’s absolutely eating it up.

When the interview wraps, Daniel steps a little closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mic won’t catch it.

“Seriously,” he says softly, eyes lingering on you, “it’s good to see you back. You okay?”

You nod, voice gentle. “I am now.”

He gives your hand a quick squeeze — just for a second, just enough to make your chest flutter — and then jogs off toward the garage, waving over his shoulder.

As he disappears into the crowd, your producer’s voice crackles through your earpiece.

“Please tell me you’re aware the internet is going to explode again.”

You sigh, smiling helplessly, eyes still on where Daniel disappeared. “Yeah,” you whisper, “I’m very aware.”

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You wake to the gentle hum of the hotel AC, sunlight stretching lazily across the sheets, and the steady rhythm of Daniel’s breathing beside you.

For a second, you just lie there, eyes half open, heart full. His arm is slung over your waist, his face buried into your pillow, curls an adorable mess. His warmth seeps into you like sunlight through glass — steady, grounding, real.

You tilt your head slightly and watch him — the scruff on his jaw, the faint twitch of his lips like he’s smiling even in his sleep. He looks peaceful. For once, not the chaotic, grinning showman of the paddock, not the Daniel the cameras crave — just your Daniel.

You trace your fingers gently over the tattoos on his arm, feeling him stir under your touch.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper, smiling softly. “Big day.”

He groans dramatically, rolling onto his back. “Yeah, yeah. No pressure or anything.”

You laugh quietly, leaning up on your elbow. “You’ve done this hundreds of times.”

He cracks one eye open, grinning. “Yeah, but this is the first time my good luck charm’s here from start to finish.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re the one doing the driving, Ricciardo.”

“Maybe,” he hums, eyes softening as he looks at you, “but you’re the reason I actually want to.”

And before you can respond — before your heart can even settle from that — he leans in and presses a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world quiet, that says everything without words.

By the time you make it to the paddock, the world is already spinning in high gear — media buzzing, fans shouting, team radios crackling. You’re back in the Red Bull garage, headset in place, tablet in hand, but you can feel Daniel’s energy even before you see him.

He finds you instantly, like there’s a magnet between you.

“You ready?” you ask as he walks over in his race suit, helmet under his arm, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

“Always,” he grins. Then, leaning in just slightly, he adds, “You gonna be watching from the same spot?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile, and he nods, satisfied.

As he heads out to the grid, he glances back once — gives you that wink that makes your knees weak — before climbing into the car.

The race is chaos. Fast, tense, brilliant chaos. Max and Charles duel, Lando snatches fastest laps, strategy calls come in rapid-fire bursts. And through it all, Daniel drives like a man reborn.

You’re standing at the front of the garage, fingers gripping your lanyard, heart hammering as the final laps tick down.

“Come on, Danny,” you whisper under your breath. “You’ve got this.”

When the checkered flag waves and his name flashes across the monitor — P1 — Ricciardo — the entire garage erupts. Cheers, shouting, clapping — a tidal wave of joy. Engineers are hugging, mechanics are pounding the walls, and you can’t stop smiling.

Because he did it. He won.

The cameras are everywhere when he returns. He jumps out of the car, helmet off, face split into that impossibly bright grin — and before anyone else can get to him, he spots you.

You barely have a second to react before he’s jogging toward you, eyes shining.

“Daniel—” you start, but the words die in your throat when he scoops you up, laughing, spinning you in a full circle as the crowd around you cheers.

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, but you’re laughing too — pure, unfiltered joy bursting out of you. When he sets you down, he doesn’t hesitate.

He cups your face in both hands, tilts his head, and kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the garage, with cameras flashing, fans screaming, crew members whistling — Daniel Ricciardo kisses you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

It’s soft at first, then smiling, then just him.

When he finally pulls back, his grin is dizzying.

“This,” he says, still a little breathless, voice carrying over the noise, “is me making us official.”

You blink up at him, stunned, cheeks flushed, and laugh — the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “You’re insane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re stuck with me now.”

The team starts chanting his name, someone throws confetti from god-knows-where, and Max strolls by shaking his head, muttering, “Finally,” under his breath before pulling Daniel into a brief hug.

The rest of the day blurs into celebration — podium champagne, interviews you barely remember, Daniel looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. And later, at the afterparty, it’s quieter. Just you, him, and the glow of fairy lights in a rooftop bar overlooking the city.

He keeps a hand on your thigh the entire time, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.

“So,” you tease, leaning toward him, “official, huh?”

He grins. “Official-official.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “And what does that mean exactly?”

He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear. “Means next time I win, you’re on the podium with me.”

You laugh, swatting his arm, but he just pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest.

“Thank you,” he says softly after a moment. “For being here. For… all of it.”

You look up at him, heart swelling. “Always.”

And when he kisses you again — slow, sweet, sure — it feels like the whole world is clapping along.

Because this isn’t just his comeback. It’s yours. And somehow, in the middle of all the noise and glitter and chaos of Formula 1, you’ve found each other.

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danielricciardo : best thing about returning to f1? her.

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