back after a writer's block. tbh not so sure about this but since older bf!lando's always a serve so fuck it ig🤷♀️
ibiza was hot, like scorching.
lando smiled as he watched you laugh with his friends. fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare shoulder. god, he still remembers how nervous you were to meet his friends — though he was lot more. the age gap used to be the elephant in the room no one really addressed but if anyone saw your table from a 3rd person's perspective they'd see a group of young adults that are close friends.
"enjoying?" he asked as you hummed in agreement before getting tangled up in a conversation with max fewtrell's girlfriend. you laughed again, that bright, unrestrained sound that had turned heads since you’d walked into the restaurant. your hands moving animatedly as you spoke to max’s girlfriend, bracelets clinking softly. you fit there so easily now — smiling, chatting, sipping from your glass — like you’d always been part of this little circle.
it was strange, really. few months back, you were all nerves, clutching lando’s hand under the table during your first dinner with his friends, whispering that you weren’t sure if they’d like you. now, watching you, lando almost couldn’t remember that version of you. you’d grown into the space, carved out your own place in their group — something he was quietly proud of.
"someone's tanned terrifically well." he leaned down to whisper in your ear. "you're just saying that." you rolled your eyes at him. it was a well known fact in the world of f1 .i.e. if there's someone who tans gorgeously than it's hands down lando norris. he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, "darling—" "norris you really to get a fucking room!" ethan interrupted. the man referred to, just gave him the middle finger from behind his girlfriend’s back.
the night spilled softly into gold and violet, the air humming with laughter and the low roll of waves. lando leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually behind you — though every time your shoulder brushed his forearm, his breath stuttered just a little.
the hotel door clicked shut behind you, sealing the muffled bass of distant music and the warm hush of the room. the air-con hummed low, cool against skin that was still heated from the walk back. you turned around to remove your heels, the hem of your shell skirt brushing against your thigh with that faint, delicate clatter it had made all evening.
lando leaned against the door, hands still in his pockets, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. "that thing," he said, pointing toward your skirt, voice as he removed his own shoes, "hasn’t shut up all night." you blinked, half-smiling. "you mean my skirt?"
"mhmm." he pushed off the door, stepping closer. "every time you moved, it sounded like it was telling on you.” he muttered, warping his arms around you. you laughed, heat creeping up your neck. "maybe it just wanted attention." you shrugged kissing his left cheek. lando pulled you closer — if possible. tilting his head, his eyes skimmed your outfit before meeting yours again, "then it got plenty."
his lips found yours as his hands worked to pull the strings of your white cami top ( which barely covered your back with it's two strings ). his hands worked on your skirt next working till you were stark naked as he walked you two back to the loveseat in back of the room. pulling you down on his lap. lando couldn't lie but he let out a moan seeing naked figure.
"god, how'd i get so luck with you pretty girl?" he muttered as if enchanted by your beauty. "stop!" you scrunched your nose as the heat crept up your cheeks and neck. you straddled his lap, arms draping over his shoulders. lando captured your lips in a slow and sensual kiss, tongues tangling languidly as he explored each part of your mouth and left you dizzy. lando's hands roamed around your back, tracing the dip of your spine with his knuckles. you rocked your hips, grinding down against him as you deepened the kiss. you could feel every inch of his length pressing against your aching core, separated only by the fabric that covered him.
lando groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips as he guided your movements. he bucked up against you, the friction delicious even through the barrier of clothes. "fuck" he breathed, breaking the kiss to nip at your bottom lip. "you feel so good." you smiled, leaning back to give him better access to yout neck. lando didn't hesitate, peppering your neck with open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips that made you shiver with pleasure. you rocked your his against his as the sensation.
"fuck i need you now" he kissed your neck as he pulled out a condom from his jeans pocket before pushing it down and freeing his cock. he ripped off the wrapper by his teeth and wrapped your hand around his shaft, giving himself a slow stroke from root to tip. lando groaned, his head falling back as he focused on the feeling of your soft palm encircling him before putting the condom on. "come on princess, do your thing" lando breathed. you didn’t need to be told twice as you positioned yourself over his hard length. his hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding you down onto his cock in one smooth motion. yoj both groaned as he filled you, stretching your walls to accommodate his thickness.
you began to move, rocking your hips against his as you rode him slowly. lando's hands guided your movements, helping you find a steady rhythm that had them both panting with pleasure. lando threw his head behind, letting you take control for awhile. "fuck, i've been thinking about this all day." he blabbered, feeling your hot core wrap around his cock. "you feel so good around me." he muttered against your bare breast.
it wasn't long until your thighs began to tremble, your legs threatening to close— "ah–fuck— can't hold myself." you breathed as your frame collapsed against chest. lando chuckled before gripping your hips and thrusting harder. he grabbed a fistful of your hair — making you face him before capturing your lips against his. god knows how much he loves doing this specially when you're on the brink of an orgasm because you always struggle to kiss him back. all because of just how good you were being fucked and honestly, that's the best ego booster that man ever needed.
the room smelled like sex, sweat, and beach air. a weird cocktail of sounds of skin slapping against skin, a mixture of your and his moans, and your bangles clacking filled the space. pleasure ripped through you as you came undone. lando fastened his pace, chasing his own pleasure and overstimulated you in the process. he pressed his forehead against yours as he let his pleasure wash over him.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x rookie!redbull!driver!reader
Summary: F1 rookie Y/n, known for her guarded "poker face" because of a traumatic past involving an abusive ex-boyfriend , finds an unexpected solution to her problems in McLaren driver Oscar Piastri. Following Oscar's humiliating public breakup, the idea pops up, a perfect PR stunt to shield Y/n from her ex's harassment and distract the media from Oscar's heartbreak.
Includes: fake relationship, mutual pining, emotional walls / guarded protagonist, hurt/comfort, slow burnnnnnnn, happy ending at the end of the series.
Warnings: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Narcissistic and abusive Ex-Boyfriend, Past Relationship Trauma, Emotional Distress / Anxiety, Cheating, Cuss words. Lily is the cheater (for story purposes, in this account, we like Lily and we don't tolerate hate towards anyone)
Word count: 5k
a/n: This is going to be a mini series; it's going to be between three and four parts. My first language isn't English, so if you see any mistakes, i'm sorry and tell me so i can correct them. Also, I still don't know if I want to make this my debut into smut soooo Im thinking about it. Also, if I should add another warning, please let me know.
Life has been hard on you, but the thing is, that's life. Life is life, with its ups and downs. You learned that in every twist that your life took, you had something to learn, a lesson to take, and then move on to the next one.
You thought that after everything, you could have been happy until you met him, and your world turned upside down. It took you effort to always be the poker face girl, your nickname, and you promised yourself that your life didn't need any kind of love aside from friends; romantic love was not your thing. It was never meant to be for you, never.
Every relationship that you had was a disaster in all the wrong ways—cheaters, ex-boyfriends, liars, and even an abusive one that you never talk about because of what a failure and mistake it was. Your life was perfect in every other topic, career, job, perfect.
Until Oscar Piastri came into view that first weekend, and you fell hard for him.
“Poker face.” You turned toward the voice and spotted George right away. His blue zephyr eyes glistened because the sun didn't have any kind of mercy for anyone. You put your lips in a thin line, trying not to smile, not even a little.
“Yes, Russel,” You said, stopping in front of the Mercedes garage, where he came from. He put his hands in his pockets, trying to keep it cool.
“You're a rookie here,” He commented, giving the sun a view of his board back. You sighed as he put himself in front of you. You needed to get to the interview room before they fined you a large sum.
“I know, but I'm the best rookie of all,” You commented, not as a question but as a fact. He raised an eyebrow, and he looked like the diva he has the reputation for.
“So much confidence,” he whispered, walking with confidence towards the first interviews of the season. His smile spread across his face, and you gave him a tight smile, making him laugh a little.
It was true that you were one of the best rookies, if not the best one. You had won F3 and F2 without blinking an eye, with a precision and decisiveness nobody understood. You were one of the first women who got too far at that quick pace. You were proud, but you wouldn't be satisfied until you won F1, and, for the way George was seeing you, he knew it.
You've known George since he was karting, and you were just watching. You were seven years younger than him and admired him with all your heart. He trained you in secret when your parents were away for work. He helped you when he was also learning, and you will always admire and respect him for it. That's how you started to pick up an interest in racing, because of him, and it was one of the best things that ever happened to you; it saved you from drowning in the bubble your parents wanted you to live in.
George knew it. He knew everything; he was like a brother to you, the brother you never had. He saw what no one else could, and the most crucial thing is that he understands you in ways you didn't even understand yourself.
“Most of them are nice, and more with rookies, but you're the first woman in a while to make it here.” You furrowed your eyebrows, knowing that next year another great woman would come; she had already passed to F2, and you expected to see her the following season.
“So?” You asked, by the way, he was a little nervous. You knew he wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t anymore. He had something to do, plus you were already an adult. “I'll be fine, George, really.”
“They're nice outside the track, but at the track they're merciless y/n. That's how it works, and I know you're tough, but you need to know that. ” He smiled at you, seeing Kimi walking towards you too. You gave him a tight smile, going straight to Max, your teammate.
You and Kimi were fortunate to have the opportunity to race in F1 for a huge team that was paying you. The rookies in second teams, trying to grow into it, they can make more mistakes, that's for sure. They won't have the pressure, Kimi, and you will.
“Talking with the enemy?” Max joked as you moved to his side, waiting to enter the interview room.
There were many drivers outside already: the rookies you had already raced with, and the ones with more experience, like Max and Lewis. You didn't pay much attention, but having to interact with all the drivers for the first time made you break out in goosebumps. It was thrilling, but at first, you were nervous, very nervous. Something George knew, and that's why he approached you.
“Maybe, but I’ve known George since we were kids,” you muttered over your breath, so only Max could hear. He passed a hand over his hair and smiled at you. He looked pretty comfortable with you, but you supposed it was normal after all the teammates he already had.
You fidget with your fingers behind your back, trying to seem cool and composed. The air in Australia was freaking hot, unbearable; you couldn't stop thinking about how it would get hotter inside the car.
“Really?” Verstappen looked surprised that nobody had seen you around, because, well, you tried to keep a low profile, and to be honest, it was normal that the drivers didn't look for the young woman in the paddock.
“Yes, he was the one who taught me to race,” you whisper under your breath so only Max can hear the secret you and George share. His blue eyes were surprised at it; he didn't expect that at all.
You turn your head toward the entry, and that's where the air caught in your lungs. Oscar Piastri was there with Lando by his side; he looked invested in whatever story Norris was saying. The cutest boyish man you've ever seen in your life. You swallowed hard because you didn't do love; it was simply that way. It's been at least three years since the last time you involved yourself in a relationship, and since then, you decided that it wasn't worth your time or your mind.
Plus, he looked like he had a girlfriend and the serious type, a boy like him will never look at a girl like you. That's what you think. Formula 1 drivers didn't want girls who were down for everything and did the same things as them; fearless girls were for another kind of man, if that's even a concept. No, they usually want models and soft girls, and you were neither. Happy for it that you could do what you love, but at this moment it felt bitter in your brain. The thought didn't sit right with you, even though you would never change anything.
You didn't even try to hide the way you looked at him, because George was looking at you and thinking what the hell you were doing. He whistled at that, which took you out of your trance, but a little too late. Norris caught you red-handed, and the only thing left to do was to keep that emotionless mask you grew up using as a shield. He just smiled at you a little, and before you could see Oscar turn his head towards your direction, you looked away.
“That’s incredible, really. George can be hard sometimes,” Max said as he saluted Kimi, who looked like he was about to throw up in the middle of the line.
You only nodded to him, and in that moment, the Italian boy calmed a little. You've been in this kind of position before, being rookies and all that, winning championships in different seasons, but that helps keep the competitiveness and, at the same time, the friendship between you two and the rest of the rookies in the season.
“Yes, he wasn’t very easy on me, but I thank him for it,” You commented, keeping up with the small talk. Your nervousness was going away little by little, the way Max was reassuring you with his eyes, they understood what you were thinking and feeling. “Kimi looks like he's about to run away.”
“Yes, but I think the most scared of them is Gabi, look at the poor guy,” he said, laughing a little at the turn the conversation took. You looked at the Sauber driver and felt his fear as he entered the interview room.
“Gossip this early in the season?” Charles asked as you straighten your spine a little bit. His voice was deep, and Max just nodded with his head. “About what?”
“The rookies,” you answered, and Charles, funny enough, looked at you, his eyes saying, “you're also a rookie.” You knew it, but you adapted quickly in the situations, and every second that passed, you felt more like you belonged here. “To be honest, I'm the least nervous of all of them.”
“Actually, yes, you look to compose for your first interview of the season. Not even Max was so relaxed, “ He joked as Charles saw how Carlos went directly to Lando, he smiled a little at him.
“More respect. Are you ready?” Max asked you as you tried so hard not to look where Oscar was standing. The door opened for you to enter the media room, where many journalists and camera operators waited for articles and headlines.
“I've never been more ready.” Such a liar you were. You didn’t notice Oscar was behind you, trying to suppress a smile with your confidence.
“So… y/n…. Do you mind people calling you poker face?” A journalist from Sky Sports asked, as you were sitting in one of the chairs behind most of the grid, where all the rookies were. Kimi touched his feet to yours; he's trying to play and distract you like old times, even before someone calls you cold.
“I don't mind at all.” You shuddered a little, feeling all the eyes in the room were on you, paying attention.
“Do you think you're going to be the best rookie this season?” The same woman asked, writing something in a notebook, and you could feel some of the drivers in front of you looking at you.
“That's something we’re going to see, but I don't expect these guys to do it easy for me.” You give a tight smile, and a lot of flashes blurred your vision a little. You heard Ollie's small laugh on your left, and you suppressed a bigger smile.
“We're going to compete a lot, it's going to be fun,” Kimi interjects during the interview, and you thank him with all your soul. At that moment, you turned your head towards one of the corner chairs and saw Oscar, seeing you with a deadpan expression, but his eyes were bright, like chocolate brown, and you felt his intense gaze on you.
You wanted to smile at him, but you couldn't risk yourself; everyone was looking at the way you lit up when you saw him, and more in your first fucking interview. You've only seen him on TV and all that, but in person, he was more handsome and charming in his own, unique way.
“Oscar, how is your heart after the breakup with your girlfriend?” Your blood ran cold, completely cold, as you heard another journalist ask.
Oscar looked at him with a cold face, serene but polite. Kimi shoved his elbow into your ribs as you composed yourself a bit. You felt your neck burn, but luckily, that was all. You didn't blame yourself, and you thanked whoever was making you feel this way to stop it. You felt so out of control. Nobody was expecting that.
George looked at you with his lips in a thin line, his blue eyes wide open, and the room fell into complete silence. You could slice the tension with a knife. Everybody was holding their breath, looking meticulously towards Piastri. Usually, these interviews were about races and work stuff; you've never heard someone ask a question like that.
All the cameras were facing Oscar. He straightened a little and looked up, thinking of his response, you supposed.
Single, fresh from a break-up that, for the way Lando was looking at Oscar, was… messy. Something wasn't right, and the way half the grid looked at him with empathy and the other half with curiosity to know what actually happened, it gave it all.
“I… um… I'm focused on the races and locked in for the season,” He simply said, trying to look casual, but his expression was tense. The air in the room changed as the journalists moved on with some questions towards Max and Lando.
You could only think of the race and the way Oscar's eyes lost their brightness at the mention of his breakup. You were curious, you wanted to know what happened, but you knew that the moment George knew the information, he was going to spill the tea.
The moment they let you go, Ollie and Kimi grabbed your shoulders towards the exit. You suppressed a playful smile that wanted to break free. You were about to ask what they were plotting against you.
“We need to do our bets this season.” You relaxed, thinking they might have seen you paying too much attention to the McLaren driver.
”Best rookie?” Ollie asked, taking out a paper from his pocket and writing the name of each one. You smile, hiding your face in Ollie's back as he laughs.
“Me,” you said in unison, making you chuckle a little. Both as competitive as always.
“Honestly, Kimi, I think she’s gonna win,” Ollie confesses as he earns a smack on his shoulder from Kimi, the Italian boy.
He looks offended, but has a bright smile on his face. Like the old times when you were racing together in karting, you were the oldest of them, but Kimi always brought out the child inside you. You used to hate it, but you learned to cherish it.
The memories of your childhood weren't bad, but they weren't great either. You loved to play at the park, to laugh, always to be happy, and the most characteristic thing about you was your smile, until, little by little, it faded with your happiness and your trust in people.
You blocked the thoughts away; you need to focus on the race and the practices. You didn't have time at all to think about your whole life, even though you went into that spiral more times than you'd love to admit.
You placed all your bets on the table, with nothing to expect for the season.
Your world fell apart before the race, when you were pacing through the paddock, and you saw him. The guy who turned the sweet girl into the bitter, serious woman you were.
You felt your skin prickling and your gut clenching negatively. Your intuition wanted you to run away as far as you could, but you just couldn't get yourself to do it, not when all the cameras were on you, waiting to know if you actually were something more than acquaintances or friendship.
“Y/n,” He exhaled like a prayer, but you felt it more like a plea to a sin he committed. Surely he did. You stop on your tracks.
“Foster,” you put on your mask as you feel the cameras taking photos. You were in front of the McLaren and Ferrari hospitality. You needed to go to the other end of the paddock towards Red Bull. You saw a girl in the chair outside the McLaren hospitality. They were near the only thing you wished for was that they weren't too close to hear the nasty conversation that was going to take place.
You felt your cheeks tremble at the memories that rushed back of that night and of all the relationship you had with him, your F3 journey, tainted by that relationship. You tried to suppress the panic in your chest, your labored breath, and obviously, he noticed it; of course, he did, like the narcissistic man he was.
You looked at the blue sky as if it held the answer to how you'd get out of this uncomfortable situation.
“You made it, I've never doubted it,” He commented with a big smile plastered on his fucking perfect face. You felt how your brain turned completely blank at his cynicism. He was a liar, a fucking liar.
“I was gonna make it. I always achieved my goals.” You responded dryly as you put your hands behind your back, before one of them flew through the air and slapped his face, or even worse.
“Yes, but lonely as always. You'll never find someone to love you. The only one capable of loving is in front of your eyes.” Your jaw tightens at the statement, fury rising through your veins, your heart pumping blood through your body, preparing for war. For a fight but no words form on your mouth. “You’ll see me around.”
You felt trapped with your worst nightmare, with your insecurities, and you felt like that seventeen-year-old girl who fell for the wrong guy at the worst time of her life. That girl who was so naive and sweet, he destroyed her piece by piece, from the inside out. The worst of all is that you believe half of it, that you'll never find someone to love you. You hated yourself for it.
“I'm where I want to be and who I want to be.” You said more confidently than you actually felt. Your insecurities crawl on your skin the way he only provokes them. There were ghosts that you ignored most of the time, but they were appearing in your peripheral vision.
He was about to say something else when you felt an arm intertwined with yours, and you thanked whoever came to your rescue.
“Excuse me, but I need to talk to her for a second.” A female voice said to you casually, and with optimism.
“And for the record, I'm dating someone.” The lie slipped through your lips before you could stop it.
You felt your body relax at that moment, as a weight lifted from your shoulders. You needed to focus on the race, not on this stupid asshole. You didn't dare look at your savior, as she didn't leave him room to respond; she took you to the nearest bathroom.
You let yourself take out a shaky breath as you recline on the sink. Your racing suit hangs loose on your hips.
“It looked like you needed someone to save you,” she commented, closing the door so no one could eavesdrop.
“God, thank you. You're my savior.” You whisper, splashing some cold water onto your face, trying to concentrate on the freezing feeling of it and not on the interaction of your ex-boyfriend.
“An ex?” She asked curiously, her voice sweet, and you only nodded as you dried your face with some paper. Trying to recover your composure.
“Sadly, an idiot.” You were looking into the mirror and seeing a taller girl, not so much older than you, smiling at you, without pity, just pure empathy. Her hair was short and pink; she looked so carefree that you wanted to be her friend instantly.
“I know a lot of them, I have two sisters,” she said, giggling, which made all the tension on you ease faster than you'd expected. “So… you're the new rookie of Red Bull.”
“I am, and really, thank you for this.” You felt your eyes water a little; you thought nobody would save you from the situation, and she stepped in without knowing you at all—a kind soul in a world of cruel people.
“Any time. If you need someone to talk to. I'm here.” She took out a notebook and pen and annotated her number. She passed it to you, and you gave her a tight smile, grateful for the gesture. Her eyes widened a little bit at your sudden expression.
“Thanks, he was an idiot… and well… it affects me more to see him than I want to admit it,” You blurted out and mentally slapped yourself for telling this to an altogether stranger, but she put herself beside you. Shoulder to shoulder, and smiled at you. She was attentively listening. “I haven't seen him for more than two years. A narcissist and more.”
“They're the worst ones, but look, you focus on your first weekend in F1. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this.” That made you focus on the present rather than the past.
He was out of your life; you didn't owe him anything, and you weren't planning on seeing him again. But you knew him too well; if he came back, he wanted something from you. That's how it works. He wants you again now that you're in a better position, but after all the things he's done, you'll never go back to him, over your dead body.
“Of course, yes… The race” You straighten yourself more and take another look at the mirror. You weren't afraid; you were more than that. “I'm not dating anyone.”
“You just said that for spite?” She laughed with a brightness that made you feel completely at ease. Somebody was calling you on your phone, god, it was Max. They were looking for you, and you needed to be there for the strategies and everything.
“Yes, now, I'll need a fake boyfriend.” You joked, but you could see the wheels turn in the pink-haired girl's eyes. She was thinking about something that you didn't have time for. “ I need to go, but I'll call you. What's your name?”
“Hattie, nice to meet you, and I have an incredible idea,” she said with mischief in her voice, making you smile wider at her words before putting your cold mask back on.
“Y/n,” You said back, opening the door and running through the entire paddock, without a clue of what was on the mind of the girl that you just befriended.
The race went well, not perfect, but enough for your first race in Formula 1, 5th behind Kimi. You didn't hear the end of it when you stepped aside to see the podium. Max was second, and you cheered for him as he clapped. Happy with your result of today's race.
“I won,” he cheered, putting his arm around your shoulders as you shook your head with a little grin, the only smile that you allowed yourself, and only in celebrations.
“It's the first race, Italian boy, wait for it.” You threatened him jokingly, and he smiled at you as he walked towards his garage. You saw how Ollie waved at you with a thumbs-up as he entered his own garage.
How life moves so fast: a few years ago, we were just kids dreaming of becoming the best and one day entering Formula 1. And here we were. Fulfilling that dream. You smiled at the ground, with your helmet in one hand, the realization of it hitting you like the best ton of bricks in the world. You felt more whole than you've ever felt in your life. Your heart skips a bit at the emotion. The happiest you've ever been in a while now.
And that asshole had shown up again to keep ruining your moments.
“Where's your boyfriend?” He asked directly. He came from the Ferrari garage, and you tensed up, walking toward the safety of your own garage. He couldn't enter it. He walked with you, with that knowing look on his face. He knew you wanted to get away from him.
“My love life is private,” You simply said, looking for another escape for the second time in the day. They were fans shouting your name from above the pits, and you waved at them, making them cheer for you a little more.
“It has never been like that.” He commented, trying to catch your arm, but you put more distance between him and you, trying not to look so suspicious about it. You didn't want to draw any attention to him.
“Well, now it is, and more for you. Just leave me alone, do your life, and I’ll do mine.” You said dryly, seeing your mechanics cheering for you, you ran towards them, but you still heard him say
“You're going to end up with me, and you know it,” he said, as if it were a fact. You almost gagged at it, it made you nauseous. You ignored it as you, engineers, and mechanics hugged you for a great race on points. You were shining, blocking all thoughts of Foster. It wasn't his moment; it was yours.
“Great race,” You heard everyone yelling and happy at the podium, and you ended up in points.
After chatting with Max and everyone else, you were exhausted, but before you took a quick shower, you sent a message to Hattie. You wanted to hang out with her and know more about her.
“I’m Y/n, see you soon?” You asked as you discarded the racing suit and got into the cold water. You sighed in relief, feeling your muscles relax. You blocked your thoughts toward Foster; you didn't have enough energy to think about it. You wanted to relax and focus on the next race.
Maybe sometimes you dodge your thoughts, but you don't have time to deal with a lot, especially when you feel so lonely, even though you have your friends. You pushed them away; the only one who knows you is George, and when you tried to push him away, he didn't let you. He forced the friendship, and now you're glad someone actually fought for a connection with you.
As you wrapped a towel around yourself and stepped out of the shower, you saw your phone light up. You pick it up with a message from Hattie.
“You're staying at this hotel?. If yes, we can see each other in the restaurant.” She sent her location, and indeed, you were staying in the same place.
You sent her an awkward thumbs-up as you went directly to the exit of the paddock, and someone picked you up. You went the whole drive to the hotel in total silence, trying to process the weekend of your dreams and your nightmares.
You went straight to the restaurant and saw the pink-haired girl waving at you. You sat in front of her, the restaurant was empty, everyone had departed, and you supposed that most of them were catching a flight to the next destination or home for a few days.
“Great first race… congratulations,” she said with a smile, and you nodded back, more composed and a little more reserved than in the bathroom.
“I did what I could, it was… fine,” you said, pursing your lips a little. You needed to push more, but that was something to worry about for the next race.
“Hattie, so why do you want me to come…” You heard that masculine voice and tensed up immediately. You look at how Oscar Piastri was in front of you, sitting next to Hattie, and in that moment, the resemblance hits you like a million stones.
“You didn't tell me you had a brother.” You accused her. Scratching your arm, as you felt Oscar's eyes on you, his jaw dropped. He didn't expect this either.
“My bad, look at my brother and my new friend I made today.” You try so hard to suppress a smile at the fake innocence radiating from her, but when you can't, you pass a hand over your mouth—easing all your facial muscles.
“What are you scheming?” Oscar looked suspiciously at her sister, and the interaction felt so natural that you felt uncomfortable looking at them. He looked more at ease, relaxed, than you've ever seen him in your short journey of three days, seeing him everywhere.
“We're going to make this quickly.” She promised, wearing a mischievous smile. She looked pleased with whatever plan she made, and the second realization of the night hit you.
“Oscar, you need to direct the attention towards other things, and not your cheater ex-girlfriend. You need someone fresh and new so that people will talk about.” You take a sip of your water at that exact moment and almost spit it out. The least you expected was that. George must have the most exciting tea of his life. You needed to know it all.
“And you need a boyfriend so your ex stops bothering you.” You felt your cheeks warm the moment Oscar looked at you with the same surprise.
His brown eyes were seeing your soul; you felt it. Suddenly, you were embarrassed by both of your situations. They were pathetic. The realization that Hattie was making a matchmaker, well, a fake one. The way she was exposing the problem made it more like a PR stunt than anything else. A lifesaver for the situation that you had, and well, it favors Hattie's brother.
“We are both drivers of the grid,” he said politely as always, his hands loose fists, looking at every reaction and expression you made.
“And different teams,” you whispered, making eye contact with Oscar at the table. Suddenly, you felt shy; it had been years since you'd felt this way. You've never looked away first, no matter the situation, but here you were, doing exactly that.
“I took the liberty to ask first your PR manager, Oscar.” Oscar groaned quietly. You saw how blush crept into his neck and cheeks, barely, but it was there—the kind of embarrassment only a sister could make. You suppress a chuckle. “She said I was nuts but that it was a great idea, the only one that needs to check if it's alright with your team is you, Y/n.”
“First, you want to do this? ” Oscar asked you, searching for your eyes, and you chewed your lip unconsciously. You were considering it.
Foster wasn't going to stop bothering you; that's a certainty. He will travel the world so that he can torment you. You needed to seem stable and settle down with someone. If he sees that, maybe he’ll stop caring so much and make your life easier. This was the only path that could make him go away as far as he could and start his own life without destroying the one you had a difficult time building again, even though the building wasn't stable enough for you to create a durable life.
“I need a solution, and I think this is the only one I have.” You confess above your breath, taking out your phone to call Jade, your PR manager. She was going to think you were going mad, but you knew the moment you said Foster's name, she would say yes, without any doubt or further questions.
“We barely know each other.” He mumbles, looking at the big window by his side. You just agreed with a predictable nod. His face looked sad, his eyes didn't have that brightness you saw once this weekend. His girlfriend must fucked it up badly.
You knew it, you needed to spend time together, and you didn't think that was a great idea, not after the way you catch yourself looking at him every time he appears. You needed space, but you also needed help with this.
“It's a big stunt, just try to become… friends, and you'll be alright,” Hattie suggests, playing with her rings on her fingers. You exhaled.
“I'm in,” Oscar said abruptly in the silence, and you tried not to look impressed. You quirk up an eyebrow, making him smile tightly at you. “I need people to stop pitying me.”
“So… I'm in, I'll help you with that, and you help me to get rid of my ex.” You clarified, and he nodded, passing his hand over his brown hair. You looked away when his jaw clenched slightly. Your stomach dropped. This was going to be a hard season in all aspects.
Summary: for the first time, Kimi gets jealous and shows he’s quietly possessive of you.
Kimi Raikkonen Materialist
F1 Materialist
You could tell something was off the second Kimi walked into the Ferrari hospitality. Normally he carried that calm, bored expression he wore everywhere, the look everyone called “Ice Man mode.” But tonight, the second his eyes landed on you talking to one of the younger engineers, something changed.
His jaw tightened. Just slightly. But on Kimi, that was equivalent to someone else flipping a table.
You were in the middle of laughing at a dumb story the engineer was telling something about spilling brake fluid on one of the garage computers, when you felt it. That shift in the air. And then, a few seconds later, the feeling of being watched.
You turned your head and, yup, there he was.
Kimi. Leaning against a table, not blinking, staring directly at you like the engineer had personally offended his ancestors.
You tried not to smile because honestly? It was cute.
You had never seen him jealous. Ever. He didn’t do that kind of emotion. He barely reacted to anything that wasn’t a race result or a sauna.
But here he was.
Silent.
Tense.
Glacially pissed.
The engineer had no clue he was digging himself into an early grave. He kept talking, leaning in a little, trying to be charming. You were being polite, nodding along.
And then a hand slid onto your waist.
You didn’t even hear Kimi approach.
“We’re leaving,” he said, in that low, quiet voice that always meant there was absolutely no room for discussion.
The engineer froze. “Oh—uh—sorry, did I—?”
Kimi didn’t spare him a glance. He simply guided you away, hand firm on your hip, walking straight toward the door.
“Kimi,” you whispered once you were out of sight. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he said immediately.
You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it felt like something.”
“It wasn’t.”
You stopped walking so he had to face you. “You dragged me away from a conversation.”
“He was annoying,” Kimi said. It came out too fast, too flat, classic Kimi lying.
“No, you were jealous.”
“I was not.”
His ears turned pink. That was all the confirmation you needed.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Kimi…”
“No,” he repeated like a stubborn seven year old.
You stepped closer. “Kimi… you were jealous.”
He exhaled through his nose, which was his version of a dramatic sigh. “He was too close.”
You smiled. “He was not too close.”
“He was breathing your air,” he muttered.
“Kimi, everyone breathes air.”
“Well, he can breathe somewhere else.”
You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “So you were jealous.”
He dragged a hand over his face and looked away. “I don’t get jealous.”
“You do now.”
“I don’t,” he insisted, but his hand slipped back to your waist, pulling you closer. “I just don’t like other men thinking they can… talk to you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re available,” he said bluntly.
Your heart fluttered. “Kimi… I made it pretty clear I’m with you.”
“Not to him.”
“He was just talking.”
“He laughed too much.”
“You made me laugh last night.”
“That’s different,” he said quickly.
“How?”
“Because you’re supposed to laugh at my jokes. I am your boyfriend.”
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing.
Kimi frowned.
“It’s not funny,” he muttered.
“It’s adorable.”
“I am not adorable.”
“Sure you are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He stared at you with a frustrated expression only Kimi could make look cute. Finally, after a long moment, he stepped closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. “This… relationship thing.”
Your hands slid up to his chest. “You’re doing fine.”
“I shouldn’t feel like punching someone because they talk to you.”
“That’s normal,” you said softly. “You just care.”
He grunted like he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t deny it either.
You smiled. “So… anything you want to say? About what happened?”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Next time, we leave sooner.”
“Kimi!”
“What?”
“You can’t just drag me away like a caveman.”
“I didn’t drag you,” he said defensively. “I guided you.”
“Same thing.”
“No, guiding is nicer.”
You laughed again, and he finally cracked a tiny smile, the kind only you ever got to see.
He leaned down, kissed you softly, and murmured against your lips, “Just… stay close to me, okay?”
“I’m always close to you.”
“And don’t laugh at other men’s jokes.”
You grinned. “Kimi—”
___
“No,” he said firmly. “Only at mine.”
“Okay, okay,” you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Only yours.”
His arms circled your waist as he mumbled, “Good. Better that way.”
Summary: Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.
Song: Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas · The Machine
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 14.2k
MASTERLIST - F1
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georgerussell63 please come watch me race 💙
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mercedesamgf1 Hello Dr Russell, please come support us in the British GP (George made us write this) 💙
yourusername Hello mercedes, unless you can offer me a job there I will not be going (Tell George to leave me alone) 💙
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Thursday
The rumble of a go-karting engine was a sound you’d grown up with, as familiar as your own heartbeat. It was the soundtrack to your childhood, the background to family dinners, and the persistent hum of your twin brother, George Russell’s, entire existence.
And thanks to him, it was also the gateway to a world of VIP access, celebrity encounters, and an unspoken, iron-clad rule: no dating the drivers.
You, Dr. Y/N Russell, had always taken that rule as less of a prohibition and more of a personal challenge.
Life as George’s twin sister in the world of Formula 1 brought a unique set of advantages. Paddock passes materialized in your inbox like magic.
Celebrities, from pop stars to Hollywood actors, were just ‘people’ you might bump into at a hospitality suite, often introduced with George’s signature, slightly awkward charm.
You’d mastered the art of polite small talk with anyone from supermodels to team principals, your comfort level with fame remarkably high, perhaps because, in a way, you were adjacent to it.
For the past few years, however, the F1 circus had been a distant echo. Your world had shrunk to the sterile gleam of operating theatres, the hushed intensity of consultations, and the demanding schedule of a newly qualified doctor.
Your education and burgeoning career had become your singular focus, pushing childhood crushes and the thrill of the racetrack to the farthest corners of your mind.
But some things, like persistent twin brothers, were impossible to shake off.
“Please, Y/N! It’s Silverstone! Our home race! You have to be there!” George’s voice had been a constant barrage of pleas, texts, and increasingly dramatic voicemails for weeks.
He’d even resorted to guilt-tripping you about how long it had been since you’d truly experienced a race weekend, not just watched it on your tiny hospital breakroom TV.
Eventually, you caved. The allure of the British Grand Prix, a rare break from your demanding schedule, and the genuine desire to see your brother in his element, won out.
Besides, you missed the roar of the crowd, the smell of burnt rubber, and the electric tension that only F1 could deliver.
Stepping into the Silverstone paddock was like stepping back in time, yet everything felt new. The vibrant colours, the buzz of activity, the mingling of high-octane sport and high-society glamour.
George met you at the entrance, a wide grin splitting his face, his arm immediately slung around your shoulders.
“Look everyone, my favourite twin is here!” he announced, louder than necessary, as he navigated you through the throng.
And so began the ‘Y/N Russell, Trophy Introduction Tour.’
“Lewis, this is my twin sister, Y/N! She’s a doctor, you know. Proper smart.”
“Toto, meet Y/N! She literally saves lives on a daily basis. My twin sister, a doctor!”
“Marcus, this is Y/N. My twin. She performs surgeries. For a living!”
You’d roll your eyes good-naturedly, offering a polite smile and a firm handshake, often adding, “It’s lovely to meet you, George’s sister who is also a doctor.”
You were proud of your profession, of course, but George’s exaggerated pride often bordered on presenting you as a scientific marvel rather than a human being.
Yet, you were comfortable. You exchanged pleasantries with celebrities and team principals, discussed the weather with sports commentators, and even briefly chatted about the latest medical breakthroughs with a surprisingly knowledgeable film director.
This was your comfort zone, the bizarre circus you’d been born into.
You were currently settled in the Mercedes hospitality suite, a sanctuary of cool air and gourmet food amidst the paddock heat, catching up with George.
He was detailing the nuances of tyre wear and DRS zones, his eyes alight with passion, as you listened with a half-attentive ear, sipping your sparkling water.
You loved seeing him like this, raw and unfiltered, away from the media glare.
“...and then I had to explain to Marcus that the rear end was just –”
“Hey George!”
The voice cut through George’s impassioned monologue, light, familiar, and carrying a warmth that sent a jolt down your spine. Your head snapped up, turning almost before George could respond.
And there he was.
Alex Albon.
Your heart, which had been beating steadily just moments before, performed an immediate, dramatic lurch, then seemed to stop altogether.
It wasn’t a poetic metaphor; it felt genuinely like your entire circulatory system had slammed on the brakes.
He was taller, broader in the shoulders than you remembered, his race suit accentuating a physique honed by years of intense training.
His dark hair was just a little longer, falling boyishly across his forehead, and his smile… his smile was still the same, genuine and infectious, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Those eyes. They still held that mischievous spark you remembered from muddy go-kart tracks and shared bags of chips.
Oh, hell. The crush hadn't just been put on hold; it had been simmering, dormant, waiting for this exact moment to reignite with the force of a super nova.
George, oblivious to the internal earthquake you were experiencing, stood up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Alex! Mate! How’s it going?”
They slapped hands, pulled each other into a quick, solid bro-hug, their camaraderie palpable, a testament to years of shared childhood dreams and competitive rivalry.
You remained seated, frozen, a silent observer in your own body, waiting.
You waited for George to turn, to make the introduction – “Alex, this is my twin sister, Y/N,” probably followed by the inevitable, “She’s a doctor, you know.”
You braced yourself for the polite nod, the brief handshake, the re-learning of each other’s names, the awkward small talk that came with meeting someone you hadn’t seen in over a decade.
But it didn't happen like that.
Alex pulled back from George, his gaze sweeping over George’s shoulder, and landed directly on you. His smile softened, a knowing glint entering his eyes. He didn’t need an introduction. He didn’t hesitate.
“No way,” he breathed, a genuine, joyful surprise in his tone. He took a single step closer, his eyes twinkling. “Y/N Russell! Is that really you? Look at you! Last time I saw you, you were… well, you were still trying to beat George at Mario Kart.”
A nervous laugh bubbled up from your throat. “Well, some things never change,” you managed, your voice a little shaky, a flush creeping up your neck.
The fact that he remembered, instantly, without a prompt, without a beat, bypassed all your careful professional composure. You suddenly felt like that awkward, gangly thirteen-year-old with a hopeless crush again.
George, meanwhile, just blinked. “Wait, you guys remember each other? Really remember?”
He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he’d simply assumed your childhood tagging along to karting events had been a blur of faces.
Alex chuckled, his eyes still locked on yours. “Remember her? George, how could I forget? She was always the smart one, the one who actually figured out the strategy for the team when you two just wanted to crash into each other.”
He winked at you, and your heart did a clumsy flip-flop. “And she was the one who stitched up your scraped knees more times than I can count, remember? The original doctor, long before the fancy degree.”
You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of being truly seen, truly remembered, not just as George’s doctor sister, but as you.
“Someone had to keep you two out of trouble,” you countered, a playful note returning to your voice. “And George was always the one who needed the most band-aids.”
George scoffed good-naturedly. “Hey! I was just… committed to the bit!” He then clapped Alex on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, enough reminiscing. Alex, it’s good to see you, mate. I’ve got debrief in ten, actually. You got a minute?”
Alex glanced at the time, then back at you, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. “Yeah, just about. George, you mind if I just… properly say hi to Y/N? It’s been ages.”
George, ever the somewhat oblivious brother, just shrugged. “Sure, sure. Don’t get lost. I’ll see you later.”
And with that, he was off, heading towards the inner sanctum of the Mercedes garage, leaving you alone with Alex.
The sudden silence, save for the ambient paddock noise, was charged with an unspoken tension. Alex turned fully towards you, his hands in his pockets, a relaxed yet intense air about him.
“Seriously though,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “it’s really good to see you, (Y/N). You look… incredible. Dr. Russell, huh? I always knew you’d be something amazing.”
Your cheeks felt hot. “And you’re a Formula 1 driver. Never doubted that either, Albon. Though I hear you still can’t beat George at Mario Kart.”
He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent shivers down your arm. “Ouch. Some things never change, as you said. But I’m working on it. So, how’s life outside the F1 bubble? I bet it’s a lot less… high-speed.”
You found yourself relaxing, the familiar easy banter flowing between you as if no time had passed. You talked about your work, the long hours, the rewarding moments.
He listened intently, asking surprisingly insightful questions, his gaze rarely leaving your face. He shared glimpses of his life on the road, the challenges of a new team, the relentless pressure.
“So, George finally dragged you back, then?” he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I saw he was practically begging you on Instagram.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s persistent. And it is Silverstone. Besides, I needed a break. My brain was starting to fuse with my textbooks.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Alex said, and the way he said it, quiet and sincere, made your stomach clench.
He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “Are you around all weekend? I was thinking, if you’re free after the qualifying on Saturday, maybe we could grab a proper drink? Catch up properly? Away from all this madness.” He gestured vaguely at the bustling paddock around you.
Your heart leaped. The rule. The unspoken, iron-clad rule. No dating drivers.
Especially not one of George’s best friends. This was George’s Paddock Rule #1. And here was Alex Albon, challenging it immediately, unintentionally.
But looking into his warm, hopeful eyes, the crushing nostalgia of a childhood crush meeting the undeniable spark of an adult connection, you found yourself smiling. “I think I could make time for that, Alex. It’s been way too long.”
He grinned, a flash of pure delight. “Great. I’ll text you. George usually has my number, so…”
“He’s got mine too,” you said, feeling bold. “Just… tell him it’s for a medical consultation, maybe.”
Alex chuckled, shaking his head. “A medical consultation, right. Something tells me George would be a little suspicious about that kind of consultation.”
His eyes held yours for another beat, a silent conversation passing between you. The challenge was accepted. The game was on.
And for the first time in years, the hum of the F1 engine sounded less like a distant echo and more like a prelude to something wonderfully, deliciously forbidden. . . .
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Friday
The following morning, the Silverstone paddock thrummed with a different kind of energy. The initial buzz of arrivals and reunions had settled into the focused hum of a race weekend.
Today was about Free Practice – the raw, unpolished testing of limits, the fine-tuning before qualifying.
But for you, the morning brought with it a different kind of hum, a persistent, joyful vibration beneath your ribs that had little to do with horsepower.
You’d woken up with Alex Albon’s laugh echoing in your mind, the memory of his eyes locking with yours, the casual ease of his invitation for Saturday.
It was a sensation you hadn’t felt in years, not since your early teens when the mere sight of him leaning against a go-kart, helmet in hand, had been enough to send you into a silent, internal meltdown.
You’d spent the last decade diligently building a career, meticulously acquiring knowledge, and carefully constructing a life that was stable, predictable, and distinctly free of heart-stopping romantic complications. And now, here he was, dismantling it all with a single, knowing smile.
George, bless his oblivious heart, was already in his usual pre-session mode, a whirlwind of focused energy, meticulously reviewing data on a tablet as you both walked through the garage.
The air was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel and hot tyres, overlaid with the sharp tang of ambition. Mechanics moved with purpose, engineers spoke in hushed, urgent tones, and the collective anticipation of the track coming alive was almost a tangible thing.
“Alright, Dr. Russell,” George said, without looking up from his screen, “you ready for a day of me complaining about understeer and then miraculously pulling a lap out of nowhere?”
You nudged him playfully. “I’m ready for a day of you forgetting to hydrate and then needing me to tell Toto you’re just ‘focused’.”
He finally looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s a valid medical diagnosis, isn’t it? Extreme focus leading to temporary dehydration?”
“I’ll write you a note,” you promised, but your mind was already drifting.
You scanned the faces in the crowded paddock, a nervous energy building as you wondered when, or if, you’d see him again. It felt both impossibly soon and agonizingly long since yesterday.
The first Free Practice session officially kicked off, and the roar of the engines became a constant, exhilarating presence. You found a spot in the garage, observing George’s telemetry, occasionally offering a quiet comment or simply absorbing the atmosphere.
It was a world you knew well, one that felt like home in its own chaotic way.
The familiar faces of team personnel, the shared language of lap times and sector analysis – it was comforting. Yet, something new had entered the equation, something that made every passing driver, every glimpse of a different team’s colours, a potential trigger for your pounding heart.
And then you saw him.
He was walking back from the pit lane, helmet under his arm, his race suit still smudged with track dust. His gait was easy, confident, and every muscle seemed to move with a coiled grace.
You noticed the way his team members greeted him, the respect in their voices, the innate leadership in his posture.
He was no longer just the scrawny go-kart kid you remembered; he was a formidable F1 driver, commanding his space, demanding attention.
Your breath hitched. He was still a few yards away, deep in conversation with his engineer, but something in your core recognized him, felt the pull.
You were trying to look casual, to pretend you weren’t subtly tracking his progress, when he suddenly lifted his head.
His eyes, as if drawn by an invisible thread, found yours across the bustling garage.
A flash of that genuine, infectious smile. A quick, almost imperceptible nod. A silent acknowledgement that sent a warm rush through you, bypassing all the noise and chaos of the paddock.
It was brief, merely a second or two, but it was enough. Enough to confirm that yesterday hadn't been a dream, that the spark was real, and that he remembered.
George, who had been engrossed in a discussion with his race engineer, suddenly paused, glancing in the direction Alex had just walked.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, a hint of brotherly suspicion in his voice.
You quickly diverted your gaze, focusing intently on a random screen. “Oh, nothing! Just… admiring the aerodynamic precision of Daniel’s rear wing.”
George scoffed. “Right. ‘Aerodynamic precision’. You and your doctor’s eye for detail, eh?”
He still looked mildly unconvinced, but thankfully, his attention was quickly pulled back to his own car’s setup. You let out a silent breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
The rest of the morning session passed in a blur of near-misses. You’d find yourself just a few metres from Alex in the canteen, or passing him in the narrow corridors between garages.
Each time, your eyes would meet, and a small, private smile would be exchanged – a secret handshake in the very public world of Formula 1.
It was thrilling, nerve-wracking, and utterly addictive.
During the lunch break, you found yourself needing a moment of quiet, slipping away from the usual Mercedes team huddle.
You leaned against a barrier, watching a group of fans pressed against the fence, their excitement palpable.
Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, heart giving a hopeful thump. It was an unknown number.
Hey, is this Y/N? It’s Alex. Hope George gave you the right number and hasn’t swapped phones with Lewis again.
A genuine smile bloomed on your face. He remembered the old trick. You quickly typed a reply.
It is! And thankfully, he usually keeps Lewis’s phone after the pranks, not before. You survived FP1?
The reply was almost immediate.
Barely. Car’s a bit of a handful. But hey, at least I got to see a friendly face. Still on for Saturday after the qualifying? I was thinking a quiet restaurant outside the track? Away from the madhouse.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. George’s rule. Your career. The very public nature of his life. Everything screamed caution. But the pull was undeniable. The memory of his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the sheer comfort of his presence.
Definitely on, Alex. Sounds perfect. Just don’t tell George it’s for anything other than a ‘medical consultation’ about your chronic Mario Kart addiction.
You sent the text, feeling a delicious mix of rebellion and anticipation. A moment later, his reply came, accompanied by a laughing emoji.
It’s severe. I’ll need extensive treatment. See you. And good luck to George today.
You chuckled, tucking your phone away. The world suddenly felt brighter, more vibrant.
The afternoon rolled into FP2, and the intensity ramped up. George was flying, pushing the Mercedes to its limits, and you found yourself genuinely absorbed in his performance, the doctor in you analyzing his every move, the sister in you cheering him on.
But even as you celebrated a strong lap from George, a part of you was still aware of Alex, his name occasionally flashing on the timing screens, his car a distinctive blur on the television monitors in the garage.
As the session drew to a close, George was debriefing with his engineers, looking exhausted but satisfied.
You were gathering your things, preparing to head back to the hospitality unit, when you heard a familiar voice.
“George, mate! Great pace out there today, seriously.”
You turned and there he was, Alex, leaning against the doorway of the Mercedes garage, a casual grin on his face. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, but you suspected he’d been waiting for an opportune moment.
George turned, beaming. “Alex! You too, mate, looking quick. Bit of a handful for you, though, I heard?”
“Yeah, still wrestling with it,” Alex admitted, then his gaze flickered to you, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “Anyway, just wanted to say hi before I head off. And thanks again for the… medical advice, Y/N.”
He said "medical advice" with just enough emphasis to make it sound perfectly innocent to George, but like a shared inside joke to you. You felt a blush rise, but you met his gaze evenly.
“Anytime, Alex,” you replied, a slight smile playing on your lips. “Always happy to provide professional counsel.”
George, surprisingly, just nodded, preoccupied with his thoughts. “Right. Well, good luck tomorrow, mate. We’ll see you out there.”
“You too, George,” Alex said, then his eyes lingered on you for a fraction of a second longer, a silent message passing between you. Saturday.
As he turned to leave, George finally looked at you, a half-frown on his face. “Medical advice? What was that about?”
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, you know, just driver wellness. He was asking about… sports nutrition. Very important for peak performance.” You gave him an overly earnest nod.
George narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced but too tired to fully probe. “Right. Sports nutrition. You sure you’re not prescribing him some new Mario Kart strategy?”
You laughed, a little too loud, then quickly sobered. “No, no, absolutely not. Purely professional.”
George just grunted, turning back to his engineers. You knew he wasn’t buying it entirely, but he was also too focused on the weekend’s performance to connect the dots. Not yet, anyway.
As you walked away, a lightness in your step, the thrill of the chase, the excitement of something new and deliciously forbidden, filled you.
The Silverstone weekend was just beginning, and already, it was clear that your return to the F1 paddock was going to be anything but a quiet break.
Free Practice might be over, but for you and Alex, the real race had just begun. . . .
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Saturday
The cool, crisp air of a British summer morning greeted you as you stepped out of your Silverstone accommodation on Saturday, qualifying day.
Unlike yesterday’s gentle hum, today the paddock thrummed with a palpable current of electric anticipation.
Every team member, every driver, every fan seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the moment the cars would roar to life, not for practice, but for the ultimate test of speed and nerve.
You dressed differently from how you usually would – a casual, yet professional dress, definitely not to impress Alex on your 'date' later on.
George was already up, a focused intensity in his eyes that only appeared on qualifying and race days. He was in the zone, and you respected that, offering a silent nod of encouragement as you grabbed a quick breakfast.
Making your way through the rapidly filling paddock, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel, burnt rubber, and the distant, muffled roar of engines being fired up.
You exchanged greetings with familiar faces – mechanics, engineers, other team personnel – but your gaze, almost unconsciously, swept towards the Williams garage as you passed.
There was a brief glimpse of Alex, head down, talking to an engineer, his posture radiating a quiet, determined focus.
You felt a familiar flutter in your stomach, a small internal cheer for him, before you redirected your attention to your own team's preparations.
The Mercedes garage was a hive of controlled chaos. Data screens glowed. Tools clinked with precision. George, already kitted out in his race suit, was deep in conversation with his race engineer, Marcus.
Qualifying began, and the tension was a physical entity in the air. Q1 was a blur of early laps, the gradual elimination of the slower cars. Your eyes darted between the live timing screens and the car on the circuit, even as the commentary whispered through your earpiece.
You saw Alex's name pop up, confidently clearing Q1, then Q2. He was truly performing, extracting every ounce of potential from the Williams.
You felt a surge of pride for him, a quiet, personal cheer that no one else could hear or see.
Then came Q3, the pinnacle. George, ever the perfectionist, pushed the Mercedes to its absolute limit. The car danced on the edge, a symphony of power and control.
You held your breath as his final lap flashed across the screen – green, green, green. The garage erupted. Cheers, fist bumps, a collective exhale of relief and triumph.
George Russell, P1. Pole position at his home race. You clapped, a genuine, joyful smile on your face, your brother’s success a shared victory.
As the dust settled and the final grid order solidified, you scanned the results board. George, P1. And there it was: Alex, P7. A fantastic result for Williams, a testament to his talent and the team's hard work.
You felt a quiet thrill for him, a thrill that was entirely separate from the Mercedes celebration around you. You knew what that meant for his race, for his morale. And for your evening.
Later, as George was being swarmed by media, still buzzing with the adrenaline of pole, you made your excuses, citing the need to check on some of the junior drivers after their strenuous sessions.
He waved a hand dismissively, caught up in the high of the moment. “Yeah, yeah, go on. Catch you later, Y/N. Long night of celebrations ahead!”
You offered a supportive smile, but your mind was already elsewhere. Slipping away, you found a quiet corner near the hospitality unit bathrooms to reapply your makeup.
You tucked your hair behind your ears, applying a touch of lip gloss.
Your phone buzzed. It was Alex.
Meet you by the parking lot in 15? My car’s outside the back gate.
Your heart gave a little flutter. On my way. you replied, a smile playing on your lips.
The walk was quick, your steps light with anticipation. You saw his car, a discreet black SUV, waiting patiently. He was already inside, a cap pulled low, his phone in his hand.
As you approached, he looked up, and the smile that spread across his face was genuine, warm, and entirely for you.
“Hey,” he said, leaning over to unlock the passenger door. “Perfect timing.”
You slid into the comfortable leather seat, the interior a quiet sanctuary from the noise of the track. “Hey yourself. Congrats on P7, Alex. Seriously impressive out there.”
He chuckled, pulling away smoothly. “Thanks. P1 for George, though, eh? He’s flying. Must be the home crowd energy.”
“Or maybe,” you teased, leaning your head back, “he just listens to his sister's professional medical advice.”
He laughed, a genuine, easy sound that filled the car. “Ah, yes, the legendary advice. Will it help me tomorrow?”
“Only if you consume the right amount of performance-enhancing nutrients,” you replied playfully.
The conversation flowed effortlessly as he navigated the winding country roads away from Silverstone. You talked about the nuances of the track, the struggles of the Williams car, the sheer intensity of qualifying.
But then, almost imperceptibly, the conversation shifted. You found yourselves discussing life outside F1. His love for his animals, your passion for indie films, the ridiculousness of social media trends, the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly cooked meal.
He’d chosen a small, charming gastropub nestled in a tiny village about twenty minutes from the track. It was exactly as he’d described: quiet, intimate, a world away from the bright lights and roaring engines.
The lighting was soft, the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations providing a gentle backdrop.
You sat opposite him, bathed in the warm glow of a nearby lamp, and for the first time all weekend, you felt truly relaxed.
“So,” Alex said, swirling the wine in his glass, his eyes twinkling. “This ‘medical consultation’ is going rather well, wouldn’t you say? I feel my chronic Mario Kart addiction symptoms… lessening.”
You laughed, a genuine, full sound that surprised even yourself. “Excellent. The treatment protocol seems to be effective. Though, I might need to prescribe a follow-up session.”
“I’d be happy to comply,” he said, his gaze lingering on yours, a warmth in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine.
As the evening progressed, the food was delicious, but it was secondary to the company. You learned about his childhood in Thailand, his early racing dreams, the struggles and triumphs that had led him to Formula 1.
He listened intently as you spoke about your life as a doctor, the challenges and rewards of your profession, the occasional craziness of being George’s twin.
He asked thoughtful questions, genuinely interested, not just politely waiting for his turn to speak.
You found yourself captivated by him. His self-deprecating humour, his quiet intensity, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he truly smiled.
He wasn’t loud or flashy, but there was an undeniable magnetism about him, a genuine kindness that shone through.
You noticed the small things: the way he offered you the last bite of bread, the respectful way he spoke about his competitors, the subtle shift in his posture when he was truly engaged in a topic.
At one point, as you were discussing a particularly dramatic hospital case, you gestured animatedly, and your hand brushed against his on the table.
It was a fleeting, accidental touch, but a jolt went through you. His fingers subtly shifted, just enough to graze yours for a fraction longer, a silent acknowledgment that sent a blush creeping up your neck.
You quickly pulled your hand back, trying to appear nonchalant, but your heart was doing a frantic little dance.
The easy conversation continued, punctuated by comfortable silences, shared glances, and genuine smiles. You found yourself leaning in a little, drawn to his easy charm, his thoughtful responses.
The fact that he was a Formula 1 driver, a colleague of your brother, faded into the background. Here, he was just Alex, and you were just you, two people discovering an unexpected, delightful connection.
As the evening wound down, and he drove you to your apartment, the air in the car felt different, charged with unspoken feelings. The comfortable ease of the drive earlier had deepened into something more profound.
“Thank you for tonight, Alex,” you said, turning to him as he parked. “It was… perfect. Exactly what I needed.”
He turned off the engine, plunging the car into a soft, quiet darkness, save for the distant glow of the paddock lights. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
He reached out, his hand gently touching your arm, his thumb stroking softly. “I really enjoyed it, Y/N. More than I thought I would.”
Your breath hitched slightly. The touch was light, yet sent shivers down your arm. You looked into his eyes, and saw a depth there that confirmed everything you had been feeling.
It wasn’t just a pleasant evening. It was a connection, undeniable and strong.
“Me too,” you whispered, the words barely audible.
He leaned in, just slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you. Your eyes fluttered closed, anticipation coiling in your stomach.
But then he pulled back, just enough to hold your gaze, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
“I should let you get some rest. Big day tomorrow, for both of us.” His voice was laced with an undeniable regret, but also respect.
You nodded, a little breathless, your heart still hammering. “Right. Big day.” You opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air. “Good luck tomorrow, Alex.”
“You too, Y/N. And tell George I said good luck as well.”
You closed the door softly, watching as his car slowly pulled away. As the tail lights disappeared into the darkness, you let out a long, shaky breath.
Climbing into your bed, the scent of the evening still lingering on your clothes, you replayed every moment of the date. His laugh, the way he looked at you, the warmth of his hand on your arm.
George’s rules. Your career. The complexities of the F1 world. All of it was there, a looming shadow. But tonight, none of it mattered.
Tonight, there was only one undeniable truth: you liked Alex Albon.
More than you dared to admit, even to yourself. You liked him a lot.
And the thought of Sunday, of seeing him again, of the quiet, hopeful promise of what might be, filled you with a thrill that dwarfed even the drama of the race ahead. The real race, you knew, had only just begun. . . .
Sunday
The distant rumble of engines was your morning alarm on Sunday. You woke with a nervous flutter in your stomach, a mix of race day jitters for George and a quiet hum of anticipation for seeing Alex again.
The air in the Silverstone paddock, even at this early hour, crackled with an electric energy.
You chose a sleek, navy blue dress that morning, a colour that subtly nodded to your brother’s team while still feeling distinctly you. It was practical yet elegant, fitting the dual role you played – supportive sister and discreet specialist, always ready for the unexpected.
Your parents, older sister, and younger brother were already gathered in the Mercedes hospitality suite, the usual pre-race buzz filling the air.
There were shared anecdotes from Saturday’s pole position, good-natured teasing of George, and predictions for the race. You offered a quiet smile, participating in the family banter, but your gaze kept drifting towards the Williams garage.
A few minutes before the drivers’ parade, you saw him, walking with his engineer, a casual intensity in his posture. Your eyes met across the bustling paddock for a fleeting moment.
He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a private acknowledgment that sent a warmth through you. You returned it, a secret smile playing on your lips, before George clapped you heartily on the back, pulling you into a conversation about tire strategy that instantly grounded you back into the reality of the day.
The grid was a kaleidoscope of colour and noise. You stood with your family in the garage, the tension palpable. The roar of the engines as they completed the formation lap vibrated through your chest.
George, alone at the front. Alex, a respectable P7 – a fantastic starting position for him. You clutched your hands, a prayer on your lips for both of them.
And then, the lights went out.
The world erupted into a frenzy of motion. The cars bolted away, a blur of speed and precision. George's MP4-36 shot off the line, its engine screaming in protest as he coaxed every ounce of power from it.
You watched, heart in your throat, as he held off Max Verstappen's charging Red Bull into the first corner.
The crowd around you roared as the two titans of the track battled for supremacy. You felt the heat from their cars, the thunder of their engines resonating in your very soul.
For the first few laps, it was a dance of steel and rubber. Max, relentless, tried every trick in the book to unsettle George. But George was on fire, holding his line with a confidence that was awe-inspiring.
You could feel the energy of the team behind you, the collective will to win pulsing through the garage. The adrenaline was intoxicating, a symphony of passion and power.
Alex, meanwhile, was a force in the midfield. Every time his car flashed across the screen, you felt a burst of pride.
He was fighting, clawing his way through the pack with a tenacity that defied his youth. Each pass met with a cheer from you and the others in the Mercedes suite.
As the race unfolded, George's dominance grew. The gap between him and Max widened, and the tension in the garage began to ease.
You allowed yourself to breathe again, the smile on your face growing genuine. The sun glinted off the sweat on your skin as you leaned against the wall, the coolness of the concrete a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.
The sweet scent of burning rubber and hot asphalt filled the air, a heady cocktail that heightened every sensation.
In the midst of the chaos, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. You turned to find your mother, her eyes shimmering with excitement.
"This is his day," she shouted over the cacophony, and you nodded, the words resonating deep within you. The bond between you and George was unspoken but palpable, a silent pact of support and understanding.
Then, the collective gasp.
It happened in a fraction of a second, a sickening crunch of carbon fibre and a plume of dust. Into Maggotts and Becketts, Max had gone for an audacious move, clipping George’s rear tyre.
George’s car, the pristine Mercedes W14, was sent spinning, airborne, flipping twice before slamming into the barrier with a devastating impact.
“Russell! Can you move? George! Are you okay?” Marcus, George’s race engineer, practically screamed into the radio, his voice cracking with desperation.
Silence. Only the faint crackle of static.
Your mother’s hand found your shoulder, squeezing so hard it almost bruised. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Your father stood rigid, his jaw clenched.
Your siblings were frozen, their faces reflecting the same horror you felt.
You saw the marshals reach the car, the cameras zoomed in just enough to show George’s helmeted head lolling against the headrest, his body almost limp as they tried to extract him.
The professional detachment you usually maintained as a doctor, even when watching racing incidents, shattered into a million pieces. This wasn’t just a driver. This was George. Your twin.
But you knew you had to keep it together. You couldn’t sprint out there, not without compromising his care. Instead, you bolted for the med center, already calling ahead to prep for his arrival.
Your legs felt like jelly, your heart racing faster than the cars on the track. The pitlane was a blur as you sprinted, the cacophony of the race a distant echo.
By the time the medical car screeched to a halt outside the medical center, you were already there, scrubbed up and ready.
The doors flew open, and George was lifted out on a stretcher, his eyes glassy with pain. You stepped forward, voice firm. “I’ve got this.”
The paramedics looked surprised but nodded, recognizing the authority in your tone. You were a doctor first and foremost, and even in the high-pressure world of Formula One, your expertise was unquestionable.
They swiftly transferred him to the exam table, and you began to assess his injuries. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and you could see the swelling around his knee.
But it was his head that concerned you most, the slight tilt telling a story of potential trauma beneath the confines of the helmet.
You worked methodically, each touch of your hands on his body sending a tremor of concern through you. The scent of burnt rubber clung to his overalls, mixing with the coppery tang of blood and the faint smell of fear.
His breaths were shallow and rapid, but his pulse was strong beneath your fingertips. You ordered a series of tests and scans, ensuring that no stone was left unturned.
The medical staff moved with silent efficiency, reading the urgency in your eyes, the unspoken promise that you would do everything in your power to ensure George's well-being.
Even as the adrenaline coursed through your veins, you knew that the race was still on. The screens around the med center flashed with the chaos unfolding on the track, the commentators' voices a distant murmur in the background.
But here, in this sterile bubble, the only race that mattered was the one for George's recovery. The cacophony of the circuit faded away as you focused on the soft whirr of the MRI machine, the beep of the monitors, and the steady rhythm of George's pulse.
You were so thankful they had made you in charge of this operation. The trust the team had placed in you was a balm to your frayed nerves. You knew George better than anyone – his pain thresholds, his medical history, his quirks and tendencies.
This knowledge made you an invaluable asset, and you were determined not to let anyone down, especially not your brother. You had seen his eyes as they wheeled him in, the silent plea for you to fix him, to make him whole again.
As you worked, you could feel the weight of the team's collective gaze on you. The air in the med center was thick with their unspoken prayers.
You had to be the rock, the one who could navigate this medical storm with precision and calm. Every tap of the keyboard, every beep of the machines, was a symphony conducted by your steady hand. The adrenaline was a drug, pushing you to be sharper, to move faster.
The scans revealed what you had feared most - a fractured collarbone and a severe concussion. You took a deep breath, the taste of antiseptic lingering on your tongue.
he surgery to fix the collarbone would be straightforward enough, but the brain was a delicate dance. You conferred with the neurosurgeon, a man you had worked alongside countless times, but today his usual confidence was tinged with a hint of doubt.
You knew George's career was in your hands, and you had to be the one to make the call.
The anesthesia was administered, and George's eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm.
You took a moment, just one, to lay your hand on his forehead, whispering a silent promise that you'd do everything to get him back on the track.
Then, you donned your scrubs and stepped into the operating theater. The coolness of the room washed over you, a stark contrast to the heat of the race outside.
The smell of alcohol and antiseptic washed away the last traces of the paddock, leaving only the sanctity of your work.
The surgery to repair George's collarbone was a symphony of scalpels and sutures, your hands moving with the grace of a pianist playing a favorite sonnet. The bone was set, the incision closed with meticulous care.
Each stitch was a note in a melody that would soon have him back behind the wheel. The surgery was successful, but it was the concussion that lingered like an unwelcome guest.
You ordered an overnight stay for observation, knowing that George would be fighting you every step of the way.
When the race ended, the air was filled with the sweet victory of another driver, but for you, the most critical race was still ongoing.
You stepped out of the theater into the waiting area, the stark lights jolting you out of the tension-filled bubble of the operating room. Marcus, Toto, and Lewis were there, their expressions a tumult of relief and anxiety.
They had come to check on George, their own race now a distant memory as the fate of their friend and rival weighed heavily on their minds.
Marcus looked up as you emerged, his eyes searching yours for any sign of news.
"How is he?" Marcus asked, his voice taut with concern.
You took a moment to compose yourself, the gravity of the situation still pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. "He's stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation."
Toto nodded solemnly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a steely resolve. "We're here for whatever he needs."
Lewis' gaze was distant, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features. He was the calm in the storm, his presence a reassuring constant in a world of chaos and speed.
"We've got to keep him safe," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
Lewis stepped closer, his eyes searching your face. "How bad is the concussion?" His voice was low, his British accent thick with concern.
You took a deep breath, the cool air of the hospital a stark contrast to the sterile air of the operating room. "It's serious, but he's strong. He'll pull through," you assured them, trying to infuse your voice with a confidence you didn't quite feel.
Toto's eyes searched yours, his jaw tight. You knew he was holding back a flood of questions, a torrent of worry for his driver.
"I'm glad you did the operation," Lewis said, his voice a low rumble. His words hung in the air, a quiet affirmation of your skills. The way George talked about you had clearly painted a picture of a doctor who could handle the most daunting of challenges with a steady hand and a cool head.
The weight of their trust settled over you, a warm blanket of reassurance that you'd do everything to ensure George's recovery.
Marcus and Toto nodded in agreement, their expressions a mirror of the relief that had washed over you when George's pulse remained strong despite the chaos.
"He's lucky to have you, Dr. Russell," Toto said, his German accent clipped with stress. "Your work today was nothing short of remarkable."
Lewis, however, remained silent, his eyes never leaving George's still form. "He talked about you a lot," he murmured, his eyes finally meeting yours. "He said you had the touch of an angel. That you could fix anything."
You felt a blush creep up your neck, heat rising in your cheeks. The compliment, especially coming from Lewis, was unexpected.
You had heard the rumors, the whispers of the deep bond between George and Lewis, and the idea that George had spoken of you so highly to his closest rival was both flattering and unsettling. "I just did what was necessary," you replied, trying to downplay your role.
"Nonsense," Toto interjected, his voice gruff with emotion. "You did what none of us could. You kept him safe." His words were a balm to your soul, the validation you needed in that moment.
You had always been in the shadow of George's racing career, the quiet sibling who supported from the sidelines. But today, you had taken center stage, your medical prowess shining through the gloom of his accident.
"Thank you, George is still unconscious but you can come tomorrow to check on him," you said to the trio, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging within. They nodded, their expressions a blend of relief and determination.
The three men looked at you with a newfound respect, their eyes speaking volumes of their gratitude. Marcus nodded solemnly, his hand squeezing yours for a brief second.
"Thank you, Dr. Russell. We'll leave you to it, but we'll be here tomorrow, bright and early."
As the door to the hospital room clicked shut, you allowed yourself to lean against the wall, feeling the tremor of exhaustion run through your body.
The room was a cocoon of soft beeps and hums, the monitors keeping vigil over George's slumbering form. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the hiss of the oxygen mask a stark reminder of the battle he had faced.
Max, his rival, had sent a bouquet of flowers and a heartfelt note, filled with genuine apologies for the accident. You felt a pang of something - pity, perhaps - for the young man.
The weight of guilt had to be heavy, especially for someone like Max, whose career was built on a foundation of aggressive driving. The camaraderie between drivers was a complex tapestry of respect, rivalry, and mutual understanding of the risks they took.
Lando had visited earlier, his eyes red-rimmed and his usually cheery disposition subdued. He had whispered his regret, his voice thick with unshed tears. You had patted his hand, offering gentle words of comfort.
"It's not your fault, Lando," you assured him. "These things happen in racing. George knows that better than anyone."
Lando's eyes searched yours, desperate for absolution. "But I saw his car… I knew it was bad." His voice cracked, the reality of the situation sinking in.
"Lando, focus," you said firmly, squeezing his hand. "We need to be strong for him."
He nodded, wiping at his eyes. "I'll do my best."
As the door closed behind Lando, you were left with your thoughts, the silence of the hospital room a stark contrast to the chaos of the track. You took a moment to let the gravity of the situation settle in, the weight of George's condition a heavy burden on your shoulders.
What if he didn't wake up? What if the surgery hadn't gone well? What if you had missed something? The what-ifs danced like shadows in your mind, taunting you with the possibility of failure.
You had seen the accident unfold in slow motion, the crunch of carbon fiber on metal, the sickening flip of the car, the way it had come to rest against the barriers.
Your stomach lurched at the memory, the smell of burnt rubber and the metallic tang of fear still lingering in your nose.
You felt your heart race, the thud of it echoing in your ears as you approached George's bedside. The guilt was a living creature inside you, clawing at your insides, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you had made a mistake.
But no, you had done everything by the book, you had been thorough, you had been careful. You had to trust in your abilities.
But then, you heard it. The softest of knocks, almost imperceptible in the cocoon of the hospital room.
You turned, expecting a nurse or perhaps another concerned team member. But there, in the doorway, stood Alex. His eyes searched the room, taking in the scene before settling on you, a silent question in his gaze.
You could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the remnants of the race still clinging to his skin, the scent of adrenaline and fear.
Your heart skipped a beat. He had come, even after the race.
Alex pushed the door open gently, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like a man who had just survived a war, his race suit still bearing the scars of the day's battle.
The sight of him filled you with an inexplicable warmth, a feeling that was both comforting and unsettling. You had always kept your distance from the drivers, maintaining a professional detachment that was crucial in your line of work.
But there was something about Alex that made you want to throw caution to the wind.
"Y/N," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent shivers down your spine. The tension between you was palpable, a silent question hanging in the air.
You nodded, unable to find the words to articulate the turmoil of emotions that churned within you. The race had ended, but the adrenaline still hummed in his veins, a potent cocktail that seemed to amplify his presence.
"Are you okay?" he asked again, the concern in his eyes genuine.
You nodded, the words sticking in your throat like a dry mouthful of sand. "Yeah, George is stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation," you repeated, the words becoming a comforting mantra in the face of the uncertainty.
Alex took a tentative step forward, the weight of his concern etched into the lines of his face. His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth beyond the medical jargon.
"Y/n?" he asked, the question hanging in the air.
You nodded, the gesture feeling more like a reflex than a deliberate response.
Your eyes remained locked on George, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. You were acutely aware of Alex's presence, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through your body.
"Are you okay?" Alex repeated, placing the bouquet of flowers on the small table beside George's bed. His gaze was gentle as it met yours, the question in his eyes more than just a formality.
He walked slowly towards you, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if you were a wild creature that might bolt at any sudden noise.
You looked down at your hands, clutched together so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. "I'm fine," you lied, your voice a thin thread of sound that barely made it past your trembling lips.
You hadn't thought about yourself, not once since the accident. Your entire being was consumed with George's condition, the fear of what might happen, the dread of what could have been.
Alex took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You don't look fine," he said softly, the concern in his voice cutting through the fog of your own terror. "You look like you're about to break."
The words hit you like a sledgehammer, and suddenly, you realized that he was right.
You weren't okay. You were terrified. The tremor in your hands spread to your entire body, and you felt the first hot tears spill over your lashes, tracing a path down your cheeks.
You hadn't allowed yourself to feel, not since the moment you had seen George's car spin out of control. You had been a doctor, a sister, a rock for everyone else to lean on.
But now, in the quiet of this hospital room, with the man who had shared your most intimate secrets, you felt the dam of your emotions threaten to crumble.
Alex gently pulled your arm into a hug, his touch a warm embrace that seemed to envelop you in a cocoon of safety.
His arms were strong, his grip firm yet tender, as if he knew that you were teetering on the edge of a precipice and he alone could hold you back from the abyss.
The scent of him – a mix of sweat, engine oil, and a faint hint of the cologne he favored – was a grounding force, bringing you back to the present.
You were shaking, uncontrollably, your body releasing the pent-up tension in a series of tremors. Your heart felt like it was racing to escape the confines of your chest, and your breath came in shallow gasps that seemed to echo the erratic rhythm of George's monitors.
The tears fell in silent rivers, staining the collar of your surgical gown, the fabric sticking to your skin as you leaned into Alex's embrace.
His arms tightened around you, his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your cheek. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had been the last few hours, a beacon of calm in the storm.
You felt his warm breath against your ear as he whispered words of comfort, his voice a soothing balm to the rawness of your nerves.
"He'll be okay," Alex said, his voice filled with a certainty that you desperately needed. "You're the best, Y/N. You're going to get him through this."
You nodded, the words a prayer that you hoped would come true. You knew that George's recovery was uncertain, the concussion a shadowy specter that could claim his career, his very essence.
The thought was unbearable, a weight that threatened to crush you.
But as Alex held you, something inside you began to unravel. The tightly wound ball of fear and anxiety that had been coiled in your stomach since the accident started to loosen, the threads unspooling as he whispered sweet nothings that didn't mean anything and everything all at once.
You felt the tension in your muscles begin to ease, the trembling subsiding as his warmth seeped into your bones.
His hand found the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the electric connection that had always been between you.
The air was thick with it, a silent current that seemed to hum in the quiet hospital room.
"You shouldn't touch me," you murmured into his arms. "I'm sweaty and you probably came from a shower."
Alex chuckled, the vibration of his chest rumbling through your cheek. "You think I can't handle a little sweat?" His voice was a warm caress that seemed to melt the tension in the air around you.
His thumb brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
You pulled back slightly, wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. The look in his eyes was a mix of concern and something else, something that made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the fear of George's condition.
You felt a blush creep up your neck, despite the coolness of the hospital room. “It’s… it’s been a long day,” you mumbled, pulling your arm free from his gentle grasp, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you.
You were a mess, truly. Your scrub top was damp with tears and sweat, your hair was probably plastered to your forehead, and your face felt blotchy and swollen.
This wasn’t how you wanted him to see you, not when you constantly strove to project an image of unwavering professionalism.
Alex watched you, his gaze unwavering. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a profound, almost aching tenderness. He didn’t push, didn’t try to embrace you again.
Instead, he simply reached out, his calloused thumb brushing against the tear track on your cheek, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers further down your spine.
“I know,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s been a long day for all of us. But especially for you. You were the first one there.”
“I just… I just hope I did everything right,” you whispered, the fear tightening its grip around your throat again. “Every step, every decision… what if I missed something, Alex? What if there was a better way, a faster way, a way to prevent… this?” You gestured vaguely towards George, lying pale and still in the bed.
Alex stepped closer again, his proximity a tangible warmth in the cool room. “You’re the best, Y/N,” he reiterated, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Everyone in the paddock knows that. If anyone could have done it, it was you. You saved his life, didn’t you?”
You swallowed hard, the compliment a small balm to your frayed nerves. “I did my job,” you corrected, the familiar mantra of professionalism.
“More than your job,” he countered, his eyes holding yours. “You’re more than a doctor, Y/N. You’re… family. To George, to Lando, to me.”
The word hung between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with each shared secret, each shared victory, each shared heartbreak.
The paddock was a family in its own right, a dysfunctional one, perhaps, but a family nonetheless. You had watched George and Alex rise through the ranks together, their friendship a testament to the resilience of those who dared to dream.
Now, in the sterile quiet of George’s hospital room, the rules seemed to dissipate like mist. The raw fear of the accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth of your emotions.
Alex reached out again, this time taking your hands. His fingers were long and strong, lightly calloused from gripping a steering wheel for hours on end, yet his touch was incredibly gentle.
He turned your hands over, tracing the lines on your palm with his thumb. “You’re allowed to break, Y/N,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on your hands. “You’re allowed to feel this. We all are.”
You pulled your hand from his, the warmth of his skin lingering even as the chill of the hospital air seeped through your thin scrubs. “We’re different, Alex… I’ll be outside.”
Your voice was a strained whisper, barely audible above the quiet hum of the life support machines and the frantic beat of your own heart.
You didn’t wait for a response, didn’t dare to look back, just turned on your heel and practically bolted from George’s room.
The antiseptic scent of the corridor seemed to choke you, a stark contrast to the familiar smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel that usually defined your world.
You walked quickly, blindly, until you found yourself in the small, sterile waiting area.
Collapsing onto a hard plastic chair, you buried your face in your hands, the tremor in your fingers betraying the composure you prided yourself on maintaining.
No dating drivers. The rule. George’s rule. Not just for him, but for you. It wasn't an official team policy, no HR memo, but it was an unspoken boundary, a line drawn in the sand by the very people you called family.
You remembered the day George had first laid it out, half-joking, half-deadly serious, over lukewarm coffee in a sterile hospitality unit. You were then a fresh-faced junior doctor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, utterly thrilled to be working with one of the most prestigious motorsport teams.
George, a rising star, had already established himself as the witty, charming, fiercely loyal pillar of your small group of friends.
“Look, Y/N,” he’d said, stirring his sugar packet with meticulous precision, “this paddock… it’s a bubble. And we’re all stuck in it. We have each other, right? Lando, Alex, me. We’re family. And family doesn’t… complicate things.”
He’d winked at you, but his eyes were serious. “Especially not with one of us. It’s too messy. Too high stakes. We need you sharp, rational. No distractions.”
You’d laughed then, dismissing it as George being George, ever the big brother. But over the years, the wisdom in his words had seeped into your bones.
You’d seen the casual flings, the intense, short-lived romances that bloomed and died within a race weekend, leaving jagged edges and awkward paddock encounters in their wake. You’d seen the toll it took on performance, on mental health.
Your role was to keep your patients at peak condition, both physically and mentally. Emotions were a liability you couldn't afford. You’d seen it play out for other medical staff; a few had left the sport entirely after messy heartbreaks with personnel, or worse, drivers.
George’s rule was a shield, protecting not just your life dynamic, but you.
And yet, here you were. George, your friend, almost certainly still unconscious, hooked up to a life support system.
And Alex… Alex, who had looked at you with such raw, undisguised concern, who had held your hand and offered you permission to break.
The very man who, despite your best efforts to maintain professional distance, had somehow burrowed his way beneath your carefully constructed defenses.
You closed your eyes, picturing the way his strong fingers had traced the lines of your palm. The callouses, a testament to his life’s passion, yet the touch so feather-light, almost reverent.
It had sent a shudder through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with a burgeoning feeling you’d tried desperately to ignore.
In the sterile quiet of the hospital, the rules had dissipated. The raw fear of George’s accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth. And the truth was, you were terrifyingly, undeniably attached.
You spent the rest of the night alternating between George’s bedside, monitoring his vitals with a hawk-like intensity that bordered on obsessive, and the waiting area.
Alex was a constant, unsettling presence. He didn’t push, didn’t speak of what had happened between you just hours ago, but his eyes followed you, a silent question in their depths.
He brought you terrible hospital coffee, a stale sandwich, and for a fleeting moment, as he placed the cup in your hand, his fingers brushed yours. A spark, a jolt, that made you jerk back as if burned.
Two days later, and George woke up. The moment was a blur of beeping machines and the rustle of starched sheets. His eyes fluttered open, the green of his irises a stark contrast to the stark whiteness of the hospital room.
The first thing he saw was you, and his face broke into a lopsided smile, a flash of teeth and relief.
When George finally opened his eyes, a hoarse groan escaping his lips, you were the first face he saw.
A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled your knees, washed over you. “Y/N,” he mumbled, his voice raspy. “What…?”
You patiently explained, your voice calm and steady, outlining the extent of his injuries – significant, but thankfully not life-threatening – and the long road to recovery ahead.
As you spoke, you were acutely aware of Alex, standing silently in the doorway, his own relief palpable.
He caught your eye, a small, weary smile playing on his lips. You gave him a curt nod, a professional acknowledgment, and turned back to George.
The days that followed were a blur of medical jargon, pain management, and physical therapy. Thankfully, it was summer break, and George had the luxury of time to heal.
The Mercedes team rallied around him, offering support and privacy, and you were granted a rare leave from your duties to oversee his recovery in Monaco.
The moment you wheeled George into his luxurious apartment, with its sweeping views of the Mediterranean and the twinkling lights of the Principality below, you felt the weight of his vulnerability.
The apartment was a stark contrast to the high-octane world of Formula One, a sanctuary of quiet opulence that was as much a part of George as the racetrack.
The air smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood, the scent of his favorite candles, a soothing balm to the sterility of the hospital.
You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "How do you feel?" you asked, your voice a gentle whisper in the quiet room.
George's eyes searched yours, the pain and confusion in them a stark reminder of the ordeal he had just been through. "Sore," he replied, his voice a gruff rasp. "But alive."
The smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth was a reflection of the relief that flooded through you. "That's what matters," you said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
The warmth of his skin, the solidity of his grip, was reassurance that he was still here, still fighting.
As you settled into the rhythm of George's recovery, the days grew into a dance of pain and progress. Each day was a battle, a marathon of rehabilitation exercises and medical checks that left you both exhausted yet hopeful.
The first time he managed to sit up without wincing was a victory, a tiny step towards the podium of health. You watched him, the fierce determination etched into his face, and felt a swell of pride.
This was George – your brother, your patient, your hero.
Alex visited daily, bringing with him a tapestry of emotions that was both comforting and confusing. His eyes searched yours with a hunger that went beyond friendship, a question that made your heart race.
You tried to keep the boundaries firm, but the accident had shattered the illusion of control. You felt the electricity in the air when he was near, a charge that made your skin tingle, your pulse quicken.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over Monaco, George’s voice was stronger than it had been in days.
He sat propped up in bed, the soft light of the lamps playing on the planes of his face, highlighting the shadows of his beard. "What's going on with you and Alex?" he asked, his eyes searching your own.
You stilled, the question hitting you like a surprise pit stop. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice too high, too bright, a poorly concealed shield.
George's gaze was knowing, a hint of amusement in his eyes despite his pain. "You know exactly what I mean, sis. The way you two look at each other when you think no one's watching. It's like watching a Formula One race where only you two know the real prize."
Heat flooded your cheeks, and you swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "It's… complicated, George."
He leaned back into his pillows with a sigh, his eyes never leaving yours. "You know the rule, Y/N. No dating drivers."
You nodded, the words like a knife twisting in your gut. "I know. But it's not just about that."
The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. "It's about keeping my head in the game, making sure I'm always there for you."
George's smile was soft, understanding. "You don't have to explain it to me. I know you better than anyone. But maybe it's time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken."
Your heart stuttered at his words, hope and fear mingling in a dizzying cocktail. Could it be possible?
You'd spent so long pushing away the very idea of a relationship with Alex, convincing yourself it was for the greater good. But now, with the world outside the hospital walls feeling so distant, the lines blurred.
Alex's visits grew more frequent, and the tension between you grew more palpable with each passing day. The air in the apartment was charged with unspoken words, every glance a silent conversation.
You felt the weight of his gaze on you as you moved around the room, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed a water bottle or adjusted George's pillows.
One evening, after George had finally fallen into a deep, pain-free sleep, Alex found you on the balcony, staring out over the twinkling cityscape.
The night was warm and still, the scent of the sea mingling with the faint echo of distant laughter from the marina. He approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the cool stone.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet.
You turned to face him, the breeze playing with the loose strands of your hair. "I'm just… processing," you replied, your eyes not quite meeting his.
The air between you was thick with unspoken feelings, a current that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
Alex stepped closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cool marble beneath your bare feet. "We all are," he said, his voice low and soothing. "But George is going to be fine. You know that."
You nodded, the tightness in your chest loosening just a fraction at his words. "I know." But it was more than George's recovery that had you on edge.
It was the undeniable pull between you and Alex, a force that had grown stronger with every shared look, every whispered conversation, every heart-wrenching moment of fear and hope.
Alex stepped closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, a comforting presence in the still night.
He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, a jolt of sensation that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between you.
Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. You wanted to lean into his touch, to surrender to the comfort he offered, but years of disciplined self-control fought against the impulse.
Your role, your duty, your brother – they were the anchors that had always kept you grounded, kept your focus laser-sharp on the track, on George, on the meticulous dance of performance and recovery.
Now, those anchors felt like chains, holding you back from something you instinctively craved.
“Y/N,” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, a low vibration that seemed to resonate through your very bones.
His thumb gently stroked just below your temple, a feather-light touch that promised both solace and a simmering intensity. “You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”
Your eyes finally met his, and in their depths, you saw a reflection of your own vulnerability, a depth of understanding that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
There was no judgment, only a raw, open concern that pulled at something deep inside you. The cool night air seemed to thicken, charged with an electricity that hummed between you.
“I… I’m supposed to,” you confessed, the words barely audible. “It’s my job. To be strong. For him. For everyone.”
You gestured vaguely towards the apartment, towards the sleeping figure of your brother, the silent testament to the life-altering event that had brought you to this precipice.
Alex’s hand moved from your face to cup your cheek, his touch firm but tender. “And who is strong for you, Y/N?” he asked, his gaze unwavering. “Who looks after the person who looks after everyone else?”
Tears pricked at your eyes, unwanted and unexpected. The sheer exhaustion of the past weeks, the constant vigilance, the fear, the relentless push of rehabilitation – it all threatened to spill over.
For so long, you had been the rock, the unshakeable force. To have someone see past that facade, to see you, felt like a dam cracking under immense pressure.
“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling. The admission was a profound relief, a burden lifted that you hadn’t realized you were carrying.
Alex’s gaze softened further, a warmth spreading through you from where his hand rested on your skin. “Let me,” he simply said. It wasn’t a question, but a quiet offering, a promise. “Let me be that person.”
The air crackled, the unspoken heavy between you. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness of the night.
Every fiber of your being screamed at you to pull away, to maintain the professional distance, the carefully constructed walls that had protected you.
But another part, a deeper, more primal part, yearned to collapse into him, to finally release the tension that had been building for what felt like an eternity.
You thought of George’s words: “Maybe it’s time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken.”
The irony wasn’t lost on you.
Your brother, the very reason for the rule, was now giving you permission to consider breaking it. And in this moment, looking into Alex’s eyes, the rules seemed impossibly distant, irrelevant.
“Alex…” You started, your voice barely a whisper, unsure what you were going to say.
To confess the truth of your feelings, the way your stomach did flip-flops whenever he entered the room, the way your thoughts drifted to him even in the most intense moments of George’s therapy, felt like stepping off a cliff.
He didn't wait for you to finish. As if reading the tumultuous storm within you, he leaned in, his eyes dropping to your lips. "I can't pretend anymore, Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Being here, seeing you every day, seeing what you do for George… it's just amplified everything. I've tried to deny it, to push it down, but I can't. I'm completely, hopelessly in love with you."
The words hung in the air, potent and raw. In love. The sheer audacity of it, the overwhelming truth of it, stunned you into silence.
Your breath hitched, your vision blurring slightly as your own emotions, long suppressed, surged to the surface.
It wasn't just physical attraction, not just a fleeting spark. It was something deep, something that had been quietly growing beneath the surface of your professional interactions, nourished by shared anxieties and unspoken understanding.
"Alex," you breathed, the name a shaky confession on your lips. Your hand instinctively reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your touch. The vulnerability in his eyes mirrored your own.
"I know the rules," he continued, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I know your dedication to George, to your career. But what if… what if it doesn't have to be a choice? What if we could have both?"
Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your ribs, echoing the urgency in his voice. The rational part of your brain screamed warnings, reminding you of the complexities, the potential pitfalls, the wrath of the team principal and the media.
But the other part, the one that had been starved of personal connection for so long, yearned for the solace Alex offered. It yearned for him.
"I…" You trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence. His words had unravelled the tight knot of your self-control.
The truth, long buried beneath layers of professionalism and familial duty, demanded to be acknowledged. "I think… I think I'm in love with you too, Alex." The admission was a floodgate, releasing a torrent of emotion.
A soft gasp escaped his lips, a look of profound relief washing over his face. The tension that had held him taut for weeks seemed to melt away.
His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours for confirmation, for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, a slow, tender smile spread across his face, eclipsing the worry that had resided there for so long.
"Y/N," he whispered, your name a prayer. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.
You met him halfway, your eyes fluttering closed as his lips finally, blessedly, met yours. It was a kiss born of shared fear and newfound hope, of unspoken longing and raw tenderness.
It wasn't fiery or passionate at first, but soft, hesitant, like two weary souls finding an unexpected haven. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, a soft exploration that spoke volumes of respect and reverence.
As the kiss deepened, a wave of profound relief washed over you, a feeling akin to finally breathing after being underwater for too long. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
Your hands found their way to his hair, clutching at the soft strands at the nape of his neck as the kiss grew more urgent, more consuming.
The scent of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body pressed against yours – it was overwhelming, all-encompassing.
For a moment, the world outside the balcony, the sleeping city, the still-recovering George, even the very rules that had governed your life, faded into the background. There was only Alex, and you, and the intoxicating reality of this moment.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your own.
You opened your eyes slowly, blinking in the soft glow of the city lights. His eyes, when they opened, were dark and full of wonder, a raw emotion that stole your breath.
"Wow," he breathed, the single word a profound understatement. A small, shaky laugh escaped you. You felt lighter, yet intensely grounded, as if a missing piece of your soul had finally clicked into place.
"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice still thick with emotion. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, still disbelieving that this was real, that you had finally allowed yourself to step into this terrifying, beautiful unknown.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "So… what now, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful apprehension. "Rules broken and all."
You couldn't help but smile back, a genuine, unburdened smile that felt foreign yet exhilarating. "Now," you said, glancing back towards the quiet apartment, towards George. "Now we navigate life one at a time."
The phrase, so familiar from your world, took on a new, deeply personal meaning. You had both just taken an unimaginable risk, a dive into the unknown.
The road ahead was undoubtedly fraught with challenges, with the complexities of your shared professional lives and the inevitable scrutiny that would come.
But as you looked at Alex, at the hope and tenderness in his eyes, you felt a surge of courage. For the first time in a long time, the prospect of the future, with all its unpredictability, didn't feel daunting. It felt like an adventure, and you were ready to face it, hand in hand.
The days that followed the quiet, stolen kiss on the balcony were a delicate dance of newfound intimacy and the continuing, demanding rhythm of George’s recovery.
George, ever the astute observer, seemed to notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He caught you and Alex exchanging knowing glances, lingering touches that lasted a fraction of a second too long, and conversations that hummed with an unspoken energy.
He would simply smile, a knowing twinkle in his eyes, and occasionally offer a cryptic, “Looks like you’re finally considering that rule-breaking, sis.”
You and Alex became experts at discretion. Your stolen moments were brief: a shared glance across George’s bed, a hand brushing yours as you passed in the kitchen, a quick, hushed conversation in the hallway while George was napping.
The balcony, once a place of confession, became your sanctuary for whispered words and fleeting kisses under the vast Monaco sky.
Each touch, each glance, was charged with the thrill of a secret, strengthening the bond that had so suddenly, so dramatically, blossomed between you.
George’s progress was steady, a testament to his formidable will and your unwavering dedication. The frustration of his limited mobility slowly gave way to the satisfaction of incremental gains.
The first time he managed a short walk around the apartment with only minimal assistance, you and Alex exchanged a look of profound relief and shared pride.
Later that evening, after George had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Alex found you weeping silently in the kitchen, not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief and joy of seeing your brother reclaim his body, step by arduous step.
He simply held you, letting you cry into his shoulder, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.
“You did good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice soft against your hair. “You always do.”
His unwavering support, the quiet strength he offered, solidified your feelings for him. It wasn’t just the thrill of a forbidden romance; it was the deep, resonant connection with someone who understood the pressures of your world, the sacrifices, and the unique challenges you faced.
Alex, himself a racer, knew the relentless pursuit of perfection, the gnawing anxiety, and the profound love for the sport that defined your lives.
He saw you, not just as George’s sister or his physiotherapist, but as a woman with her own desires, fears, and strengths.
As summer waned and the distant hum of the F1 season slowly began to pick up again, George’s recovery reached a critical point. He was cleared for light training, his strength returning with impressive speed.
The initial shock of the accident had given way to a quiet determination. One afternoon, as you were helping him with a new set of exercises, he paused, looking at you with a serious expression.
“You and Alex,” he began, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ve seen it. Don’t think I haven’t.”
Your heart hammered, and you braced yourself. “George…”
He held up a hand. “No, let me finish. I meant what I said on the balcony. I know my rule, and it’s there for a reason. But I also know you, Y/N. And I know Alex. He’s a good man. And you deserve to be happy.”
He looked from you to the doorway, where Alex was just entering with a fresh batch of protein shakes. Their eyes met, a brief, silent exchange passing between the two drivers.
Alex stepped forward, placing the shakes on the table. “We know it’s complicated, George,” he said quietly, his gaze resting on you for a moment. “We’re being careful.”
George scoffed playfully, a ghost of his usual cheeky grin returning. “Careful, huh? You two look like you’re starring in a rom-com, all stolen glances and secret smiles.”
He sighed, a more serious look returning. “Look, I love you both. More than anything. But this life, it’s… intense. If you’re going to do this, you have to be ready for what it means. For us.” His gaze swept between you, a silent plea for understanding.
You walked over to George, taking his hand. “We know, Geo. We’re not stupid. And nothing, nothing, will ever come before your well-being or my commitment to you. That’s a promise.”
Alex nodded, stepping closer to stand beside you. “She’s right. This isn’t about being reckless. It’s about… finding something real, something worth fighting for, even within the craziness of our world.” He squeezed your shoulder, a reassuring gesture that spoke volumes.
George looked at the two of you, a long, searching gaze that seemed to weigh the sincerity of your words. Finally, a small smile touched his lips.
“Good,” he said, a hint of his old authority returning. “Because if I see either of you jeopardizing my racing career with some sort of dramatic relationship meltdown, I’ll personally make sure Toto puts you both on simulator duty for the rest of your lives.”
You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “Duly noted, boss.”
As George slowly but surely transitioned from the apartment to the gym, and then to the hallowed grounds of the F1 team’s factory, your world began to shift.
The intense, insular bubble of Monaco began to expand. You resumed some of your other duties, albeit with a new perspective, a lightness in your step.
Alex’s visits to the apartment became less frequent, replaced by rendezvous at private cafes or quiet corners of the team’s hospitality suites at pre-season testing.
The ‘rules’ were still there, unspoken but hanging in the air. Yet, after the terror of the accident and the raw honesty that followed, they seemed less like rigid constraints and more like guidelines to navigate.
You and Alex were treading carefully, respecting the boundaries necessary for your professional lives, but also nurturing the burgeoning love that had blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances.
One crisp autumn evening, with George back in top form and focused on the upcoming season, you found yourself on the balcony of George's apartment once more, the city lights twinkling below like scattered diamonds.
Alex joined you, wrapping an arm around your waist. The air was cooler now, a promise of winter, but the warmth between you was undeniable.
“Remember that night?” Alex murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You leaned into his embrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “Every detail.”
“We broke all the rules that night, didn’t we?” he chuckled softly.
You turned in his arms, looking up at him, your hands resting on his chest. “Maybe,” you admitted, a smile playing on your lips. “Or maybe, we just redefined them.”
He smiled back, a deep, knowing look in his eyes. “To us, then. To new rules.”
He leaned down, and under the vast, star-dusted sky of Monaco, he kissed you again. It was a kiss of quiet promise, of shared courage, and of a love that, against all odds, had found its starting line.
The journey ahead was long, but for the first time, you felt ready to face the race, knowing you weren't running it alone. . . .
Lando was halfway through a conversation with a few engineers when a loud voice suddenly cut across the paddock.
"LANDO NORRIS!"
His entire body froze. The smile dropped from his face instantly as he slowly turned around.
The nearby mechanics immediately noticed the panic. "What did you do?" one of them asked.
"I don't know!" Lando whispered back.
In the two seconds it took him to turn around, he'd already mentally reviewed everything he'd done that morning.
Had he forgotten a media appearance?
Missed a sponsor obligation?
Broken something expensive?
When he finally spotted you jogging toward him with a grin, he looked deeply concerned.
"What?" You laughed. "I just wanted to show you this photo."
Lando blinked. "That's it?"
"Yeah."
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "Oh my god. Do not ever use my full government name like that."
You started laughing harder. "Why?"
"Because people only use 'Lando Norris' when I'm either in trouble or about to be blamed for something."
A nearby engineer nodded. "Usually both."
Oscar Piastri:
Oscar was reviewing data with his race engineer when your voice echoed through the paddock.
"OSCAR JACK PIASTRI!"
Oscar immediately stopped speaking.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
He turned around. His expression remained completely neutral, but something about the silence suggested he was already preparing for bad news.
The engineer beside him raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Oscar sighed. "I don't know yet."
You approached happily while Oscar watched with the cautious energy of someone expecting consequences.
"Hey!"
"Hi."
"You okay?"
Oscar narrowed his eyes. "You used my full name."
"Yeah?"
"Nobody does that unless I've committed a crime."
You burst out laughing. "It wasn't that serious."
Oscar folded his arms. "Then why did you yell it across the entire paddock?"
You proudly held up a coffee you'd bought him.
His expression softened slightly. "A coffee?"
"Your favourite."
Oscar accepted it. "Good." A pause. "You still took ten years off my life."
Charles Leclerc:
Charles was signing autographs when your voice rang out from across the paddock.
"CHARLES MARC HERVÉ PERCEVAL LECLERC!"
The entire crowd went silent. Charles nearly dropped the pen. His head snapped up immediately.
Even the fans looked concerned. Charles stared at you from twenty metres away with the expression of a man who had just been summoned by an angry school principal.
When you finally reached him, he looked genuinely nervous. "What happened?"
You blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You shouted my entire name."
"Yeah?"
Charles leaned closer. "Nobody knows all of my names unless they're about to tell me something terrible."
You laughed. "I just wanted your attention."
Charles pressed a hand to his chest. "Mon dieu." One of the Ferrari staff members was laughing behind him.
"I thought I'd forgotten a meeting."
"I thought someone crashed a car."
"I thought I crashed a car."
You grinned. "You've imagined a lot in thirty seconds."
Charles pointed at you. "You are not allowed to do that again."
Lewis Hamilton:
Lewis was walking through the paddock when your voice suddenly echoed behind him.
"LEWIS CARL DAVIDSON HAMILTON!"
He stopped immediately. The reaction was instant. Lewis turned around with the calm but concerned expression of someone expecting an official complaint.
A few nearby team members looked over. Lewis walked toward you. "Everything alright?"
You smiled. "Yeah."
His eyes narrowed. "Then why did you use my full name?"
You laughed. "I needed you to hear me."
Lewis shook his head. "That sounded serious."
"Did it?"
"It sounded like I was being summoned to the head teacher's office."
You couldn't stop laughing. Lewis eventually joined in. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"I actually started thinking about whether I'd forgotten something important."
"You?"
"I've been doing this long enough to know full names never mean good news." He pointed at you. "Next time, just say Lewis."
Carlos Sainz:
Carlos was chatting with mechanics when he suddenly heard:
"CARLOS SAINZ VÁZQUEZ DE CASTRO!"
The entire garage erupted. Several people started laughing immediately.
Carlos simply stared into the distance for a moment. "No."
You called again. "CARLOS!"
He turned around dramatically. "What have I done?"
You doubled over laughing. "I haven't even said anything yet!"
"Exactly," Carlos replied. "The full name comes before the problem."
When you finally reached him, Carlos looked genuinely relieved to discover you were holding snacks.
"That's why you were shouting?"
"Yes."
Carlos grabbed them immediately. "Okay, good."
One mechanic chimed in. "I thought race control was looking for you."
Carlos pointed at him. "So did I." Then he looked back at you. "Next time, use less of the name."
"It wasn't even the whole thing."
Carlos groaned. "Please don't learn any more of it."
Alex Albon:
Alex was walking through the paddock when he heard:
"ALEXANDER ALBON ANSUSINHA!"
Alex stopped so abruptly that the person beside him nearly walked into him.
He slowly looked over his shoulder. "Oh no."
You approached while Alex stood there looking suspiciously nervous. "What?" You laughed.
"What do you mean, what?"
"Why did you use the full name?"
"You weren't listening."
Alex shook his head. "No, no. That's not how this works." He pointed at you. "When people use the full name, something bad follows."
You couldn't stop smiling. "I just wanted to ask if you wanted lunch."
Alex blinked. "That's it?"
"Yep."
His shoulders immediately relaxed. "Oh thank goodness."
"Why were you so worried?"
Alex shrugged. "I don't know. But for a second I felt like I was twelve and my mum had caught me doing something."
Isack Hadjar:
Isack was focused on his phone when your voice suddenly rang through the paddock.
"ISACK HADJAR!"
His head shot up instantly. The reaction was almost comical. He looked around like he'd been caught doing something wrong despite having done absolutely nothing.
When he spotted you, he pointed at himself. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
As you walked over, he looked increasingly suspicious. "What's happening?"
"Nothing."
"You yelled."
"I did."
"You used the serious voice." You laughed.
"There was a serious voice?"
"There was definitely a serious voice." By now a few people nearby were watching the interaction.
You handed him something you'd brought for him.
Isack stared at it.
"Oh." A pause. "Oh, that's actually nice."
You grinned. "See? Nothing bad."
He shook his head. "You scared me."
"I scared you?"
"Yes. For a second I thought I'd accidentally offended somebody."
Max Verstappen:
Max was sitting in the Red Bull hospitality area when your voice suddenly echoed through the paddock.
"MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN!"
The silence was immediate. Max slowly looked up from his phone. The expression on his face suggested he was trying to determine whether this was an emergency. Nearby team members immediately started smirking.
Max stood up and walked over. "What happened?"
You blinked. "Nothing."
He crossed his arms. "You shouted my full name."
"Yeah."
"People only do that when they're angry."
You laughed. "I'm not angry."
Max looked unconvinced. "Then why?"
You showed him what you wanted. A photo. Just a photo. Max stared at it for a second. Then at you. Then back at the photo.
"That's why you yelled?"
"Yep."
He shook his head. "I genuinely thought I was about to be blamed for something."
One engineer nearby laughed.
"To be fair, Max, that's usually a safe assumption." Max pointed at him.
"You're not helping."
this is part one of this scenario, each part will have 8 drivers in it
part two (PG10, FC43, FA14, LS18, LL30, AL41, GR 63, KA12)
part three (GB5, NH27, EO35, OB87, DR3, JD7, LS2 & AL65)
