Right in front of you - ka12
𖤓 when a mercedes engineering intern is assigned to george russell’s side of the garage, she’s too busy trying not to mess anything up to notice the attention she’s getting, especially from a certain rookie who keeps finding excuses to be around.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, mercedes intern au, paddock au, oblivious!reader, soft + humour, smau + written (multi-part), face claim: Haerin from newjeans
𖤓 note: this is my first time writing so please be nice 😭 also i’m not an engineering student, so if anything is inaccurate or doesn’t fully make sense… just go with it.
𖤓 Listen to “you belong with me” when reading this!
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part Five
Subject: Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team – Summer Internship Offer
We are pleased to inform you that you have been successful in your application for the Summer Engineering Internship with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.
During your placement, you will be working closely with members of our race engineering team, supporting various aspects of data analysis, performance evaluation, and garage operations. You will be primarily assigned to the car crew on George Russell’s side of the garage.
We look forward to welcoming you to the team.
Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
The paddock at Silverstone was a living thing.
You felt it the second you ducked under the barriers, your lanyard swinging against your ribs like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with everything at once: burning rubber, race fuel, frying onions from the food trucks, and something sweeter underneath, like freshly cut grass baked in July sun. Overhead, helicopters chopped the sky into pieces, ferrying people who probably had never waited in a security line in their lives. You were not one of those people. You were, in fact, power-walking so fast that your tote bag kept sliding off your shoulder, narrowly missing a man carrying what looked like a very expensive camera lens. "Sorry! So sorry — thank you — sorry —" you say before he was already gone.
The garages stretched out in a long row, each one a kingdom of its own. Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Aston Martin green. And there, three doors down, the silver arrow of Mercedes, sleek and cold as a scalpel. Your chest squeezed just by the sight of it.
Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.
You ducked into the Mercedes garage and immediately felt the temperature drop — air conditioning cranked to combat the British summer, mixing with the smell of hot brakes and nervous sweat. The floor was spotless grey concrete, marked with coloured tape to keep people where they belonged. Mechanics in white or black shirts moved with surgical precision, speaking into headsets, tapping tablets, adjusting things you couldn't even name. A woman with sharp eyes and a laminated badge spotted you first. “You're the intern. George's side," she says as she walks without looking back to check on you. "Yes. I'm Y/N. Hi" you say as you follow her.
Don't touch anything. Good. That was easy. You could do that.
You spent the next four hours doing exactly that — standing two steps behind George Russell's senior engineer, absorbing information like a sponge that was desperately trying not to drown. You handed the tools when asked. You took notes on a tablet until your thumbs ached. You learned where the coffee machine was (critical) and which mechanics didn't like being spoken to before 10 AM (most of them). By the time you were sent to grab a data printout from the engineering room at the far end of the garage row, your brain felt like static. You were walking fast. Too fast. Eyes on the concrete floor, replaying torque specs in your head, mentally rearranging the wiring diagram you'd been shown an hour ago: Sixty-two newton meters. Sixty-two. Not sixty-three. Sixty-two —
You turned the corner and walked directly into someone hard. Your tablet clattered to the ground. A water bottle went rolling. You stumbled back, arms flailing, and would have landed on your ass if two hands hadn't shot out to catch you by the elbows.
"Whoa — sorry — I wasn't —" you say, looking up.
Dark curls. Brown eyes wide with surprise. A Mercedes polo shirt with the sleeves pushed up. A jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone with a very specific aesthetic vision. You knew this face. You'd seen it on screens, on posters, on the paddock entry list you'd memorised last night at 2 AM.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli. The rookie who was leading the championship. The one everyone was watching.
He was holding you like you weighed nothing, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your sleeves. His mouth was slightly open, like he'd been about to say something and forgotten how words worked.
"You're —" he started. "I'm so sorry," you interrupted, already pulling away, already bending down to grab your tablet, already moving. "That was completely my fault. I wasn't looking. Are you okay? Sorry — I have to — I have to get this to —" You were already backing away, clutching the tablet to your chest like a shield. Kimi blinked; his hand was still half-extended from catching you. "It's fine. Don't worry. Are you —"
"Fine! Totally fine. Thank you. Sorry again," you say as you rush out without looking back.
Kimi stood there for a long three seconds. His water bottle was still rolling slowly across the floor. No one had picked it up. He was still staring at the spot where you'd disappeared around the corner. "Who was that?" he asked aloud, to no one. A passing mechanic shrugged as they said, "New intern. George's side." Kimi nodded slowly before bending down, picking up his water bottle, and walking back to his side of the garage. He didn't say another word for the rest of the walk. But he was smiling.
