Wolf Pack Chaos Part 2 🐺
🐺 Wolf Pack Chaos Series || main masterlist
Toto Wolff x reserve!driver!reader
chaos with George, Kimi, Rosa Wolff and Paul Ripke
Summary: You arrive at the Japanese GP as Mercedes’ reserve driver expecting a normal weekend — instead you get wolf merch chaos, babysitting Toto’s dangerously observant daughter, becoming a TikTok star, and trying to survive Kimi, George… and Toto Wolff openly flirting with you like it’s part of the race strategy — which would be manageable… if your knees didn’t completely give up every time he calls you his little she-wolf.
Warnings: humor, fluff + tension, slow burn, boss/driver dynamic, age gap, playful teasing, flirty interactions, sarcastic!reader, flirty!Toto, soft moments + emotional confusion,
Music theme: Greedy – Tate McRae
Word count: 16k
a/n: I had so much fun writing it that I didn’t even notice how long it got, but I have to admit, I had a great time. And Toto? Well… flirty, charming, and absolutely loving to tease the reader — that’s my current favorite version of him 🫠
The She-Wolf Problem
— Welcome to Suzuka —
The next two weeks were… strange. Very strange. You tried to behave normally. Train normally. Work normally. But your brain had other ideas. Because apparently once a tall Austrian billionaire whispered “my little she-wolf” into your ear, your subconscious decided that was now a recurring theme.
You sighed into your pillow one night, “Fantastic.”
Because yes — you had dreams. Wolf dreams... which was already weird. But even weirder was the fact that said wolves occasionally looked suspiciously like a two-meter Austrian man with sharp eyes and an annoyingly attractive smile.
You groaned and buried your face deeper into the pillow. “Great... perfect. Nothing weird about that.”
And of course the dream version of him kept saying the same thing. My little she-wolf.
You flipped onto your back, staring at the ceiling.
“To be fair,” you muttered to the darkness, “there are some minor complications.”
You counted on your fingers. “He’s my boss... Twice my age. And… married.” You paused. “…but those are just small details.”
You blinked. Then sat up. “Jesus Christ... get a grip.”
*
A few days after the photoshoot, the pictures finally dropped on social media. And just like you predicted... The internet exploded. Completely.
You were sitting on your couch scrolling through the comments and laughing like an idiot.
Fans were losing their minds.
“WOLF PACK MERCEDES???” “THIS IS THE HOTTEST THING THEY’VE EVER DONE.” “WHY DOES TOTO LOOK LIKE A VILLAIN FROM A MOVIE.” “I NEED THAT JACKET.” “THE TEAM PRINCIPAL IS THE MAIN CHARACTER.”
You snorted. “Well yeah.”
You zoomed in on one of the photos. Toto leaning slightly forward, the black jacket framing his shoulders, the wolf logo glowing behind him.
You exhaled slowly. “…okay, to be fair... he looks insane in that.”
But honestly? He had looked even better in person. You caught yourself staring at the picture a little too long.
Then shook your head quickly. “Stop.” You tossed your phone aside. “Stop it.”
You pointed at yourself. “That is Toto. Just Toto. Your boss... nothing else.”
Unfortunately your brain immediately replayed the memory of him leaning close to your ear. My little she-wolf.
You slapped your face lightly. “Oh my God... Pull yourself together.”
*
Now you are standing in your apartment, packing your suitcase. In a few hours, you have a flight. Suzuka.
You zip one side of the bag and lean back on the bed. Your brain immediately wanders again. Because there is a very real possibility that Toto might wear the wolf jacket during the Japanese Grand Prix weekend.
You stare into space. “…that would be a problem.”
Because if he shows up dressed like that again… You shake your head violently. “No! No more thoughts about the tall Austrian flirt.”
You grab a hoodie and stuff it into the suitcase. “Focus. You need sleep.”
Because the PR department has already warned you. Your schedule for Suzuka is brutal. Interviews. Fan events. Media appearances. Social media duties. Apparently being a driver means endless obligations even when you are not actually racing.
You flop onto the bed with a groan. “Fantastic. Full PR calendar… Zero driving.”
Honestly, you would much rather be in the car. Especially this year. The car the team has built is an absolute rocket. George and Kimi actually have a real shot at the championship.
You smile slightly. That part makes you proud. Still…. your mind drifts again. Silverstone. Testing. Old F1 cars. You wonder if Toto will show up for that…
You immediately grab a pillow and press it over your face. “Stop! Stop thinking about the old flirt.”
Silence fills the room. You turn off the lamp and try to sleep. But sleep does not come easily. And when it finally does… your dreams are… questionable. Because apparently your brain has decided to combine two very specific things. Wolves… and Toto Wolff. At one point dream-Toto is literally wearing a dramatic wolf coat while watching you from the edge of a forest.
You wake up halfway through the night, staring at the ceiling. “…what the hell was that.”
You rub your eyes. “Seriously, brain… that’s getting weird.”
*
A few hours later, you are already on the plane to Japan. You lean back in the seat, staring out the window at the endless stretch of clouds below.
“This is going to be an interesting weekend,” you mutter to yourself. And knowing your life lately… interesting is probably an understatement.
When you land, a team representative is already waiting for you at the airport. Suzuka is buzzing with fans. Even before you reach the car, a small crowd has gathered near the barriers. Phones up. Flags waving. You smile, signing a few autographs and posing for quick selfies. Most of them are wearing George’s number. Or Kimi’s. And of course there are a few Mercedes caps with Toto Wolff written on them, which still makes you laugh internally. But you also spot something that makes you pause. A small group holding signs with your name.
You blink. “…well damn.”
You walk over to them and sign their posters, thanking them quickly before the team ushers you toward the car. Inside the vehicle, one of the assistants from Mercedes PR turns toward you with her tablet already in hand.
“Okay,” she says efficiently, “when we get to the hotel you should freshen up.”
She scrolls through her schedule. “If you're hungry, order something to your room. We head to the circuit shortly after.”
You sigh dramatically. “More media?”
She gives you a sympathetic smile. “More media. And a short photoshoot.”
You already know what that means.
She adds the final blow. “With the wolf merch.”
You close your eyes. “Of course.”
“And there’s also a Mercedes show car with the wolf livery,” she continues cheerfully. “And the F1 car has a small accent on the front wing.”
You stare at her. “Let me guess… a wolf?”
She nods. “Yes.”
You lean back in your seat. “…wolves everywhere.”
You rub your temple. “Really… Toto’s ego must be floating somewhere in the stratosphere right now.”
*
After a quick stop at the hotel to shower and change, you are back in the car heading toward Suzuka Circuit. The moment you arrive, the familiar energy of a race weekend hits you. Mechanics move quickly. Engineers talk over radios. Equipment is rolled through the garage.
Mercedes operates like a perfectly oiled machine. And honestly? That is largely Toto’s doing. You remember once asking him how he built such a precise system.
He had shrugged and said completely seriously, “In the beginning I even had to explain to the cleaning staff how to clean the toilet.”
You had stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
That is Toto. A micromanager of legendary proportions. But somehow… it works. Because now everyone in the team knows exactly what they are doing.
You glance across the paddock toward Ferrari’s garage, where people are running around in what looks suspiciously like chaos.
You nod to yourself. “Okay… maybe the micromanaging has benefits.”
A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts. “Hey.”
You turn. Kimi is walking toward you, already smiling. You immediately smile back. You like him a lot. He is four years younger than you, but you get along ridiculously well.
He stops next to you. “Long flight?”
“Long enough.”
A moment later George joins you. Looking relaxed. Hands in his pockets. But you know him well enough to see past the surface. Underneath that casual posture is pure focus. Ambition practically radiates from him. The championship fight between him and Kimi is heating up fast. Just a few points separate them. In China, Kimi wins. Which means in Japan… George needs the victory. And with the Mercedes car this year? It is very possible. The machine is an absolute monster. A rocket. If things go normally, the fight for the win will almost certainly be between those two.
You lean casually against the garage table while the three of you talk. Kimi starts messing with a group of mechanics, hiding someone’s wrench just to watch the confusion unfold.
George shakes his head. “You’re a menace.”
Kimi grins. The garage is full of laughter. And for a moment everything feels easy. Normal. Then a group from PR appears.
“Alright guys,” one of them says brightly. “Time for photos and a few social media clips.”
You immediately groan.
George laughs. “You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
You look toward the car sitting in the garage. The cockpit. The steering wheel. The thing you actually want to be doing.
“I would give anything to sit in that seat right now,” you mutter. “And instead…”
You gesture toward the rack of wolf jackets already waiting nearby. “…I’m about to go pose like a member of the damn wolf pack again.”
You sigh dramatically. “Fantastic career choices.”
*
You spend the next hour wandering around Suzuka with a small army from the PR team, cameras following you like persistent shadows. The wolf theme was everywhere. Wolf jackets. Wolf caps. Wolf flags. Even a giant inflatable wolf near the hospitality area that Kimi immediately declares is “watching our souls.”
You stand in front of the custom Mercedes, the one painted in the special wolf livery, while a photographer circles you like you're a museum exhibit.
“Smile.”
Click.
“Look serious.”
Click.
“Look like you’re intimidating the competition.”
You narrow your eyes dramatically. George leans toward Kimi and whispers loud enough for everyone to hear. “Careful. She’s activating wolf mode.”
Kimi nods gravely. “Awooo.”
You kick his shoe. “Shut up.”
The photographer laughs and the PR assistant sighs. “Please don’t fight during the shoot.”
“That wasn’t fighting,” George says. “That was team bonding.”
Another shot. This time the three of you lean against the car. Kimi rests his elbow on the roof like he owns the thing. George crosses his arms, trying to look cool. You stand between them in the ridiculous wolf jacket, thinking for the hundredth time how much you would rather be inside the cockpit.
The photographer lowers the camera. “Perfect. Social media will love this.”
“Fantastic,” you mutter. “Another reel where I pretend to enjoy fashion.”
Kimi grins. “You look good.”
George nods. “Yeah. Very fierce. Very… National Geographic.”
You roll your eyes. And eventually the PR circus releases you and the three of you head back toward the Mercedes garage, still joking and shoving each other like teenagers.
The moment you step inside, the familiar rhythm of the garage wraps around you. Your eyes drift toward the back of the garage, and there he is. Toto. Tall. Calm. Watching everything like a general observing a battlefield. And next to him, a young woman with long blond hair, looking around the garage with curiosity.
Toto notices you first. His expression softens immediately. “Well look who finally finished their modeling career.”
You laugh as you approach. “Barely survived.”
Kimi and George greet him, and Toto pulls each of them briefly into a quick hug — his usual warm, informal way of greeting the team. Then he turns to you. For a split second you hesitate. Because the last time you two were alone… Well. Your brain remembers that conversation very clearly. But he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into a quick hug. Warm. Familiar. And your cheeks immediately heat up.
When he steps back, he gestures toward the girl beside him. “This is my daughter, Rosa.”
She smiles warmly and extends her hand. “Hi. I’ve heard about you.”
You shake it. “Hopefully only good things.”
She laughs. “Oh definitely not.”
You instantly like her. She has the same sharp eyes as Toto. And the same slightly mischievous smile.
You all stand there chatting for a moment before Toto glances toward the wolf-painted Mercedes parked nearby. Then his gaze shifts back to you. A spark of an idea clearly forming.
“You know…” he says casually.
You already don’t trust that tone. “What?”
He points toward the car. “Maybe you should take Rosa for a hot lap.”
Rosa’s eyes go wide. “Seriously?!”
You look at the car. Then at Toto. You shrug. “Sure.”
Then you point at the wolf race suit hanging nearby. “But only if I don’t have to wear the wolf costume.”
Toto raises an eyebrow slowly. “Oh come on.” His lips curve into that teasing smile. “You all look excellent in them.”
He winks at you. Your brain short-circuits. God. Again. Seriously? Is he flirting? In front of the team? And his daughter?
Rosa, thankfully, seems too excited about the car to notice. Mechanics start preparing the car. Someone brings a helmet for Rosa.
While she’s getting ready, Toto walks over to you. Slowly. Too Slow. He stops close enough that you can smell his cologne again. That same dangerous, expensive scent.
He leans slightly closer so only you can hear. “Please return the car in one piece.”
His tone is amused and you glance at the wolf painted on the hood.
“Hm.” You tap the front of the car. “Well… this wolf face could use a bit of cosmetic surgery anyway.”
He laughs quietly. “Don’t you dare.”
You shrug innocently. “No promises.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “You are terrible.”
“And yet you keep me in the team.”
For a moment the two of you just stand there, exchanging that same dangerous, playful energy that’s been building some time. And you realize your cheeks are absolutely burning.
Rosa climbs into the passenger seat. “Are you two done flirting or are we driving today?”
You nearly choke. “I am not flirting.”
Toto just smirks.
When everything is ready, he steps back and gives you both an easy grin. “Have fun.”
Then he winks again. That stupid, charming, boyish wink.
You climb into the driver’s seat thinking: God. How does this man have this effect on you? Is this even legal?
As you start the car, your eyes drift toward Toto one last time. He’s already walking away across the garage. And yes. You absolutely stare.
Next to you Rosa suddenly elbows you in the ribs. “Hey.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
“... at my dad.”
You nearly choke. “I am absolutely not staring at your father.”
She tilts her head slowly. Suspicious. Then grins. “You were staring at his butt.”
You cough violently. “I was not looking at this old man butt!”
She bursts out laughing and pulls her helmet down. “Sure.”
You grip the steering wheel, mortified. Heart beating a little too fast. Oh God. The daughter is exactly like the father.
The engine growls to life beneath you. A deep, vibrating sound that you feel through the steering wheel, through the seat, through your ribs.
Next to you Rosa lets out an excited squeal. “Oh my God!”
You grin inside the helmet. “Ready?”
“Absolutely not,” she says immediately. “But go!”
You laugh and release the pit limiter. The Mercedes launches forward smoothly, then faster, then much faster. The first corner comes quickly. You take it clean.
Rosa bursts into laughter. “This is insane!”
You shift gears. The car accelerates again, the track opening ahead of you like an invitation. Wind howls around the cockpit. Rosa throws her hands up for half a second before remembering she’s supposed to hold on.
“You’re crazy!” she shouts.
You grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment!”
Another corner. A clean line. A burst of speed down the straight. Rosa is laughing nonstop now.
“Okay, wow,” she says between breaths. “You are actually incredible.”
You snort. “Well that’s good to hear. The boss’s daughter approving my driving definitely boosts my job security.”
She laughs loudly. “I’m serious!”
You feel your confidence rise anyway. The car responds perfectly beneath you and the joy of driving takes over completely. For a few glorious minutes it’s just speed, laughter, and the pure thrill of the track.
When you finally roll back into the pit lane, both of you are still giggling like kids. You park the car and shut off the engine. Silence settles in, broken only by Rosa pulling off her helmet with bright eyes.
“That,” she says breathlessly, “was the coolest thing I’ve done in months.”
You pull your helmet off too. “Glad to be of service.”
As you both climb out of the car, you immediately notice Toto standing near the garage, talking to a few mechanics. The moment he sees you two walking back, he breaks into a wide smile. That dangerously warm one.
“Well,” he calls out as you approach, “I see both of you returned in one piece.”
He glances at the car. “And the car too. That’s appreciated.”
Then he looks at you. And winks. Your knees nearly give out. Seriously... How is that even allowed.
Rosa rushes over to him immediately.
“That was amazing!” she says. “She’s incredible! You should see how she took the corners!”
Toto looks at you with clear amusement, “Is that so?”
You shrug casually, “Your daughter is exaggerating.”
“I am not!” Rosa protests.
Toto folds his arms, smiling. “Well if my daughter says so, then it must be true.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh great. Now I have performance reviews from family members.”
That earns a laugh from the mechanics nearby.
Toto steps a little closer. “You’re always this sarcastic?”
“Only when people are watching.”
His grin widens. “Good. I’d worry if you weren’t.”
Just then George and Kimi walk over. George gestures toward the car. “So. Did you traumatize the boss’s kid?”
Rosa points at him immediately. “I had the best time ever.”
Kimi nods approvingly. “Good. Initiation successful.”
George turns to you. “So,” he says, “important question.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“Are you coming to bowling tonight?”
You blink. “Bowling?”
“It’s tradition,” George explains. “Started years ago when Lewis was still here.”
At the mention of Lewis Hamilton Kimi nods solemnly. “He took it very seriously.”
George crosses his arms. “And tonight I will destroy all of you.”
Kimi snorts “I trained.”
George looks offended, “You trained?”
“Yes.”
“For bowling?”
“Yes.”
George sighs dramatically, “This team is impossible.”
Toto’s eyes shift back to you. “So?” he asks. “Are you joining?”
You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “Why not. I haven’t been bowling in ages.” You pause. “Full disclosure though— I’m absolutely terrible at it.”
George immediately brightens, “Excellent.”
Kimi points at you. “She will still beat George.”
George glares at him. Toto chuckles quietly. Then he leans slightly closer to you again, voice lower. “I’m curious to see that.”
You glance up at him. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Especially if you’re as competitive there as you are on track.”
You feel the heat creeping into your cheeks again. God. Why does every conversation with him feel like some kind of dangerous game?
You clear your throat.
“Well,” you say lightly, “don’t get your hopes up. The bowling alley might not survive my technique.”
Toto laughs, that low, warm laugh that always sounds a little too amused. “I think we’ll take that risk.”
You tilt your head, “Brave man.”
“I run a Formula 1 team,” he replies calmly. “Danger is part of the job.”
“Bowling with me might be the most dangerous thing you do all week.”
His eyes narrow with playful interest, “Is that a challenge?”
You shrug, “More like a warning.”
George immediately cuts in, “Oh this I need to see.”
Kimi nods seriously, “Yes. She will throw the ball backwards.”
“I will not throw it backwards,” you protest.
George gestures dramatically. “Statistically, someone in this team will eventually do it.”
Toto crosses his arms, watching you with that same amused spark.
“If that happens,” he says, “I’m blaming you.”
“Oh please,” you reply. “You’re the one inviting me.”
“You said yes.”
“You asked.”
“You didn’t refuse.”
“That’s because I didn’t know bowling was part of my job description.”
His mouth curves again, “We can add it to your contract.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Professional driver by day, bowling hazard by night.”
George claps once, “This is already the best team event ever.”
Just then a voice calls from the other side of the garage. “Gentlemen!”
Everyone turns. Bradley Lord is walking toward you with the focused expression of someone who has a schedule to protect.
“Toto, Kimi, George,” he says. “Journalists are waiting. Media briefing in five minutes.”
Toto sighs softly, “Of course they are.”
Bradley then points toward you. “And you— social media team is looking for you.”
You blink, “Uh oh.”
“Couple of reels to film,” Bradley continues. “And they want you in the merch.”
You stare at him, “…the wolf merch?”
“Yes.”
You sigh dramatically and rub your face, “Fantastic.”
George snorts. Kimi murmurs, “She will howl again.”
You turn slightly away and mutter under your breath while walking toward the garage exit. “Honestly… how many more of these? These wolves are starting to appear in my dreams.”
Behind you, Toto pauses. You hear the shift of his steps. Then his voice. Close. Too close.
“Wolves appear in your dreams, you say?”
You nearly choke. You turn your head and he’s standing there with that infuriating smirk.
“Oh— no— I didn’t— I mean—”
You cough awkwardly. He bursts into laughter. Actually laughs. Before you can recover he lightly pats your back.
“Careful,” he says teasingly. “You might start howling next.”
You glare at him, “This is entirely your fault.”
“Most good things are,” he replies smoothly.
Then Bradley calls again from across the garage. “Toto.”
Toto straightens, “Coming.”
He gives you one last amused glance. Then disappears with Bradley, Kimi, and George toward the media area. You remain standing there for a moment. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
“…wonderful,” you mutter to yourself and from the side someone clears their throat. You turn. Rosa is standing there with a very satisfied expression. Arms folded. Watching you.
“Oh no,” you say immediately.
She grins, “I think my dad likes teasing you.”
Your eyes widen, “What?”
She shrugs casually, “Yeah.”
You stare at her. “How exactly did you come to that conclusion?”
“Because,” she says matter-of-factly, “you don’t kiss his ass like everyone else.”
You blink. Once. Twice. And she just smiles.
“What?”
Then she gently taps your forehead with two fingers.
“Go,” she says. “Before the social media people hunt you down.”
You sigh, “Great.”
As you start walking away toward your next media duties you hear her call behind you: “And try not to start howling on camera!”
You groan. “Oh my God.”
*
The rest of the afternoon disappears in a blur of cameras, lights, and social media chaos. One reel. Then another. Then “just one more quick one.” At some point you stop asking how many are left and simply surrender to the absurdity. You point at merch. You spin. You pretend to dramatically admire the wolf logo on a hoodie. At one point the social media admin makes you reenact a fake “wolf howl” transition and you stare into the camera with the most deadpan expression possible.
“Fantastic,” you say flatly after the take. “My racing career has peaked.”
The admin laughs. “Oh come on, the fans will love this.”
“Good,” you sigh. “At least someone will.”
Still… by the end of it, the admins look thrilled.
“Seriously,” one of them says. “These are great.”
You shrug. “Glad my humiliation brings joy to the world.”
*
Time passes quickly after that. Meetings, debriefs, engineers talking strategy, people moving constantly through the garage. And before you know it, the evening arrives.
The team cars are already waiting outside the hotel to take everyone to the bowling alley. Apparently the entire place has been reserved just for the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team crew.
When you arrive, the place is already buzzing. Most of the team is there. Mechanics, engineers, PR staff. Everyone in great spirits. And why wouldn’t they be? The team is leading the championship, the car is an absolute rocket, and everyone knows you’re favorites for both titles. The atmosphere feels almost… celebratory.
You spot George immediately. He’s standing next to the bowling lane with intense concentration while explaining something to Kimi.
“No, no,” George says seriously. “You hold the ball like this.”
Kimi stares at it. Suspiciously. “As if it is a grenade?”
George sighs. “It’s not a grenade.”
“It could be.”
You walk over, grabbing a cola from a passing waitress along the way.
“Please tell me you’re not giving bowling lectures,” you say.
George turns. “Someone here has to maintain standards.”
Kimi nods toward George. “He said he will destroy everyone tonight.”
You sip your drink. “Confidence is admirable.”
George points at you. “You laugh now.”
“I laugh because I know my bowling is catastrophic.”
“Perfect,” George says. “Easy points.”
Before you can respond, a familiar voice echoes from behind you: “Well this already sounds competitive.”
You turn. And there he is. Toto. Walking in with Rosa beside him.
Your eyes immediately land on the hoodie he’s wearing. The new wolf merch. Black. Sleeves pushed slightly up. Hood resting loosely behind his neck. And… damn. Unfortunately. It looks very good on him. You try not to stare. You fail slightly, apparently. Because the moment Toto sees you, that familiar smile appears again.
He walks over. And before you can react, he leans in slightly and greets you with a light kiss on your cheek. “Good evening.”
You blink. “…hi.”
He steps back, still smiling. “I heard you did very well today with the social media filming.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Oh?”
“The admins were very impressed.”
You take a sip of cola.
“Fantastic,” you say dryly. “If I can’t drive the car I can at least clown around in front of a camera.”
Toto chuckles. “Well. At least we’re paying you for something.”
You narrow your eyes, “Wow. Supportive leadership.”
He laughs again.
“Ah yes,” he says. “Your famous sarcasm.”
You shrug, “Someone has to keep the team humble.”
He studies you for a moment. Then says casually, “Anyway you’ll drive the tests in Silverstone. And of course a test session in F1 this season.”
You blink. “…what?”
He lifts a finger slightly, “But we’ll talk about the details later.”
And then... he winks. Again. Your brain short-circuits slightly.
Before you can ask anything else he gestures toward the bowling lanes. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’m going to go beat the boys.”
And he walks off toward George and Kimi. You stare after him. Processing absolutely none of that. Then Rosa suddenly appears beside you again. Arms crossed. Watching the scene.
“Well,” she says calmly, “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
You glance at her. “About what?”
“Him beating them.”
She nods toward the lane. “George and Kimi are definitely going to destroy him.”
You snort, “Your own father?”
She shrugs, “He’s terrible at bowling.”
You laugh. Then she adds casually, “By the way… I saw the TikTok videos.”
Your soul leaves your body slightly. “Oh no.”
“They were great,” she says.
You groan, “Please don’t encourage them.”
She grins, “And I saw Papa watching them earlier.”
You freeze, “…what?”
“He was in the office with some of the PR team.”
Your stomach tightens, “And?”
“He nodded approvingly.”
You blink. Slowly.
Rosa smirks, “Looked very proud.”
You stare at your cola, “Well… great.”
She nudges your arm lightly, “Hey. You were good.”
You sigh, “Thanks. But honestly I’d rather just be racing.”
Rosa smiles knowingly, “Yeah.” She glances toward the lane where Toto is already arguing with George about bowling technique. “I think he knows that too.”
*
The evening settles into exactly the kind of chaos you expected. Music hums softly in the background, mixed with bursts of laughter and the steady thud of bowling balls rolling down the lanes. The entire Mercedes Team crew seems to have fully relaxed. Mechanics are cheering loudly. Engineers are arguing about bowling technique like it’s a strategy meeting. Someone in the back is already celebrating a strike like they just won a Grand Prix.
At the main lane, however, the real competition is unfolding. George stands there like he’s preparing for qualifying. Dead serious. Focused. He rolls the ball. Strike. He immediately turns with a smug look. “I told you.”
Kimi stares at the pins thoughtfully. Then picks up his ball. “Beginner’s luck.”
George scoffs. “Watch and learn.”
Rosa leans toward you. “He’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.”
You snort. “I believe it.”
Then it’s Kimi’s turn. He throws the ball with surprising precision. Strike.
George freezes. “You trained.”
“I told you.”
George groans. Rosa bursts out laughing.
Nearby, Toto steps up to the lane. He rolls his shoulders dramatically like an athlete preparing for a major event. The room quiets slightly in anticipation. He takes the ball. A few mechanics start cheering. “Come on, boss!”
Toto rolls the ball confidently. It glides down the lane…straight into the gutter. The entire team explodes into laughter. Even Toto.
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
Rosa claps slowly. “Impressive, Papa.”
George wipes tears from his eyes. “That was spectacular.”
Kimi nods. “Yes. Very strategic.”
Toto shakes his head, still laughing. “Oh you think this is funny?”
Several mechanics nod enthusiastically. He points at them. “We’ll see if you laugh like this when you come asking for a raise.”
That only makes everyone laugh harder. Even Toto can’t keep a straight face. You’re laughing too. Honestly having a great time despite the fact your own bowling performance is… questionable. Your ball hits maybe four pins. Once it somehow misses almost everything.
George dramatically applauds. “Incredible technique.”
You glare at him. “Don’t start.”
Then it’s your turn again. You grab the ball, step forward, swing your arm... release. The ball rolls decently down the lane. But the moment you step back, your foot slips slightly. Your balance goes completely off. You feel yourself tipping backwards. Fast. You’re already imagining the very embarrassing moment where you fall flat on your back in front of the entire team, when suddenly, strong hands catch you. Firm. Steady. You fall back against something solid. Tall, broad and warm.
For a second everything around you fades. The music. The laughter. The noise of the bowling alley. All you hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
And the quiet sound of his voice near your ear. “I’ve got you.”
Toto’s hands are still holding your arms, keeping you steady. He leans slightly closer, just enough that only you can hear him, “...my little she-wolf.”
The words are soft. Playful. But warm. You glance up at him. Close enough to notice the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. Close enough to see the warmth in them. Your brain struggles to process anything.
“Th—thanks,” you manage quietly.
He straightens slightly, still keeping a hand on your arm to make sure you’re stable.
Then louder, so everyone nearby can hear, “Everything okay?” His tone shifts to mock seriousness. “Because all of my drivers must remain healthy and in peak condition.”
George snorts from behind you. “Did she try to kill herself bowling?”
Rosa laughs loudly. “She almost did!”
You finally regain your balance and step away from Toto. “Yes, thank you everyone,” you say dryly. “Wonderful support.”
Toto chuckles beside you. But for a moment, just a brief moment, his eyes linger on you. Still smiling.
*
The evening keeps going, loud and bright and full of laughter, but for you something shifts after that moment. You still feel it. His hands. Firm on your arms. Steadying you. And that voice, low and warm against your ear, my little she-wolf.
It settles somewhere under your skin, lingers there like a pulse you can’t quite ignore. You try. God, you try. You laugh when you’re supposed to laugh, you clap when George lands another strike, you roll your eyes when Kimi and George start arguing again like two overcompetitive children trapped in adult bodies. But something in you has gone quieter. More aware. More… careful.
You catch yourself staring at your hands at one point, as if you could still see where he touched you. You can’t. But you feel it anyway. And it makes your chest tighten just slightly.
Rosa notices. She leans toward you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You got quiet.”
You blink, pulled out of your thoughts. “Hmm?”
“You,” she repeats, studying you with a small, knowing tilt of her head. “You’re usually… louder.”
You force a small smile. “Jet lag,” you say, shrugging. “And a long day.”
You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second. “PR obligations, photoshoots, pretending I enjoy wolf fashion… it’s exhausting.”
She watches you for a moment longer, like she doesn’t entirely buy it. But then she lets it go.
“Fair,” she says.
Across the lanes, the chaos continues. George and Kimi are now deep into a very serious debate about who is objectively better at bowling.
“I have more strikes,” George insists.
Kimi shakes his head. “You got lucky.”
“I did not get lucky.”
“You did.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you are losing.”
Toto stands between them, arms crossed, looking like a man who has seen this exact argument play out a hundred times before. “Enough,” he says calmly, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Save this competitive energy for the track.”
They both ignore him. Of course.
He sighs. “Qualifying. The race. That’s where it matters.”
George mutters something. Kimi shrugs. The argument continues anyway. You watch them with a small smile, but your thoughts drift again. Back. To him. To the way his voice sounded just a few minutes ago. To the way it felt when he held you.
You exhale slowly, Get it together.
*
Eventually, the night winds down. The music softens. People start gathering their things, still laughing, still talking, still riding the high of a good evening.
You follow the group toward the exit, slipping your jacket on as you go. Rosa darts ahead, catching up with Kimi, already teasing him about something. They walk together, laughing loudly, completely unbothered.
George slows down next to you. He glances sideways. “You’re suspiciously quiet.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I can be quiet.”
He snorts. “Since when?”
You shrug. “Since I realized I’m terrible at bowling and should probably retire early.”
“Coward,” he says immediately.
You smile faintly. “Survival instinct.”
He studies you for a second longer but doesn’t push. Thankfully.
Outside, the team cars are already waiting. Engines running. Doors open. People begin splitting into groups. You’re just about to head toward one of the cars when, Toto steps into your path.
“Going somewhere?” he asks lightly.
You blink. “Hotel, ideally.”
He nods, as if considering that. “Good plan.”
Then he gestures slightly toward one of the SUVs. “I have a free seat.”
Before you can properly process that, his hand settles lightly at your back. Not pushing. Just… guiding. Gentle, but firm enough that you find yourself moving in that direction anyway.
“Come,” he adds casually.
You don’t argue. Because apparently your brain has stopped functioning around him entirely. The SUV door opens. He takes the front passenger seat beside the driver. You and Rosa slide into the back.
The ride starts smoothly. At first the conversation is easy. Light. Rosa talks about the hot lap again, animated, reliving every moment. You respond, teasing her slightly, laughing when she exaggerates your driving skills. From the front, Toto joins in occasionally, adding comments, correcting details, his voice relaxed. But every now and then, you catch it. His gaze. In the rearview mirror. Brief. Subtle but there. And when your eyes meet, he smiles. Just slightly. And then looks away like nothing happened. Your stomach flips. You look out the window. Focus on the city lights passing by.
This is ridiculous.
*
When you finally arrive at the hotel, it’s late. Everyone gets out of the cars slowly, tired but still in good spirits. You stand for a moment on the pavement, adjusting your jacket.
Toto turns toward you. “Goodnight.”
He smiles. And adds, almost casually, “You’re not that bad at bowling.”
You blink. “…that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me today.”
He chuckles. “I said not that bad.”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He tilts his head. “Well,” he says lightly, “you’re definitely better than me.”
You laugh quietly. “Now that’s just setting the bar very low.”
From behind him, Rosa calls, “Papa!”
He glances back. “Coming.”
Then he looks at you once more. That same warm, slightly amused expression. “Sleep well.”
And then he turns, following Rosa toward the entrance. She waves at you over her shoulder. “Goodnight!”
You lift your hand in return. And then you’re left standing there for a moment. Alone. Watching them disappear inside.
You exhale slowly. “…great.” You run a hand through your hair. A few more days of this. Of him. Of this strange tension that seems to follow you everywhere now.
You shake your head slightly and head inside. Because honestly? You’re not entirely sure what’s more dangerous right now — the championship fight on track... or whatever is happening between you and Toto Wolff.
*
The next morning, the Mercedes motorhome is already buzzing before you even finish your coffee. Mechanics pass by with laptops. Engineers speak in low, urgent voices. Screens glow with timing data and weather forecasts. Somewhere in the distance, somebody from PR is already saying the words “quick content opportunity,” which makes you instinctively want to fake your own death.
You are standing near one of the lounge tables when Toto appears beside you, coffee in hand, looking irritatingly composed for someone who has probably already been awake for hours. Black shirt. Headset hanging around his neck. Calm expression. A man built entirely out of caffeine, control, and expensive cologne.
He glances at you briefly. “When you don’t have any duties,” he says, like he is casually discussing tire temperatures, “keep Rosa company, hm? Show her around a bit. Explain what’s what.”
You blink. Then narrow your eyes. “…are you assigning me babysitting duties?”
Rosa, who is standing nearby and scrolling through her phone, looks up immediately. “Hey,” she says, offended. “I’m literally right here.”
You point at her. “See? She can hear. Also, I’m pretty sure we’re in the same age category.”
Toto takes a sip of coffee, entirely unbothered. “Yes,” he says smoothly. “Exactly. That’s why you’ll get along perfectly.”
Rosa snorts. You stare at him. He stares back with complete calm, as if this is a perfectly reasonable use of a reserve driver during a Grand Prix weekend. Then, because clearly his mission here is to destroy your peace and disappear, he gives the two of you a small nod.
“Good,” he says. “Settled.”
And then he takes his coffee and walks off toward a cluster of waiting media people like a man who has just delegated international diplomacy.
You watch him go. “…unbelievable.”
Rosa steps up beside you and follows your gaze.
“He does that,” she says.
You sigh. “Yes, I’m starting to notice.”
*
A few minutes later, you find yourself standing in one of the hospitality areas, staring at a massive holographic wolf projected onto the wall. It rotates slowly. Its yellow eyes glow. Its teeth are bared in what is presumably meant to be intimidating and elegant, but actually looks like a luxury nightclub has hired a werewolf as creative director.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then mutter under your breath, “Oh my God, what an ugly thing.”
Apparently not quite under your breath. Because somewhere behind you, Bradley, now fully operating in his role as Toto’s terrifyingly competent right hand, lifts one eyebrow. Just one. That is somehow worse than a full reaction.
You straighten immediately and turn with your brightest professional smile. “No, I mean,” you say much louder, “wonderful wolf. Stunning wolf. Incredible wolf. It’ll look amazing on TV spinning behind Toto while he sits in the garage.”
Bradley continues looking at you for one second too long. Then, with the expression of a man who has seen much stranger things in Formula 1 and chosen peace, he simply nods and walks away.
Beside you, Rosa bursts into laughter. A full, delighted laugh. “Oh, I really like you,” she says, wiping under one eye dramatically. “This is already way less boring than I expected.”
You fold your arms and glance back at the hologram. The wolf continues rotating smugly.
“Glad my suffering entertains people.”
“It really does,” Rosa says cheerfully.
And honestly? The weekend starts going surprisingly smoothly. Which in Formula 1 usually means disaster is probably waiting around the corner, but for now you choose optimism.
The car is flying. Absolutely flying. George and Kimi both look strong. The garage feels sharp, focused, confident. Every debrief is full of the kind of restrained excitement teams try not to say out loud in case they curse themselves.
You split your time between duties, social media appearances, meetings, and spending time with Rosa. And Rosa turns out to be… genuinely great. Funny. Sharp. Impossible not to like. She slips into the paddock atmosphere quickly, and somewhere between coffee runs, sarcastic commentary, and judging team outfits together, the two of you start getting along so naturally that by Friday afternoon it feels less like babysitting and more like being paired up with a very entertaining partner in crime.
At one point she glances around at the endless wolf branding and deadpans, “I think if I stay here much longer, I’m going to start howling.”
You nod solemnly. “That’s phase two. Phase three is full emotional submission to the merch.”
She looks horrified. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
*
By Saturday, however, the universe decides your peace has lasted long enough. You are halfway through a perfectly normal morning — and by normal, you mean full of data, caffeine, and pretending not to notice Toto looking annoyingly good every time he crosses the garage — when someone from PR finds you. Which is never a good sign.
She approaches with a clipboard. And you already know.
“No,” you say immediately.
She blinks. “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You never have to. That clipboard tells me everything.”
She smiles with the ruthless kindness of a woman who has absolutely no intention of changing plans. “Fan zone appearance this afternoon,” she says. “You and Toto.”
You stare. And she continues, mercilessly cheerful. “Quick stage chat. Wave to the fans. Smile. A few photos. Standard stuff.”
Standard stuff. Of course.
You smile the tight smile of a person who is absolutely having private internal problems. “Wonderful.”
Inside your head, meanwhile, your thoughts are less polished. Oh no. No no no. This is a terrible idea. I am going to say something stupid in public. Possibly into a microphone. In front of fans. And Toto.
Because that is the problem, isn’t it?
Toto has started affecting you in a way that feels deeply unhelpful. You do not like how easily he throws you off balance. You do not like how often your brain replays his voice. You really do not like that your body seems to react to him before your common sense has even entered the room.
It is frankly rude.
*
By the time the afternoon comes around, you have already given yourself at least four separate internal lectures. None of them work. You step out of the motorhome, adjusting your jacket, mentally preparing yourself for the fan zone.
And then you see him.
Toto is standing a few meters away, talking to Rosa. And, because apparently the universe enjoys your suffering personally, he is wearing that black jacket. The one from the photoshoot. The one that should probably be illegal under several international treaties. Black jacket. Dark shirt underneath. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Relaxed posture. One hand in his pocket while he listens to Rosa talk.
You stop walking. Your brain stops with you. Every coherent thought simply packs a suitcase and leaves. For one blank, dangerous second there is only one thought left in your entire head: How the hell am I supposed to survive this?
Because honestly? He looks lethal. Not “good.” Not “handsome.” Not even merely “unfair.” No. He looks like the reason women make bad decisions in novels.
As if sensing your presence, Rosa glances over first. A slow grin spreads across her face immediately. Oh no. Then Toto turns. And his whole expression softens the second he sees you. There it is again — that warm, amused smile that somehow always feels like it is meant specifically for you.
Your heartbeat does something deeply embarrassing.
“Well,” he says, eyes sweeping briefly over your outfit, “you made it.”
You force your legs to keep working and walk over, praying your face is not giving away the fact that your mind has just briefly blue-screened.
“Barely,” you reply. “I considered escaping through the back of the paddock.”
Toto nods thoughtfully. “Reasonable.”
Rosa crosses her arms and looks between the two of you like she is watching a live show she has not paid enough for. “I’m staying,” she announces. “This is already interesting.”
You point at her without looking away from Toto. “She’s enjoying this far too much.”
“Yes,” Toto says calmly. “She gets that from me.”
That makes you look at him. Which is a mistake. Because now you are closer. Now you can see the sunlight catching the edge of his jaw. Now you can smell that stupidly clean, expensive cologne again. Now your brain is once again losing structural integrity. Fantastic.
Rosa, traitor that she is, leans closer to her father and stage-whispers, “She stopped walking when she saw the jacket.”
Your eyes widen. “Rosa!”
Toto’s mouth twitches. He looks down at the jacket, then back at you. “Did you?”
You straighten immediately. “No.”
A beat. Then, because apparently humiliation is the theme of your life now, you add, “I stopped because I was evaluating the wolf propaganda from a safe distance.”
Toto huffs a laugh. “Of course.”
“Very objective analysis.”
“Always.”
He holds your gaze for one second longer than necessary. Then another. And just when you think your pulse cannot become any more inconvenient, he steps slightly closer and lowers his voice. “You look nervous.”
You scoff instantly. “I’m not nervous.”
“No?”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “So if I hand you a microphone in front of five hundred fans, you won’t say anything dangerous?”
You stare at him. “…that’s not the point.”
His smile widens. Rosa makes a small sound of approval like a spectator at tennis match point.
“God,” you mutter, “I’m surrounded by bullies.”
Toto looks genuinely pleased with himself.
“Yes,” he says. “But very elegant bullies.”
You roll your eyes, but the laugh escapes before you can stop it. And there it is again — that strange, easy feeling with him. The one that makes it impossible to stay fully guarded. The one that slips under your skin when you least expect it.
A PR assistant appears nearby, already waving toward the fan zone entrance. “We’re ready for you!”
You exhale slowly. Toto glances toward the stage, then back at you. His expression softens just a fraction. “Relax,” he says quietly. “It’s only fans, cameras, microphones, and possible public humiliation.”
You look at him flatly. “That was a terrible pep talk.”
He smiles. “You’ll be excellent.”
And somehow, annoyingly, that helps. Just enough.
Rosa steps aside and gives you a mock salute. “Good luck. Try not to accidentally marry my father on stage.”
You nearly choke. Toto actually laughs. A proper laugh.
You point at her in horror. “What is wrong with this family?”
“Many things,” Toto says lightly. “But we don’t have time for the full list.”
Then he places a hand lightly at the middle of your back and guides you toward the fan zone entrance. Gentle. Steady. Warm through the fabric. Your body reacts instantly, traitorously, like it has personally been waiting for this exact contact all day. You keep walking because the alternative is combusting on the spot.
Ahead of you, the sound of fans is already growing louder. Beside you, Toto leans in just slightly and murmurs near your ear, low enough that only you can hear: “Try not to say anything too honest about the wolf merch.”
You turn your head just enough to glare at him. “That depends,” you whisper back. “Are there holograms involved?”
He chuckles under his breath. And with that, the two of you step out toward the crowd together — cameras waiting, fans cheering, microphones ready, and your heart doing deeply stupid things in your chest.
*
The fan zone… surprisingly… does not end in disaster. Which, honestly, feels suspicious. Because everything that could have gone wrong… does not.
You sit next to Toto on stage — far too close, dangerously close — microphones in hand, lights in your eyes, a sea of fans in front of you. And somehow… it works. You talk. You joke. You tease. At one point you even forget there is a host. Because you and Toto just… slip into it. Natural. Effortless. A rhythm that feels way too easy.
“—so basically,” you say at some point, gesturing lightly, “I’ve been promoted from reserve driver to… wolf mascot.”
The crowd laughs. Toto leans slightly toward his mic, completely calm. “Highly valued position.”
You turn your head slowly. “Is it?”
“Of course,” he says. “Very rare skill set.”
“Ah yes,” you nod. “Professional howling and modeling.”
The audience laughs again.
Beside you, Toto smiles — that calm, charming smile — and you catch it. And so does everyone else. Because let’s be honest. Every woman in that crowd — and honestly, probably some of the men too — is watching him like he is a walking problem. Two meters of composed, confident, unfairly attractive problem. You see it. You notice it. You definitely notice it. And for some reason… that makes something in your chest tighten just a little. Annoying. Very annoying.
Still, you keep going. You hold your own. You tease him back. Interrupt him once. Make a joke about his wolf obsession that gets a huge reaction from the crowd. At one point the host just… stops talking. Because he does not need to. The two of you have it. And the fans? They are absolutely loving it.
When it is finally over, you both stand, waving to the crowd as applause follows you off stage. The moment you step backstage, your PR team looks like they have just seen God. Thumbs up. Wide smiles. One of the social media admins is practically vibrating.
“We’re breaking the internet,” she whispers excitedly. “Instagram. TikTok. Everything.”
You just roll your eyes. “Fantastic. My legacy.”
Beside you, Toto looks pleased. Very pleased. He steps slightly to the side, letting you walk ahead — always that small, effortless politeness — and as you pass him, he leans down just enough for his voice to brush against your ear.
“Not bad,” he murmurs. “…My little she-wolf.”
And then, because of course, he winks. You stop for half a second. Your brain: malfunctioning. He, meanwhile, walks off like nothing has happened, already being pulled into another interview.
You stand there. Blinking. “…oh my God, I cannot deal with this man.”
And yet, you are smiling.
Rosa appears next to you like a commentator who has just witnessed premium entertainment. Two thumbs up. “You and my dad?” she says. “Insane vibe.”
You groan. “Please don’t say it like that.”
“I’m just stating facts.”
“Dangerous facts.”
She grins.
*
Then qualifying comes. And just like everything else this weekend, Mercedes delivers.
You stand in the garage next to Rosa, both of you just behind Toto. And there he is again. Center of the storm. Sitting in that chair like a general commanding a war. Calm. Focused. Still. Screens flicker in front of him. Engineers speak around him. Data streams endlessly.
And Toto? Toto just watches. Calculates. Adjusts. Controls everything without raising his voice. Honestly? It is kind of mesmerizing.
You lean slightly toward Rosa. “…he looks like he’s about to conquer a small country.”
She does not even look surprised. “He probably could.”
Fair.
On track, Kimi absolutely destroys the session. Pole position. Clean. Sharp. Untouchable. The garage erupts. Applause. Cheers. High fives everywhere. George comes in second — still strong, still impressive — but you can see it on his face. Frustration. Close. So close.
Toto stands immediately, clapping once, firm. “Good job,” he says, voice steady but clearly satisfied.
Everyone around him follows. Momentum. Confidence. Mercedes is flying.
You exchange a quick high five with Rosa.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “we take everything.”
You nod. “Double podium. Easy.”
And then your eyes drift back to the hologram. That stupid, rotating wolf. Its yellow eyes glowing. Its teeth bared. Still spinning like it personally has a contract with Mercedes.
You narrow your eyes. “…I still hate that thing.”
Toto notices. He follows your gaze. Then looks back at you. “It’s a wolf,” he says calmly. “A predator.”
You cross your arms. “It looks like it wants to sell me expensive streetwear.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Wolves hunt,” he adds.
And then… he looks at you. One eyebrow lifting. That damn eyebrow. And just like that… something shifts. Your brain pauses. Your stomach flips… wait.
You squint at him. “…are you implying something?”
His lips curve. Just slightly. No answer. Which is worse. Because now your brain is filling in the blanks. He thinks he’s the wolf. He thinks he’s the predator. He thinks… Oh my God.
You look away immediately. Nope. Nope nope nope. We are not unpacking that. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
A second later, Toto stretches slightly, rolling his shoulders like the man has not just casually destabilized your entire nervous system.
“Alright,” he says. “I’m starving.” He glances at you again. “With all this wolf energy… I’m hungry like a wolf.”
You stare at him. Absolutely stare. “…did you just make a wolf pun?”
He does not even hesitate. “Yes.”
You drag a hand down your face. “I can’t do this.”
Behind you, Rosa is nowhere to be found, because of course she is not. She is a few meters away, laughing with one of the mechanics. Flirting. Traitor.
You look back at Toto. He looks perfectly calm. Composed. Like he has not just spent the last five minutes flirting using wildlife metaphors.
You exhale slowly. “Right,” you mutter. “Of course you’re hungry.”
He gestures toward the exit. “Come.”
And again, that hand at your back. Light. Guiding. Warm. You walk with him, because apparently saying no is no longer part of your personality.
“Just so we’re clear,” you say as you step out of the garage, “if this dinner turns into a lecture about wolf hierarchy—”
“It might.”
“…I’m leaving.”
He chuckles. “I don’t think you will.”
You glance up at him. “…confidence.”
“I run a Formula 1 team,” he says. “I trust my instincts.”
You shake your head, but the smile slips through anyway. “Unbelievable.”
*
Dinner turns out… calmer than expected. Which, considering your recent life, is suspicious. The restaurant is small, tucked into a quiet street just next to the hotel. Warm lights, low hum of conversations, the soft clatter of dishes, a welcome contrast to the constant noise of the paddock.
You slip into your seat, exhaling softly as the tension of the day finally starts to melt off your shoulders.
“Okay,” you mutter, glancing around. “This is nice.”
“See?” Toto says, sliding into the seat across from you. “I do occasionally make good decisions.”
Rosa snorts. “Occasionally.”
And then…
“Ah, there she is.”
You do not even have to turn. Paul. Of course. Paul bloody Ripke leans casually against the back of the chair before dropping into the seat next to Toto, already grinning like he has arrived specifically to cause problems.
“Well, well,” Paul says, looking at you. “The internet’s newest obsession.”
You roll your eyes instantly. “Oh good, you’re here. I was worried the evening might be peaceful.”
Toto chuckles under his breath. Paul points at you. “She says that, but she’d miss me.”
“I absolutely would not.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
He turns to Toto, dead serious. “She’d cry.”
Toto does not even hesitate. “Yes,” he nods. “Probably.”
You stare at both of them. “…I hate this table.”
Rosa is already laughing. Then Paul looks at you with that half-serious face of his.
“You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, camera resting beside him, “the internet is absolutely in love with you two.”
You do not even look up from the menu. “I refuse to elaborate on that sentence.”
“Too late,” Paul grins. “Edits. Clips. Comments. It’s happening.”
Toto, sitting next to you, does not even try to hide his amusement. “Good,” he says calmly. “That means the campaign is working.”
You turn your head slowly. “Oh, so this is all part of your master plan?”
“Always,” he replies.
Paul snorts. “He definitely planned the flirting.”
You kick Paul lightly under the table. “Shut up.”
He only grins wider. “Ah, so I am right.”
Rosa, sitting across from you, rests her chin on her hand and looks between the three of you like she has front row seats to a very entertaining show. “This is better than a comedy sitcom,” she mutters.
*
The evening settles into an easy rhythm. The food arrives quickly — sushi, ramen, small dishes spread across the table — and for a while, it is just… easy. Conversations overlap. Laughter comes naturally.
You and Paul keep poking at each other like siblings who refuse to admit they actually get along.
“Careful,” he says at one point, “I have photos of you from the shoot.”
“You release those,” you shoot back, “and I personally ruin your camera career.”
He gasps dramatically. “Violence. I love it.”
Toto watches the exchange with quiet amusement, occasionally adding a comment just to make it worse. At one point he leans slightly toward you, looking at you with that thoughtful, calm expression.
“You did very well today. With Rosa and the fan zone,” he says.
You blink. “…that sounds like a performance review.”
“A positive one.”
Rosa immediately perks up. “Oh yeah,” she says. “She passed the test.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a test.”
“There’s always a test,” Toto says calmly.
You sigh. “Great. And what’s my score?”
Toto’s lips curve slightly. “High. Although…” he adds, glancing briefly at Rosa, “I am slightly concerned.”
You frown. “About what?”
“That she will become more sarcastic after spending time with you.”
Rosa gasps dramatically. “Excuse you.”
You lift your shoulders innocently. “Hey, you handed me your scion.”
Paul nearly chokes. “His what?”
You gesture toward Rosa. “Precious scion, delicate plant. His responsibility... His child.”
Rosa leans back, arms crossed. “I am not a plant.”
“Too late,” you say. “He assigned me gardening duties.”
Paul loses it. Actually laughing, leaning forward on the table. “Oh my God, this is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Toto just shakes his head slightly, but he is smiling. That warm, amused smile. And the way he looks at you for a second longer than necessary… Yeah. That does not help.
Rosa groans. “Oh my God, stop. This is unbearable.”
You point at her. “Your father started it.”
“I did not,” Toto says calmly.
“You absolutely did.”
Paul raises his hand. “As a neutral observer—”
“You are not neutral,” you and Rosa say at the same time.
He nods. “Fair.”
And then comes the moment. The moment. Rosa leans forward slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you two need a moment alone or—”
You choke. Actually choke. Cola goes the wrong way. You cough, grab a napkin, nearly die with dignity hanging by a thread.
Paul is gone. Absolutely gone. Laughing like he has just witnessed a live comedy special. “Oh this is gold.”
You kick Paul under the table and point at Rosa, still coughing. “What is wrong with you?!”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m just asking questions.”
Paul leans in, grinning like an absolute menace. “Hold on, hold on,” he says. “Let’s slow down. Toto is married, and she—” he gestures at you. “—is basically still in diapers.”
You kick him harder this time. “I am NOT a child!”
He winces. “Violent. Definitely not a child.”
Rosa is laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes. And Toto? Toto just sits there. Completely calm. Watching you. That soft, amused, almost boyish look in his eyes. He shrugs lightly.
“In my defense. Susie isn’t here,” he says, far too casually. “And we’re just… teasing each other.”
His gaze shifts to you. Warm, focused and dangerously soft.
Paul leans back with a long sigh. “…this is going to end terribly.”
Rosa nods. “Oh, absolutely.”
You drag a hand down your face. “Great. Love that for me.”
*
By the time dinner ends, your cheeks hurt from laughing. The walk back to the hotel is quieter. Cool night air. Soft lights. The buzz of Suzuka fades into something calmer. Tomorrow is race day. Everything will sharpen again.
Later, in your room — silence. Finally. You lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city slipping through the curtains. And your brain… Your brain refuses to shut up. Because now, without the noise, without the distractions… it all comes back. His voice. His touch. The way he looked at you. The way he said things.
You turn onto your side, pulling the blanket slightly closer. “…he said it’s just teasing… but is it?”
Because it doesn’t feel like just teasing. Not the way he stands close. Not the way his voice drops. Not the way his eyes stay on you just a second too long.
You frown slightly. “Is this just… a game to him?”
The thought sits heavy in your chest. Because he is Toto Wolff. Controlled. Calculated. Always ten steps ahead. And you? You are… reacting, feeling, overthinking.
You swallow. “…am I just entertainment?”
A distraction. A break from pressure. Something… easy. And the idea does not feel good. Not at all.
You close your eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” you mutter to yourself. “Focus. Tomorrow is the race.”
But the thoughts linger. Soft. Persistent. Unanswered. And eventually, sleep comes. And with it… the wolves. Dark forest. Silver light. Shadows moving between trees. You stand still, breath slow, aware of something watching. Then — him. Among them. Not fully wolf. Not fully man. Something in between. Sharp eyes. Calm presence. That same controlled energy.
He steps closer. Slow and certain. And when he speaks, his voice wraps around you like something warm and dangerous all at once.
“My little she-wolf...” A whisper. Soft and possessive. “Mine.”
You wake up suddenly. Heart racing. Breath uneven. Staring at the ceiling again. “…okay.” You press a hand to your face. “This is getting out of control.”
Then you groan softly and roll onto your side again. “Fantastic.”
Tomorrow is race day. And somehow… that does not feel like the most complicated part anymore.
*
Morning came too fast. In the brutal, unforgiving way, including, very specifically, your brain’s decision to replay last night’s dreams in full cinematic detail the moment your eyes open.
You lie there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling, completely still, as if not moving might somehow erase the memory of what just happened in your head.
It doesn’t. Because apparently you belong to that very unfortunate category of people who not only dream vividly, but also remember every single detail afterward, like some kind of cursed archivist of your own subconscious.
“Fantastic,” you mutter under your breath, dragging a hand over your face. Because now you are stuck with it. The images. The atmosphere. The way his voice sounded.
You squeeze your eyes shut again.
“No,” you whisper to the empty room, as if firmly denying reality will somehow undo whatever psychological nonsense your brain decided to produce overnight. It won’t. You already know it won’t. Because the worst part isn’t even the content of the dream, although, frankly, that alone deserves a full internal investigation, but the fact that it felt real enough to leave something behind, some lingering warmth under your skin, some echo of his presence that you absolutely did not consent to carrying into race day.
You sit up abruptly, pushing the blanket away like it personally offended you, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.
“Okay,” you say out loud, voice rough from sleep and mild existential crisis, “we are not unpacking this.”
Because if you start unpacking it, you will spiral. And you do not have time to spiral. You have a race weekend. You have responsibilities. You have a very fast car that you are unfortunately not allowed to drive today. And you have a certain two-meter Austrian problem that you are definitely, absolutely, categorically not going to think about.
You stand, walk to the mirror, and take one look at yourself. “…Jesus.”
You don’t need a second opinion. Dark circles. Hair questionable. Expression somewhere between sleep deprivation and emotional confusion.
You point at your reflection. “This,” you say firmly, “is what happens when you dream about your boss… involving wolves.”
You drop your hand. “Great.”
*
By the time you reach the paddock, you are running almost entirely on caffeine and stubbornness, which, to be fair, is a very common state of existence in Formula 1.
You don’t even slow down when you enter the Mercedes motorhome, moving with single-minded determination straight toward the coffee station like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. First cup — gone too quickly. Second cup — barely enough.
You are halfway through lifting it to your lips when a voice cuts in from your side.
“Jesus,” George says, stopping next to you and giving you a once-over that is far too honest for this hour, “you look like shit.”
You turn your head slowly, giving him a long, unimpressed look.
“Wow,” you reply flatly, “and here I thought this morning couldn’t get any better.”
He immediately backtracks, running a hand through his hair, clearly aware that he has just committed a social error. “No— I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, frowning slightly, “you just… you look tired.”
“Much better,” you mutter, taking a long sip of coffee.
Now that you actually look at him, though, you can see it — the tension under the surface, the way his shoulders sit just a little too tight, the way his eyes flick toward the garage like he’s already running through scenarios in his head.
“What’s going on?” you ask, lowering the cup slightly.
He exhales, the frustration slipping through. “Engine,” he says simply.
You raise an eyebrow. “Bad?”
“Not catastrophic,” he answers quickly, because of course he does, because drivers always soften it first, “but… we pushed the settings too far yesterday, and now the mapping is off.”
You nod slowly, piecing it together. “So that’s why qualifying felt messy.”
“Exactly,” he says, glancing toward the garage again. “Race is going to be… interesting.”
You study him for a moment, then shrug lightly, because sometimes the best thing you can offer is perspective, not solutions.
“The car is still a rocket,” you say, tapping his shoulder once. “You’re starting P2, which means podium is basically waiting for you, and as long as you don’t lose points to Kimi, you’re still in a good place.”
He looks at you, something in his expression easing just a little. “…yeah,” he says, nodding once. “You’re right.”
“I usually am,” you reply dryly.
That earns you a small smile. “Thanks,” he adds, more quietly this time.
He turns to go, then pauses just long enough to glance back at you, eyes flicking over your outfit.
“That jacket,” he says, a hint of mischief creeping back into his tone, “looks really good on you.”
You blink. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he smirks. “Saw the clips. Social media is losing their minds. You’re basically the new superstar of the team.”
He gives you a quick wink and walks off before you can respond.
You stand there, coffee in hand, staring after him. “…this entire team is made of flirts.”
*
A few minutes later, you spot Rosa and Paul standing together, already deep in some conversation that looks suspiciously like trouble, both of them laughing in a way that suggests at least one person nearby is about to suffer. They wave at you the moment they notice you. You respond with a slow nod, the kind that communicates I see you, but I have no energy for whatever this is right now, and continue toward the briefing room.
Inside, everything shifts. The air feels different — sharper, more focused, more precise. This is the part you like. The part where everything narrows down to purpose. Engineers gather around screens, mechanics take their places, voices drop into quiet, efficient exchanges that carry more weight than volume.
George is already seated. Kimi too. You slip into the chair beside him and nudge his shoulder lightly.
“Nice job yesterday,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Pole suits you.”
Kimi nods, serious as ever, but his eyes give him away, bright, alive, already somewhere on the track. “I’m ready,” he says simply.
You nod back. “Good. Now just… keep it.”
He nods again, like that was always the plan.
Then the door opens. And Toto walks in. Alongside Bradley. The shift is immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable. Postures straighten. Attention sharpens. The room aligns itself around him without him needing to ask for it.
You feel it too and, annoyingly, something else layered underneath it, something far less professional and far more inconvenient. Because your brain, traitor that it is, immediately pulls up last night’s dream like it’s relevant data.
You look down at your notebook very intently. Get it together. That is your boss. Your married boss. Your very... No. We are not finishing that sentence.
You take another sip of coffee. Third one. Still not enough.
*
The meeting is quick, efficient, exactly what you expect.
“You all know what needs to be done,” Toto says, voice calm, controlled, eyes moving across the room like he’s already ten steps ahead. “George’s engine is not ideal. We adapt. Extract what we can.” A brief pause. “Kimi starts from pole. George from P2.”
He looks at both of them. “Double is possible.”
Simple. Clear. No room for doubt.
“Let’s do our jobs.”
And just like that, it’s over. You stand, stretching slightly, ready to move, and then you feel it. That shift in attention. You don’t even need to look. But you do. And there he is. Looking at you. Not like he looks at the team. Not like he looks at the data. Something softer. Something that lingers just a fraction longer.
He steps closer.
“That jacket,” he says, his voice quieter now, meant just for you, “looks better on you than on me.”
Your brain… stops. Just… completely stops. Because... what?
You blink at him. “…excuse me?”
He smiles, small, controlled, but unmistakably amused, and before you can gather a proper response, his hand settles lightly against your back. That same familiar gesture. Warm. Guiding.
“Come,” he says. “Let’s go to the garage.”
And just like that, you’re moving again, your feet following his lead while your mind is still somewhere behind, trying to catch up.
The garage is already alive when you step inside, a controlled chaos of movement and sound and purpose, screens flickering, voices overlapping, everything running like a machine that has been tuned to perfection. You take your place. Right behind him. Rosa already there, leaning slightly to the side, watching everything with interest.
Perfect. Exactly what you needed. Two hours, standing next to Toto Wolff. With your brain actively betraying you. You exhale slowly. “…this is going to be interesting.”
Rosa leans toward you, just enough for her voice to reach you without carrying. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
You keep your eyes forward. “I didn’t.”
She grins. “...Wolf dreams?”
You close your eyes briefly. “…I hate you.”
She laughs quietly. And in front of you, Toto sits like a commander at the center of it all, calm, composed, entirely in control, while behind him, your entire mental stability is hanging on by a thread.
*
The race was… chaos. Not the clean, controlled, perfectly executed kind of race you secretly hope for when the car is fast and everything should go your way, but the messy, unpredictable, nothing goes according to plan kind that reminds you exactly why Formula 1 is both addictive and mildly traumatic.
You knew it from the start. The moment the lights went out. Because instead of that perfect Mercedes launch everyone had quietly expected. Everything… slipped. Kimi lost it almost immediately. From pole to the chaos of the midfield in what felt like seconds, swallowed by aggressive starts, tight corners, and drivers who smelled opportunity like sharks in bloodied water.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, leaning forward slightly. Beside you, Rosa inhaled sharply.
George, somehow, managed to survive the mess better. P2 held. Not clean. Not easy. But held. And just like that, the entire race flips into something else entirely. Oscar in the lead. George chasing. Kimi buried somewhere around P6. And in the garage, the atmosphere changes so abruptly it almost feels physical. The light, confident energy from before the start disappears completely, replaced by tension that sits heavy in your chest and hums quietly under every movement, every word, every breath.
You glance at Toto. He barely moves, because he never really does, but you see it anyway, the tightening of his jaw, the way his focus sharpens, the subtle shift in posture that means he’s recalculating everything in real time, already three steps ahead, already adjusting for what just went wrong. Around him, the engineers start speaking faster. More precise. More urgent.
You and Rosa stand just behind him, silent now, both of you watching the storm unfold.
“Okay…” you whisper under your breath. “This is going to be long.”
“Very long,” she replies quietly.
The laps don’t feel slow, because nothing about Formula 1 is slow, but they feel heavy, stretched by tension and expectation and that constant awareness that everything could still change at any moment.
George pushes. You see it everywhere — in the data, in the way the car behaves, in the clipped tone of his radio messages, but the engine problem keeps holding him back just enough to matter, just enough to turn what could have been a fight into a chase that never quite closes. Every time he gets close, something gives.
And Kimi? Kimi is relentless. You watch him carve through the field like it’s something personal, overtakes clean and sharp, decisions made without hesitation, the kind of driving that feels almost inevitable once it starts. P6 becomes P5. P5 becomes P4.
And Ferrari, of course, makes everything harder. Charles and Lewis turn every battle into a small war, forcing everyone around them to fight harder, defend longer, think faster, and you find yourself watching them with a mix of admiration and frustration.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “They’re everywhere.”
The radio in your ears crackles constantly, voices overlapping in that controlled chaos that only makes sense when you’re inside it, engineers talking, drivers responding, strategy shifting corner by corner.
And every now and then, Toto’s voice. Calm. Measured. Controlled in a way that somehow cuts through all the noise instead of adding to it. “Stay focused. We manage this. Keep the tires alive.”
Then... Everything stops. The crash happens so quickly your brain doesn’t process it at first. One moment Oliver Bearman is there, part of the flow, part of the rhythm. The next.... impact. Barriers. Silence. Your stomach drops so sharply it almost hurts.
“Fuck,” you breathe. The entire garage freezes, like someone hit pause on reality, and for one long, heavy second, no one speaks, no one moves, everyone just watches the screens, waiting for that one thing that matters more than anything else.
Movement. Bearman climbing out. Alive. You exhale hard, your shoulders dropping slightly as the tension releases just enough to breathe again. “…Jesus.”
Beside you, Rosa presses a hand briefly to her chest. “Okay… okay.”
Safety car. And suddenly... The race reshuffles again. Kimi dives into the pit lane at exactly the right moment, the kind of instinctive decision that separates good from exceptional, and when the timing screens update and the positions settle... He’s back. P1.
You blink, staring at the screen. “…you’re kidding.”
Rosa’s grin spreads slowly. “He’s back.”
And this time, there’s no chaos to drag him down again. No mistakes. No hesitation. Kimi drives like something locked into place, every lap controlled, every movement deliberate, the gap behind him growing steadily, almost quietly, until it becomes obvious to everyone watching.
“He’s not losing that,” you say under your breath.
“No,” Rosa agrees. “Not today.”
George, meanwhile, is stuck. The engine doesn’t give him what he needs. The pace isn’t enough. Charles stays ahead. Just out of reach. And you hear it in George’s voice when he comes on the radio — sharp, frustrated, pushing against something he can’t fix from inside the car.
“I can’t get him.”
And then, something rare happens. Very rare. Toto’s voice cuts in. Direct. Clear. “Stay with it... bring it home.”
You go still for a second, because Toto almost never steps onto the driver channel like that unless it matters, unless the situation needs more than just data and instructions. Which means, this matters. A lot.
The final laps come too quickly. Kimi is untouchable. George is still fighting, still pushing, but unable to break through. You watch the last corners with your arms folded tightly across your chest, your focus locked on the screens like it could somehow influence the outcome.
“Come on,” you whisper, even though you know it’s already decided.
Chequered flag. Kimi — P1. George — P4.
The garage reacts in layers. Kimi’s side explodes into celebration — cheers, applause, that burst of pure energy that comes with a win earned the hard way. George’s side is quieter. Controlled. Heavy with what could have been.
You clap anyway, because this is still a victory, still a statement, still Mercedes on top. But you know. You know George will be furious. Because the car is fast enough to win. And today... it didn’t.
Toto stands slowly, and when he does, you see everything at once — the satisfaction, the relief, the exhaustion, and something deeper beneath it all, something that has nothing to do with just one race. Because this isn’t just a win. This is history.
Kimi. Nineteen. Winning. Leading the championship. The youngest in history.
You look at Toto, something almost incredulous slipping into your thoughts… he’s building something. Not just a team. A legacy. A legend.
He turns. Catches your gaze. And for a brief moment, that sharp, strategic mask softens into something quieter, something almost human in its tired warmth.
“Good race,” he says.
Then, before you can even process it, he pulls you into a brief hug. Warm. Natural. Effortless. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
And then he’s gone again. Moving through the garage. Shaking hands. Clapping shoulders. Leading. Always leading.
In the meantime Paul is everywhere at once, phone in hand, already documenting every second like it’s his personal mission to capture the entire emotional spectrum of the team in real time. Of course he finds you. Of course he does.
“Perfect,” he says, already filming. “Exhausted, emotional, great lighting... this is content.”
You stare at him. “My eye bags are about to debut on TikTok.”
“Authenticity,” he replies without hesitation.
You force a smile anyway. “Great team effort,” you say to the camera, voice steady despite everything. “Amazing drive from Kimi. Everyone did a great job.”
Thumbs up. Done.
Paul is already gone again. Chasing Toto.
You lean back slightly, exhaling as the noise of the garage starts to settle into something more manageable. “Finally…”
The end of the wolf weekend. Or at least... you hope so. Because when you glance back — It’s still there. That massive holographic wolf. Spinning. Watching. Positioned perfectly behind Toto, framing him in a way that makes him look even more like what the whole concept has been trying to sell all weekend — Strong. Dominant. In control. Toto as the true Alpha of the pack.
And your brain... traitor... Slides right back to the dream. To the whisper, my little she-wolf.
You close your eyes briefly. “…for fuck’s sake.”
You rub your face slowly, exhaling through your nose. “I need sleep.”
Real sleep. Without wolves. Without him. Without your brain turning everything into something it absolutely does not need to be.
You glance at Toto one more time, watching him move through the team like nothing ever shakes him, like everything always returns to order eventually.
Then you shake your head.
“Yeah,” you mutter quietly. “Tonight I sleep… and if I dream about wolves again, I’m filing a formal complaint with myself.”
Because honestly? This whole thing has officially gone too far.
*
About an hour later, the garage finally begins to exhale. Not completely, Formula 1 never truly relaxes, but the sharp edge of tension softens, the urgency fades into quieter conversations, slower movements, the kind of aftermath that comes when adrenaline has nowhere left to go. You lean slightly against one of the workstations, arms loosely folded, watching it all settle piece by piece.
And then you see him. George. He’s just coming back from the media area, headphones still hanging around his neck, jaw tight, shoulders set in that rigid, controlled way that tells you everything you need to know before he even gets close. He doesn’t look at anyone. Not the engineers. Not the mechanics. Not even in your direction. He just walks past, straight ahead, like the entire world has narrowed down to whatever is currently happening inside his head.
You watch him go. “…yeah,” you murmur quietly. “He’s furious.”
Because of course he is. Because this wasn’t just a race. It was a missed opportunity. And drivers remember those. Always.
“Hey.” Rosa appears beside you again, as if summoned by the exact moment your thoughts start getting too heavy.
You turn your head. She’s smiling, softer now, calmer than earlier, the chaos of the weekend settling into something more reflective.
“That was a really good weekend,” she says, glancing around the garage. “I thought I’d spend most of it chasing Papa around while he worked… and instead—”
She gestures toward you. “—I got assigned pretty decent company.”
You place a hand dramatically over your chest and give her a small, exaggerated bow.
“I live to serve,” you say. “Whatever the boss commands is my duty.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Oh my God,” she shakes her head. “You’re exhausted.”
“Very.”
“I can tell.”
You sigh, pushing yourself off the table slightly. “So what now?”
She glances toward the exit. “I’m heading back to the hotel,” she says. “My flight’s soon.”
You nod. “Right.”
“But,” she adds quickly, stepping a little closer, “I’m definitely calling you. We’re not done.”
You smile despite the fatigue. “Good. I’d be offended if we were.”
She leans in and kisses your cheek lightly. “Text me when you land.”
“I will.”
“And try not to dream about... wolves tonight.”
You freeze. “…I hate you.”
She just grins. “Bye!”
And then she’s gone. Just like that.
You stand there for a second. Letting the quiet settle. Then exhale. “…okay.”
Time to go. You grab your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder, mentally running through what’s next — hotel, grab your things, airport, flight back with the team, finally, finally sleep... and then you stop. Because something tugs at your thoughts. Small. But persistent.
You didn’t say goodbye. To him.
You stare at the floor for a second. “…great.”
Because of course your brain chooses now to care about that.
You sigh. “…fine.”
You make your way through the motorhome, the noise fading behind you as you reach the quieter section where Toto’s office is. The door is slightly open. You slow down instinctively. And then you hear it. His voice. Lower. Different. Not the team principal voice. Not the controlled, public version. Something softer.
“…yes, I know,” he says, pacing slowly, back turned to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”
You don’t need to hear the other side to know. Susie. Of course.
“…no, everything went well,” he continues, quieter now. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
Something about the tone makes you hesitate. You shift your weight slightly. Maybe you shouldn’t interrupt. You start to step back. Ready to leave. To come back later. To not...
“Wait.”
You freeze. “…shit.”
Because of course he noticed. You step back into the doorway. He’s already turning, slipping the phone into his pocket as he ends the call, his attention fully on you now. And for a moment, you just look at each other. Because now, up close, without the noise of the garage, without the chaos of the race, you see it. The fatigue in his eyes. The weight of the weekend. But also, that warmth. That quiet, familiar softness that seems reserved just for moments like this.
He steps closer.
“Don’t go,” he says gently. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
You blink. “Oh.”
He gestures lightly toward the door. “Close it, please.”
Your heart does a small, very inconvenient thing. But you nod. Step inside. And close the door behind you. The room feels quieter than the rest of the world. Contained. Private. Dangerous, in a way you’re trying very hard not to define.
Toto leans back slightly against the edge of his desk, arms relaxed, watching you.
“This weekend,” he says, “was chaos.”
You huff a small laugh. “That’s one way to describe it.”
He smiles faintly.
“I meant to talk to you earlier,” he continues. “But there was no moment.”
You nod. “Yeah. Felt like we were all just… running the entire time.“
He studies you for a second longer. Then pushes off the desk and steps a little closer.
“There’s going to be a break now,” he says. “Longer than expected.”
You frown slightly. “Because of the calendar changes?”
“Yes,” he nods. “Two races dropped. Next one in a month.”
You process that. A whole month. That’s… unusual. And then, he looks at you differently. More focused. More intentional.
“I have something for you,” he says.
Your stomach tightens slightly. “…okay.”
He studies your reaction for a fraction of a second, like he’s measuring exactly how much to say and how to say it, and then continues in that calm, deliberate tone that always makes everything sound like a decision that’s already been made and cannot be undone.
“Silverstone,” he says, and your heart immediately does that stupid, anticipatory jump, “the private tests we talked about two weeks ago… during the photoshoot.”
You nod instantly.
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly, because of course you remember, because how could you not, “I remember.”
Of course you remember. You’ve thought about it more than once. More than twice. More than you’d like to admit.
Toto’s lips curve slightly.
“They’re happening,” he says simply. “And sooner than planned.”
You blink. “…sooner?”
“Yes,” he nods, taking a small step closer, closing that already questionable distance between you. “With the calendar shift, we have a window now. Part of the team will be available, the cars are ready… it makes sense to use it.”
Your brain catches up. And then, your face lights up. Completely. Uncontrolled. Because suddenly it’s real. Not just talk. Not just maybe. You’re going to drive. Not a simulator. Not a show car. A real Formula 1 car.
And not just any car, a Mercedes cars. Cars that won championships. Cars Lewis Hamilton drove to history.
“…you’re serious,” you breathe, almost laughing in disbelief.
“I told you,” Toto says softly.
And he’s smiling now too. Because he sees it. Your reaction. Your excitement. The way something in you comes alive the second driving becomes real again.
“I knew you would like that.”
“Like that?” you repeat, shaking your head slightly. “I—this is… this is everything.”
Your voice softens at the end, almost involuntarily. Because it is, and he knows it. He watches you for a moment longer, then adds, almost casually, like he’s just mentioning something small and not completely altering your entire life trajectory, “And that’s not all.”
You freeze. “…what?”
“You’ll also have a session during the official test in Spa,” he says, his tone steady, almost matter-of-fact.
Your eyes widen. “…Spa?”
“Yes. With the current car.”
You stare at him. Completely stunned. Speechless. Your brain just... stops. Because now this isn’t just preparation. This isn’t just “let’s see what she can do.”
This is real. Real exposure. Real opportunity. Real trust.
“…I—” you try, and fail, and try again, “I don’t even know what to say.”
Toto steps closer. Close enough now that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, because of course you do, because he is ridiculously tall and you are suddenly very aware of it.
“Well,” he says lightly, a hint of teasing returning to his voice, “you are my driver… And at some point, you should actually drive.”
You huff out a breath, still trying to process everything. “Bold concept.”
“Very bold,” he agrees.
“And yes,” he adds, softer now, “you’re quite good at the social media part.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Careful.”
“But I didn’t hire you for that,” he continues, his voice lowering just enough to shift the tone again. “I hired you because of your talent.”
Your chest tightens slightly. Because he’s serious. Because this isn’t teasing. This isn’t playful. This is him — seeing you. And saying it out loud.
You swallow. “…thank you,” you say quietly. “That means a lot.”
His gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“I know,” he says.
And then... that smile. Softer. Warmer.
“I know you won’t disappoint me… my little she-wolf.” he murmurs, almost under his breath.
And something in you... snaps. Not loudly. Not visibly. But internally, something shifts, because it’s the same words, the same tone, the same goddamn phrase that has been haunting your sleep.
Your cheeks heat instantly. You feel it. You know he sees it. And he does. Because his expression changes just slightly, awareness flickering across his face, and he eases back a fraction, just enough to give you space.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Everything okay?”
You nod quickly, maybe too quickly. “Yeah— yeah, I’m fine.”
He watches you for a moment longer. Careful now. Measured.
“I like this,” he says slowly, choosing his words more deliberately this time. “Our… teasing. The dynamic….And it suits you,” he adds. “The ‘she-wolf’.”
Small pause.
“But—” he exhales softly, “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
His tone shifts again. More serious. “If anything I say or do—” he stops, briefly, like he’s weighing how much honesty to allow himself, “—if it crosses a line for you, you tell me. And I stop.”
You blink. Because this is different. Because this is not teasing. This is him, making sure.
And then he adds, quieter, almost like it matters more than he wants to admit., “I like you.”
Your heart stumbles.
“I like your attitude,” he continues. “Your sarcasm. The way you don’t filter yourself.”
A faint smile. “I enjoy our conversations. I really do.”
You just stare at him. Because... Oh. Oh. He means it. And then...
“…and I don’t want you to think this is a game,” he adds, his voice steady now, grounded. “I know what people say about me. That I manipulate. That I calculate everything.”
A small shrug. “I don’t play with people’s feelings. Well… not like that. I don’t want to.”
Your heart is racing. Actually racing. Because he’s standing here, looking at you like that, saying that. And suddenly everything feels a lot less simple than it did an hour ago.
You exhale slowly. “…okay,” you say, processing, grounding yourself. “Good. Because I do have this problem where my mouth gets me into trouble.” A small smile. “So it’s nice to know my boss isn’t going to fire me for it.”
He laughs. Properly laughs. And for a second, everything else fades. Because you love that sound. You really do. The way his nose scrunches slightly. The way it’s unfiltered. Real. And your brain goes: oh no.
He looks at you again. Closer now. His gaze drops briefly. Your eyes. Your lips. Then back up. A flicker of something. Then restraint. A small, controlled smile.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.
And then, before you can react, he pulls you into a hug. Warm. Solid. Overwhelmingly him. And you freeze for half a second. Because... wow. He’s big. Like… really big. And being in his arms feels... Safe. Grounding. Dangerous. All at once.
“You’re doing very well,” he murmurs near your ear. “My little she-wolf.”
Your entire body goes still. Because this time it lands deeper.
“I’m proud of you.”
Your breath catches. Your hands twitch slightly at your sides, unsure what to do with the sudden flood of feeling. His hold lingers just long enough to matter. Then, he pulls back. But not far. Not completely. Close enough that you feel it. The brief, soft press of his lips against your temple. Your brain short-circuits. Completely.
“So.. see you in Silverstone” he says lightly, as if nothing just happened.
You tilt your head up, still trying to catch up. “…you’ll be there?”
He smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Not every day a woman gets back into an F1 car after more than a decade.”
He winks. Your heart flips again.
“Now go,” he adds gently. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “…rough night.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Nightmares?”
That smile. That knowing look. And for a second, you wonder if he can actually read your mind.
“…something like that,” you say carefully.
He nods slowly. “You should sleep.” A softer tone now. “You’ve earned it.”
A knock interrupts the moment. It's Bradley.
“Sorry— Toto, journalists are still waiting.”
Toto exhales quietly. “Of course they are.”
He glances back at you. Still attentive. Still there.
“Go,” he says again. “Rest.”
You nod, adjusting your backpack slightly. “…see you.”
“See you.”
You step out into the hallway. And the moment the door closes behind you, everything hits at once. Your heart. Your thoughts. Your entire nervous system trying to process what just happened.
“…oh my God.”
You press a hand to your forehead. Because now... now it’s not just teasing. Not just jokes. Not just maybe. Now it’s real. And your brain? Absolutely not helping. Because instead of thinking about sleep, about rest, about literally anything logical.
It replays one thing. Over and over. My little she-wolf. You groan quietly. “…this is bad.”
Very bad. Because one thing is now painfully clear. You are not going to think about sleep. Not anytime soon.
You make it out of the motorhome somehow. You don’t even remember how. One moment you’re standing in that hallway with your thoughts spinning like a broken carousel, and the next you’re outside, the late afternoon air hitting your face just enough to ground you, just enough to remind you that yes — this is real, this is happening, and unfortunately your life has officially entered the category of complicated in ways you did not sign up for.
You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder, walking slowly toward the paddock exit, your steps automatic, your mind anything but.
Because now there are two things living in your head at the same time. Silverstone. And him.
Silverstone — the track, the cars, the speed, the real chance to prove yourself, to finally sit in a proper Formula 1 car and feel it under you, respond to you, listen to you, obey you.
And him. His voice. His touch. The way he looked at you when he said he believed in you. The way he chose his words. The way he made sure you understood that this wasn’t a game.
You exhale slowly. “…okay.”
You need to think. You need to separate things. Because those two things? They cannot mix. They should not mix. One is your career. The other...
You stop walking for a second. “…a problem.”
A very tall. Very composed. Very dangerously charming problem.
The paddock is quieter now. People are leaving, packing up. Moving on to the next flight, the next thing. And you... you’re standing in the middle of it, feeling like something just shifted under your feet, like the ground is still stable but somehow not quite the same as it was yesterday. Because yesterday, this was fun. Teasing. Flirting. Harmless. A little chaotic, a little ridiculous, a little too easy. Today, it feels different.
He said it wasn’t a game. And the worst part? You believe him.
You start walking again. Slower now. Thinking. Because this isn’t just about attraction. God, if it was just attraction, that would be easy. Annoying. Inconvenient. But easy. This is respect. Trust. Opportunity. And something else layered underneath it that you are trying very hard not to name.
You run a hand through your hair. “…fantastic.”
Because now the question isn’t just what is he doing? Now the question is... what are you going to do?
You reach the edge of the paddock and stop for a moment, turning back just slightly, your eyes instinctively searching. And you see him. Through the glass. Still inside. Still surrounded by people, by movement, by noise. Still in control. Still exactly where he belongs.
And for a brief second, he looks up. Like he feels it. Like he knows. Your eyes meet. Just for a moment. And then... he smiles. Small, tired but real.
Your heart does that thing again. That stupid, inconvenient, very telling thing. You look away first. And this time, you don’t stop walking.
The car to the airport is already waiting. The team is moving. The weekend is ending. And somewhere between Suzuka and whatever comes next, something has changed. Not loudly, not dramatically, but enough. Enough that you feel it. Enough that you know. This... this is not going back to what it was.
You slide into the car, leaning your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for just a second. Silverstone. A month. A real chance. And him, still there. Still in your head. Still in your thoughts in a way that feels… dangerously permanent.
You exhale slowly. “…okay.”
One step at a time. That’s the plan. Focus on the track. On the driving. On proving yourself. Everything else, you’ll deal with later. Maybe... Probably not. But you’ll pretend you will. Because right now? Right now you have one very clear, very simple goal: Drive... and try very hard not to fall for your boss in the process.
Well, good luck with that.
