Pole Position (Xia Yizhou) 🧡𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 🍊 ／ ⋆ ۪
“You’ve been coming to almost every race. You sure you’re not just here for me?” °🥂⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*:･
Synopsis: Your world of glittering galas and endless routines shatters under the roar of Monaco’s streets — and in the center of it all is Mclaren’s rising star, Caleb Xia, the man who makes you wonder if life was meant to feel this electric.
Genre: Fluff, Romance
AU: F1!au
Pairing(s): MclarenDriver!Caleb x Socialite!Reader
Warnings: None (😮💨)
Note: I got bored after I finished watching the Azerbaijan Grand Prix last weekend (CARLOS ON THE PODIUM!!) and then instantly thought of making a LADS series where they’re all F1 drivers, so here’s the first installment of my newest series! Happy reading everyone!
[Gridlocked Masterlist. 🏎️]
You were raised on champagne flutes and charity galas, with last names carrying more weight than first impressions. The Upper East Side was your kingdom — and you, its reluctant princess.
You were the girl the tabloids loved to write about: every debutante ball, every front row seat at Fashion Week, every accidental run-in with someone else’s boyfriend turned into a headline. You didn’t even have to try.
People liked to say you were magnetic, that the world bent a little to keep you in the center. They weren’t wrong.
But there’s something they never wrote about — that, when the flashbulbs dimmed and the music died down, you preferred the quiet. The moments when you could slip off the Louboutins and sit barefoot on the balcony of your apartment, overlooking the city, feeling anonymous for once.
You loved the world you were born into, but you couldn’t ignore the creeping boredom of it all.
The charity luncheons started to blur together, the parties all smelled the same — champagne and expensive perfume and a faint whiff of desperation.
You smiled for cameras, made polite conversation, but somewhere inside you, the spark that used to love the chaos started to dim.
Still, you played your part.
You were good at it — the perfect society darling, the “it” girl who always seemed to have a story worth telling. But lately, you found yourself craving something different. Not louder — not exactly — but realer.
So when your best friend slid into the booth across from you one bright spring morning, phone in hand, glossy lips curled into a grin, and said,
“Come to Monaco with me for the Grand Prix,” you almost laughed.
You didn’t know a single thing about Formula 1 — other than the fact that your father’s company logo was probably somewhere on a car that went too fast.
But the word Monaco stuck in your head all day.
It wasn’t New York. It wasn’t another Met Gala, or another glossy page of predictable society gossip. Monaco was noise and speed and sunlight that glittered off the water.
Maybe, you thought as you scrolled through pictures of last year’s race — champagne-soaked podiums, yachts lined like jewels on the harbor, drivers smiling like the world belonged to them — this was exactly what you needed.
And so, for the first time in a long time, you felt that familiar rush in your chest. The one you used to get before sneaking out at night, or before stepping onto the dance floor when everyone’s eyes were on you.
Maybe this trip would give you back your spark. You had seen the world before, but the prospect of Monaco felt different.
It was like someone had dialed the saturation up on reality — the harbor glittered like it had been cut from crystal, and the air was warm with salt and gasoline.
You’d been to Saint-Tropez with your parents a dozen times, to Lake Como with girlfriends, all the usual places that wealthy New Yorkers flock to in the summer — but this wasn’t like that.
This wasn’t slow afternoons and overpriced rosé. This was fast. Loud. Alive.
The taxi wound down the sharp corners toward Monte Carlo, and you leaned your head against the window, watching the yachts bob in the marina. Your best friend had fallen asleep beside you, earbuds in, but you couldn’t close your eyes.
Because this trip, for once, wasn’t just another summer vacation.
You thought about all the parties you’d been to, all the ballrooms you’d floated through with a practiced smile. About the articles that called you enigmatic and untouchable when, truthfully, you’d rather be barefoot in someone’s kitchen at three a.m. with music playing too loud.
You thought about how many times you’d seen your name on Page Six, as though they knew you — when half the time, you didn’t even know yourself.
You were good at the life you were given, better than anyone expected. But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that you were just… playing a role. That you were saying all the right things, wearing all the right clothes, showing up in all the right places — but missing something.
The taxi rounded another corner and suddenly you saw the harbor from above — the sun catching on the water, the streets already buzzing with life even before the weekend had properly started.
You felt it then — that twist in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.
Excitement.
Hope.
The quiet, desperate wish that maybe this weekend could be more than just another trip. That maybe you could find something here — or someone — that made you feel real again.
You smiled to yourself, just barely, before the driver pulled up to the hotel. The flash of paparazzi cameras caught you by surprise as you stepped out, but for once, you didn’t mind. Because for the first time in a long time, you were ready for a little chaos.
The atmosphere was everything you expected — and nothing like what you thought.
By Saturday morning, the city was electric. The streets thrummed with anticipation, balconies were already draped with flags, and every café was full of people talking about tire strategies like they were debating philosophy.
You sat at a table on the hotel terrace, sunglasses perched on your nose, an untouched cappuccino in front of you, watching the harbor below like it was a stage and you were the audience.
“Okay,” your best friend said, dropping into the chair across from you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve been moody since last night. Are you seriously going to sulk through the Grand Prix weekend?”
“I’m not sulking,” you replied, stirring your coffee lazily.
“You are sulking,” she pressed, arching a brow. “You’re in Monaco, babe. There are parties to go to, yachts to drink on, actual drivers to flirt with—”
“Flirt with?” You shot her a look, but the corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.
“Yes,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You’ve been bored out of your mind all year. This is supposed to be fun. Come on — when’s the last time you actually let yourself have fun?”
You didn’t answer, but the silence was answer enough.
Your friend groaned, reaching for your phone and snapping a quick selfie of you mid-eye roll.
“Fine. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the narrative. Imagine the tabloids: Upper East Side darling spotted at Monaco GP, having the time of her life.”
You laughed, snatching the phone back. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you love me.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s go. The drivers are doing media today before free practice, and I heard Ollie Bearman is actually kind of cute in person. We can at least get a drink by the paddock entrance, right?”
You caved — you always did.
A few hours later, you found yourself walking through the crowded streets, past the fans pressed against barriers, waving signs and wearing merch.
You spotted a few familiar faces in passing — Ollie Bearman laughing with his team, Isack Hadjar in his team kit signing caps for fans, Yuki Tsunoda darting through a crowd with an energy drink in hand. Someone said Alex Albon was around somewhere too, and you swore you caught a glimpse of him taking a photo with a kid near the paddock gates.
There was a strange comfort in seeing them all so up close — the people your friends always talked about, larger-than-life and yet so real in front of you.
“See?” your friend said, bumping her shoulder against yours as you sipped a spritz. “This is better than whatever sad little gala we would’ve been stuck at this weekend.”
You smiled, just a small one, but this time it reached your eyes. “Okay… maybe you were right. Maybe this was a good idea.”
“Obviously,” she said, victorious. “Now let’s see if we can crash one of those team parties tonight. I heard they’re insane.”
For the first time in months, you felt that familiar rush — the spark that used to make your heart beat faster. Maybe this was what you’d been missing: something unexpected. Something that made you feel like the world could surprise you again.
Somewhere across the paddock of Monte Carlo, Caleb Xia sat slouched in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, scrolling through his phone with the kind of bored expression that only came from seeing one too many headlines about himself.
“F1’s Rookie Heartthrob — Caleb Xia Spotted Leaving London Café With Mystery Blonde”
“Caleb Xia: McLaren’s Golden Boy, But Is He Ready For Monaco Pressure?”
“Who Is Caleb Xia Dating? Internet Thinks They’ve Cracked It.”
He rolled his eyes and dropped the phone on the table with a sigh.
“Another love life exposé?” his teammate, Gideon, teased from across the room, tossing a balled-up paper towel at him.
Caleb caught it midair and threw it right back. “You’d think I’m secretly engaged with the amount of time they spend writing about me.”
“Hey, at least they care,” his engineer said with a shrug as he walked by. “You’re good for PR.”
Caleb groaned. “Great. I love being reduced to ‘good for PR.’ Forget the fact that I qualified P1 yesterday — apparently, the real drama is who I’m seen having coffee with.”
But the truth was, Caleb didn’t actually mind the attention — not really. He just hated the narrative that followed him around, the assumption that being young and attractive automatically meant he was some playboy.
He wasn’t.
Most days, Caleb preferred quiet mornings at the sim, evening runs by himself, and the occasional late-night call to his sister. If the world wanted to think he was some glamorous rookie with a revolving door of girlfriends, fine. It kept them entertained. But it wasn’t him.
His phone buzzed again — this time with a media schedule reminder — and he groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Guess I better go smile for the cameras before they say I hate the fans.”
“You do hate the cameras,” his teammate called after him.
“I don’t hate the cameras,” Caleb shot back with a smirk as he grabbed his cap and headed toward the paddock. “I hate the way they stare like they’re waiting for me to mess up.”
The air outside was buzzing, the kind of weekend energy that got under your skin whether you liked it or not. Fans lined the barricades, chanting names, holding out flags and caps for autographs. Caleb slipped on his sunglasses and waved, signing a few as he passed.
Another headline would probably go up later — something about how “calm and collected” he looked ahead of Sunday’s race — but for a moment, he let himself just exist in the noise.
And somewhere in the crowd, just for a split second, his gaze landed on you.
He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know you were watching with that curious half-smile, taking in all of Monaco like it was a movie set.
But something in his chest tightened anyway — like the camera had just shifted focus, and for the first time all weekend, he wasn’t thinking about racing, or interviews, or headlines.
You were standing near the barricade with your friend, dressed in something simple but impossibly elegant, sunglasses perched low on your nose as if you were only half interested in the chaos around you. But the sunlight caught on your jewelry, on the gloss of your lips, and Caleb felt like he’d been hit with G-force at 0 km/h.
“Caleb!” someone called, snapping him out of his daze. A fan shoved a cap toward him and he signed it automatically, though his eyes kept darting back to you.
God, who are you? You didn’t look like the other influencers who crowded the paddock — too poised, too calm. You looked like you belonged here without even trying, like Monaco itself had manifested you.
He adjusted his cap, pretended to check his watch, anything to steal another glance. You laughed at something your friend said and he swore he felt it in his chest.
“You good?” his PR manager asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Caleb said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Just… hot out here.”
She gave him a look but said nothing, ushering him along toward the hospitality suite. Caleb followed, sunglasses hiding the way his gaze flicked over his shoulder one last time.
He didn’t even know your name, but for some reason, he was already hoping you’d still be there tomorrow.
“Okay, I swear one of the McLaren boys is staring at you.”
You blinked, glancing at your friend like she’d just told you the sky was green. “What?”
“There.” She tilted her chin subtly toward the line of drivers walking past. “Tall, dark hair, orange cap. He’s literally staring at you like you’re the grand prix trophy.”
You followed her gaze — and oh.
Caleb Xia. McLaren’s golden boy. The rookie everyone was talking about this season.
He was looking at you, and not in the vague celebrity-to-civilian way, but in a way that made your stomach flip. You quickly looked away, pretending to adjust your sunglasses like you couldn’t be bothered, though your pulse had spiked to unsafe levels.
“He’s not staring,” you said lightly, forcing a breezy laugh. “He’s probably just looking at, like—someone behind me.”
“Mm-hm.” Your friend gave you the most knowing smirk. “Sure. Totally not staring at the Upper East Side’s favorite party girl. Definitely not staring at the girl whose dad sponsors his team.”
You swatted her arm, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you’re blushing!”
“I am not.” You absolutely were. You turned back toward the barricade, pretending to be fascinated by the crowd, but your thoughts were running laps faster than any F1 car on track.
McLaren’s star rookie. Staring. At you.
You tried to act unbothered, but inside you were screaming from the rooftops of the New York skyline.
Fast forward to Sunday and the whole principality was buzzing. The streets were packed, the air thick with champagne mist and roaring cheers — and Caleb Xia was standing at the top of the podium, drenched in victory.
You weren’t exactly a motorsport girl, but even you had to admit — there was something insanely attractive about the sight. The fireproof suit clinging to him, the triumphant grin, the way he lifted the trophy like it weighed nothing.
Your friend elbowed you knowingly. “You’re staring.”
You scoffed, flipping your hair and pretending to focus on your phone. “Please. I’m just… appreciating the sport.”
“Right. The sport.”
Okay, maybe you were staring. And maybe you were imagining what that smile would look like if it was aimed just at you.
You bit back a grin, letting your sunglasses hide your eyes as the crowd around you erupted in cheers again.
“Maybe I should come here more often,” you murmured under your breath, almost to yourself — but the words hung there, heavy with possibility.
You hadn’t planned on becoming a regular fixture on the Formula 1 calendar — but there you were, two months later, strolling through the paddock at Silverstone like you owned the place. And maybe, in a way, you did.
Your friends loved it, the constant travel, the electric atmosphere, the excuse to dress up for race weekends. You did too, though you’d never admit it aloud.
The whole scene reminded you of St. Tropez in the summer — glitz, champagne, and cameras flashing — except here, it smelled like gasoline and adrenaline.
And of course, the whispers followed you everywhere.
“Who is she?”
“She’s here every race now—she must be dating one of them.”
“No, no, she’s a sponsor’s daughter. Total nepotism.”
“She’s gorgeous. She’s like… the paddock It-Girl now.”
You’d scroll through social media later and laugh at the edits, the TikToks of you just existing — sipping an Aperol spritz on McLaren’s hospitality balcony, adjusting your sunglasses, smiling at someone out of frame — all set to romantic songs like you were the star of some indie film.
“Look at this,” your best friend snickered one afternoon in the McLaren motorhome, holding up her phone. “‘McLaren boys fighting for the mysterious paddock princess.’ Oh my God, they think you’re dating Gideon now.”
You raised a brow, perfectly nonchalant. “And last week it was Caleb. Make up your minds, honestly.”
Your friends cackled, loving the spectacle more than you did, but even you had to admit it was fun — the attention, the headlines, the idea that everyone was dying to know who you were.
Still, you kept your distance from the drivers, politely nodding if you ever passed one in the hallway. Even when you caught glimpses of Caleb Xia, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair damp with sweat as he walked back to the motorhome post-session.
“Are you ever going to talk to him?” one of your friends asked as you leaned over the balcony to watch the teams set up for qualifying.
You smirked, adjusting your sunglasses to hide your expression. “And ruin the mystery? Never.”
But deep down — every time you saw him, every time you caught the faintest glimpse of that half-smile, heard the low timbre of his laugh from a distance — you felt that little thrill again. The same one you’d felt back in Monaco, the day everything changed.
And if you were honest with yourself? You didn’t hate it.
Meanwhile, Caleb, wasn’t used to this.
Usually, people came to him — reporters, sponsors, adoring fans who screamed his name as he walked past. But for weeks now, he’d been the one looking.
Searching the paddock for a flash of silk, a familiar pair of heels, the soft laugh he’d heard over the crowd at Monaco and Silverstone.
And when he finally spotted you standing by the hospitality balcony at Spa — hair swept over one shoulder, drink in hand, the breeze catching the hem of your dress — something in him clicked.
“Are you really going to just stand here and stare again?” Gideon muttered beside him, smirking.
Caleb ignored him. His heart was already thudding in his chest as he walked over, weaving through a cluster of engineers and PR staff until he was standing just a few feet away from you.
“Hi,” he said, smooth but quiet, as though testing the waters.
You turned, sunglasses catching the light — and oh, that little smirk. “Caleb Xia.” You said his name like you’d been expecting him.
For a split second, he forgot every clever opening line he’d practiced in his head. “You know who I am?”
“Of course,” you said simply, swirling your drink before taking a slow sip. “You drive for the team my father sponsors. I’d be a terrible daughter if I didn’t know at least that much.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. There it was — the chase.
“So you come to the races just to keep tabs on us?”
You tilted your head, eyes glinting with something playful. “Or maybe I just like the view.”
Caleb felt that one in his chest, but you didn’t give him time to recover — just smiled sweetly, handed your drink to your friend, and started walking toward the balcony stairs.
“Where are you going?” he asked, following a few steps behind.
“To the grid walk,” you called over your shoulder. “Try to keep up, Golden Boy.”
He laughed then, low and warm, because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel like this — like he was twelve years old again, chasing after something just out of reach.
And oh, he liked it.
From then on, it was like Caleb had made you his favorite game.
Not in a careless, bored sort of way — no, he was deliberate. Strategic. He’d spot you across the paddock, you’d pretend not to notice him, and yet he’d always find an excuse to pass by where you were standing.
“You’re following me,” you teased one weekend in Monza, where the buzz of the paddock made everything feel like a movie.
Caleb didn’t even blink. “Or maybe you’re just everywhere I want to be.”
Your friend stifled a laugh beside you. You shot her a look and turned back to Caleb, feigning boredom. “Careful, Xia. People might think you like me.”
“Let them.” His grin was infuriatingly confident.
And people did start talking.
‘McLaren’s Caleb Xia Spotted Chatting With Socialite Heiress Again’
‘Who Is She? The Mystery Girl Caleb Xia Can’t Seem to Stop Looking At’
‘Forget PR Relationships, This One Feels Real’
You’d scroll through the headlines with a raised brow, holding up your phone across the table when you ran into him at the motorhome.
“You’re ruining my reputation, you know.”
He leaned casually against the doorframe, helmet under one arm, that stupid grin tugging at his mouth. “What reputation? The one where you look impossibly good in every picture they take of you?”
“Flattery,” you said, slipping past him, “is cheap.”
But when you caught his low chuckle behind you, it sent a spark through you that you refused to admit out loud.
By the end of the weekend, everyone had caught on.
Engineers, PR people, even the fans — they’d started cheering when they saw you in the paddock, holding up signs like ‘Give Her the Mclaren Hoodie, Caleb!’ or ‘Socialite x Rookie Power Couple When?’
And instead of shying away, you found yourself leaning into it.
The air was warm but breezy as you stood on the balcony of the team’s hotel suite, overlooking the beautiful skyline of Azerbaijan.
Baku always felt like two worlds colliding — old city walls and futuristic skyscrapers — and somehow, it fit the way Caleb made you feel.
“You’re brooding,” came his voice from behind you, teasing and lazy. “Should I be worried?”
You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, still in his team kit, arms crossed. The smug little smirk on his face was enough to make you roll your eyes.
“Not brooding. Just thinking,” you replied coolly, turning back toward the view.
“Thinking about me?” he shot back instantly.
You scoffed. “Not everything is about you, Xia.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, walking out onto the balcony, his shoulder brushing yours as he stopped beside you. “You’ve been coming to almost every race. You sure you’re not just here for me?”
You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “I like the atmosphere. The energy. The—”
“The drivers?” he interrupted, grinning.
“Careful, Caleb. You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said quickly, then softened, eyes glinting as they found yours. “I just don’t like sharing your attention.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how honest that sounded. “That’s a very bold thing to say for someone who spent weeks trying to convince me to even talk to him.”
He grinned, shrugging like he had all the time in the world. “And now you are. Seems like I’m winning.”
You rolled your eyes again, but your chest felt warm, fluttery.
“You’re sly.”
“And you love it.”
“Bold assumption,” you muttered, stepping away to hide your smile — but Caleb caught your wrist gently before you could walk back inside.
“Hey.” His voice was softer now, teasing tone dropping just slightly. “Don’t run away when I’m being honest.”
You turned back, finding him closer than you’d realized. For a moment, neither of you said anything — just the city lights below, the sound of distant traffic, and the pulse of your heart in your ears.
“You make this too easy,” you said finally, trying to break the tension with a smirk.
“Good,” he said simply, grin returning as he let go of your wrist, only to tug the brim of your cap down playfully. “Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”
You huffed, but when he walked back inside, you stayed there a moment longer, staring out at the glittering city and letting yourself admit — just for a second — that Caleb Xia might actually be the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to your carefully curated life.
“Do you think they’ve guessed?” you murmured to him once, ducking under an awning as a rain shower passed over in Singapore.
Caleb, completely unbothered, just shot you that knowing look as he opened up his umbrella. “I think they want us to stop pretending we don’t enjoy this.”
You pretended to scoff, even as your heart thudded at the way he was looking at you — like he’d already decided you were his favorite win of the season.
And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to let him have it.
It started with the likes.
At first, it was subtle — Caleb’s name popping up under your Instagram posts, username appearing under a photo of you at a gallery opening. Then it was your weekend brunch picture. Then it was your mirror selfie before a gala.
By the time he liked a photo of you lounging on the deck of your yacht in Capri, the media had lost its mind.
‘Caleb Xia Finally Picks a Girl? Socialite Heiress, Y/N, Seems to Have His Attention’
‘From the Grid to the Gram: Mclaren’s Golden Rookie is Soft-Launching?’
‘Sorry Ladies, Caleb Xia Might Be Off the Market’
You couldn’t lie — you loved it. You loved how unbothered Caleb was about feeding the fire, too.
So when he cornered you outside the Mclaren motorhome in Singapore, freshly showered after free practice, smelling faintly of cedar and apple soap, you couldn’t resist the way his grin made you want to roll your eyes and melt at the same time.
“You owe me dinner,” he said simply, like it was a fact.
You blinked. “Do I?”
“Mm.” He leaned against the wall, all easy confidence. “For all the press I’ve been getting because of you.”
You crossed your arms. “Last I checked, my father’s team sponsorship, and my own free will, means I get to exist in the paddock without owing you anything.”
He only smiled wider. “Then let me buy you dinner for existing so well.”
God, he was annoying. Infuriatingly charming. Which is how you ended up across from him at an exclusive rooftop restaurant that overlooked the entire Marina Bay track, the city lights twinkling like stars against the black water.
And that’s when you realized you might be in trouble.
Caleb was all charm — jacket hanging just right on his broad shoulders, his usually messy hair tamed for once, his easy laugh drawing eyes from every table. He poured your wine for you, and you tried not to notice the way his fingers brushed yours.
“So,” he said, swirling his glass lazily, “are you going to admit you like me, or do I have to keep liking your posts and chasing you around the paddock until you do?”
You snorted softly. “What if I told you I liked the attention?”
His grin turned downright dangerous. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”
You rolled your eyes, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.
Dinner was long, drawn out, and borderline cinematic — Caleb wasn’t in a rush. He asked about your magazine, your travels, your favorite cities. He listened and teased you when you got too passionate about a topic, just to see that spark in your eyes.
By dessert, you were leaning in closer, laughing at something stupid he’d said about the chaos of the driver’s WhatsApp group.
“You’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be,” you admitted, swirling the last of your wine.
He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Careful, princess. You’re starting to sound like you like me.”
You smiled slow, deliberate. “Maybe I do.”
Caleb’s smirk softened into something warmer, but still edged with that hunger you’d been sensing all night. “Good,” he said simply, as if that had been the goal all along.
When he walked you back to your hotel, the tension was unbearable — the humid Singapore night buzzing with it. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t push — just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and said, “Next race, I’m taking you out again.”
And damn it, you knew you’d say yes.
On the Sunday, the heat in Singapore was suffocating, the whole paddock buzzing like a champagne cork about to pop.
You were supposed to be watching from the hospitality suite, glass of wine in hand, looking unbothered and glamorous like always — but when Caleb crossed the finish line first, you were on your feet screaming with everyone else.
The cheers, the flash of cameras, the roar of the crowd — it was all a blur. Next thing you knew, you were being ushered down to parc fermé, your heels clicking against the concrete as mechanics and engineers flooded the track.
Caleb was still in his fireproofs, helmet off, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead — and you had never seen him look better in your life.
He spotted you immediately. Like a heat-seeking missile.
You didn’t even have time to say anything before he strode over, adrenaline still radiating off him like static, grabbed you by the arms, and kissed you right there — in front of everyone.
And when I say kissed, I mean kissed.
You heard the audible gasp from the reporters, the shocked cheers from the Mclaren crew, the click-click-click of a thousand cameras capturing the moment that would break the internet.
When he finally pulled back, grinning like a madman, you could barely catch your breath.
“Caleb—” you started, half-scandalized, half-deliriously happy.
He just winked. “What? You said you liked the attention.”
Somewhere, someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted, “ABOUT TIME!” The cameras were still going off like fireworks, but you barely noticed.
You were too busy laughing, feeling lighter than you had in years, as Caleb pressed his forehead against yours and whispered, “Guess we’re official now.”
You didn’t mind. Not one bit.
Later, as you scrolled through your phone in the motorhome — headlines already going insane — you couldn’t stop smiling.
‘BREAKING: Caleb Xia Hard-Launches Relationship in Parc Fermé’
‘Mclaren Rookie’s Mystery Girl Revealed — And She’s Upper East Side Royalty’
‘Caleb Wins Singapore GP and Possibly the Girl of His Dreams’
You couldn’t even be mad about it.
Because for once, the tabloids had gotten it exactly right — Caleb had hit the gas, full-speed, and finished straight into your heart.
Once the paddock had quieted down, the motorhome was buzzing with champagne and team members celebrating the double podium, but Caleb had dragged you away from the crowd the second he was done with media duties.
You sat cross-legged on the couch, shoes abandoned somewhere on the floor, still trying to wipe confetti off your dress when he came back from showering. His hair was damp, sticking adorably to his forehead, and he was wearing a casual hoodie. Somehow, that was even more dangerous than the fireproofs.
“So,” you started, trying to sound casual as you scrolled through the avalanche of notifications on your phone. “Parc fermé, huh? You do realize there’s this thing called a soft launch?”
Caleb leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like you’d just told him a bad joke.
“Soft launch? No chance. I’m not about to let the internet play guessing games about whether or not I’m into you.”
You raised a brow. “So you just kiss me in front of half the paddock?”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he shot back easily, making his way to the couch and plopping down next to you, his thigh brushing yours.
“You’re unbelievable.” You tried to sound annoyed, but the smile threatening to take over your face gave you away.
Caleb noticed, of course. He always did. “You liked it,” he teased, nudging your knee with his.
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding way too hard for someone who was supposedly unbothered. “Maybe,” you admitted softly.
That made him grin — really grin, the way he only did when he wasn’t Caleb Xia the driver, but just Caleb, the boy who’d been chasing your attention for months.
He leaned back, looking smug and entirely too comfortable. “Good. Because I’m not taking it back.”
You stared at him for a long moment before laughing, finally letting yourself melt into his side.
“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”
He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and his voice softened just enough to make your chest tighten.
“Nah. I’m going to keep winning races so you keep showing up. That way, I’ll never have to miss you.”
You didn’t say anything to that — just reached for his hand and held it, letting yourself bask in the glow of his words, of the race, of everything.
And for the first time in a long time, the noise of the world — the tabloids, the gossip, the expectations — faded into the background.
All that mattered was this: Caleb, warm and steady next to you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he had no plans of letting go.
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