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Under the Radar

Request: I’m dying for a fic from his red bull era maybe something likes good friends (teammates) to lovers and like everyone ships them but they still have to date secretly for a bit idk whatever you wanna do maybe like the first getting together then to her first championship or something sorry I don’t request a lot I just think the two youngest drivers who are menaces dominating the season together who be really sweet lmao

Song: Meddle About · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I REALLY LOVED WRITING THIS! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 22.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

7th September 2009

@redbullracing and @yourusername

liked by yourusername, sebastianvettel, lewishamilton, and 1,102,396 others.

tagged; yourusername

redbullracing: We are beyond hyped to officially welcome our newest racer, Y/N Y/L/N to the Oracle Red Bull Racing family! The grid just got a serious upgrade. 💙

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@f1_fan_99: SHUT UP, IT'S ACTUALLY HAPPENING!!! Y/N in a Red Bull?! 🤯💙

*liked by yourusername*

@rbr_girl: Someone pinch me. So incredibly proud of Y/N!

*liked by yourusername*

@motorhead_mike: The grid truly just got a serious upgrade. Let’s gooo! 🐂

*liked by yourusername*

@oracle_redbull_racing: Let’s gooo! 🐂💙

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@sebastianvettel: Yes, absolutely brilliant news! Welcome to the team, Y/N! 🏆

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1st September 2009

The headphones were glued to your ears when Christian Horner first called your name—not that you heard him.

It took three sharp raps on the paddock table, the vibration shuddering up your arms, for you to finally glance up from your phone.

"You're late," Horner said, though his smirk betrayed amusement. Late? You'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, drowning out the world with afrobeats.

The headquarters smelled like stale energy drinks and ambition. You shuffled behind Horner, headphones still on but volume lowered just enough to catch his mutter of, "Christ, you’re worse than Sebastian."

Then, like a sunbeam crashing into a shadow, there he was—Vettel, mid-laugh, golden hair messy under a backwards cap, gesturing wildly at some poor engineer.

He turned, spotted you, and the grin didn’t falter. "Finally!" he crowed, as if you were an old friend and not a stranger who’d rather be anywhere else.

"Sebastian, meet your new teammate," Horner said dryly. You nodded once, already calculating escape routes.

But Vettel leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint smudge of oil on his cheekbone, and said, "You’re taller than I thought. Good. I need someone who can reach the top shelf for my sweets."

Your fingers twitched toward your volume button. "I’m not your personal ladder," you deadpanned.

The words slipped out before you could choke them back—a reflex honed by years of deflecting your parents’ expectations.

Vettel’s laugh bounced off the garage walls. "See?" he announced to no one in particular. "I told you they’d be fun."

You blinked. "They?"

"Media," Sebastian clarified, leaning against the wall.

His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against it. "They said you’d be quiet. Boring." His grin turned conspiratorial. "I think you’re terrifying."

You yanked your headphones down around your neck, the sudden silence making your own pulse too loud. "Terrifying?" The word tasted unfamiliar—no one had ever called you anything but too much or not enough.

Sebastian shrugged, but his eyes flicked to where your fingers were clenched around your phone. "You don’t smile," he said, as if diagnosing an engine failure. "It’s unsettling."

The engineers scattered like startled birds when you took a step forward. "Maybe I don’t have anything to smile about," you muttered, but Sebastian just tilted his head, considering.

"Bullshit," he said cheerfully. "You’re here, aren’t you? Against all odds." His voice dropped, just for you. "That’s worth grinning for."

A beat. Then, against every instinct, you snorted.

Sebastian lit up like you’d handed him a trophy. "There!" he crowed, pointing at your face. "I knew you were in there somewhere." You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you—twitching upward.

Horner cleared his throat from the doorway. "If you two are done bonding over existential dread," he drawled, "we’ve got sponsors to appease." Sebastian groaned dramatically, slinging an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stiffened, but didn’t shake him off. "Come on, Schatz," he whispered, German curling warm around the word. "Let’s go scare the money men."

You wondered what that word meant—Schatz. It sounded like something stolen from a fairytale, soft and glittering.

Sebastian’s thumb brushed your collarbone absently as he steered you toward the conference room, and you decided you didn’t hate it.

The stage lights were blinding. You squinted at the sea of suits and Rolexes, sponsors murmuring behind champagne flutes. "Introducing Red Bull’s youngest—and most chaotic—driver lineup," Horner announced, like he was presenting a pair of feral kittens.

Sebastian bounded onto the stage with the grace of a golden retriever off its leash. You followed, hands shoved in your pockets, headphones dangling like a noose.

Someone in the front row—a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a watch worth more than your contract—leaned to his companion and muttered, "They really let that race with us?" The word that curled like smoke. You pretended not to hear.

Sebastian’s grin didn’t waver, but his fingers twitched against the microphone. "Ah, yes! My teammate," he said, too loudly, slinging an arm around your shoulders like a human shield. "The one who’ll make me look slow." Laughter rippled through the crowd, uneasy.

A woman in a pencil skirt raised her hand. "How does it feel," she asked sweetly, "being the only one like you here?" The pause stretched.

Sebastian opened his mouth—but you got there first. "Feels like being the fastest," you said flatly. The room froze.

Then Sebastian barked a laugh so sudden it startled the mic into feedback. "See?" he crowed, shaking you slightly. "Terrifying."

The Q&A limped on. Someone asked Sebastian about his "realistic goals for the season." They asked you about "handling the pressure of representing your people."

Sebastian’s smile had turned razor-sharp. "Funny," he mused, tapping the mic. "No one ever asks me that."

The moderator coughed. "Well, Sebastian, you’re not exactly—" "Ah! Exactly,"

Sebastian interrupted, nodding sagely. "Because racing is about speed, not passports, yes?"

You didn't want his protection—didn't need it. His arm around your shoulders suddenly felt suffocating, like another cage dressed up as concern.

You ducked out from under his grip, stepping forward until you could see your own reflection in the journalist's sunglasses. "Next question," you said, and your voice didn't waver.

The room exhaled. Someone coughed. Sebastian, for once, stayed quiet—but when you risked a glance sideways, he was watching you with something dangerously close to pride.

The afterparty was worse. Cameras flashed like a swarm of fireflies, catching the way Sebastian kept "accidentally" stepping between you and the salt-and-pepper man from earlier.

You grabbed a glass of champagne just to have something to hold, the bubbles stinging your tongue. "You don’t have to do that," you muttered when Sebastian sidled up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

He clinked his glass against yours, deliberately careless. "Do what?"

"Play bodyguard."

Sebastian took a long sip, eyes scanning the crowd over the rim. "Who said I was playing?"

You snorted into your drink—half exasperation, half something warmer you refused to name. . . .

7th - 9th September 2009

The internet, predictably, lost its collective mind. A blurry paparazzi shot of Sebastian’s hand lingering on your elbow during the press conference surfaced on Twitter by midnight.

The replies read like a fever dream:

"THEY'RE SO CUTE. LOOK AT THE WAY SEB KEEPS TOUCHING HER LIKE A VICTORIAN HUSBAND"

"Nah, it’s one-sided. New driver looks like she’d rather eat glass than make eye contact"

"Bullshit. Did you SEE them at the afterparty? Seb literally followed her around everywhere"

You disabled notifications before dawn. By sunrise, you were in the simulator, headphones clamped over your ears like armor, running Italy’s Sector 2 until your palms blistered.

Romance? You scoffed at the thought, wrenching the wheel through Turn 10’s brutal left-hander until your shoulders screamed.

You were here to race, not to be some tabloid’s manic pixie dream girl—certainly not Sebastian Vettel’s.

The gym reeked of sweat and determination. You ignored the physiotherapist’s protests, stacking another weight onto the neck harness.

"Again," you ground out, teeth clenched as resistance bands pulled your head sideways. Your core burned; every muscle fiber screamed.

But pain was familiar—easier to parse than the way Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you in meetings, brighter than the Alpine sun slanting through the conference room blinds. You avoided those, too.

Italy loomed like a specter. In stolen moments between sessions, you studied Monza’s layout until the curves imprinted behind your eyelids. The team whispered—about your silence, about Sebastian’s uncharacteristic quiet whenever you entered a room.

Only Helmut Marko dared say it aloud: "They’re either fucking or fighting," he snorted to Horner, loud enough for you to hear. You didn’t dignify it with a response, just adjusted your headphones and walked out.

Sebastian wasn’t even your type. Too loud, too golden, too everything—a human sunbeam who didn’t understand shadows. You preferred quiet corners and calculated risks, not whatever chaotic orbit he existed in.

Which made the fact that you were currently strapped into a first-class seat next to him, en route to Italy, all the more unbearable. "Stop fidgeting," you muttered, eyes fixed on the inflight magazine without reading a word.

Sebastian’s knee hadn’t stopped bouncing since takeoff, his fingers drumming arrhythmically against the armrest between you.

"Can’t," he chirped, popping a gummy bear into his mouth—his third packet since Zurich. "Pre-race jitters."

You swallowed hard as the plane shuddered through turbulence, your nails digging into the armrests. Flying was your dirty little secret, the one weakness you’d never admit to the press—not when they already saw you as some fragile novelty act.

Sebastian’s hand suddenly covered yours, warm and steady.

"Hey," he said, softer than you’d ever heard him. "Look at me." You turned, and his thumb brushed your knuckles, feather-light. "Pretend we’re in the car," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "Just another lap."

You kept your distance after that. Not physically—the plane’s cramped cabin saw to that—but in every way that mattered. You yanked your hand back like he’d burned you, twisting toward the window as if Italy’s cloud cover held the answers to why your pulse still hadn’t slowed.

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose, retreating into his seat with an uncharacteristic quiet. The gummy bears stayed untouched for the rest of the flight. . . .

10th September 2009

The hotel room was blessedly silent. You collapsed face-first onto the stiff mattress, still in your travel clothes, and slept like the dead until your alarm screamed at 6AM. Press day.

The Red Bull uniform clung to you like a second skin as you slipped out alone, dodging the team breakfast where Sebastian would inevitably hold court over pancakes.

You fixed your braids in the elevator mirror—tight, neat rows your mother would’ve approved of—just as two engineers stepped in. Their conversation cut off abruptly.

One cleared his throat. The other stared resolutely at his shoes. You turned up your headphones, but not before catching "…shouldn’t even be here…" hissed under someone’s breath. The doors opened. You walked out without looking back.

Monza’s paddock hummed with pre-race chaos. You kept to the edges, dodging cameras and clutching your paddock pass like a shield. A group of mechanics from another team snickered as you passed—one mimed steering an invisible wheel with exaggerated, flailing motions.

"Careful, she might crash into your dignity," someone stage-whispered. Your jaw ached from clenching it.

The press conference room was half-empty when you slipped in—just Hamilton lounging in a corner, scrolling his phone. He glanced up, and something flickered in his expression: surprise, then recognition, then something warmer.

"Well," he said, tossing his phone aside with a grin. "Look who finally showed up to the party."

You hesitated, then sat beside him—close enough that your shoulders brushed. Lewis exhaled, low and weary. "Welcome to hell," he muttered, just for you.

You introduced yourself stiffly—name, team, the usual robotic script. Lewis' grin sharpened. "Oh, I know," he drawled, stretching his legs. "They've been whispering about you in the Mercedes garage." His voice dropped. "Too aggressive. Not a team player. Doesn't belong here."

The mimicry was pitch-perfect—right down to the clipped, colonial vowels. You stiffened. Lewis just nudged your knee with his own, casual as anything. "Ignore them," he said lightly. "They said the same shit about me."

More drivers filtered in—Alonso with his shark-tooth smile, Button nodding politely, Rosberg's handshake limp as wet paper. Each acknowledged you with varying degrees of forced politeness, their gazes skittering away too fast.

The chair beside you—reserved for Red Bull, reserved for Sebastian—remained conspicuously empty. Someone coughed pointedly.

A photographer leaned in to whisper to his assistant, "Wonder if the golden boy's finally realized who he's sharing a garage with."

Lewis' fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his knee. "Breathe," he murmured, just for you. The room was filling now, a sea of white shirts and sponsor logos, but no flash of Red Bull blue. Then—commotion at the door.

Sebastian barreled in, hair mussed like he'd run here, cheeks flushed. His gaze locked onto you instantly, and something in his expression fractured.

"Sorry," he panted to the room at large, but his eyes never left yours. "Traffic."

The moderator cleared his throat. The press conference began—and immediately, the pattern emerged.

Questions rained down on Lewis ("Do you really think you can challenge Ferrari here?"), Jenson ("How does it feel defending your championship?"), Kimi ("Any comment on the rumors about your contract?").

You sat perfectly still, hands folded, while Sebastian shifted beside you like his seat was electrified. Then—a pause. A journalist in the front row adjusted her glasses.

"For the rookie," she said, the word dripping with something saccharine. "How does it feel being the only woman of color in this paddock?" The room hushed.

Sebastian's knee knocked against yours under the table—sharp, deliberate. You inhaled. "Feels like being the only one who earned it," you said, voice steady as a qualifying lap.

Someone in the back choked on their coffee. Sebastian's shoulders shook—not with laughter, but with something fiercer.

The journalist blinked. "That's—not what I—" "I know," you interrupted, smiling sweetly. "You asked how it feels. That's how."

The moderator coughed. Sebastian leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the mic caught his whisper: "Told you. Terrifying." You didn't look at him, but your fingers—hidden beneath the table—brushed his wrist.

Just once. Just enough. Sebastian went utterly still. The next question was for Kimi. The moment passed. But when you risked a glance sideways, Sebastian's profile was lit with something bright and reckless—like he'd just spotted the checkered flag.

You zoned out after that. The voices blurred into white noise—another question about tire compounds, some inane debate about team orders.

Your PR manager's gaze burned into the side of your face from the front row, her pen tapping impatiently against her clipboard. You knew that rhythm—disapproval. Too sharp, too honest, too you.

The conference ended with a flurry of camera shutters. You stood before the moderator dismissed you, chair screeching. Sebastian's fingers caught your sleeve—quick, fleeting—but you were already moving, already weaving through the crowd toward the exit.

The Red Bull staff caught you by the hospitality tent, out of breath like she'd sprinted after you.

"Meeting," she panted, jerking her head toward the motorhome. "Now. PR isn't—" She swallowed the rest, but you heard it anyway: happy.

The walk felt longer than Monza's main straight. Inside, your PR manager was already pacing, her heels clicking against the floor like a ticking bomb.

"What the hell was that?" she hissed the moment the door shut. "We discussed this. You were supposed to—"

"—be grateful?" you finished flatly. Her nostrils flared. "Appealing," she corrected, jabbing a finger at you. "Sponsors don't pay for attitude. They pay for—"

You laughed—sharp, humorless. "A black girl who knows her place?"

Silence. The PR manager's mouth opened. Closed.

Sebastian chose that moment to barrel in, still sweaty from the paddock, hair sticking up in every direction. "Helmut wants us for—"

He froze, eyes darting between you and the PR manager. "Scheiße," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. "Am I interrupting a murder?"

Your PR manager exhaled sharply through her nose. "Sebastian. Out."

Sebastian didn't move. His gaze locked onto yours—waiting. You lifted your chin. He grinned, sharp as a knife. "Nein," he said cheerfully, plopping onto the couch like he owned it. "I live here now."

The PR manager groaned. Sebastian kicked his feet up on the coffee table, scattering papers. "Besides," he added, eyes gleaming, "you should hear what they're saying about her in the Ferrari garage."

He jerked a thumb at you. "Too fast. Too bold. Exactly what this sport needs."

The PR manager's grip on her clipboard tightened. Sebastian winked at you over her shoulder. You looked the other way in disgust.

The meeting ended with your PR manager dismissing you—not with words, but with the sharp flick of her wrist toward the door.

You were halfway to the motorhome exit when you overheard her mutter to Sebastian, "This is why we didn't want a girl like her representing the brand." The words slithered under your skin like oil.

You skipped the team debrief. Instead, you found yourself outside Ferrari’s hospitality unit, drawn by the low hum of Italian voices inside. The door was ajar—enough to catch snippets: "—disrespectful, that one. No discipline. And with Vettel? A liability."

You recognized the voice—the salt-and-pepper man from the press conference. Someone chuckled. "Maybe she’s fast in bed, if not on track." Your fingers curled into fists.

Lewis found you ten minutes later, pacing the paddock like a caged animal. He took one look at your face and sighed.

"Ah," he said, falling into step beside you. "You heard them too." His voice was calm, but his jaw worked like he was chewing glass. You didn’t answer.

Lewis nudged your shoulder. "Ignore them. They’re dinosaurs."

You whirled on him. "Why?" The word ripped out of you, raw. "Why do I have to be the one who ignores it? Why isn’t anyone calling them out?"

Lewis studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Because the sport isn’t ready for that fight yet."

The hotel room smelled like stale air and frustration. You tossed your phone onto the bed and booted up your laptop, pulling up the data from your last simulator runs at Monza—lap times, braking points, every millimeter of track you’d memorized.

The numbers glared back at you, pristine and unfeeling. Faster than Sebastian in Sector 2 by three-tenths. Faster than half the grid in the final chicane.

None of it mattered if they only saw your skin, your braids, the way your lips curled when someone asked if you really belonged here.

You rubbed your temples, headphones abandoned for once. The silence was worse. Outside, laughter spilled from an open window—Sebastian, probably, holding court with the mechanics over espresso shots.

You could almost hear his voice, bright as sunlight, insisting you join them. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, pulling up the FIA’s disciplinary reports from last season.

Scrolled until you found it: Driver penalized for using racial slurs during qualifying. A slap on the wrist. A fine worth less than their watch. The screen blurred. You slammed the laptop shut.

"Why are you here?" The question hissed in your ear like tire screech. Not just from the journalists, the engineers, the men who sized you up like a malfunctioning part—but from your parents’ last phone call, your mother’s voice tight with disapproval.

"Medicine is respectable," she’d said, as if you’d chosen crime. You traced the Red Bull logo on your sleeve, the fabric still stiff with newness.

The answer thrummed in your pulse: Because they said I couldn’t. Because every lap is a middle finger.

A knock rattled the door. "Yo." Sebastian’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. "I stole focaccia." You didn’t move. The knob jiggled. "Scheiße—locked?"

A pause. Then a rustle, and an envelope slid under the door. Inside: a grease-stained napkin cradling still-warm bread, and a note in his messy scrawl. Eat. Then destroy them tomorrow.

You stared at it until the ink smudged under your thumb. Outside, Sebastian’s footsteps retreated—but not before you heard him mutter, "Dummkopf," fond as a curse.

The bread tasted like salt and butter. You swallowed it standing at the window, watching the paddock lights flicker to life below. Somewhere out there, the salt-and-pepper man was probably holding court too, swirling his whiskey and lamenting how F1 wasn’t what it used to be.

Your fingers curled around the napkin. Tomorrow, you’d tear through Monza’s straights like a blade. Let them choke on your dust. . . .

11th September 2009

FP1 dawned sticky with humidity. You arrived before anyone else, tracing Monza’s curves in the quiet—the way the kerbs rattled teeth, how the Ascari chicane flirted with disaster.

The engineers avoided you during setup, whispering over telemetry like you wouldn’t notice their sidelong glances.

One mechanic “accidentally” handed you Sebastian’s helmet. You stared at him until he reddened and swapped it.

Once ready, you got into the car and prayed to God to protect you—but to also give you strength. The words slipped out in Yoruba, a habit from childhood races in Lagos alleyways where the stakes were just as high.

The engine snarled to life beneath you, vibrating up your spine like a live wire. You exhaled. The world narrowed to tarmac and torque.

You waited for your turn to leave the garage, fingers tapping the wheel impatiently while testing your radio. Static hissed, then cleared to Elijah’s calm baritone—half London, half Accra, all business. "Radio check. You hearing me, superstar?"

The nickname was dry as dust, no trace of the syrupy condescension others used. You flicked the mic twice—your signal for loud and clear.

Elijah chuckled. "Good. Now stop grinding your teeth and breathe. It’s just another lap." Outside, Sebastian’s car roared past, his visor tipped toward you in a wordless salute.

The light went green. You launched forward like a bullet, G-force slamming you back into the seat as Monza’s straights blurred into a tunnel of speed. Elijah’s voice cut through the adrenaline, crisp and clinical: "Brake late for Turn 1, mind the marbles outside. Alonso’s on a hot lap behind—don’t let him push you off your line."

You obeyed instinctively, muscles remembering what your mind couldn’t—the exact pressure needed to brake without locking up, the millimeter-perfect turn-in for the Curva Grande.

The Ferrari in your mirrors loomed larger, Alonso’s red helmet glaring like a warning. You held your line.

The car shuddered beneath you through the Ascari chicane, the rear stepping out just enough to make your pulse spike. "Oversteer," you barked into the mic, wrestling the wheel as the tires protested. Elijah’s response was instant: "Adjust diff setting two clicks rearward. We’ll fix it next pit."

You obeyed, fingers flying over the controls without lifting off the throttle. The car settled—not perfect, but manageable. Your lap times were decent, but not stellar; mid-pack at best.

Yet when the session ended, the timing screen flashed your position: P5. You blinked. Behind you, Alonso’s Ferrari sat P6.

The second you killed the engine, the garage erupted into chaos. Someone yanked off your steering wheel before you could unbuckle, hands pulling at your belts, your helmet, your gloves—like you were a doll they needed to undress.

You shoved them off with a snarl, ripping your own balaclava off with shaking hands. The air smelled like burnt rubber and hot metal, acrid in your throat.

"Good run," Elijah murmured over the radio as you hauled yourself out, legs wobbling. "Seb’s P2. Debrief in five." You nodded, already calculating sector times in your head.

You got out of the car and went straight to your debrief, dodging the swarm of engineers hovering near the data screens. Their whispers followed you—too aggressive in Turn 8, too cautious on exit—but you tuned them out, focusing instead on the telemetry sheets Elijah shoved into your hands.

Sebastian was already there, sprawled in a chair with his feet propped on the table, scarfing down an energy bar like he hadn’t eaten in days.

"Scheiße," he mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs spraying as he jabbed at your lap times. "You were faster than me in Sector 2." His grin was equal parts admiration and challenge.

You snatched the printout from his sticky fingers, scanning the numbers—three-tenths up on Sebastian through the Lesmo corners, despite your car’s nervous rear.

The realization prickled your skin: you’d outdriven him. The team principal cleared his throat, but you barely heard him over the blood rushing in your ears.

The meeting was quick—a blur of technical jargon and clipped instructions—before you were hustled back into your car for FP2. The seat still held your body’s heat as you strapped in, fingers tightening around the wheel.

FP2 ended with you in P3 and Sebastian in P2, his lap time just three-hundredths faster than yours. You stared at the timing screen, lips pressed tight—so close you could taste it.

Not good enough.

The thought hissed through your veins like carbon monoxide as you peeled off your gloves after FP2, fingers trembling with exhaustion.

Three-hundredths. A blink. A breath. The difference between champagne and silence.

You got out of the car and went straight to your driver room, kicking the door shut behind you with a force that rattled the water bottles on the counter.

You ripped off your balaclava, the fabric sticking to your sweat-slicked skin, and caught your reflection in the mirror: braids fraying at the edges, lips bitten raw, eyes burning with something feral. Terrifying, indeed.

The shower ran cold, but you didn’t adjust it—let the icy spray shock the adrenaline from your muscles until your hands stopped shaking. Three-hundredths. You could’ve clawed that back in Sector 1 if you’d braked later, turned in sharper.

The water turned your skin to gooseflesh, but the frustration simmered hotter. Outside, muffled voices drifted past your door—Sebastian’s laughter, the mechanics ribbing him about his "near-death experience" with Alonso.

You turned your face into the spray until your lungs burned.

This week had already gone worse than expected. The press had crucified you after the conference ("arrogant," "ungrateful"), the team was walking on eggshells around you, and now Ferrari’s engineers were spreading rumors about your "reckless" driving style.

Even the paddock cats avoided you, slinking away when you crouched to offer scraps.

Only Sebastian still treated you like a human—which was somehow worse, because every time he grinned at you like you hadn’t shattered his sector record, something in your chest twisted painfully.

As you were walking through the paddock, some black fans stopped you—three girls in Red Bull merch, their braids beaded with the colors of the Nigerian flag.

"You’re her," the tallest breathed, clutching a Sharpie like a holy relic. "You’re the one who told that journalist to fuck off." You froze.

They didn’t want Sebastian’s autograph. They wanted yours. The shortest girl shoved a program under your nose, her grin splitting her face. "My mum said you’d be mean," she confessed. "I hoped you would be."

Sebastian materialized beside you like a sunburn, sweaty from his post-session debrief. He opened his mouth—probably to charm them with some German nonsense—but the girls ignored him completely.

"Can you sign this?" the third asked, turning so you could scribble on the back of her jacket, right over the Red Bull logo.

Your Sharpie hovered. "You sure?" you muttered. "Might devalue it."

The tallest girl scoffed. "Nah. Makes it priceless."

Sebastian watched, uncharacteristically silent, as they snapped selfies with you—not him. As they chattered about your sector times like they’d memorized them. As the shortest whispered, fierce as a prayer: "Win on Sunday."

You nodded, throat tight. When they left, Sebastian exhaled like he’d been punched. "Well," he said, voice oddly rough. "That’s new."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The Sharpie still smelled like ink and hope.

12th September 2009

Sebastian woke before dawn, already reaching for his phone to text you—Meet you downstairs?—but his thumb hovered over send.

Maybe today would be the day you didn’t disappear into the paddock like smoke. Maybe today you’d finally walk in together, shoulders brushing, like teammates who weren’t strangers.

He dressed too fast, popped two gummy bears for breakfast (balanced diet), and knocked on your door. Silence. The maid passed by with a trolley.

"Gone already," she said in broken English. Sebastian’s stomach dropped. Again.

The paddock was buzzing when he arrived, Red Bull shirts weaving through the crowd like flashes of lightning. Sebastian scanned every face—mechanics, journalists, even the damn catering staff—but you were nowhere.

Then he spotted you: perched on the pit wall alone, headphones on, braids coiled tight against your nape. Studying telemetry like it held the secrets of the universe.

Sebastian’s chest ached. You looked up. Saw him. For a heartbeat, something flickered in your eyes—warmth?—before you schooled your face blank and looked away.

He sometimes wondered why you acted like this to him. It wasn’t like he’d ever been anything but good to you—bringing you sweets, defending you in meetings, even letting you steal his favorite setup for Sector 2.

Yet every time he got close, you recoiled like he was made of fire. Maybe you hated Germans. Maybe you thought he was an idiot. Or maybe—his stomach twisted—you just hated him.

Sebastian forced a grin and bounded over, plopping onto the pit wall beside you like he belonged there. "Morning, Schatz," he chirped, nudging your knee with his. "Sleep well?"

You stiffened, fingers tightening around the telemetry sheets. "No," you muttered, not looking up.

Sebastian’s grin didn’t falter. "Me neither," he lied cheerfully. "Dreamt about the Lesmo corners. Kept hitting the wall."

You snorted despite yourself, and Sebastian’s pulse jumped—victory.

He left you to get suited up for qualifying, but not before stealing one last glance over his shoulder. You were still hunched over the data, sunlight catching the silver studs in your ears, lips moving silently as you traced braking points with your fingertip.

Sebastian’s chest tightened. He wanted to memorize you like this—all sharp edges and quiet intensity—before the cameras found you, before the world tried to smooth you into something palatable.

Back in the garage, the engineers buzzed around him like worker ants, strapping him into the car with practiced efficiency. Sebastian flexed his fingers around the wheel, but his mind was still outside—

Over the radio, Rocky's voice crackled: "Seb, focus. Q1 in two minutes." Sebastian exhaled, shaking his head to clear it.

The session was a blur—tire squeal, adrenaline, the roar of engines echoing off Monza’s old walls. Barrichello’s Brawn Mercedes streaked past like a red comet, stealing provisional pole with a lap so smooth it hurt to watch.

Sebastian gritted his teeth and pushed harder, carving through Ascari’s chicanes until the car shuddered beneath him. "P2," Rocky announced as he crossed the line. "Three-tenths down on Rubens."

You materialized beside the timing screen, helmet tucked under your arm, still breathing hard from your own lap. P3. A miracle for a rookie’s first qualifying—but your mouth was a tight line, eyes fixed on Barrichello’s name glowing above yours.

Sebastian bumped your shoulder with his. "Not bad for a debut," he teased, voice light despite the jealousy gnawing his ribs. You didn’t smile.

"Not good enough," you muttered, and walked away before he could reply.

You thought of your mom’s words—"Medicine is respectable," she’d hissed the night you left for Milton Keynes, her grip bruising your wrist. "This? This is selfish."

The memory tasted like bitter herbs. You swallowed it down, fingers tightening around your gloves until the seams threatened to burst. Selfish? Fine. You’d be selfish enough for both of them.

You felt someone smack your shoulder, turned around to see Lewis grinning at you, his helmet tucked under one arm. "Good job, Y/N," he said, nodding toward the timing screen where your P3 glowed like a beacon.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Thanks," you muttered, ducking your head before he could see the warmth prickling your cheeks.

Lewis’ smile sharpened. "Nah, thank you," he corrected, jerking his chin toward the Mercedes garage where Barrichello was holding court. "Watching you scare the shit out of Rubens? Priceless."

Sebastian watched from across the garage, his stomach twisting into knots. He’d never seen you smile like that—not at him, not at anyone. It was small, barely there, but it lit up your whole face in a way that made his chest ache.

Someone clapped his shoulder hard—"Scheiße!"—and Sebastian spun to find Nico Rosberg grinning, his blond hair still damp from the podium spray.

"Sieht aus, als hättest du Konkurrenz," Nico teased in German, nodding toward where Lewis was leaning into your space like he belonged there. Looks like you've got competition.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. "Halt die Klappe," he muttered, shoving Nico away. Keep your mouth shut.

Nico just laughed, flicking Sebastian’s forehead. "Oh, jetzt ist es ernst?" he mocked, stepping back as Sebastian swatted at him. Oh, so it's getting serious now?

"Pass auf, sonst schnappt sie dir womöglich noch deine Titelchancen weg." The words stung more than they should have.

Sebastian glanced back at you—now laughing outright at something Lewis said, the sound bright and unfamiliar—and something hot coiled in his ribs. Watch out, or she might just snatch your title chances away.

You didn’t notice Sebastian watching. Didn’t see the way his fingers clenched around his gloves, or how his smile faltered when Lewis leaned in to whisper something that made you snort.

Sebastian turned away before you could catch him staring, stomping toward his driver room like a storm cloud.

Behind him, Nico’s laughter followed, sharp as a knife. "Viel Glück, Seb," he called after him. "Du wirst es brauchen." Good luck, Seb. You're going to need it.

Lewis’ advice rattled in your skull like loose change—"Brake later than you think you can. Trust the car. And for fuck’s sake, stop being so polite."—as you slipped into Red Bull’s simulator long after midnight.

The paddock was eerily quiet, save for the hum of servers and the occasional clatter of a cleaning crew. You ran Monza’s Sector 2 until your eyelids burned, shaving milliseconds off each lap by braking millimeters later than before.

The screen flashed green—NEW BEST—and you exhaled, shoulders slumping. Three-hundredths. Gone.

The door creaked open. You didn’t turn, assuming it was Elijah coming to drag you to bed—until a familiar citrusy cologne hit your nose. Sebastian hovered in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clutching two energy drinks like a peace offering.

"Saw the light on," he mumbled, shoving one at you. The can was ice-cold, condensation dripping onto your knee. You stared at it, then at him.

Sebastian shrugged, avoiding your eyes. "You were right," he muttered. "About Sector 2."

The admission hung between you, fragile as a soap bubble. You cracked the can open, the fizz loud in the silent room. "Yeah," you said finally. "I know." Sebastian’s laugh was startled, warm—the first real sound either of you had made in hours.

He flopped into the chair beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and reached for the keyboard. "Show me," he said, and for once, it wasn’t a challenge. It was an offering.

His fingers flew over the controls, resetting the sim to your fastest lap. The screen flickered, Monza’s curves stretching before you like a ribbon.

Sebastian leaned in, his breath ghosting over your temple as he pointed to the braking marker. "Here," he murmured. "You’re lifting too early."

His hand covered yours on the wheel, guiding it through the turn—his palm rough with calluses, his touch feather-light. You held your breath.

The car obeyed, slicing through the chicane like a knife. The timer flashed—another three-hundredths shaved off. Sebastian whooped, his joy bouncing off the walls, and you—against every instinct—grinned back.

His smile faltered, then softened, his thumb brushing your knuckles where they still gripped the wheel. "There you are," he whispered, like he’d found something precious.

"We should probably go to sleep," you said, getting up too fast, the chair screeching. Your pulse roared in your ears—not from the sim, not from the caffeine.

Sebastian blinked up at you, his hair haloed by the screen’s glow, lips parted like he wanted to say something dangerous. Instead, he just nodded and stood, his shoulder brushing yours as he reached past you to power down the system.

The scent of his shampoo—something citrusy and warm—lingered in the space between you.

The walk back to your rooms was silent save for the hum of vending machines and your own traitorous heartbeat. At your door, Sebastian hesitated, fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you.

"Do you want to eat breakfast with me?" Sebastian asked, shifting his weight between socked feet. The hallway lights caught the gold stubble along his jaw.

"I don't eat breakfast," you replied truthfully, turning your keycard over in your palm. His face fell for a fraction of a second before smoothing into that familiar, infuriating grin.

"Right," he said, rocking back on his heels. "Race day rituals. I get it." He didn't move. The space between you crackled like live wires. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed, startling you both.

Sebastian laughed—too loud, too bright—and raked a hand through his messy hair. "Well. Goodnight, Schatz," he murmured, already retreating.

You watched him go, the word wait clotting in your throat like unshed tears. . . .

13th September 2009

You woke later than usual, groggy from too little sleep, to find a small paper bag slid under your door. Inside: two almond croissants, still warm, and a crumpled Post-it with "Race day fuel – S" scrawled in messy handwriting.

Your stomach growled traitorously as you unfolded the note, fingers brushing the flaky pastry.

No one had brought you breakfast since Lagos—since your brother used to sneak you puff-puff before school, whispering "Don’t tell Mama" with flour on his nose.

You ate it as you dressed, flakes dusting your black Red Bull polo, the sweetness lingering on your tongue as you hurried to the paddock. The energy was different today—charged, restless—the air thick with burnt rubber and anticipation.

Mechanics shouted over revving engines, journalists clustered like vultures, and somewhere in the chaos, Sebastian’s laughter cut through the din like sunlight through storm clouds.

The strategy meeting was brief and brutal. Christian’s voice was crisp over the radio as you tugged on your race suit, the fabric sticking to your skin in the Italian heat. "Start on softs, aggressive first stint—Sebastian leads, you cover Alonso."

You nodded, fingers flying over the tablet, absorbing every curve of Monza’s telemetry like scripture. Three-hundredths. That’s all you needed. Three-hundredths, and you’d be ahead of Barrichello. Ahead of him.

Getting into the car was a ritual—gloves first, then balaclava, then helmet. The mechanics strapped you in tight, their hands firm but fleeting.

Sebastian was already settled in his cockpit, fingers drumming an arrhythmic prayer against the wheel as the team murmured in German around him.

Monza roared to life around you, the stands a blur of red and blue. You inhaled sharply through your nose—burning fuel, hot tarmac, the faintest hint of Sebastian’s citrus shampoo clinging to your balaclava. The formation lap crawled by, tires squealing as they warmed.

Then—green. Chaos. Your car shot forward like a bullet, elbows out as you swerved around Alonso’s sluggish Ferrari. Sebastian’s Red Bull streaked ahead, a flash of neon in your periphery, but you barely noticed.

Your world narrowed to Turn 1’s brutal chicane, the g-force slamming you sideways as you braked later than anyone dared.

Barrichello’s puncture happened halfway through Lap 12—a sudden plume of rubber smoke as his left rear gave way in the Parabolica. The Brawn veered violently, barely missing the barriers, and you seized the opening like a predator, slicing past him into P2 before the yellow flags even waved.

Your engineer whooped over the radio, but you barely heard him. Sebastian’s gap was 1.8 seconds. Growing.

The checkered flag came too soon. Sebastian’s car crossed first, his fist already pumping in triumph, while you trailed by 2.3 seconds—close enough to taste victory, far enough to choke on it.

You unbuckled your helmet mechanically, the sweat cooling on your neck as the team’s cheers washed over you. Disappointment curdled in your gut. P2 was good. P2 wasn’t enough.

Then—warmth. Arms wrapping around you from behind, lifting you clean off the ground. Sebastian’s laughter buzzed against your ear as he spun you once, twice, your boots dangling above the tarmac.

“Scheiße, you were brilliant!” he crowed, setting you down only to grip your face with both hands, his thumbs smudging sweat across your cheekbones.

You froze, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and throat, as Sebastian beamed at you like you’d hung the stars instead of lost by two damn seconds.

You hugged him back. It was instinct, muscle memory—your arms sliding around his waist as your helmet clunked against his shoulder.

The embrace was too tight, too sudden, your pulse hammering where your chest pressed against his. Sebastian stiffened for a heartbeat, then melted into it, his fingers tangling in the back of your fireproof suit like he was afraid you’d vanish.

The scent of his sweat—citrus and adrenaline—filled your nose, and something in your chest cracked open like an overripe fruit.

Then you broke away, ducking your head as the crowd roared around you. Sebastian let go reluctantly, his hands hovering near your shoulders for a second too long before he turned to the team, bounding into their arms like a golden retriever off its leash.

You wiped your palms on your thighs and walked toward Alonso instead, his Renault cap pulled low over tired eyes. "Bravo," he murmured in that gravelly voice, clasping your forearm.

His grip was warm, familiar—a racer’s handshake. You nodded once, throat too tight for words.

Christian Horner was practically vibrating by the time you reached him. "Bloody hell," he breathed, gripping your shoulders like he wanted to shake you.

His eyes flicked between you and Sebastian, who was currently trying to lift Rocky off the ground in a bear hug. "You two—" Christian shook his head, laughing disbelievingly. "You absolute madmen."

You shrugged, but your lips twitched when Sebastian caught your eye over Christian’s shoulder, grinning like he’d just won the lottery instead of a single race.

The podium interview was worse. You stood stiffly beside Sebastian and Alonso, sweat dripping down your neck as the presenter leaned in with a microphone.

"So, Y/N," she chirped, eyes flicking between you and Sebastian. "Your first podium—and with your teammate no less! Any thoughts?" The crowd tittered.

"Thoughts?" you repeated flatly. "Yeah. Next time, I’ll be in the middle." The crowd roared. Sebastian choked on his champagne.

The German anthem blared, tinny through the speakers. You stood at attention beside Sebastian, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he mouthed the words silently.

His eyes shone suspiciously bright—not from victory, you realized, but from hearing his country’s anthem play for both of you for the first time. The trophy felt heavier than expected when they placed it in your hands.

You turned it over, tracing the engraving—Gran Premio d’Italia—with your thumb. Your parents would never see this. Your brother probably would.

Sebastian popped the champagne first, the cork ricocheting off the ceiling. The spray hit you square in the face—cold, stinging, bubbling into your mouth as you sputtered. Sebastian whooped, already drenched himself, shaking the bottle like a man possessed

"Drink!" he crowed, shoving the neck toward your lips. You took a defiant swig straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning your throat, then yanked it away to pour the rest over his head.

Sebastian gasped when the chilled liquid hit his scalp, his blond hair instantly plastered to his forehead. He stood frozen for a beat—mouth open, eyelashes dripping—before lunging at you with a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

The crowd roared as you dodged behind Alonso’s broad frame, using the Spaniard as a human shield while Sebastian skidded on the slick podium. Alonso rolled his eyes but obligingly spread his arms, his biceps blocking Sebastian’s path like a bullfighter taunting a calf.

"Pathetic," Alonso muttered, but his mouth twitched when you peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Sebastian slip again, arms pinwheeling wildly.

The rest of the team celebrations flew by—champagne-soaked embraces with mechanics, Christian Horner’s proud grip on your shoulders, Helmut Marko’s begrudging nod—and you felt yourself relax for the first time since Melbourne.

Someone shoved another bottle into your hands, the glass slippery with condensation, and you drank greedily, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue like liquid victory.

The garage was a mess of discarded energy drink cans and crumpled telemetry sheets when the engineers finally began clearing up the last debrief. "Meet at La Luna in an hour," Rocky announced, already stripping off his sweaty polo as he headed for the showers.

The team whooped, high-fiving over your heads while Sebastian bounced on his toes beside you, his grin contagious. "You're coming, right?" he asked, nudging your shoulder with his own.

His skin was still tacky with champagne, his hair a disaster of dried foam, and he smelled like citrus and exhaustion. You hesitated—clubs meant crowds, crowds meant noise—but Sebastian’s hopeful expression made your stomach twist.

"Yeah," you muttered, ducking your head. "Just… don't expect me to dance."

Sebastian grinned like you'd promised him a podium, squeezing your wrist before bounding off toward the driver rooms. You lingered for a second, watching his retreating back—the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the smudge of tire rubber still on his neck—before turning sharply toward your own room.

The shower was scalding, the water sluicing away Monza’s grime and the phantom press of Sebastian’s fingers on your skin.

You dug through your suitcase for something—anything—that didn’t smell like champagne and burnt rubber. The backless halter top was an impulse buy from a Milan boutique, black as your race suit but cut to show the twin scars along your shoulder blades—remnants of your first karting crash.

The shorts were barely legal, riding high on your thighs as you twisted to check the mirror. Not bad for someone who spent most days in fireproof overalls.

You were halfway out the door when your phone buzzed—unknown number, Lagos area code. You hesitated, then answered. Static crackled first, then a burst of Wande Coal before your brother’s voice cut through.

"You looked fast," he crowed, sounding younger than his seventeen years. The background noise suggested a crowded viewing party—likely at Uncle Tunde’s, where the satellite dish actually worked.

"Mama watched," he added, lower now. Your fingers tightened around the phone. "She said—" A pause. Someone shushed him in Yoruba. "Anyway, congrats. Just… maybe don’t call home yet."

The voices in the background sharpened suddenly—your mother’s fury slicing through the muffled cheers. "That stupid girl!" she spat, the words like shrapnel. "She thinks she’s won it all by getting second place!"

Someone—Uncle Tunde, maybe—tried to intervene: "Aṣeyi—it’s her first race!" Your mother’s scoff was venomous. "By this time, she could have medical school and a husband!"

"Now she is making friends with her enemy, she better not bring this kind of attitude back into this house," she finished before there was footsteps and Eseosa was moving the phone—the muffled sounds of protest, a door slamming, then silence.

You stood frozen in the hotel hallway, clutching your phone like a grenade with the pin pulled. The champagne victory in your mouth turned to ash.

"I'm so sorry, sis," Eseosa whispered through the line, his voice cracking. "You didn't need to hear that."

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead against the cold hotel wallpaper. "I knew what she'd say before I answered." The lie tasted bitter—you'd hoped, just this once, she might be proud.

Eseosa exhaled shakily. "Sebastian seems nice," he offered, a clumsy olive branch. You snorted despite yourself—your little brother, always trying to fix things with optimism.

"He's annoying," you muttered, but your fingers twitched toward your collarbone, where Sebastian's thumb had brushed hours earlier.

You said goodbye too quickly, hanging up before Eseosa could hear your voice break. The hotel room blurred as you slid down the wall, phone clattering to the carpet.

The tears came hot and silent—not for the salt-and-pepper men who muttered behind Rolexes, not for the mechanics who flinched when you passed, but for the woman who'd birthed you and still couldn't say well done.

Sebastian was already at the club—you saw the Instagram story as soon as you opened the app, his golden hair haloed by strobe lights, arms slung around Rocky and Christian as they toasted with Red Bull-laced vodka.

You muted the notification and turned off your phone. Let them celebrate him. Let them crown their golden boy without the shadow of you lingering at his elbow, scowling into your drink.

The tears didn’t stop even when you pressed your palms into your eyes hard enough to see stars. You cried ugly—shoulders shaking, nose running, the back of your throat burning with swallowed sobs.

Somewhere beneath the grief was anger, white-hot and familiar: anger at your mother for making victories taste like failure, at Sebastian for making kindness feel like a trap, at yourself for wanting something you couldn’t name.

Self-doubt slithered in as you scrubbed your face raw with hotel tissues. What are you even doing here? The question echoed louder than Monza’s roar.

You weren’t Lewis, with his effortless grace and unshakable legacy. You weren’t Sebastian, with his golden-boy charm and generational talent.

You were just you—too quiet, too sharp, too much and never enough. The podium suddenly felt like a fluke, the champagne like borrowed glitter.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror was a stranger—smudged eyeliner, braids fraying at the roots, lips bitten raw. You gripped the sink until your knuckles blanched. They’ll figure you out soon.

The engineers, the sponsors, Sebastian. They’d realize you were just a girl who got lucky, who didn’t belong in their gilded world of private jets and paddock politics.

Your mother’s voice hissed in your skull: "Stupid girl, playing with cars instead of scalpels.".

You made sure to leave Italy as early as possible and didn’t tell anyone. The flight to your London flat was a blur of turbulence and tepid airplane coffee, your knees jammed against the seat in front of you.

The cab ride home smelled like stale cigarettes and regret. When the driver asked if you were "that F1 lass," you cranked your headphones to max volume and stared out the window until he gave up.

Your apartment was exactly as you’d left it—cold, sparse, the fridge humming ominously empty. You kicked off your shoes and let your duffel bag slump to the floor, the weight of Monza’s trophy inside thudding dully against the hardwood.

The silence was louder than Tifosi cheers. You peeled off your travel clothes like a second skin and stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing at Sebastian’s champagne still sticky in your hair.

You went to sleep. You hadn’t been here for months—not since testing, when this flat still smelled like new paint and your best friend's nervous laughter as she helped you assemble IKEA furniture. The sheets were stale, the pillow too firm, but you buried your face in it anyways.

Somewhere across the sea, Sebastian was probably still dancing, his laughter bouncing off some VIP booth’s velvet ropes while photographers flashed.

You wondered if he’d noticed you were gone. . . .

13th September 2009

The pounding started at 3AM. At first, you thought it was jetlag-induced delirium—some cruel trick of your exhausted brain—but then it came again, sharp and insistent.

You dragged yourself upright, blinking at the peephole’s fisheye distortion. A blur of dark curls, red lipstick smudged at the corner. Isabella.

Your best friend since university, the one who’d smuggled contraband energy drinks into your dorm during finals, now stood on your doorstep in a rain-soaked leather jacket, clutching two bottles of wine like grenades.

"You," she declared, shoving past you the second you cracked the door, "are a ghosting bastard."

The wine bottle clattered onto your counter as Isabella spun, taking in the barren flat, the unpacked duffel, the trophy still wrapped in a hotel towel like some shameful secret.

Her expression softened. "Eseosa called me," she said quietly, toeing off her boots. "Said you sounded like shit." You stiffened, but Isabella was already uncorking the wine with her teeth, spitting the cork onto your floor.

"So," she said, thrusting a glass into your hand, "tell me about him."

You choked on your first sip. "Who?"

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "The German golden retriever whose entire Instagram story is him sulking in a club corner asking ‘where is she?’ like some melodramatic telenovela."

She leaned in, her knee bumping yours. "The one," she added pointedly, "who held your face after the race like you’d hung the moon."

You opened your mouth—to deflect, to deny—but the words died when Isabella’s phone buzzed.

A new notification: @sebastianvettel tagged you in a story.

You grabbed it before she could, heart hammering. The video was shaky, dimly lit—Sebastian, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed as he stared into the camera. "Schatz," he mumbled, half-slurred, "where did you go?" You threw the phone back like it burned.

Isabella’s grin was wicked. "Oh," she purred, topping up your glass. "Him."

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the cool countertop. The wine tasted sour, too sharp—nothing like the champagne Sebastian had sprayed down your throat. "It’s not—he doesn’t—"

Isabella slapped her palm against your mouth, cutting you off. "Save it," she muttered, dragging you toward the couch by your wrist. "You’ve been emotionally constipated since secondary school."

She flopped beside you, her thigh warm against yours. "Now. Did you want him to hold your face like that?"

You swallowed, the lie sour on your tongue. "No," you started—then choked when Isabella jabbed her finger into your ribs. "No, that is not why I’m racing in Red Bull for—" you hissed, twisting away.

"Bullshit," Isabella spat, sloshing wine onto your couch. She grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze—dark as Lagos midnight and twice as knowing.

"You think I didn’t see your face when he popped that champagne?" Her thumb brushed your jaw, mimicking Sebastian’s touch with terrifying accuracy. "You lit up. Like someone finally saw you."

You wrenched away, pacing the cramped living room until your bare feet burned against the hardwood. "It doesn’t matter," you pushed through gritted teeth, fingers twitching toward your headphones—still dangling around your neck like a noose.

Isabella scoffed, kicking her feet up on your coffee table. "Oh, it matters," she drawled, swirling her wine. "Otherwise you wouldn’t be vibrating out of your skin every time his name comes up."

The silence stretched, thick as the humidity before monsoon season. Outside, London rain smeared the streetlights into golden streaks. You stared at your reflection in the dark window—a shadow with braids, someone’s daughter, someone’s teammate, never quite yourself.

Isabella’s voice cut through the static: "You know what your problem is?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "You think wanting things makes you weak."

You scoffed, twisting the headphones cord around your wrist like shackles. "I don’t want him." The lie tasted like flat champagne.

Isabella arched one perfect eyebrow, sipping her wine with the smugness of a woman who’d seen you cry over calculus at 3AM. "Bullshit," she said pleasantly. "You just don’t want to admit it."

"He’s loud," you muttered, as if volume was the crime. "And reckless. And—"

"And he calls you Schatz," Isabella interrupted, her grin sharp as a scalpel. She leaned in, wine sloshing dangerously close to your lap. "Do you even know what that means?"

You shook your head, fingers tightening around your glass. Isabella’s smirk deepened. "It literally translates to 'treasure' or 'precious.'" She paused, letting the words sink in like rain into parched earth. "He likes you."

You snorted, but your pulse betrayed you—rabbiting beneath your skin like a cornered thing. "Don’t be ridiculous," you snapped, too fast. "It’s just—German. They say that to everyone."

Isabella arched a brow. "Is it because of your mom?" she asked, softer now, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. "The way she’d hiss ‘men will ruin you’ every time you glanced at a boy in secondary school?"

The memory hit like a gut punch—your mother’s nails digging into your wrist at the mall, dragging you away from some uni boy’s lingering stare. "Focus on your books," she’d spat. "Not distractions."

You thought back to her words after Monza—"She thinks she’s won it all by getting second place"—and suddenly the wine tasted like bile. Your breath hitched; your vision blurred.

Isabella didn’t reach for you—knew better than to cross that line—so the tears fell unchecked, scalding tracks down your cheeks. "I just want someone to be proud of me," you whispered, voice cracking like old pavement. The confession hung between you, raw and trembling.

She knew you hated touch—had watched you recoil from casual hugs, flinch at unexpected brushes—so why did you allow Sebastian?

His fingers on your wrist after the flight, his palm cradling your cheek in parc fermé, his thumb tracing idle circles on your collarbone when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You didn’t pull away then. Didn’t even want to.

Isabella exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she was diffusing a bomb. "I’m proud of you," she said finally, fingers tightening around her wineglass. "You would know that if you’d look at your messages. Eseosa is proud of you. All the women of colour back home are proud of you—and I know Sebastian is definitely proud of you."

She snorted, shaking her head. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? You can handle the bastards—the ones who sneer and mutter. But him?" Her grin turned wicked. "Him looking at you like you hung the fucking stars? That terrifies you."

"It does," you muttered, pressing your palms into your eyelids until colors bloomed.

"Look, you seem really tired by it all," Isabella sighed, dragging a throw blanket over your legs with the practiced ease of someone who'd nursed you through too many existential crises. "Why don't you get more rest? Tomorrow we'll figure everything out."

You nodded, suddenly grateful she'd moved to London after graduation—close enough to barge in at 3AM with cheap wine and sharper truths.

Morning came with a vengeance—sunlight slicing through your blinds like a scalpel, your phone vibrating off the nightstand with a barrage of missed calls.

Sebastian Vettel (12) flashed on the screen, but nothing from Red Bull.

Right—they'd given you a week's break before Singapore, still two weeks away. You thumbed through the notifications: voicemails ranging from cheerful ("Schatz, answer your phone!") to increasingly slurry ("Are you dead? Please don’t be dead.").

You did not answer any of them, watching all the videos from the clubs instead—Sebastian's Instagram was a carousel of strobe-lit chaos, his golden hair matted with sweat as he danced with Rocky on tabletops, Christian Horner egging him on with a bottle of vodka.

The tenth story cut abruptly to Sebastian slumped in a VIP booth, eyes glassy as he mumbled into the camera, "Where’d you go?" before the video cut out.

Your thumb hovered over the heart button for a dangerous second before you chucked your phone across the bed.

Isabella had gone to get breakfast for the two of you—"Proper Nigerian food, none of that British nonsense," she'd declared before vanishing into the London drizzle.

The silence left room for ghosts: your mother's voice hissing disgrace, Sebastian's laugh bouncing off Monza's podium, the salt-and-pepper man's muttered they let that race with us? You dug your nails into your palms until the thoughts scattered.

The bathroom mirror showed the aftermath—braids frizzing at the roots, dark circles bruising your under-eyes, lips chapped from biting.

You splashed water on your face, but the reflection still whispered fraud. Champions didn’t cry in hotel showers or flee countries without telling their teams. Champions were Sebastian, golden and grinning, untouchable even when he lost.

You were just you—a shadow with a trophy you hadn’t earned, a girl your mother couldn’t love.

Isabella came back with jollof rice steaming in takeout containers and plantains glistening with oil. "Eat," she ordered, shoving a fork into your hand.

The spices hit your tongue like a memory—home, before the contracts and cameras, when racing was just you and your brother sneaking out to karting tracks at dawn. Isabella watched you devour it, her smirk softening.

"Your mom’s a bitch," she said casually, like commenting on the weather. "But you already knew that."

You stabbed a plantain harder than necessary. "She just wants the best for me," you muttered, the lie tasting stale. "I heard Eseosa is going into computer engineering. She must be ecstatic for him."

The words curled bitter in your mouth—your little brother, the golden child, pursuing the safe career your mother had mapped out for both of you.

Isabella snorted, flicking a grain of rice at you. "Bullshit. She’s ecstatic he’s obedient." Her fingers brushed yours as she stole a plantain slice. "You terrify her. You always have."

The truth settled like ash in your lungs. Your mother had clutched Eseosa’s acceptance letter like a trophy while your F1 contract gathered dust on the kitchen table.

"This is what real success looks like," she’d hissed, jabbing a manicured finger at the university crest. You’d packed your bags that night—left the headphones she’d given you ("So you’ll stop talking back") on your childhood bed and never looked back.

Isabella’s reply was sharp as a scalpel: "She’s scared you’ll fly higher than her prayers can reach." She flicked another grain of rice at you, this one hitting your forehead with pinpoint accuracy. "And look at you—already stratospheric with your pretty German boy trailing behind you like a lost puppy."

You groaned, tossing a plantain slice at her face, but she caught it midair with her teeth, grinning around the mouthful. "Admit it," she mumbled, "you like when he follows you around like you’re the sun."

You rolled your eyes so hard your skull ached. "I won’t agree nor deny," you joked, voice flat, but your fingers twitched around your fork—betrayal in the way your pulse jumped at the mention of him.

Isabella laughed, moving onto finishing her food and clearing your house, thinking of things to do for a free week. "We should go clubbing," she announced, stacking empty containers with the precision of a surgeon. "Somewhere terrible—the kind of place they’d never let an F1 driver in. I want to see you drunk enough to dance on tables."

You groaned, but she bulldozed on, tossing a dish towel at your face. "Or we could stalk your golden retriever. I bet he’s still sulking in some Berlin nightclub."

"Stop calling him that," you muttered, but your traitorous thumb hovered over the playback button. Isabella’s grin widened. "Make me," she singsonged, flicking soapy water at you from the sink.

"Fine," she conceded, drying her hands on her jeans. "But first we need to go shopping—your wardrobe looks like a funeral director’s clearance sale."

You scoffed, but she was already dragging you toward the door, her grip ironclad. "And no," she added, tossing your headphones onto the couch with terrifying accuracy, "you can’t wear those. Today, you live."

The high street was a sensory assault—neon signs screaming sale prices, perfumed air thick as syrup, bodies jostling past in a blur of rushed errands.

You flinched when a stranger’s elbow brushed yours, but Isabella just laced her fingers through yours and towed you into the nearest boutique like a warship into harbor.

"Trust me," she murmured, plucking a leather jacket off the rack and holding it up to your frame. "You’re going to want to look devastating when you inevitably run into him."

The changing room mirror showed a stranger—sharp collarbones peeking through the jacket’s deep V, the silver zipper glinting like a blade.

Isabella wolf-whistled, but your pulse hammered for entirely different reasons: this wasn’t the uniform Red Bull had tailored for cameras. This was you, unapologetic and unchained.

Sebastian’s knee bounced against the first-class seat as the plane banked over Frankfurt, his thumb hovering over your contact for the seventeenth time. No reply.

Nico smirked from across the aisle, swirling his whiskey. “They told you she went home, mein Freund,” he drawled, kicking Sebastian’s shin lightly. “Stop sulking.” Sebastian scowled, but his fingers tightened around his phone—like it might vibrate any second.

"I'm not sulking," he muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool window. "I'm just worried." The admission tasted sour—too vulnerable for someone who usually laughed off everything.

Nico arched a brow, sipping his drink with theatrical slowness. "Ah," he said, nodding sagely. "Because normally when women ghost you, you're thrilled."

Sebastian flipped him off, but his pulse betrayed him—rabbiting beneath his skin like a cornered thing.

Nico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "She's different," Sebastian muttered, fingers twitching around his phone. The words slipped out before he could choke them back—a reflex honed by years of deflecting questions about why he never settled down.

Nico’s smirk faltered. "Yeah," he agreed softly, swirling his whiskey. "She looks at you like you're just some guy."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his phone. "She doesn’t look at me at all," he muttered, the lie bitter on his tongue.

Nico rolled his eyes, tossing a peanut at Sebastian’s forehead. "She looks at you a lot with fury," he corrected, smirking when Sebastian’s head snapped up.

Sebastian blinked—then beamed, sudden and blinding. "She looks at me?!" he crowed, loud enough that the flight attendant shot him a glare. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless energy buzzing under his skin like a live wire.

Nico groaned, rubbing his temples. "You are one love-sick puppy," he muttered, shaking his head. "It's pathetic." Sebastian just grinned wider, his knee bouncing faster.

"She looks at me," he repeated, softer now, like he was savoring the words.

"I have to tell Lewis about this," Nico muttered, thinking about his best friend. Lewis would howl at this—the Sebastian Vettel reduced to a lovesick mess over his brooding teammate. The irony was too rich.

Sebastian didn't text you again. But he checked his phone every five minutes while sprawled across his childhood bed in Heppenheim, surrounded by his sisters and brother's discarded sweaters and his father's racing memorabilia.

"Who died?" Fabian teased, tossing a sock at Sebastian's head as he scrolled past your Instagram for the thirtieth time. Sebastian grunted, rolling onto his stomach to avoid Melanie stealing his phone.

"No one," he lied, thumb hovering over your latest story—just a blurry London skyline, no caption.

Heike noticed first. "You're sulking," she announced, dumping a basket of laundry onto his lap during Sunday dinner. Sebastian scowled as Stefanie cackled into her schnitzel.

"I don't sulk," he protested, but his fork scraped his plate with unusual violence. Norbert glanced up from the newspaper, eyes flicking between his son and the phone clutched like a lifeline.

"Ah," he said mildly, turning a page. "The Nigerian driver." Sebastian choked on his beer.

The silence stretched like Monza's pit straight. Then Melanie gasped, slapping her palms on the table. "Wait—you like her!"

Sebastian's ears burned crimson as his sisters exploded into gleeful chaos. "Oh my God," Stefanie wheezed, clutching Fabian's shoulder. "Seb has a crush!" His mother's lips twitched as she passed the potatoes.

Sebastian scowled into his beer. "I don't—she's my teammate." The word teammate curled awkwardly in his mouth, too stiff for the way his pulse jumped whenever your name flashed on his screen.

Norbert folded his newspaper with deliberate slowness. "Mm. And does your teammate know you're"—he gestured at Sebastian's death grip on his phone—"like this?"

Fabian snorted into his schnitzel. "Doubt it. His game is tragic."

Sebastian flipped him off, but his fingers tightened around his phone—still silent. Stefanie leaned in, wine sloshing dangerously close to his lap.

"What's her name mean?" she stage-whispered, like they weren't all crammed around the same table. Sebastian blinked. "Uh." He'd never actually asked.

Melanie groaned, tossing a bread roll at his head. "Christ, Seb. You call her Schatz but don't even—"

"I know what it means!" he yelped, ducking the next roll. His ears burned hotter than Monza's asphalt. "It's—Nigerian. Obviously."

The table erupted into laughter. Sebastian slumped lower in his chair, glaring at his phone like it might spontaneously combust with a message from you.

"Google it," Fabian wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. Sebastian’s thumb twitched toward his browser—but stopped. If he looked it up now, his sisters would never let him live it down.

Melanie leaned in, resting her chin on her palm. "Tell us about her," she coaxed, batting her eyelashes like she wasn’t about to weaponize every word.

Sebastian hesitated—then the dam broke. "She’s terrifying," he blurted, eyes lighting up. "Like—she doesn’t even try to be scary, she just is. And her hands? When she grips the wheel, it’s like—" He mimed throttling someone, making his sisters snort.

Norbert sighed, folding his newspaper. "God help us," he muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips as Sebastian launched into another animated tangent about your braking technique.

Fabian groaned, slumping back in his chair. "You're so fucked," he announced, tossing a bread roll at Sebastian's head.

Sebastian caught it absently, still grinning like an idiot. "I know," he admitted, softer than expected—voice cracking around the edges. The admission hung in the air, fragile as the silence that followed.

"Are we even going to meet this terrifying young woman?" his mom asked, stirring her coffee with deliberate calm. Sebastian froze mid-bite, fork scraping against his plate like a record scratch.

Melanie kicked him under the table—hard—but his pulse was already rabbiting, loud enough to drown out his sisters' sudden whispering.

"Maybe," he hedged, eyes flicking to his phone again. "If she ever answers my texts."

23rd - 27th September 2009

For the whole break there was nothing. No texts, no calls, not even a stray Instagram like. Sebastian wore a groove in his childhood bedroom floor pacing, his phone clutched like a rosary.

He couldn't wait until he landed into Singapore—couldn't wait to see you in the paddock, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, even if you ignored him. The thought alone made his palms sweat.

He played FIFA until his thumbs ached, trained until his muscles screamed, laughed too loud with friends who didn't know why he kept staring at his silent phone.

Anything to scrub you from his mind—but your smirk lingered behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Someone joked about how he kept checking his phone like a lovesick teenager, and Sebastian's laughter cracked right down the middle.

The flight to Singapore felt longer than the offseason. Sebastian bounced his knee through the entire fourteen hours, Nico elbowing him whenever he checked his phone for the fiftieth time.

"Relax," Nico muttered, smacking Sebastian's thigh. "She can't avoid you forever." Sebastian's fingers tightened around his armrest.

That was the problem—he wasn't sure which terrified him more: you avoiding him, or you finally looking at him like he was more than just Red Bull's golden boy.

He got settled into his hotel room with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel, dumping his suitcase on the bed without bothering to unpack. The balcony overlooked the Marina Bay circuit, neon lights already flickering against the dusk.

Sebastian pressed his forehead to the glass, tracing the track layout with one restless finger. You were here somewhere—probably already scowling at your engineers, headphones clamped over your ears like armor. The thought made his stomach twist.

But you hadn’t arrived yet. That was the text he finally got from your PR manager, clipped and impersonal. Sebastian stared at it like the words might rearrange themselves into something kinder.

Your flight was delayed, or maybe you’d chosen to come later on purpose—anything to avoid the awkward press ops where journalists would inevitably ask why the two youngest drivers on the grid weren’t acting like the inseparable duo everyone expected.

The next day he couldn’t wait to see you at the press conference, arriving early just to stake out a good seat where he could catch your eye. He was already deep in conversation with Nico, laughing too loudly at some dumb joke, when you finally walked in.

The room hushed for half a second—your entrance always had that effect—but Sebastian’s breath caught. You looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes, your usual sharpness dulled into something flat and distant.

Your headphones hung loose around your neck instead of clamped over your ears, which was almost worse. Like you didn’t even have the energy to armor up.

Sebastian’s fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to reach across the table, wanted to say something stupid like did you sleep at all? but you weren’t looking at him.

You weren’t looking at anyone. Just slumped into your chair like your bones were too heavy, staring at the microphone in front of you like it might bite.

Nico nudged him—hard—and Sebastian realized he’d been staring. He swallowed and turned back to the reporter’s question, but his brain was static.

The only coherent thought: what happened to you?

The press conference dragged like a funeral. Every time Sebastian stole a glance at you, your expression stayed blank, even when journalists asked about your rivalry with him—the question everyone always asked, the one you usually answered with a smirk that could cut glass.

Today, you just shrugged. “We’re teammates,” you said, voice monotone, and Sebastian’s chest ached like he’d been sucker-punched.

Teammates. That was all. He’d known that, of course, but hearing you say it like it meant nothing—like he meant nothing—was worse than the silence of the past two weeks.

Afterward, you vanished before anyone could stop you, slipping out the side door while Sebastian was still stuck shaking hands with some corporate sponsor.

By the time he escaped, the hallway was empty except for Nico leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re pathetic,” Nico said, but there was no bite to it.

Sebastian didn’t answer. His throat felt tight. He stared at the spot where you’d disappeared, the imprint of your sneakers still faint on the tile, and wondered when everything got so fucking complicated.

The rest of the week passed in a blur of missed cues. You showed up to debriefs late, if at all, and when you did, you slumped in your chair like a ghost, fingers tapping restlessly against your knee.

The engineers kept glancing at Sebastian like he might know why you weren’t biting back about setup changes—why you just nodded mechanically, your gaze fixed on the table.

Even Helmut noticed, his eyebrows knitting together when you muttered a one-word answer to his question about tire strategy. Sebastian’s pen dug into his notepad until the paper tore.

Singapore’s humidity clung to everything, but you moved through the paddock like you were underwater—slow, deliberate, detached. At one point, Sebastian caught you staring blankly at a monitor displaying your own lap times, your headphones dangling from one hand.

He almost approached, almost said something, but then your trainer appeared with a protein shake and you drank it robotically, your throat working around each sip like it was a chore. Sebastian’s chest ached.

This wasn’t the you who’d scoffed at his jokes in Melbourne, who’d flicked his ear when he bragged about pole position. This was someone hollowed out.

Race day arrived like an execution. You suited up in silence, ignoring the usual pre-race chatter. When Sebastian tried to bump your shoulder—their old ritual—you stiffened and stepped away, adjusting your gloves with too much focus.

The cameras caught it, of course, and the commentators’ voices dipped into speculation. Sebastian forced a smile through gritted teeth, but his stomach churned.

Whatever was wrong with you, it was worse than he’d thought. And he had no idea how to fix it.

The grid formed up under the searing floodlights. Sebastian stole one last glance at you from his car, but you were already strapped in, visor down, a closed fortress.

The red lights blinked on. Five. Four. Three. Sebastian exhaled sharply. Two. One. The engines screamed—and then you were gone, tearing down the straight with a ferocity that made his breath catch.

For a heartbeat, he saw it: the flicker of the old you, the one who raced like fire. But then the first corner swallowed you whole, and Sebastian was left chasing a ghost again.

By lap fifteen, he was clinging to fourth, your rear wing just out of reach in fifth. The gap between you yawned like a wound. Every time Sebastian closed in, you’d flicker ahead again, just enough to keep him tasting your exhaust.

It was maddening. Not just the racing—but the way you moved, like every shift of the wheel cost you something vital. Your engineer crackled over the radio, voice tight, but you didn’t respond.

Sebastian’s own engineer muttered something about tire wear, but all he could think was why won’t you look at me?

The checkered flag came too soon. Sebastian crossed fourth, you fifth, the space between you both a chasm and a cage. He ripped off his helmet in parc fermé, sweat stinging his eyes, but you were already stalking toward the scales, shoulders hunched.

Someone shouted your name—a reporter, maybe—but you didn’t slow. Sebastian watched you go, your gloves clenched into fists, and felt something inside him splinter.

This wasn’t rivalry. This wasn’t even indifference. This was something raw and ragged, and he had no map for it.

Sebastian tried to catch you in the paddock afterward, weaving through mechanics and cameras, but Nico got to you first.

He saw it from across the garage: Nico slinging an arm around your shoulders, murmuring something that made you duck your head—but then, impossibly, your lips curled.

Just a flicker, just a ghost of a smile, but it was enough to make Sebastian’s stomach drop. He’d spent this whole week trying to coax that expression from you, and Nico got it in seconds.

The unfairness of it lodged in his throat like glass.

You looked up then, catching Sebastian staring, and the smile vanished. For a heartbeat, you just watched each other—him frozen by a stack of tires, you half-leaning into Nico’s grip—before you turned sharply away, shrugging off Nico’s arm.

Sebastian pretended not to see how your fingers trembled when you reached for your water bottle. Pretended not to care.

He went up to Nico later, when the paddock had emptied to hushed murmurs and shifting shadows. "What did you say to her?" Sebastian demanded, voice too loud in the quiet.

Nico blinked, then smirked, slow and knowing. "Nothing you wouldn’t have," he said, shrugging. Then, softer: "I just asked if she wanted to join the plane with me and Lewis tomorrow. Said she looked like she could use a break."

Sebastian’s stomach twisted. Of course. Nico always knew what to say—always knew how to reach you when Sebastian just fumbled.

The garage lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across Nico’s face. "She said no," he added, quieter now.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, relief and frustration tangling in his chest. Of course you’d said no. You always did.

But then Nico’s voice dropped lower, almost hesitant: "But she looked like she wanted to say yes."

Sebastian’s breath caught. That was worse. That meant you were considering it—considering leaving, even for a day. Considering letting someone else in. The thought burned hotter than Singapore’s asphalt.

He turned away before Nico could see his face crumple, but the damage was done. The truth hung between them, sharp as carbon fiber: Sebastian didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t even know where to start.

He went back to the hotel alone, the elevator ride stretching into eternity. When the doors slid open on his floor, he hesitated—then walked past his own room, drawn like a moth to your door.

He told himself he’d knock, tell you something, even if it was just good race.

But then he heard it—the muffled sob, the hitch of breath behind the wood. Sebastian froze. His fist hovered inches from the door, shaking.

He should knock. He should say I’m here. But the fear coiled in his gut, venomous. What if you didn’t want him to hear? What if you slammed the door in his face? What if he made it worse?

He was a coward. He let his hand drop, the knuckles white and trembling, and he turned away.

He walked back toward his room, the sound of your breaking heart echoing in the silence of the corridor, leaving you alone in a room that felt like a fortress of grief.

29th September - 4th October 2009

Japan came and went with hardly a word between you. The silence was a living thing now, slithering into every garage, every debrief.

Sebastian caught himself watching your hands instead of your face—how they clenched around your steering wheel, how they hesitated before signing autographs.

Like even your body wasn’t sure how to act around him anymore. The team noticed, of course. The whispers grew teeth. But no one dared ask—not even Helmut, who watched you both with narrowed eyes.

Then, on Thursday, PR cornered you both for a promotional shoot—traditional Japanese clothing, they said, for the local sponsors. Sebastian fumbled with his yukata ties, his fingers clumsy with nerves.

He kept stealing glances at the dressing room door, wondering if you’d bail last minute.

But then you stepped out, and his brain short-circuited. The kimono draped over your frame like liquid midnight, the gold embroidery catching the light with every slight movement.

You scowled at the fabric fussing around your ankles, but Sebastian couldn’t breathe. You looked—unreal. Like something from a woodblock print, all sharp edges softened by silk.

The cameras clicked away, but Sebastian barely registered them. His pulse hammered in his throat every time you shifted, the obi cinching your waist just so. He wanted to say something—anything—but his tongue felt too big for his mouth.

You caught him staring once, your eyes flickering with something unreadable before you turned sharply away, adjusting your sleeve with more force than necessary.

The air between you crackled, thick with everything unsaid. Sebastian’s fingers twitched at his sides. He should’ve told you then.

Should’ve said you’re beautiful or I miss you or please look at me like I’m still someone you know. But the moment slipped through his fingers like sand, and the shoot ended with you vanishing into the changing room before he could blink.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of missed chances. Sebastian trailed after you like a shadow—through sponsor meetings, through the paddock, even to the catering tent where you picked at your food like it was ash on your tongue.

Once, your shoulders brushed in the narrow garage corridor, and Sebastian swore his heart stopped. You stiffened immediately, sidestepping him with a muttered apology that sounded more like a curse.

His chest ached. This wasn’t just silence anymore—this was a chasm, and he was falling.

By qualifying, the tension had reached a fever pitch. Sebastian watched from his cockpit as you stormed past his car, helmet clutched like a weapon, your kimono’s memory clinging to the edges of his vision.

The engineers exchanged glances. Even the tires seemed to hold their breath. When you finally slid into your own car, Sebastian let out a shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The visor hid your face, but he knew—knew the exact curve of your scowl beneath it, knew how your jaw tightened before a flying lap. The knowledge was a knife in his ribs.

He still knew you. Even now. Even like this.

Race day was a blur of adrenaline and asphalt. Sebastian took first with a clinical precision that left no room for error—no room for thoughts of you, stranded in fourth after a botched pit stop that wasn’t your fault.

He should’ve felt triumph. Should’ve reveled in the champagne spray, the podium confetti. But all he could think about was your silent garage, the way you’d ripped off your gloves and stalked out before the cameras could catch the tremor in your hands.

Fourth place. It wasn’t even bad—not really—but the way you’d clenched your steering wheel after crossing the line made his stomach drop. Like you’d failed something. Like you’d failed him.

He didn’t find you after celebrating forcefully by the team. Not in your driver’s room, not in the hospitality suite, not even lurking by the paddock gates like you sometimes did after bad races.

Just emptiness where you should’ve been—your chair untouched, your headphones left abandoned on the counter like you’d shed your skin and vanished.

Sebastian’s victory champagne turned to acid in his throat. Someone handed him another bottle, laughing, and he forced a smile so wide his cheeks ached.

The cameras loved it. The team loved it. But all he could think was where are you?

13th - 18th October 2009

Brazil was different. Interlagos hit like a punch to the chest—humid, chaotic, alive in a way Singapore never was. The grandstands roared when you and Lewis walked out together for the fan zone, a rare moment of solidarity between the youngest champions on the grid.

The Brazilian fans adored you both, chanting your names like a prayer, and for the first time in months, you didn’t flinch. Just ducked your head, shy but smiling, as a little girl thrust a handmade flag into your hands.

Sebastian watched from the shadows, his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe. You looked happy. It was the first real emotion he’d seen from you since Italy, and it shattered him.

Back in the garage, you were quieter but softer, your usual sharp edges dulled by the afternoon sun. Sebastian hovered by your side, pretending to check tire data while stealing glances at the way your fingers traced the flag’s stitches.

“They love you here,” he blurted, then winced at how loud it sounded. You didn’t look up, but your shoulders relaxed—just a fraction. “Yeah,” you murmured, so low he almost missed it. “Feels… different.”

Sebastian’s pulse spiked. It was the first time you’d spoken directly to him in weeks that wasn’t a curse or a monosyllable. He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know—but your engineer called you away, and the moment splintered.

That night, all the teams dragged everyone out to a churrascaria, the air thick with smoke and laughter. You sat at the far end of the table, picking at your food, but when someone passed you a caipirinha, you didn’t refuse.

Sebastian watched, mesmerized, as you took a sip—then another, your nose scrunching at the strength. Across the table, Lewis caught his eye and smirked, raising his glass in a silent toast.

Sebastian flushed and looked away, but not before he saw you glance at him, your eyes dark and unreadable in the flickering candlelight. The space between you felt charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Race day dawned with a vengeance. The track was slick from overnight rain, the air heavy with the promise of chaos. Sebastian stole glances at you in the garage, your fingers flexing inside your gloves as the engineers rattled off last-minute adjustments.

When the lights went out, Lewis shot into the lead like a bullet, but you clung to his gearbox like a shadow, carving through the spray with a precision that made Sebastian’s breath catch.

By lap thirty, Lewis had P1, you were P2, and Sebastian—fighting tooth and nail—finally wrestled P3 from Button’s grip. The crowd roared as you crossed the line, your helmet tipped back in a rare show of exhilaration.

Sebastian’s chest ached. This was the you he remembered—the one who raced like fire, who made his pulse stutter with every daring overtake.

Parc fermé was a blur of champagne and confetti. Lewis hoisted the trophy with his usual swagger, but Sebastian only had eyes for you—the way your shoulders relaxed as the Brazilian sun warmed your back, the way you didn’t flinch when he sidled up beside you on the podium.

“Good race,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the crowd. You hesitated—then nodded, your gaze flicking to his for the first time in weeks.

“You too,” you said, so softly he almost missed it. The words lodged in his ribs like a promise.

Back in the paddock, the team’s energy fizzed like shaken soda. Someone shoved a drink into your hand, and for once, you didn’t refuse—just took a long swig, your throat working around the burn.

Sebastian watched, mesmerized, as a drop of liquid trailed down your chin. You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, your old smirk finally resurfacing.

“What?” you challenged, voice rough. Sebastian’s mouth went dry. “Nothing,” he lied, fingers tightening around his own bottle.

The lie tasted bitter.

You turned away first, drawn into a conversation with Lewis that left you laughing—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of your eyes. Sebastian lingered nearby, pretending to examine a tire mark while eavesdropping shamelessly.

Lewis said something that made you snort into your drink, and Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted it so badly his teeth ached.

1st November 2009

Then at the last race of 2009 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Sebastian’s family decided to come watch him. He hadn’t seen you before then—only in meetings and press conferences, where you spoke in clipped monosyllables—and his sister was dying to meet you. Unfortunately.

Sebastian distracted them by talking about the race—his strategy, the tire compounds, anything to keep their attention away from scanning the paddock for you.

"The softs will degrade faster here," he babbled, steering his youngest sister away from the hospitality area just as your name was mentioned over the team radio.

Fortunately, she was nowhere to be found when they finally circled back—just a half-empty water bottle left on the engineering desk, still sweating condensation.

His sister pouted, but Sebastian exhaled in relief. He wasn't ready for them to see you like this—hollow-eyed and sharp-edged, a shadow of the teammate who'd once had a reaction to his terrible jokes.

Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the junior mechanics—pale-faced, fingers twitching against his clipboard. "Seb," the kid hissed, eyes darting toward Sebastian's family before leaning in.

"It's—it's her. She's locked herself in the simulator room, and no one can get her out. She's—" The mechanic swallowed hard. "She's not okay."

Sebastian's stomach dropped. He turned to his sisters with a too-bright smile, already backing away. "Sorry, gotta—team emergency," he lied smoothly, ignoring their confused protests as he followed the mechanic at a near-sprint.

The cold tile pressed into your back as you slid down the wall, knees drawn tight to your chest. The simulator room smelled like stale sweat and ozone, the screens still flickering with Abu Dhabi’s sunset-lit track.

The breath catches in your throat, refusing to go any deeper than your collarbone. You squeeze your eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the room from tilting on its axis, the dark space spinning violently around you.

A cold, heavy wave of sweat breaks across your forehead, slicking your palms as you begin to tremble uncontrollably. A sharp, stinging ache tightens behind your breastbone, squeezing your lungs until you are gasping for air, a bitter, acidic wave of nausea rising in the back of your throat.

For weeks, you had convinced yourself that you were coping. That burying yourself in telemetry, steering angles, and rubber compounds was enough.

But then you saw him through the glass partition. You watched Sebastian talking, laughing, and stepping into the glowing warmth of his family’s embrace.

Seeing him lean his head back, entirely unguarded, shattered the armor you had built.

It brought everything rushing to the surface. Your father. The man who had sat on milk crates in the freezing rain of junior karting circuits, holding an umbrella over your head and telling you—with a stubborn, absolute certainty—that you were going to be great.

He was the anchor that kept you tethered to the ground, the only person who truly believed you belonged in the brutal, unforgiving paddock.

He was gone, and you hadn't even been there to say goodbye.

The calendar was a tyrant, demanding every ounce of your time, forcing you onto the next flight, the next track, the next qualifying session. You had swallowed the grief to keep your seat, pretending you were fine, acting like a machine made of carbon fiber and cold precision.

But now, in the silence of the dark simulator room, the reality of it hits you with suffocating force.

You press the heels of your hands against your eyelids until colors burst behind them—anything to stop the tears. But they come anyway, hot and relentless, streaking down your face like rain on a helmet visor.

You don’t sob—you don’t make a sound—but your ribs shudder with the effort of keeping it all locked inside.

The banging starts suddenly, sharp knocks rattling the door. "Hey—open up!" A voice—young, nervous. One of the junior mechanics. "The engineers need the sim for setup—"

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The knocking grows more insistent. "Are you okay in there?" The question hangs in the air like a challenge.

You bite down on your sleeve to muffle the ragged inhale that escapes. Silence stretches. Then footsteps retreating.

The relief is short-lived. New footsteps—heavier, faster—approach. A different knock, this one softer but deliberate. "Schatz."

Sebastian’s voice slips under the door like smoke. Not a question. Just your name—or whatever that word means—spoken like he already knows you’re falling apart.

Your chest caves. You press your forehead to your knees, fingers twisting in your braids until the scalp stings.

The door handle jiggles—locked, thankfully. Sebastian exhales sharply, his shoulder thumping against the frame. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of his breathing and yours, out of sync.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Let me in."

Not an order. A plea. Your fingers twitch toward the lock—but you curl them into fists instead. The silence between you stretches like a live wire, humming with everything you can’t say.

Sebastian’s breath hitches. You hear the rustle of fabric as he slides down the opposite side of the door, his back pressing against yours through the thin wood.

His voice cracks when he speaks next: "Tell me to leave." You swallow hard. The words stick in your throat—go away, stay, I can’t do this—but all that comes out is a shuddering exhale.

Sebastian’s head thunks against the door. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."

Then—a scrape of metal. A click. The door swings open just enough to reveal Sebastian kneeling there, holding a key he must’ve stolen from the engineers.

Your breath vanishes. He looks wrecked. "Hi," he croaks, offering the key like a peace offering. His fingers tremble.

You should say something. Should scream or push him away or—something. But your body moves before your brain catches up.

Your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist so hard his pulse jumps under your thumb. Sebastian freezes.

For one suspended second, you’re both holding your breath. Then you yank him forward, and he stumbles into you with a gasp, his knees hitting the floor between yours.

The sob that tears out of you is ugly, raw—a sound you’ve never let anyone hear. Sebastian makes a wounded noise and folds himself around you, his arms locking tight across your back.

His lips brush your temple, feather-light. "I know," he whispers, though he doesn’t. Not really.

But his hands are steady where yours shake, his heartbeat loud where yours stutters. You bury your face in his shoulder and let the dam break.

Sebastian doesn’t know about the funeral you missed. Doesn’t know about the hospital bed or the way your father’s last words were a lie—I’ll be there for your first win.

But he holds you like he understands the weight of it anyway, his fingers tangling in your braids like he’s trying to anchor you to the earth. His breath hitches when you clutch at his shirt, your nails biting into his ribs.

You’re not breathing—can’t, won’t, the air trapped somewhere between your lungs and the scream building in your throat. Sebastian’s palm slides up your spine, pressing hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to jumpstart your diaphragm.

"Breathe," he murmurs against your temple, his voice fraying at the edges. You shake your head violently, teeth clenched so tight your jaw creaks. The sob locked in your chest feels like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Sebastian’s fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back until you’re forced to meet his eyes—red-rimmed, desperate. "Look at me," he rasps.

His thumb brushes the hollow under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. "Just—just fucking look at me." His voice cracks on the last word, raw with something too close to fear.

You stare up at him, chest heaving silently, and realize with dull shock that he’s crying too.

His breath hitches when your fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer until your foreheads press together. The salt of his tears mingles with yours, his exhale hot against your lips.

"I got you," he whispers, shaky but fierce. His hands slide down to cradle your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hinge like he’s trying to hold you together by force. "I got you."

The words unlock something primal in your chest—a sob tears free, violent enough to shake you both. Sebastian makes a wounded noise and hauls you into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips as he wraps around you like human armor.

His lips move against your temple, murmuring in rapid-fire German—nonsense or prayers or promises, you can’t tell. The vibrations of his voice travel through your skin, settling somewhere behind your ribs.

Outside, the paddock hums with pre-race chaos—engines revving, radios crackling, the distant roar of the crowd. But in this dim-lit room, time fractures. Sebastian’s pulse thrums against your wrist where your hand grips his, too fast and unsteady.

You focus on that rhythm, on the way his breath gusts warm against your neck, until the world stops spinning quite so violently. His fingers trace the knobs of your spine through your fireproofs, tentative, like he’s mapping a constellation.

"You’re shaking," he murmurs, lips brushing your hairline. His voice is wrecked, rough with unshed tears. You don’t answer—can’t—just press your forehead harder into his collarbone until the bone digs into your skin.

Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose, his arms tightening around you like he’s trying to fuse your ribs together. The scent of his sweat—familiar, sharp with adrenaline—anchors you better than any deep breathing exercise ever could.

Sebastian helps you without asking, without needing you to articulate the grief strangling your throat.

His palm slides up your spine, pressing firm between your shoulder blades until your lungs finally unlock with a ragged gasp.

"There you go," he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers card through your braids, gentle but insistent, untangling knots you didn’t know were there.

When your next inhale hitches, he matches it deliberately, his chest expanding against yours like a metronome. "Copy me," he whispers, and you do—breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat.

When you finally calm down, you apologize profusely—mumbled into the damp fabric of his fireproofs, your voice wrecked beyond recognition. Sebastian stiffens, then exhales sharply through his nose.

"Don’t," he says, too harsh, before softening his grip. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw where tears have dried tacky. "Just—don’t."

The words land like a command, but his eyes betray him—wide and wounded, like your apology physically pains him. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and nod once. Sebastian’s shoulders sag in relief.

The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. Sebastian’s pulse thrums against your palm where it rests against his neck, too fast for someone sitting still.

You trace the jump of his Adam’s apple with your thumb, watching his breath stutter. His grip tightens fractionally around your waist—not restraining, just there, solid and real.

Outside, an engine revs, the sound rattling the glass partition. Sebastian’s gaze flicks toward it instinctively, but his body doesn’t budge, anchored to yours.

You should move. Should untangle yourself from his lap, wipe your face, walk out like none of this ever happened. But Sebastian’s fingers flex against your hipbone, tentative but firm, like he’s testing the weight of you.

Your breath catches. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and searching.

"Can you please tell me what’s going on with you?" he asks, voice rough like gravel. Not demanding—pleading.

His thumb brushes the damp curve of your cheekbone, and you realize with dull shock that he’s still crying too. The sight lodges in your throat like a stone.

You open your mouth—to lie, to deflect, to do what you’ve always done—but the truth spills out instead: "I wasn’t there when he died."

The words taste like ash. Sebastian’s breath hitches. His grip tightens around your wrist but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t flinch away. Just waits, steady as a metronome, while you shatter in his arms.

"My father died and I wasn’t there to say goodbye," you mutter, voice cracking under the weight of it. The admission claws its way up your throat like something feral, leaving you raw and bleeding.

Sebastian makes a wounded noise deep in his chest, his forehead pressing harder against yours. His thumbs swipe roughly under your eyes, smearing tears you didn’t realize were still falling.

"He lied to me," you whisper. "Said he’d be there for my first win."

Sebastian’s breath hitches—sharp, like you’ve punched him. His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like you might vanish.

"When?" he rasps, voice scraped raw. You shake your head, your nose brushing his. The dates don’t matter. The funeral you missed, the hospital bed that haunted your dreams—none of it changes the ending.

His exhale trembles against your lips. You expect pity, but Sebastian’s eyes blaze with something fiercer—rage, grief, a protectiveness that makes your ribs ache.

"You raced Brazil," he realizes suddenly, voice cracking. "With that—with this inside you?" His palm presses over your sternum, right where the pain lives.

You flinch. The memory of Interlagos’ podium—how you’d smiled through the nausea, how no one noticed your hands shaking under the champagne spray—slices through you fresh.

Sebastian makes a sound like he’s been gutted. His grip on your jaw tightens, not painful, just present, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You should’ve told me," he rasps.

There’s no accusation in it—just anguish, the kind that carves canyons between ribs.

You press your forehead back against his, your breath mingling in the scant space between you. His pulse thrums wild under your fingertips, a frantic counterpoint to your own sluggish heartbeat.

The reply comes without thought—honest, jagged, torn from somewhere deep: "I didn’t know how." Your voice fractures on the admission.

Sebastian makes a noise like he’s been punched, fingers tightening in your hair—not pulling, just anchoring. His breath hitches against your lips, uneven and warm.

"You don’t have to know," he murmurs, German bleeding into the words like an old bruise. "Just—just let me in next time."

His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, hesitant. "Please."

The overhead light flickers, casting shadows that make Sebastian’s eyelashes look impossibly long, his tears catching the gold like track markings under floodlights.

You swallow hard, your throat raw, and nod once—a jerky, graceless thing. Sebastian exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping like he’s just finished a marathon.

His forehead drops to yours again, his nose brushing your cheekbone. "Good," he whispers, lips grazing your temple. "That’s good.".

"I don't know if it would be a good idea but my family would love to meet you today, it's okay if you don't want to," Sebastian said after silence.

His voice is small, stripped of all the golden-retriever bravado he usually wears like a shield. He doesn't move his hand from your jaw, but his thumb begins a slow, rhythmic circle, as if he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal.

You freeze, the thought of the Vettel family—bright, supportive, and loud—colliding with your current state of emotional wreckage feeling like a crash at Turn 1.

You pull back just enough to see his expression; he looks terrified that you’ll say no, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of a recoil.

The silence in the room thickens, vibrating with the distance between your world—where family was a source of pressure and sudden loss—and his, where it was a safety net.

You think of your parents’ disappointed silences and the ghost of your father’s smile, and then you look at Sebastian, whose heart is practically drumming against your ribs.

"They'll think I'm a mess," you mutter, your voice still sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. You shift, the fireproofs rustling, as you lean your weight back into him, the warmth of his body the only thing keeping the cold from seeping back in.

You don't want to be perceived, not when your eyes are puffed and your spirit feels like a crushed soda can, but the idea of facing the paddock alone after this feels impossible.

Sebastian’s grin returns, though it’s muted, soft around the edges. "They'll think you're a legend for putting up with me," he counters, his hand sliding from your jaw to squeeze your shoulder.

He doesn't push, doesn't demand an answer, he just waits with that maddening, patient stillness that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world who matters.

You let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension in your spine finally snapping. "Fine," you whisper. "But if your mom asks why I'm crying, you're telling her you did something stupid."

Sebastian doesn't move a muscle, remaining a steady anchor beneath you as the last of the tremors subside. He waits with an agonizingly gentle patience, refusing to shift or pull away until your breathing has leveled out and the frantic drumming of your heart slows to match his.

Only when you finally lean back and slide off his lap, your shoes finding the cold floor with a tentative stability, does he slowly push himself up.

He stands with a soft exhale, his movements cautious, as if he’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile peace you've just managed to carve out of the chaos.

He reaches out to check your reflection in the mirror, and for a heartbeat, you hold your breath, expecting the telltale puffiness of a breakdown.

Your eyes were not red when you left; thank god.

He guides you out of the dim room and toward the private sanctuary of the Red Bull garage, where the air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber and expensive fuel.

His family are huddled in a small circle, talking to themselves in a blur of rapid-fire German and laughter, until his sister Melanie looks up and spots you.

"Sebastian! You finally brought the mystery teammate out of the shadows!" she beams, her voice echoing with a brightness that makes you instinctively reach for your headphones.

"Mel, give it a rest," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into that familiar, protective rhythm that had anchored you just moments ago. He shot his sister a look that was part warning, part fond exasperation, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

"This is…" He paused, his gaze briefly flicking to you to check your comfort level, before his hand slid forward to gently link his fingers with yours. "Well, you all know who this is."

You felt the weight of their collective gaze, a stark contrast to the cold indifference of the paddock. You stepped forward, your voice barely a murmur, but you forced yourself to look Melanie in the eye.

"My name is Y/N Y/L/N," you said, the syllables of your name feeling heavy and honest in the air.

Norbert and Heike Vettel looked up from their coffees, their expressions shifting instantly from casual amusement to warm concern as they took in your quiet demeanor and slightly pale face.

"Ach, Sebastian," Heike murmured, rising from her folding chair with a soft, sympathetic look.

Her eyes darted from your flushed cheeks to Sebastian’s determined gaze, and she seemed to understand the heavy emotional gravity hanging between you both. "Come here, Liebchen."

You stepped forward, the mechanical hum of the garage fading into the background as Heike enveloped you in a warm, enveloping embrace that smelled faintly of coffee and expensive perfume.

"It is so good to finally put a face to the name," she whispered against your shoulder, her voice gentle but firm. "He talks about you constantly, you know. Only good things. Though he is an idiot sometimes, yes?"

A small, genuine huff of a laugh escaped your throat, the tension in your shoulders uncoiling slightly against your will.

Pulling back, you offered a polite but tired smile to Norbert, who was already extending a welcoming hand. "It's very nice to meet you all," you said, your voice still carrying a faint, gravelly trace of the tears you’d shed. "I'm sorry I’m not exactly… presentable today."

"Nonsense," Norbert boomed gently, his grip warm and calloused around your hand.

He cast a sharp, knowing glance at his son, who stood protectively at your side. "You are here. That is all that matters to us. And Sebastian looks after you, ja?"

Melanie stepped closer, her earlier teasing tone replaced by a warm, conspiratorial grin. "She's right, you know. He’s been a nervous wreck all weekend, but now he looks like he can finally breathe."

She nudged her brother playfully before turning her bright blue eyes onto you. "I'm Melanie. We’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to the chaos.

The immediate, unforced warmth of them—the way they made space for you in their tight-knit circle without demanding explanations or apologies for your red-rimmed eyes—settled over you like a heavy, comforting blanket.

You were still exhausted, your heart still bruised and raw from the conversation in the back room, but standing here, with Sebastian’s thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles against the back of your knuckles, the crushing isolation of the day finally began to fade.

But the emotional sanctuary of the Vettel family was a luxury you couldn't afford to linger in.

The day wasn't over yet; you still had to finish the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix before you could think of getting rest or go home. The shimmering heat haze of the Yas Marina circuit was already calling, a reminder that the world outside this small circle of kindness was still waiting for you to perform, to fight for position, and to prove that you belonged in a seat they had spent all weekend questioning.

You gave a quiet, lingering wave to the Vettels, the warmth of Heike’s last hug still clinging to your shoulders, and slipped away to get ready.

The walk back to your own side of the garage felt shorter, the air humming with the electric tension of the final grid preparations. You stepped into your suit, the fabric snapping tight against your skin, and felt the weight of the helmet in your hands.

You were starting P3, a position that offered a glimpse of the podium but left you vulnerable to the chaos of the first corner.

As you pulled the balaclava over your face, the world narrowed down to the smell of Nomex and the rhythmic thrum of the idling engines.

The visor of your helmet snapped shut with a definitive click, sealing you into a vacuum of your own making. You saw Sebastian in his car, his head nodding in a slow, steady cadence as he focused on the lights.

He didn’t look your way, but as you rolled out into the pit lane, he flicked his hand once—a sharp, quick gesture of solidarity that felt more honest than any press release.

Then, the lights go out.

You launched brilliantly, the rear tires digging into the fresh asphalt. Turn 1 was a chaotic swirl of brake dust and dancing carbon fiber as the twilight faded into artificial floodlights. You held your nerve, tucking into the slipstream of the leading cars.

By lap 15, the race had settled into a high-speed chess match. You were glued to Sebastian’s gearbox. He pushed his RB5 hard, defending the racing line with that familiar, aggressive precision.

The gap between you hovered at a knife-edge of 0.5 seconds as your tires began to hit their optimal window.

On lap 22, Sebastian ran slightly deep into the chicane, his rear tires lighting up in a puff of smoke.

You seized the moment. You threw your car down his inside, the tires howling as you claimed the apex. He gave you just enough room—a testament to the solidarity you shared—and you powered through, taking P2 and cleanly slotting into the pursuit of the race leader.

The radio crackled in your ear, the voice of your engineer trying to manage your gap, but you tuned it out. You focused on the vibration of the chassis, the way the car felt like a living extension of your own skin.

For the first time in years, the noise in your head—the ghosts of your father’s expectations and the sneers of the paddock—was silenced by the sheer, violent velocity of the car.

The hunt for P1 became a brutal war of attrition against Lewis, who defended the line with a surgical precision that left no room for error. You spent ten laps breathing down his neck, the air between your front wing and his rear diffuser feeling like a physical tension, a wire pulled tight until it screamed.

Every time you lunged for the inside, he closed the door with a flick of the wrist, forcing you to dance on the absolute edge of the curb, your tires screaming in protest as you fought for every millimeter of asphalt.

It was a high-speed ballet of carbon fiber and ego, where a single centimeter of misjudgment would send both of you spinning into the barrier.

You could feel the heat from his exhaust searing your cockpit, the roar of the engines blending into a singular, violent vibration that rattled your teeth.

You didn't want a gift; you wanted the win. On the penultimate lap, you braked later than humanly possible into the hairpin, your wheels locking for a terrifying heartbeat as you dove inside him.

You felt the slight, jarring shudder of wheel-to-wheel contact—a kiss of rubber and metal—but you held the line, powering out of the apex with a visceral surge of torque that finally catapulted you ahead.

Now you were P1, the lead of the race, but the victory was a fragile thing. You could see the silver streak of the chasing pack in your mirrors, the gap closing as you fought to keep the car balanced on a knife-edge.

Your tires were shot, the rubber disintegrating under the brutal torque of the RB5, and every corner felt like a gamble with gravity.

You drove the car like a weapon, placing the machine with surgical precision to block every potential overtaking spot, refusing to give an inch to the ghosts behind you.

The final lap was a blur of white noise and adrenaline, your vision narrowing until the world was nothing but the apex of the next turn. When you finally crossed the finish line, the checkered flag waving in a frenzy, you didn't celebrate immediately.

You let out a long, shuddering breath into your helmet, the silence of the cockpit returning as the engine finally cut. The weight of the win felt strange—not like a trophy, but like a shield you had finally forged for yourself.

You didn't even know what to say as you parked in the parc ferme, waving numbly at the roaring crowd. The adrenaline was receding, leaving you hollow and shaking, and as you climbed out and pulled off your helmet, you paused to wipe the sweat and grime from your face.

Before you could even find your footing, a blur of navy blue and white collided with you, Sebastian tackling you into a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

He was laughing, his chest heaving against yours, his arms locked around you as if he were afraid you might float away if he let go for even a second.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, and you saw that his face was streaked with tears, his expression a raw mixture of agony and adoration. "Your father would be so proud of you," he whispered, crying.

The words hit you harder than any G-force ever could, slicing through the armor you had spent years building.

You froze, the ghosts of your parents' disappointment suddenly silenced by the sheer, honest conviction in Sebastian's voice, and for the first time since you had stepped into a cockpit, you let yourself lean into him and sob.

The podium ceremony was a blur of champagne and blinding flashbulbs, the noise of the crowd sounding like a distant ocean through the ringing in your ears.

You stood there, the heavy trophy weighing down your arms, but you felt an unfamiliar lightness in your chest as you glanced at Sebastian standing on the step below you.

He wasn't looking at the cameras or the dignitaries; he was staring at you with a focused, quiet intensity that made the thousands of screaming fans disappear.

As the music began to swell for the national anthem of Nigeria, the first few notes of Arise, O Compatriots echoed across the Abu Dhabi circuit.

For years, that melody had felt like a demand—a reminder of the duty you owed to a heritage your parents wanted you to honor through a stethoscope rather than a steering wheel.

But as the notes climbed, you didn't feel the usual weight of expectation or the sting of being an outlier in a white-dominated paddock. Instead, you felt a strange, grounding pride, your gaze locking onto Sebastian’s, and you realized he was humming along, his expression one of genuine, clumsy reverence for the song of the home you had fought so hard to represent.

The solemnity lasted only as long as the final note. The second the ceremony shifted into chaos, the champagne arrived in a violent, sparkling torrent.

Lewis was the first to strike, catching you square in the chest with a bottle’s worth of foam, and Sebastian followed immediately after, laughing like a maniac as he drenched your hair in gold bubbles. You sputtered, the sudden cold shock breaking your trance, and instinctively tried to run, your boots slipping on the wet podium.

You scrambled to dodge their onslaught, your arms flailing as you tried to shield your face, but Sebastian was quicker, catching you by the waist and pulling you back into the line of fire with a triumphant crow.

Between the gasps of laughter and the stinging scent of alcohol, you found yourself pinned against the railing, breathless and soaking wet.

Sebastian’s face was inches from yours, his blue eyes dancing with a mischief that bordered on predatory, yet his grip on your waist was surprisingly tender.

The post-race interview came right after, still dripping champagne. "Honestly, the pace was unbelievable," Lewis said, leaning into the microphone with a genuine, tired smile. "Seeing that drive—the sheer grit to take P1 in that fashion—it's inspiring. I'm incredibly proud of her."

Sebastian beamed, practically vibrating with vicarious energy. "Proud? I'm obsessed!" he crowed, his voice loud and proud. "I told you all they were terrifying, yes? To see that win… it is the most deserved thing in this paddock."

While Sebastian kept the media's attention focused on his animated storytelling, you leaned over the edge of the podium, scanning the sea of navy blue.

You spotted Elijah, your race engineer, standing with his arms crossed and a look of sheer disbelief on his face. You hoisted the heavy gold trophy high above your head, waving it frantically to get his attention.

"Look at it, Elijah!" you shouted over the roar of the crowd, a rare, jagged grin splitting your face.

"I see it, you lunatic, now move back from the railing before you fall over!" Elijah yelled back, though his voice was thick with a pride he only ever showed in the garage.

Then it was your turn to step toward the microphones, the damp Nomex of your suit clinging to your skin and the trophy still humming in your grip.

You looked into the lens of the primary camera, the red light blinking like a steady heartbeat, and felt the collective breath of the press corps hitch as they waited for your usual curtness.

You didn't look at the sponsors or the journalists who had doubted your place here; instead, you thought of the quiet phone calls to your father, the ones filled with heavy silences and the unspoken grief of a man who didn't understand why his child chose the asphalt over the anatomy lab.

"Y/N Y/L/N! Amazing win at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix! Is there anything you would like to say?" the interviewer beamed, thrusting the mic toward your chin.

You took a slow breath, the scent of champagne and burnt rubber filling your lungs.

"I want to dedicate this win to my father," you said, your voice clear and devoid of its usual defensive edge. "He wanted me to save lives as a doctor, but I hope this shows him that I can find a different way to be a healer—by proving that we belong in these seats, no matter where we come from."

The silence that followed was brief but heavy, a momentary vacuum before the crowd erupted into a roar that felt less like applause and more like an acknowledgement.

The interviewer beamed, leaning in with a curious glint in her eye. "This is great to hear. Fans have been seeing a change to your emotions—was it because of the win, or because you have started to get out of your shell more?"

You glanced at Sebastian before replying, noting the way he was practically vibrating with anticipation, his shoulder leaning heavily into yours as if trying to physically push you toward a confession.

"Maybe," you murmured, your voice returning to its usual low, guarded tone, "I just figured the trophy would make people stop asking so many questions."

The crowd laughed, the tension breaking, but the interviewer wasn't finished, her eyes flicking between your stoic expression and Sebastian’s radiating warmth.

"There are rumors, of course, about the… chemistry in the Red Bull garage. The fans are calling it 'the chaos duo.' Would you say there's more to the partnership than just a shared hunger for the podium?"

Sebastian leaned in, his voice a playful stage-whisper that the microphone caught perfectly. "Oh, they are absolutely obsessed with me," he joked, nudging your shoulder with a grin that could light up a city.

You felt a surge of warmth prickle the back of your neck, and for a fleeting second, your guard dropped, a genuine, soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"We're just friends," you replied, the denial slipping out with a lightness that betrayed you.

Sebastian’s laugh was a sudden, sharp chord of music. For a second, the roar of the Abu Dhabi crowd faded into a dull hum, leaving only the scent of champagne and the electric, terrifying pull of something that felt far more dangerous than a 200-mile-per-hour chicane.

9th November 2009

The flight back to Nigeria was a blur of jet lag and heavy silence, a short trip that felt like a plunge into an ice-cold lake. You had booked the ticket on a whim, a sudden need to touch the red earth and breathe the humid air of home before the next season's madness began, yet the closer you got to the tarmac, the more you realized you still didn't know what to do.

You had only sent a clipped, hurried text to your brother, Eseosa, telling him you were coming; he had responded with a string of chaotic emojis and a voice note that nearly blew out your phone's speakers in sheer excitement.

But as the plane descended, the familiar knot of anxiety tightened in your gut—you had no idea what you were going to say to your mother, who still viewed your racing suit as a costume and your victory as a stubborn rebellion.

You stepped off the plane and were immediately swallowed by the oppressive, wonderful heat of Lagos, the air thick with the smell of diesel fumes and roasted corn.

You kept your headphones clamped tight over your ears, the volume cranked high to drown out the sudden surge of sensory overload, acting as a portable wall between you and the world.

You felt like a ghost returning to a house that had already forgotten how to hold you, your fingers tracing the cold metal of the trophy tucked securely in your luggage.

Every step toward the waiting car felt like a gamble, a slow walk toward a collision you weren't sure you could survive.

By the time you reached the front gate, Eseosa was already there, a blur of limbs and loud shouting as he practically tackled you into the dust. He didn't care about the prestige of the podium or the politics of the paddock; he just gripped your shoulders and beamed, his eyes wide with a pride that didn't require a press conference.

You let yourself lean into him for a moment, the armor slipping just enough for a jagged breath to escape.

But then, the front door creaked open, and your mother stepped out into the sunlight, her face a mask of stern expectations and silent questions, and you realized the hardest race of your life hadn't even started yet.

"You are home," she said, her voice flat and devoid of the celebration you had imagined. She didn't look at the luggage, and she certainly didn't look at the gold trophy peeking out from the bag.

Her gaze remained fixed on your face, noting the exhaustion in your eyes and the headphones still hugging your ears like a shield. "Why are you here, and why are you not in a lecture hall?"

You felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, the weight of a thousand medical textbooks pressing down on your shoulders. You slowly lowered the headphones, the silence of the yard feeling heavier than any G-force you'd ever pulled in a turn.

"I won, Mama," you whispered, your voice cracking as you reached into the bag and held out the trophy, its gold surface reflecting the harsh Nigerian sun. "I actually won."

"A trophy is not a degree, and gold does not heal a broken bone," she replied, her voice cutting through the humid air with clinical precision. "Do you think the people in this neighborhood care about a fast car when they are sick? Do you think your father's heart had been beating faster because you drove in a circle?"

She stepped closer, her eyes scanning your lean frame as if looking for the failure she had already decided was there. "When your father died, where were you?"

The question was a blunt force trauma, a sudden collision that left you breathless and reeling

You looked at your mother's eyes—hard, glittering, and brimming with a grief that had no place for a podium finish.

The victory that had felt like a shield in Abu Dhabi was now nothing more than a piece of polished metal, incapable of bridging the chasm between you.

"I was in the car, Mama, I was fighting for my life!" you snapped, the anger finally bubbling over the surface of your shock. "Did you even watch? Did you even check the results, or were you too busy calculating which medical school would have been more prestigious?"

She didn't flinch, her expression remaining as static as a frozen frame. "The world does not stop for a race, and a family does not wait for a trophy to come home and mourn."

"But I did it for him!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat and echoing off the compound walls. "He was the one who told me the wind felt like music, he was the one who didn't care about the degree!"

Your mother paused, her gaze flickering toward the gold trophy in your shaking hands, and for a fleeting second, the mask of clinical indifference cracked, revealing a raw, bleeding wound of loss.

She didn't speak, but the silence was more suffocating than any helmet, a heavy blanket of unspoken grief that made the humid air feel like lead in your lungs.

"Mama, please, just look at it!" Eseosa shouted, stepping between you both and nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

He grabbed the trophy from your grip, hoisting it high with a manic grin, his voice cracking with a desperate need to bridge the gap. "She didn't just drive in circles, she beat the best in the world!?"

Your mother didn't answer him; she simply turned on her heel and walked back into the house, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the courtyard.

The sudden vacuum of her presence left the air shimmering with heat and tension, leaving you and your brother standing in a silence so thick it felt like water.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, the adrenaline of the argument evaporating into a cold, hollow ache in your chest. "That went better than expected," you muttered, glancing at the closed door. "Can we go see father?"

Eseosa’s expression softened, his manic energy dipping into something quieter and more somber as he led you toward the back of the property.

The garden was overgrown, the scent of damp earth and jasmine clashing with the lingering smell of exhaust that seemed to cling to your skin regardless of how many times you showered.

You walked past the rows of neatly trimmed hedges to the small, shaded alcove where your father’s memorial stone sat, half-hidden by a weeping fig tree.

You knelt in the dirt, the expensive fabric of your trousers staining brown, and carefully placed the gold trophy at the base of the marble.

For a long time, you just stayed there, your forehead resting against the cool stone, letting the silence of the garden swallow the noise of the world.

You didn't pray but you whispered the telemetry of the final lap, the exact pressure of the brake pedal at turn seven, and the way the air felt when you finally crossed the line.

You told him about the champagne and the roar of the crowd, and how for one singular moment, you felt like you weren't just a passenger in your own life. As you pulled away, the dirt beneath your fingernails felt more honest than any handshake you'd received in the paddock.

The quiet of the afternoon was punctured by the sharp, frantic vibration of your phone in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a string of messages from Sebastian, his texts arriving in a chaotic barrage of emojis and frantic questioning.

“WHERE ARE YOU??”

“Is the jet okay??”

“Did you eat? I bet you haven’t eaten. Please tell me you’re eating that jollof rice and not just staring at a wall.”

You stared at the screen, the blue light clashing with the orange hue of the setting sun, and felt a sudden, sharp ache of longing for the golden noise he brought into every room.

You looked back at the marble stone, the gold of the trophy reflecting the last of the daylight.

You smiled. "Father, i wish you could have met Sebastian, you would have liked him so much," you whispered, the words feeling light and effortless in the stillness.

You imagined him here, in this humid garden, probably trying to explain the aerodynamics of a front wing to a headstone while accidentally knocking over a vase of lilies.

He was the only person who didn't ask you to be a version of yourself that fit into a pre-cut mold, and in the silence of the memorial, you realized that was the only kind of validation that actually mattered. . . .

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