Remember when I posted a fic that contains Jack Doohan ending up with a comeback with Alpine, and a fic that has Franco Colapinto lamenting over being a reserve driver?
👁️👄👁️ I have reverse manifested these sons of bitches on accident.
🫵: “AFAB; same-aged ; reserve driver for rbr ; F2 Prema driver ; angst with comfort”
⌛️: november 2024 (rookiesm)
masterlist 
While your feet grew heavier by the minute, it did some good, somehow, when it found you a quiet spot—sandwiched between barricaded areas between the F2 and F3 garages.
You sat on a secluded bench, your body curled into itself, as if trying to shrink away from the weight pressing down on your chest. The world outside this quiet corner of the paddock buzzed with the noise of F1 teams for Free Practice at Lusail Circuit, but here, in this small bubble of solitude, you could allow yourself to feel the disappointment that had been gnawing at you all day.
It was meant to be your year.
Your hands were shaking. You’d fought so hard—too hard, maybe—and yet, no seat. What Kelly said dunked you into cold water, confirming what you feared most: Red Bull had chosen someone else next season.
The day started with more hope. The Red Bull hospitality had been brimming with excitement for Free Practice. Two races left in the Constructors’ Championship, and you’d given the other teams a run for their money with the points you had fought tooth and nail for, subbing in for Max while he juggled being a world champion and a new father.
But today, with Max back, you were benched—playing interviewer for PREMA on Instagram, your F2 home.
Once the cameras stopped rolling and you’ve terrorized enough people on the paddock, you found yourself cooing over the three-month-old baby Verstappen, charming onlookers as the little one giggled at your antics.
“WAG in training, huh?” Kelly joked, resting a hand on the stroller, watching you both with a soft smile.
You stood taller, grin faltering. “What do you mean?” Around you, the crowd began to drift off, pulled back to the thrill of Free Practice.
Kelly smiles, not mirroring hers. “You’re a natural with the camera... and kids love you. They media try to find every flaw with us, you know. But I’m sure you’ll be a fan favorite... watching his races.”
Oh, but you weren’t a WAG. You were a driver.
“Well, I don’t know much about that, since I’ll be behind the wheel,” you replied with a laugh, trying to play it off.
That’s when her expression changed. Something softer. Something sad.
“Oh honey,” she said gently. “I thought you saw the news.”
Your brows furrowed, smile trying not to collapse.
Kelly's face became unreadable. “And… with you… and the Haas boy, I thought... well, I thought you’d be joining us girls this year…”
Your face paled and flushed all at once. Your ears rang. Your vision tunneled. The truth became unbearable.
You didn’t have an F1 seat next year.
Across the room—almost cruelly on cue—Christian Horner walked in. Surrounded by important people with clipboards and the media, he caught sight of you.
But he didn’t hold your gaze. Just like he didn’t hold his promise.
He looked away and left.
Your world tilted. You’d been promised a seat at Zandvoort. Max was there to attest. The stars had finally seemed to align. You’d built your career from the ground up—earned every point, every podium. You weren’t supposed to be clawing for a shot anymore. You were supposed to be there.
But instead, as the press release now confirmed: Y/N L/N—still trying to claw her way into Formula 1.
And so, that’s how your heavy heart found you. Tears threatening to fall, hands trembling as you clutched your phone with the stupid article. You didn’t know what to do. Didn’t even realize you weren’t alone until a voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.
“Oh Prema girl, you found my secret cry spot.”
Your head snapped up, heart skipping. The brown curls. The blue eyes. The teasing smirk on his pouty lips
Franco Colapinto.
Of course it would be him.
Monaco 2022 flashes in your mind.
Somehow, he always had this timing. Like he knew exactly when to show up—whether you wanted him to or not.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice wavers.
“Shouldn’t you be at Free Practice with Alpine?” You swipe quickly at your eyes, embarrassed. But it’s Franco. He’d seen you in all sorts of moments—just not like this.
He gave his signature smirk of his, leaning casually against the fence, tumbler in hand. “Yeah, but they gave it to Jack. Because of that article you’re reading,” he adds with a smirk before sipping.
You blink. Confused.
Franco shrugged trying to maintain his nonchalance. “Turns out, they don’t want me either. You know, despite half a season or whatever. Just the backup.”
Your heart twists in your chest, realizing he was in the same boat you were. You let out a soft laugh, though it felt more like a quiet sob.
“Wait,” she said softly, her eyes scanning his face. “You didn’t get a seat?”
Franco looked at her, the twinkle in his eyes fading for just a second. “Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t.”
The realization hit her like a wave. Franco Colapinto, the charismatic and talented driver, a force in their older F2 days, the guy who had made a name for himself with his passion and fire in Williams mid season—was now just like her. Stuck.
You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. You watch him fiddle with the tumbler.
“Iced yerba,” he says, offering it to you. “Try.”
You hesitated, but not for long. You’d watched enough of his interviews with Alex to know the drill. Taking it in hand, you brought it to your lips and took a cautious sip. The bitterness hits immediately, your face contorting slightly at the unfamiliar taste.
You handed the tumbler back. “At least you’re up as a reserve,” you muttered, though the words tasted hollow. You didn’t even get a reserve seat— but of course you didn’t want to be a reserve. You didn’t want to be waiting in the wings. You wanted to be racing.
Franco took a sip, his expression softening as he sat down beside you. He didn’t keep the tumbler back, instead resting it on the bench between the both of you, where it sat as a silent testament to your shared disappointment.
"But you and me," he began, his voice light but meaningful, "we’re meant to go fast. Not sit on the sidelines.”
You let out a deep sigh, nodding as you took for another swig of the yerba. The bitterness almost felt comforting now. It was like the taste of failure—a reminder that misery loves company.
“It’s like…” you whispered, hugging your knees to her chest, feeling small. “A slap in the face, you know? After everything I’ve done, after how hard I’ve fought... I had a taste of the top. And now? Now, I take two steps back, and I’m back where I started.” You shook her head in disbelief. “How am I supposed to get out of this?”
Franco leans back, letting the hum of engines echo around you both. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just listens.
“Yeah,” he murmurs eventually. “Feels like it all means nothing when you don't get chosen.”
“Exactly,” you say. Your voice raw. “You just... you wonder if it was all worth it. If you’re just... not enough.”
Franco smiles, and spares a glance at you. “You and me, we’ve got the passion. The heart. The drive. They can’t take that away from us.”
You looked at him then, surprised at how comforting his words were. “How do you do that?” you asked quietly, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. “How do you always know what to say?”
Franco shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the mate,” he joked. “But seriously, you’re more than just a driver. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re not enough.”
You smile—really smile—for the first time all day. “You’re right,” you say, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s next...”
Franco’s gaze softened. “You’ll figure it out. And no matter what you decide, I’ve got your back.”
For a moment, there was a silent understanding between you both, something unspoken but undeniable. Your heart was still heavy, but somehow it didn’t feel as crushing with Franco beside her.
Cheers and claps filled the air— the sound of Free Practice finishing echoed in the distance, Franco stood up, offering you a hand.
“You want me to walk you back?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.
You raised an eyebrow, not quite sure if you was ready to face the pit crews and the chaos again. But his offer was genuine, and there was a comfort in knowing you didn’t have to go through this alone.
“Sure,” you replied, standing up and brushing off the grass from your shirt. You walked side-by-side toward the garages, your heart still heavy but a little less burdened. You didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time today, maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.
As you walk, Franco pulls out his phone. “Hey, realized I don’t have your number.”
He offers it to you, grinning.
“Just in case you need someone to talk to.”
You smiled, tapping you number into his phone before handing it back. You didn’t say it out loud, but you had a feeling there was something here—a spark, a bond forged in the heat of the Doha Sun and in the trenches of disappointment.
🫵: “AFAB; same-aged ; youngest Schumacher ; nc-17 for suggestive themes ; you are apparently the darling angel of F1 due to your father’s legacy ; romeo and juliet trope ”
⌛️: late 2025
masterlist
a/n: heavily inspired by that scene from RWRB! I kept Zahra in just because 🫶
Jack Doohan was usually fast—just not this morning.
The knock on the door hit like the five lights going out.
“Jack Doohan, it's almost seven!” Zahra’s voice was sharp, clipped—the kind that meant she was three seconds from storming in. “You have interviews. Let’s get going.”
Zahra. His PR manager, the best his dad could recommend in the autosport industry.
Jack shot upright in bed, hair sticking out in confused angles, heartbeat slamming into his ribcage.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He turned to you, tangled beside him in the hotel bed, golden light creeping through the blinds and painting your bare shoulders like a scandal. He gave you a frantic shake.
You stirred, blinking slowly in the haze of early sunlight. The duvet slipped just low enough for the situation to become critical.
“What’s going on?” you asked groggily, clutching the covers to your chest.
Another knock—this time louder, less patient.
“Jack, come on,” Zahra again. “Press conference at nine, photos at ten, you’re already running late.”
Your eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”
Panic ensued. Muted cursing. The soft thud of limbs scrambling for clothes. Jack tripped over his pants. You tripped over Jack. Neither of you ever thought this day would come.
"What if we just tell her, come on she'll love me." You reason as you rapidly shuffled through your clothes to cover yourself up, before settling on your lover's hoodie.
Jack jumps to get his pants on, struggling with the button. "Yes, she would love you, she's a fan— but then she'd also kill me."
"Okay, fair."
Slotting your head into Alpine merchandise, you scanned the room for anything resembling a decent hiding spot.
“Under the bed?” he whispered.
“There’s nowhere to breathe under there.”
“Bathroom?”
“There’s literally one door and it's facing her!”
“Closet?”
You locked eyes. Silence passed between you like a loaded gun.
Knock. Turn of the door handle.
“I’m coming in,” Zahra declared, voice full of fire.
Jack, eyes wide, shoved you toward the closet. “Go!”
“Hey!” you hissed as he fumbled to get the door closed, your bare legs vanishing just as the hotel room door swung open.
Zahra stormed in like a commander in battle, eyes immediately locking on Jack, who stood there shirtless, the bed tousled behind him like a scene from a very unwise movie— something she had warned him numerous times about.
She narrowed her eyes at him, and then narrowed them even more at a pair of women’s shoes peeking out from beneath the chair.
“Where is she.”
"Who?” Jack asked, faux-bewildered.
Zahra scoffed and started prowling the room. “Don’t even try, Jack.”
He followed her like a man trying to keep a wild animal from finding his lunch. “Zahra, seriously. No one is here.”
“Oh, really?” she snapped, then held up a familiar object. “Then who left this?”
Your phone. Bright pink case. Stupid charm a fan gave you, still attached.
Jack blanched. “Okay, so she left her phone.”
Zahra’s eyes lit with the glee of a woman unraveling a mystery. “Where is she? Hmm? Hello, hello?”
Jack tried to pull her away from the room gently. “Zahra, please. I'll meet you downstairs—It’s all chill.”
“Chill?” She rounded on him. “You hook up with some rando the days before the biggest race of your life—with your entire family in attendance, might I add—and you let her keep her phone in here? You don’t have an NDA for sure! What if she was filming? What if she posts? Jack Doohan, Alpine's comeback kid, in bed with God knows who!”
“She’s not gonna do any of that,” he muttered.
“Oh really? And how would you know that?”
Thump.
All three of you froze.
In the closet, you decided that hiding a relationship was much easier in the movies... and that these hotels needed sturdier closet fixtures.
Zahra’s eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting prey. She lunged before Jack could stop her and flung open the closet.
You tumbled out with all the grace of a baby deer on ice, clutching your dignity and Jack’s Alpine hoodie like a shield.
“Ow. Shit.”
Silence. Then:
“Good morning,” you offered, sheepishly.
Zahra stared at you. The darling of Formula One media. The epitome of grace. The world’s most cherished legacy child. The youngest Schumacher, goddammit. And covered—covered—in Jack Doohan’s teeth marks.
Her breath hitched.
Jack winced. “Zahra, breathe.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she snapped, taking several quick steps backward as if proximity to the scandal might physically infect her. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“You wanna sit?” Jack tried.
Zahra sat.
He fanned her gently. “Here okay?”
“Stop it,” she snapped, swatting him away. “God. You make me feel a hundred.”
Jack straightened, awkwardly. “Okay.”
“How long?” Zahra finally asked.
He mumbled, “Since Australia.”
She looked like she’d just done math in her head and hated the result. “Race one? Who knows?”
“Literally no one but you,” Jack said, and the tension disappeared from Zahra's shoulders.
“And Ronald,” he added. Jack’s security detail. Okay, the shoulder tension was back.
Your voice perked up from the floor. “And Johnny, my bodyguard. And Nora, my best friend…”
“Oh,” Jack added. “I told my sister.” He looked at you with a big grin.
You cooed. “Aw, really? She’s so sweet.”
"Yeah, she was really happy for us," Jack said, beaming.
“I can’t wait to see her again. She’s really—”
“Alright, shut up,” Zahra barked. “Both of you. I need to think.”
Jack lowered his voice, almost boyish. “Please don’t tell my dad.”
Her eye twitched. “We’re in a hotel crawling with journalists, a day away from the deciding race of the season, in the city with the highest paparazzi-per-capita, all eyes on Formula 1, and you’re asking me not to tell your daddy?”
Jack blinked. “Well… I haven’t told him yet.”
She snapped. “Sorry to burst your coming of age, but you decided to put your dick in the darling daughter of Michael Schumacher? The walking halo of the F1 world? Do you understand what you’ve done?”
You raised a hand. “Well, technically, my brother’s more famous now... with the ROC with Sebastian and...”
Zahra whirled. “Not talking to you, Missy.”
You raised both your hands in surrender.
She stopped. Closed her eyes. Exhaled. Slowly.
“Would it make any difference,” she asked tiredly, “if I told you not to see her again?”
Jack’s voice was calm now. Firm. “No.”
You smiled at him, heart swelling despite the chaos.
Zahra rubbed her temples like she was thirty years older than she was. “Every time I see you, I lose a year of my life.”
She stood.
“I’m going downstairs. You better be dressed and in the lobby in five minutes. You better pray you make that press conference.”
Jack nodded solemnly.
Zahra turned to you. “And you, little Miss Angel Eyes, get your ass back to Monaco right now. I want you chewing on a croissant on your private boat by sunset. If anyone sees you leave this hotel, I will bitch-slap you into next year. Got it?”
You nodded quickly. “Loud and clear.”
Then she paused, softened. Hand on your shoulder.
“I’m a big fan of your dad. I really hope he gets better.”
Your expression melted. You nodded, gently patting her hand.
Zahra took a deep breath, stepped back, and slammed the door behind her.
Through it, you heard her mutter, “Unbelievable. They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”
When the tension also made its exit, you laughed in relief. “Zahra’s even cooler in person, Jackie.”
Jack looked at you like you’d hung the stars in his sky.
You grinned. “Now go get dressed. I’ll get changed too.”
You peeled off his hoodie, lifting it over your head with a slow smirk. Jack let out a low whistle. You tossed the hoodie at him, hitting him square in the face.
🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”
⌛️: around winter break 2024
table of contents | prev
a/n: i forgot to post this sksksk. hope u enjoyed the series!
Day 5. The final day of driving school.
Ollie doesn’t get to confront anything because you're not there.
It’s an odd, sinking feeling in his chest when he enters into the school parking lot. He expects to see you, but instead, it’s Mr. Maclan sitting in the passenger seat of the car.
Ollie’s gaze flits to Mr. Maclan, his shoulders slumping with sudden realization. “It’s not yn today?” His voice is quieter than usual, a small crack of disappointment in his tone.
“Afraid not, kid,” Mr. Maclan says with a friendly pat on his back. “But don't worry. You’re all set. You were supposed to be my student since your first session.”
The words hit Ollie harder than expected. He’d made it this far with you, and now—just like that—it was over. No more teasing each other, no more flicking his forehead, no more joking around to ease his nerves. You had disappeared. He can't help but feel the void left by your absence.
It all feels too abrupt, too sudden.
As the lesson unfolds, Ollie drives smoothly, even impressing Mr. Maclan enough to receive his permit that same day.
“Wait, so that’s it? Nothing more?” Ollie asks, disbelief tinging his voice as he takes in the news.
“Nope, you're good to go,” Mr. Maclan smiles, handing over the permit with a hearty congratulations.
Ollie stares at the small piece of paper in his hand. A permit. He’s done it. But still, something feels off. He’s passed—he’s on his way to getting his full license—but something’s missing.
You. You’re not here to share this moment with him, and that’s what matters.
If he’d known this was the end, maybe he would’ve failed the test for another five days just to have you there.
---
By the time Ollie gets to the DVLA to take his photo for his official license, his mind’s still clouded with thoughts of you. The clerk behind the counter has to remind him to smile.
"Hey, mate," the clerk says, raising an eyebrow. "You need to smile for this one. You’re going to look miserable on your license."
Ollie doesn't even realize he’s been staring at the camera, lost in thought. When the photo’s taken, it’s the most somber picture of him, his eyes distant and heavy.
He can’t stop thinking how today should’ve been different—how it should’ve been you by his side. You should’ve been there, making jokes, singing All Too Well together in the car.
The card is handed to him, and with it comes a strange sense of accomplishment. But it's tinged with a deeper feeling of loss. He’s done what he came here to do, but it doesn’t feel right without you to share it with.
---
He feels like an idiot.
Later that afternoon, he— officially— (like the now-certified license holder he is) drives back to the school, his heart heavy. The thought of not seeing you again stings more than he’s willing to admit.
“Hey, Sir,” Ollie says as he walks into the back office, rasping the wood and forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Where’s she at?”
Your dad looks up from his desk, brows furrowing with that dad-like concern. “Oh, she said she’s not feeling well. At home. Probably just a cold. You know how it is,” he explains, but Ollie senses there’s more to it.
He feels the tension between them, a silent understanding that you’re not just “sick.”
Your dad catches Ollie’s uneasy expression and chuckles. “If you’re that concerned, you could always drop off some paperwork for her. I’m heading out to the pub later.” He holds up a thick folder of documents, clearly unaware of how much he’s pushing Ollie out of his comfort zone.
But then— oh— Ollie realizes and doesn’t hesitate. He takes the folder with a smile, nodding along. “Sure, I’ll drop them by.”
It’s an excuse, really, an excuse to see you. He doesn’t care that it’s a little awkward intervention. He just knows he needs to apologize.
---
By the time Ollie pulls up to your house, the sun’s beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and golds. He parks in the driveway, stepping out with a cup of boba in one hand and a bag of fast food in the other, hoping that you’ll at least let him explain himself.
He knows he screwed up.
You’re in the garage when he arrives, your head buried underneath the car, your body drenched in sweat. Not at all sick, as you claimed.
You’d just decided to take a sick day, as you liked to call it. The idea of losing Ollie made your stomach hurl, so, according to girl math, you’d earned it.
The Ford Mustang looks freshly finished, the hood popped, and the shiny new engine— a sign that you’ve made some final adjustments. But when a pair of feet in Jordans steps into your line of sight, you freeze. Wait—your dad doesn’t wear Jordans.
You scream, startled by Ollie squatting in front of you to get a peek. A nervous chuckle escapes his lips, his eyes wide with a mix of apology and humor.
Like a caged bird—or maybe more like an upside-down roach—you scramble out, fix your hair, smooth your shirt. And then—there he is. Ollie Bearman, standing in front of you.
It’s an awkward silence.
“I got you your favorite,” Ollie says, holding out the food with a mix of hope and guilt. His smile is apologetic, but it’s still as goofy as ever.
You stare at him, fighting a smile. He’s holding out food, and he looks like he genuinely cares. It’s hard to stay mad when he’s looking at you with his doe eyes like that.
“Do you have any idea how annoying you are?” you ask, trying to sound stern, though your voice is already softening, taking the paper bag and sitting on the garage floor.
“I know. But I’m really sorry,” Ollie says, sitting down next to you. “I acted like a jerk. I shouldn’t have. I was just... being dumb.”
You also take the boba from his hands, trying to hide your smile. “Yeah, you were,” you reply, but then pause, taking a sip. “You’re lucky I like boba.”
He lets out a sigh of relief and sits beside you while you both get back to work on the car. It’s not a grand apology, but it’s real—and you can’t stay mad for long when he’s helping you fix the Mustang.
“Thanks for the food,” you murmur as you hand him a wrench. “You’re lucky you’re helping with this.”
“Anything to make up for being an idiot,” he grins sheepishly.
You both work in comfortable silence, making small adjustments. It’s nice, being back to this. Being friends again.
When the work’s done, you both lean against the hood of the car, and Ollie finishes off the rest of your boba (“The calories don’t count if it's 1/4 of the drink” - Oliver Bearman).
You glance at him, feeling a playful smirk coming on as you flip the new card around. “So… what was up with the picture?” you ask, your voice light. “You look like a sad puppy on there.”
“Yeah, well this sad puppy took that picture three times,” Ollie laughs. “None of it came out right.”
You furrow your brows. “That’s not fair. They made me take mine once, no previews or anything.”
“Oh? Lemme see yours,” he insists.
“No.” You glare at him. “I look terrible.”
“Come on.”
“Not in a million years, Bearman.”
But then Ollie reaches for your waist and your breath hitches. He inches closer, and you know that if you look at him now, you’ll both be way too close—
He pulls your wallet from your back pocket and you exhale, feeling your face flush.
“Oi oi oi!” You say, trying to recover as Ollie uses his height to pull your license out of your wallet. You try to reach for it, but he’s faster.
You had tried for a cute photo at the DVLA but it was a terribly rainy day so all the hard work on your hair made it flat with stray hairs. Even your makeup was wonky— following those ‘natural’ government photo YouTube videos was a big mistake. To make matters worse the clerk was rude and didn’t bother to let you see the photo until it was already printed out.
You pout, expecting Ollie to burst out laughing, but instead, he looks at your photo with nothing but endearment in his eyes.
“I should keep a copy of this,” he jokes, “so when the cops pull me over, I’ll tell them it was you who taught me how to drive.”
You flick his forehead, a genuine laugh escaping. “Do not get pulled over by cops, Ollie. I swear to God.”
He laughs and compares the two of your cards—dates of birth, blood types, and, of course, the pictures.
You glance at them again, this time more carefully. “You definitely look way too serious in yours.”
“Well, you look adorable,” Ollie says, glancing at your license with a soft smile.
Your heart skips a beat. The way he says it, so casually, so sincerely, sends a flutter through your chest, but you don’t let on.
As the sun sinks lower in the sky, Ollie stands and pats the car hood. “Let’s test this bad boy out.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Really? I thought I was the one who taught you how to drive.”
“You did,” Ollie grins, opening the door for you with that genuine, goofy smile. “And I’m going to show you everything I’ve learned.”
The gesture is sweet—more than sweet—and you find yourself smiling as you climb into the passenger seat. The sun’s golden light casts a halo around Ollie, and for a moment, everything feels perfectly in place.
As he drives you down the road, you catch him glancing at you with that stupid grin. You feel your cheeks flush.
“Eyes on the road now,” you tease, but inside, you’re not so sure what’s happening between you two.
Maybe the world’s a little different from the day you started teaching Ollie how to drive. But maybe, just maybe, that’s a good thing.
🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”
⌛️: around winter break 2024
table of contents | next | prev
That night, you sit on your bed, the hum of your laptop breaking the silence. Your fingers hover over the keys—unsure at first—but curiosity wins. You type his name into the search bar: Oliver James Bearman.
And then it happens. You fall down the rabbit hole.
First stop: his Wikipedia page. The guy is famous famous. You scroll past the basics—his birthday, early career, teams he's driven for. But it’s the photos that really catch your eye. Young Ollie, barely fifteen, smiling wide after a race win. And then, an older Ollie, still flashing that toothy grin, but with a face stronger jaw and neck that’s seen more of the world.
You click on the links to his racing highlights, watching old footage from PREMA Racing—raw and unpolished, from when he was just starting out.
You laugh too much at some of the behind-the-scenes, especially the ones where he looks embarrassed but is forced to wear a ridiculous bunny costume or gets a bucket of ice water dumped on him mid-interview, or even carving onions. There's one clip you like particularly of him saying goodbye to PREMA Racing after his final Formula 2 race, hugging his junior team with more emotion than you'd expect. Ollie’s a big softie.
You can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be wrapped up in one of his hugs.
Hours fly by as you binge-watch video after video. By the time you close your laptop, the clock has long since passed midnight. You reluctantly shut it down, but now, Ollie’s not just the guy next to you in driving lessons—he’s more. He’s an athlete, driven, ambitious. And his journey is only beginning.
Day 4 of driving school arrives with an unexpected sense of ease.
You're already in the car, engine, and stereo humming low, waiting for Ollie. He slides into the driver’s seat, flashing his usual grin. “Ready to go?”
You nod, cracking the window to let the morning air rush in. When Ollie’s in a joking mood, you know the lesson’s going to be fun.
Today’s driving is smooth. Ollie’s relaxed, confident even. And you? You’re relaxed too. For once, you don’t feel like you’re in the passenger seat of a car that could flip over at any moment. You just watch as he handles the road, navigating the streets with care. It’s almost impressive how quickly he’s gotten the hang of it.
"So," you say casually, "I stalked you last night."
“I appreciate your honesty,” Ollie laughs.
You nod in agreement. “I practically know everything about you now.”
“Do you?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Yep.” You say popping the P. You tell him everything you discovered—from his early media days to his impressive race wins. Reading about the boy who's been giving you a hard time over the past few days was fun, but hearing it straight from him? Even better.
“Then what about Saudi Arabia last year?” You ask eagerly. It was a beautiful drive and a beautiful day and you were catching up to the present and recent events of his career.
“I got the call maybe,” he pauses, “two? Three hours before the race.”
“No way.” Your jaw drops. “Good thing you were just casually in the area, huh?”
Ollie laughs. “I was there for my F2 race. But I had to race in F1 instead, so I missed out on some career points.”
“Oh, screw that,” you laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You finished 7th in F1, for the top dog. That must’ve been worth it.”
He fights a smile before giving in, nodding. “Yeah, it was worth it.”
The only time your yapping was put on pause was when Taylor Swift came on the radio.
“Oh my God, I love this!” You laugh, turning up the volume as the opening guitar riff of You Belong With Me fills the car.
To your surprise, Ollie sings along to the first verse.
“You know this song?” you ask, eyes wide.
“There was a whole video PREMA made. I thought you stalked me,” he teases.
You both sing at the top of your lungs, swaying to the music, completely caught up in the joy of the moment. It’s a beautiful drive, a beautiful day—and you and Ollie are singing your hearts out.
Soon, you plug your phone into the speaker and play all the hits—indoctrinating Ollie into the essential Swiftie catalog.
“And this one?” you ask, as Sparks Fly starts playing. “Always makes me swoon.”
“The way you move is like a full-on rainstorm— And I’m a house of cards,” you start, way too caught up in the fun to care about how silly it is.
“Is this your favorite?” Ollie asks, but you don’t see his eyes as he watches you, taking in your unfiltered happiness.
It’s ridiculous, but you’re having the time of your life, driving through familiar streets with your voice blending with Taylor’s, while Ollie’s thinking that he definitely likes seeing you so carefree. Loves seeing you happy.
“Yeah,” you laugh, “it’s just so fun to sing.”
You reach for the wheel to adjust the car when Ollie drifts too close to the white road markers. “Focus on the road, Ollie, not my beautiful voice.”
Ollie thinks your voice is wonderful.
The conversation drifts back to Ollie’s time at PREMA Racing—his teammates, the people who’ve been there from the start. You casually ask about his relationships with them.
“So, what’s it like, having your teammates double as your worst enemies?” you ask, leaning back in the seat. “Seems a little… conflicting.”
Ollie shrugs, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, I mean, on the track they drive hard and really challenge you, but off the track we go out and try to live as normal teen lives as possible.”
“That was such a PR answer.” You snort.
“You’d be surprised how often that question comes up.” He smiles as he upshifts the car.
“But no, they’re solid back at Prema. Dino, Kimi, Arvid, Maya... We all travel the world together for races and try to really connect just outside of racing.” Ollie smiles fondly at the thought of his friends that he grew up with.
“So, what I’m hearing is, you have no friends except other drivers,” you tease.
“No!” Ollie says defensively but quite amused. “I take full offense to that.”
“Name one other friend who isn’t a driver,” you challenge.
He pauses, thinking for a moment. Then two. Then three.
“Your silence speaks volumes, Ollie.”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
You laugh, looking out the window. You feel strangely honored to be part of his exclusive non-driver friends list. As Ollie switches lanes, you can’t help but admire the way he handles the car.
And Ollie? He’s enjoying the ride with you. He briefly entertains the idea of taking you around London—driving you through the city you grew up in, letting you play more Taylor Swift songs, and turning you into his official passenger princess.
Then, without warning, you throw him off with a teasing question: “By the way, before I forget—are any of your friends from PREMA single?”
Ollie’s smile falters for just a moment, his eyes darkening as he glances at you. He doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, his voice is quieter than usual. “Why?”
You blink, surprised at the sudden shift. You didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a joke, one of those harmless questions that popped into your head. But maybe it was a little too silly.
“I mean,” you continue, trying to keep things light, “I wouldn’t mind paddock passes.” You laugh.
“I can get you paddock passes. What do you need my friends for?” Ollie’s voice tightens.
You hum, keeping it playful. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind dipping my toes in WAG culture. The Formula 1 WAGs are apparently top-tier.” You smile, but Ollie won’t meet your eyes. “Gabriele’s single, right? Arvid too?”
Ollie’s grip on the wheel tightens. “Yeah. They’re both single.”
The air shifts, thickening with something you can’t quite place. Ollie’s mood is suddenly different—defensive, maybe?
You brush it off, thinking maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he’s just a little sensitive about his friends. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just asking. Saw them in the videos.” You say quietly to justify yourself.
But something in the air has shifted. Ollie’s mood is different, defensive almost. You try to lighten it up by cracking a joke about their Pico Park gaming episode, but it doesn’t land the way you expect. His eyes stay on the road, a frown etched into his features.
“Right,” he mutters, and the tension is palpable now. The conversation feels awkward, heavier than it should be.
It’s quiet for a few more meters, and you feel extremely uncomfortable.
“You…. You okay?” you ask, trying to figure out what just happened. You didn’t say anything wrong, did you?
Ollie doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts in his seat, his jaw clenched, and the rest of the drive goes in silence. Every time you try to break the ice, it feels like he’s pulling further away.
As you pull into the parking lot of the school, you can’t ignore the heavy tension. It feels like you’ve crossed some invisible line, though you can’t figure out where or why.
“Well,” you say, trying to break the silence, “guess we’re done for today.”
Ollie nods stiffly. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He gets out, walking away without another word. You watch him go, stomach twisting with confusion. What just happened? A simple question, and yet the mood shifted so abruptly.
You drive home, mind racing, trying to make sense of it. Why did he react that way? Was it something you said?
You’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow to find out. Because whatever it was, Ollie’s definitely not admitting it today.
Maybe. You were supposed to invite him for some boba for a job well done too.
🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”
⌛️: around winter break 2024
table of contents | next | prev
a/n: these bitches is so cute i love them
Day 3 rolls around, and to your surprise, things are already looking up. Ollie—Ollie, the guy who nearly sent you flying into a ditch yesterday with his death-defying driving—has actually come prepared today. He doesn’t just show up to the car, grinning with that half-apologetic look. No, today, he’s actually put some effort in.
“I watched some YouTube videos last night,” he says, adjusting his seatbelt with a small smile. “Figured it was time I stopped trying to brake this thing with my left foot.”
You feel your eye twitch and a headache comes in because what?
But then he throws you a wink— a conniving one, and then you blink, then feel your shoulders relax—ones you didn’t even know were tense.
“Oh, thank God.” You lean back in the passenger seat, saying nothing more, letting the breath of relief do the talking. He rolls his eyes in response, and you find yourself kind of enamored by the fact that he’s taking this seriously.
He nods, a little self-satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Gotta at least try. I have a feeling you might not sign me off for my super license.”
You chuckle at that, any annoyance from yesterday already slipping away. Maybe this is going to be okay after all.
That is, until parking happens.
For the next few hours, it’s a series of missteps. Ollie pulls forward, then repositions. And then tries again. And again. And again.
It’s like watching a dog chase its tail—only with less success and a lot more frustration.
“Seriously?” You watch him inch forward, then back again only for the car to be slanted. “Come on, Ollie. You can do this.”
“I know!” he groans, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. “How do people even park these things?”
You’re about to explain the basics when he turns the wheel too sharply and clips the curb. Again.
“I swear, this car hates me.”
“Or maybe it’s just you,” you tease, leaning against the dashboard.
He makes a sour face that maybe resembles a scowl on his usual smiley face. “Very funny.”
After a few more failed attempts—and a brief discussion on whether the car has developed a personal vendetta against him—you both decide to take a break before he drives you both off a cliff (or just into a bush). You end up grabbing lunch at a McDonald’s nearby.
As you sit down to eat, you can’t help but comment, “You know, my gym trainer is going to murder me for this.”
Ollie grins, unwrapping his burger. “Same. My fitness team would have a heart attack if they knew what I was eating two days in a row.”
You laugh, eyeing the greasy burger in your hands, the smell of fries making your mouth water. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He winks. “Deal.”
The two of you devour the food like a couple of starved animals, and once you’re done, that familiar glint appears in Ollie’s eyes—the childish boyish one.
Somehow, you both end up on the swings at the park, discussing gym routines and fitness.
“So, you’re telling me you have to stay the same weight all year round?” you squint, picturing the logistics. Some days you were a little chubbier; other days, you were less so. If you were any more insecure, that might be a problem—but lucky for you, you didn’t mind.
“That’s basically an eating disorder waiting to happen,” you mutter. You’d never make it as an athlete.
Ollie laughs, his long legs pushing the swing with ease. “I mean, we have trainers and dietitians on the team to make sure everything’s in check. The car just has to be really light, so they work around our weight and the regulations. Just that though.”
“Phew. And here I thought you had to be, like, six feet tall, too,” you joke motioning to his long appendages, making him laugh.
“One of my friends? Kimi? He’s just around 5’4.” He gestures with his hand, a little below his chest.
It makes you think. You like it better in the car, you didn’t have to look up at Ollie too much. When you guys stood by side even the height difference had you blushing. You never thought of yourself dating a taller guy but— wait you were thinking of dating Ollie weren’t you?
You shake trying to fight these thoughts so you stand up, urging that you two spend some time out of the car today (because you might stare a little too long at Ollie if you stay in the car with him for the rest of the day). Just for a little bit, you tell yourself.
“Now, usually we use tennis balls for this, but these will have to do,” he grins, shaking two plastic water bottles that he filled halfway. “You have to catch them as I drop them.”
You eye the bottles skeptically. “How will I know which one you’re going to drop?”
“You won’t,” he says, “that’s where your quick reflexes come in.”
You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. *Quick reflexes?* You don’t have those.
“It’ll be fun trust me.” He gives a big grin. “Now put your hand on top of mine.
You hesitate but follow his instructions. The second your palm meets the back of his, you don’t even have time to process the fact that you’re kind of holding hands before he drops the left bottle.
By some beginner's luck, you catch the bottle.
You are also annoyed so you try to wack Ollie with it.
“I wasn’t ready yet, you numpty!” you screech, lifting the bottle to hit him.
Ollie laughs and ducks, trying to shrink into his six-foot frame to avoid the blow.
The game continues for a while along with other skill games, and though you fail more than you succeed, you’re both having the time of your lives. At one point, Ollie even tries to teach you how to juggle— as all amazing F1 racers can do— both of you abandoning the whole driving lesson thing for a little while and letting yourselves loose. The game is ridiculous and your laughs mix in with the other joyful laugh of the kids at the park.
It’s exactly what you need.
As the sky shifts from orange to deep blue, reality sets back in. You both climb into the car to head back to school.
You take the wheel this time—it’s way too late to be trusting Ollie with driving . But when you show him how to properly and legally speed at 100 km/h on the expressway, he’s impressed, weaving through cars and even going semi-manual mode.
Ollie was unashamedly looking in awe.
“So it’s not out yet, so if this leaks, I’m blaming you,” Ollie says, looking like the proud passenger princess. “But I just signed with Haas for F1 this season.”
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. It’s not Ferrari or Mercedes or even a team you knew, but you could tell it means the world to Ollie. “That’s... big news. Congrats.”
He looks at his lap and then back at the road, looking modest. “It’s a dream come true, but it still feels surreal. They’ve got me for a seat fitting next Monday.”
You have to give him an amused look. “A what?” You ask not quite believing what that was.
“Yeah, we have customized seats.” He says earnestly and you have to stop yourself from laughing.
The two of you talking casually about his career and the costs of having his back and butt being molded perfectly for his race chair, as you make your way through the streets. You honestly felt kind of bad you didn’t know just how famous he was and how ignorant you were of the sport.
You also tell him about your latest project: a Ford Mustang you’re working on, swapping out the engine for a Coyote 5.0L. Your dad sponsored the engine, so you’re hoping to sell it for £29,000 once it’s running.
“Really?” Ollie’s eyes light up. “You could make a whole business out of that. All for an engine swap?”
You nod, proud of your work. “It’s a work in progress, but I’m getting there. I’m 98% sure it’ll work.”
Ollie crosses his arms and grins. “I’ll help you get it to 99%.”
“Nuh-uh. You want a cut,” you tease.
He laughs. “Of course! Gotta get paid for holding the flashlight.”
You roll your eyes. “And it’s not even a 100% guarantee.”
You banter back and forth about the project car, and Ollie jokes you should make a career out of it, crunching through the numbers of the profit margin and how much you'd pay your star employee if Haas ever decides to pull a Ricciardo. ("Ollie you'd be my only employee, you can't start a union like that.")
“You know, it’s funny,” you hum, steering towards the exit to Chelmsford. “Your biggest problem right now is getting a custom seat, and I’m over here still deciding whether college is even for me. And you’re what—just a year younger than me?”
“Seven months."
“Potato, potahto,”
He shakes his head, amused. “You’re kind of like the exact opposite of what I expected. You know, I thought you’d be all about racing, you drive a mean expressway.”
You laugh. “Yeah, racing isn’t really my thing. I love cars, but racing? Nah, that’s not me.”
He gets quiet for a moment, thoughtful.
“You’d be surprised,” he says, turning serious. “The sport isn’t just about racing—it’s the life, the discipline, the pressure. The training... It’s intense.”
You nod, understanding more than you let on. “I can imagine. I have to drag my ass out to the gym, and barely control myself for boba so I don’t think I can give up my favorite things to eat.”
Ollie’s smile fades a little. “I miss normal food sometimes. And my family. I’ve been at PREMA since I was 15. It’s hard, you know? Living in Vicenza while they’re here. So much has changed around here since then.”
His honesty catches you off guard. It’s a side of Ollie you haven’t seen—the vulnerable part that you can’t help but relate to.
“I get it,” you say softly. “I’ve only got my dad here. And it’s been just the two of us since my mom passed. The move from Chelsea was… tough.”
There’s a quiet understanding between you and your softening eyes meet his.
You wish the ride was just a little bit longer, just so the day didn't end. But the feeling is short-lived.
“Oh no,” you groan, spotting the school’s locked garage door and darkened lights.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ollie says, unfazed. “I can tag along to your place.”
“Really?” And the thought makes you a bit too happy— so you squint at him. “You just want to see my car collection.”
He grins. “Hell yeah. I need to see this.”
You roll your eyes but drive toward your house anyway. When you unlock the garage and Ollie steps inside, his jaw drops.
“Whoa,” he breathes. “This is unreal.”
And he’s not wrong. Your collection is a proud testament to your love for cars and certainly not a cheap hobby for sure—leaving Ollie’s thoroughly impressed. He notices your Jeep Cherokee project and points out a missed timing chain change.
“You didn’t…” he starts, eyeing the engine.
“Don’t even say it,” you mutter, already heading for your tools.
You can’t stand putting things off, and Ollie seems to understand that. The two of you get to work right there in the garage, fixing what you missed. Your dad stumbles in, eyes wide as he spots you and Ollie leaning over the hood.
“I didn’t know you had a boy over,” he teases, leaning against the doorframe.
You roll your eyes as you fiddle around. “He’s just helping out dad.”
Ollie settles for a simple wave hello, grinning his gummy smile.
“You know, she never lets anyone near her projects,” your dad says, winking at Ollie. “You must be special, Ollie boy. You hold a mean wrench.”
Your cheeks heat up. “Dad!” you exclaim, trying to hide your embarrassment.
Your dad laughs it off and invites Ollie to dinner.
At the table, you’re still processing this new side of your dad—the one who almost became an F1 driver before you were born. He shares stories of his racing days, including a funny one about racing a guy named Sebastian Vettel back in the early 2000s.
Apparently this Sebastian guy was a big deal because Ollie practically begs for pictures, and your dad’s more than happy to oblige. He brings out an old box that you’ve never seen before and there your dad was in racing gear— a young aspirant in the world of formula racing who chose the loves of his life over a racing career— you and your mom.
“Look! It’s you.” Ollie coos as you peer that— yes indeed that was a 1-year-old you in little pigtails in your dad’s arms, a 3rd place trophy in the other.
You laugh as you study the photos closely, but you do not miss the small "cute" Ollie mutters under his breath.
It hits you—your love for cars probably started right there, but you don’t say it because it would be too sappy. Instead, you listen as your dad and Ollie trade racing stories.
By the time dinner wraps up, you’ve laughed so much you nearly forget how late it’s getting. But you make Ollie leave, forcing your dad to say goodbye too.
As you drive Ollie to the bus station, you realize something’s changed. You’re embarrassed by how well he and your dad got along—but happy too. And then, on the way to the station, you forget to signal when making a turn.
Ollie laughs. “Guess you need more hours at driving school.”
You flick his forehead in retaliation, smiling despite yourself. “Shut up.”
🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”
⌛️: around winter break 2024
table of contents | next | prev
You slide into the passenger seat, ready for round two. Same kid. Same car. Same terrifying driving. Only today, you’re feeling a little... less confident. Not in the “I’m nervous” way, but more like I have no idea what I’m doing here.
As you close the door, Ollie’s voice rings out.
“Oh hey, it’s still you.”
You glance at him, one eyebrow raised. “Of course it’s still me. How else will we know if you’re actually making progress?” You say it dryly, but there’s an edge to your voice, like you’re trying to remind him this isn’t just a joyride.
He laughs, leaning back in his seat. His laid-back energy is practically a shield, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s been a disaster behind the wheel.
“I suppose you’re right,” Ollie shrugs. “So, when do we actually get to drive on real roads?”
You blink at him, slightly taken aback at the test course. “This is a road, genius.”
He just grins, that carefree grin that’s equal parts charming and infuriating.
“You know what I mean.”
You look at him as dry as you can. “You have to promise not to subtract from the population.”
He flashes a gummy smile, and with that, you both set off, heading toward the road. At first, things seem almost normal. He’s taking it slow—like, really slow. The kind of slow that makes you question if you’re even moving or if the car’s stalled. But then, as the streets widen and the traffic thins, you feel it—a shift. It’s like a switch flips in Ollie’s head. His foot presses harder on the gas, and suddenly, you’re going just a little too fast.
You grip the seat again, but this time not out of fear—more out of frustration. Ollie apparently knows two speeds: full stop or flat out.
The first issue of the day comes when Ollie drives straight into a pedestrian zone without slowing down. You catch it just in time, slamming your foot onto the instructor’s brake pedal before he registers what’s happening.
Ollie glances at you, brow raised. “They weren’t going to cross anyway.”
You roll your eyes, giving him a pointed side-eye. “Yeah, but it’s a pedestrian zone, isn’t it?” you say flatly, your voice barely above a whisper but thick with sarcasm.
He doesn’t get it, but it’s okay. You’re just trying to teach him some basic consideration..
The worst part? He’s the opposite of every student you’ve ever had. Every other person you’ve taught has been timid, unsure of themselves, terrified even. But not Ollie. He’s far too confident. Like he’s already mastered this—like he’s just going through the motions. It’s frustrating as hell because Formula One was definitely nothing like on-road driving.
“Ollie,” you groan. “Causing a car crash on the road means jail time, not a penalty out here.”
You rub your temples as Ollie’s ears turn pink in embarrassment.
At the gas station, you ask him to pull up to the pump. You hand him the money to refill while you stretch your legs. It should be a simple errand, but when he comes back from inside, your eyes widen as he hands you a small, crinkled bag.
“I got you something,” Ollie says shyly.
You blink, confused. “What is it?”
He grins, a bit more playful now. “Some chocolates. Figured you could use something sweet after surviving another lesson with me.”
You chuckle, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly as you take the bag. It’s a small gesture, but something about it makes you feel... warmer. Despite the stress? Maybe he’s not so bad after all.
As the gas tank fills up, Ollie pulls out his phone, swiping through clips. "Want to see something?"
You nod, and like an excited puppy, he’s already showing you videos of his racing. Clips from F2, F3—different circuits, different teams. His driving is incredible. The way he handles a car at top speed, the precision in his movements... You can’t help but be impressed.
Even when he crashed, you were impressed. In one clip, Ollie in a red Formula car turns sharply on a track with Canadian flags. However, he misses his timing, sending his car into the gravel and straight into the barriers. On screen, it looks slow, but the replay report says it was at a heart-stopping 190 km/h.
You can’t hide your shock as you stare at the screen with a hiss, and Ollie gives a sheepish smile. “Yeah, not my finest moment. 15g I think.”
Suddenly, Ollie’s thick neck makes sense. You’d tried really hard to avoid looking at it yesterday, but now, there’s no denying it.
You thought that if ever his gummy smile, bright eyes, and brown curls failed him for his (terrifyingly handsome) defining traits, his neck could give him a run for his money.
Your eyebrows furrow as you absentmindedly lift your hand, facing him, and gently place your palm against his neck. His skin is warm, and you feel the muscle beneath your fingers, solid and strong.
Ollie sucks in a breath, his entire posture shifting as he focuses on you.
You, however, are completely absorbed by the strength of the muscle beneath your touch. Your gaze lingers, eyes tracing the curve of his neck.
But then the fuel meter dings, signaling a full tank, and you both snap back to reality. Ollie lets out the big breath he was holding and you feel your ears shoot up with red.
You both meet eyes in awkward silence.
You cough and pat his shoulder, and he gets the hint to return to the driver’s seat.
To fill the silence leaving the gas station, you admit you’ve never really been into racing. The idea of flying around a track at breakneck speed never seemed appealing. But cars? Cars you understood. You loved them—each one a project, a piece of you. Your garage was a testament to that, filled with fixer-uppers you were always tinkering with.
Ollie’s eyes light up. You’ve got his attention now. He’s practically drooling as you show him pictures of your cars at stoplights, even yielding at sidewalks to get a better look at your pride and joy. You can see it in his eyes; he’s really into it.
“That’s... wow,” Ollie says, swiping through your pictures. “You’ve got a serious collection.”
You shrug, a modest smile tugging at your lips. “It’s just a hobby.”
But it’s more than a hobby to you. It’s your passion. Every car is a project, a little piece of you that you’ve put into it.
And Ollie? When he’s behind the wheel—whether on the track with his helmet on or in this cramped car beside you—he’s got that same gleam in his eye. The one that says he’s looking at something that’s almost perfect, just a little more work to be done.
Ollie later on tries something new. He begins making risky overtakes, weaving between cars like he’s in a race. Your heart skips a beat every time he cuts it too close.
“Dude, what are you doing?” you ask, flicking his forehead as he swerves around yet another car, barely squeezing through.
He blinks, unfazed. “What? There’s a gap. I’m practicing overtaking like you said.”
You groan, rubbing your temples. “Yeah, I said overtake when it’s safe—not in the gap look at your mirrors Ollie.”
“The car would’ve fit, though,” he says, trying to reason with you, but the glare you give is enough to make him fall silent.
On the way back, it’s getting late, and you’re texting your dad to heat dinner up (your stomach growling might be a clue). But he’s not responding when Ollie suddenly turns left without checking the mirrors. Your head snaps up.
“Did you check the mirrors before you turned?”
His silence speaks volumes.
You glance at where you’ve turned and squint. “Are you serious?”
You end up pulling into a McDonald's drive-thru, and Ollie insists on paying for the food. “It’s on me,” he says sheepishly.
You're about to politely reject until:
“Plus, I heard your stomach grumble.” He adds without thinking—instantly flushing you red as your mouth opens and closes in embarrassment.
“I—”
Ollie realizes what he said and fumbles to correct himself. “I-It’s an apology for almost giving you a heart attack... lots of heart attacks. Please don't kill me.”
You can’t help but snort. “You’re lucky I like you.”
His grin widens, and you both settle in the parking lot, sharing a quiet meal.
After the snack, you head back toward the driving school. The day winds down, and there’s light conversation between you two. But there’s a strange sense of camaraderie, maybe even comfort. Despite all the chaos, the near accidents, the awkward neck touch, and fighting over the last fry, something about Ollie keeps you intrigued.
"You're born here in Chelmsford?" You ask on a red light.
“Yeah. You?”
You shake your head. “We moved here from Chelsea halfway through high school. Now I’m just waiting for my college applications to come back.”
Ollie tilts his head. “Where are you headed?”
“Kings, mostly. It’s where most of my friends are going. But Newark and Lincoln have good programs,” you shrug.
“What course are you taking? In the fall, right?”
“Yeah, fall.” You hum, considering. “I don’t actually want to go to college. A technical one would be fine, but my aunts insist I take engineering for a proper 4-year degree.”
You study him for a moment. “Do F1 drivers go to college?”
Ollie laughs. “No, thank God. The high school program I had barely let me survive. But then again, it was all Italian, so maybe that had something to do with it.”
“Or you’re just slow,” you tease.
He laughs, shaking his head. “The last thing a guy who drives cars for a living wants to hear is that he’s slow.”
As you arrive back at the school, your dad stands in the doorway, a teasing grin spreading across his face.
“So,” he says, crossing his arms once Ollie’s out of earshot. “Looks like you and Mr. Bearman are getting along pretty well.”
You freeze, your face flushing. “What?”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you two laughing in the car. What’s going on?”
You shake your head, trying to play it cool, but your dad’s smirk is enough to make you blush even harder.
“It’s nothing, Dad. Just... teaching him to drive.” You give him a pointed look. “Can we go home now?”
Your dad just chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment. You slide into the driver’s seat, trying to ignore how your heart’s still pounding a little faster than usual.
🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”
⌛️: around winter break 2024
table of contents | next
a/n: i dont have a license nor am i british so idk what the hell is going on, ciao!
Your dad owns a driving school now.
He casually mentioned it last summer—like it was no big deal. You almost choked on your morning coffee on a random Tuesday. Not because of the business itself, but because your dad had a habit of randomly acquiring businesses. In fact, for this one, the paperwork and the permits all seemed to fall into place with little effort.
It’s nothing grand, just a local operation in your quaint town of Chelmsford. A small, no-frills school teaching people the basics and helping them get their licenses. It’s a solid gig, a simple change of pace for your dad, who's always been the practical type. No need for anything flashy.
But Ollie? Well, he had his own reasons for picking this particular school when he came home for winter break. One it was a necessity to get his Formula 1 career up and running for an FIA super license— but it was also a whim. He could’ve gone anywhere, but before his life truly steamrolled, he wanted to be close to his mom, dad, Thomas, and Amelia — the school was only a bus ride away from home. Perfect for him.
He’s not exactly famous, but his name still carries weight— especially after last year's stint in Ferrari. If people knew who he was, it might make a scene. And Ollie hates scenes.
The order was five days of practical driving. The theoretical part? Easy. He breezes through the written tests like it’s nothing.
But then, the usual driving instructor calls in sick. And guess who’s left to fill in? You.
You’ve got your instructor’s license. But it was last summer’s side gig, and you didn’t ask for this. Teaching someone to drive—especially someone who’s never been behind the wheel—is exhausting. You know the drill: the constant instructions, the anxiety, the second-guessing. It’s a lot.
But you owe your dad. He bought that new part for your project car, the one you’ve been working on for months.
So fine. You’ll do it.
So when the day came around, begrudgingly, you slid into the passenger seat.
You expect the usual: an awkward, inexperienced teen with shaky hands and a million questions. But when you open the door and look at your student, you freeze.
The guy’s got looks. He looked no different from the usual London boy with fair skin, but he had a luscious brown mop of curls and the most gleaning green eyes you’ve ever seen. And he’s tall. Taller than you, even. And from the way he’s sitting there, all relaxed and confident, you can tell he’s not exactly nervous.
Great. Now you’ve got to teach him to drive.
“Hey, Oliver,” you mutter, trying to mask your confusion— not sure if you got the right guy. “I’m your instructor today. You ready?”
“Just Ollie,” he says, his low voice ringing in the car as he nods.
Ollie Bearman.
Huh.
He politely listens to your instructions, but you can tell he’s bored. This is strange because most people—especially teens—are freaked out the first time they get behind the wheel.
Hell, you were nervous when you first started, even though you’d been around cars your whole life.
You walk him through the basics—mirrors, seat adjustments, seatbelt, starting the car—all while he nods, half-listening, his eyes drifting out the window. But when it’s time to actually drive, that’s when things take a turn.
As soon as his foot hits the gas, the car jerks forward, and you lurch in your seat, grabbing the edge of the door.
“Jesus!” you yell, heart pounding. “Gently!”
He blinks, clearly surprised by your reaction. “Sorry,” he mutters. “The gas is more sensitive in this car.”
His foot’s like a lead weight. He doesn’t ease into it; he floors it every time. The car shoots forward like it’s in a drag race, and you grip the seat like it’s the only thing keeping you from flying through the windshield.
But it’s not just the gas. When he finally gets the hang of accelerating, he slams on the brakes so hard you nearly break your nose on the dashboard. Thank God for seatbelts.
“Gently!” you shout again, your voice cracking from a mix of frustration and fear. “You’ll send us into a wall if you’re not careful!”
His expression doesn’t change. He’s focused on the road like it’s the car’s fault and not his. “The brakes are a lot tougher,” he says like that explains everything.
And then—he does it again. His foot hits the gas while he’s trying to brake, and you slam back into your seat so hard that you swear you’ll leave an imprint on the upholstery.
You hit your instructor brake pedal, trying to steady the car as it jerks forward, against your control.
Your eye twitches, taking into consideration what he just said.
‘The brakes are a lot tougher,’ he said. 'The gas is more sensitive in this car.'
Annoyance rises within you, but a nagging thought creeps in: ‘Has this guy been driving without a license? Without a permit? In these conditions?'
Ollie tries once again to step on the gas but your hold on the foot brake— and annoyance— is stronger.
Just as you open your mouth to lay into him that driving without a permit is a crime and how has he not killed anyone yet— he drops a bombshell.
“I’m an F1 driver,” he says, clearly noticing your twitching eye. “That’s what I meant.”
You blink, stunned. “What?”
“Yeah. Well, I will be. Soon,” he shrugs. “I need a license to get my superlicense. So here I am.”
Oh. That makes sense. Kinda. He’s training for Formula 1, not just regular driving. But still, the guy can barely keep the car straight.
How is he going to race in F1 when he drives like this? You don’t even have time to ask. You’re too busy trying to stop yourself from screaming as he jerks the wheel again.
It’s like trying to ride a bull that’s been shot out of a cannon. You keep yelling—gently! Ease off! Stop slamming the brakes!—but he just glances at you, a little too amused.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he protests, but there’s a tiny, barely noticeable chuckle in his voice that tells a different story.
Ollie is going to admit: he is enjoying this. Not the driving bit, (How on earth was a car built with no tractions easier for him to drive than this?), but watching you—your terrified face turning into annoyed then back to terrified, your hair now a mess, your death grip on the door and your seatbelt threatening to snap as you try to stay in one piece. To say he was hit by a cupid’s spikey arrow was perhaps the best way to describe it when you opened the passenger door.
On your part— the worst part of today, you’re starting to think that, despite his complete lack of driving skills, he might actually be kind of cute in his chaotic, reckless way. But of course that thought annoys you so you bend over his side and give Ollie a good flick on the forehead.
After a while, things go from bad to worse. A sharp turn, a misjudged move, and the car hits the curb with a sickening thud, scratching the side mirror as it scrapes along.
“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “We’re done. For today.”
Ollie doesn’t say anything, but you can see the glint of hope in his eyes. He’s hoping you’ll be the one to teach him again tomorrow. It’s clear.
You, on the other hand? You’re just praying you survive the week without needing a full-blown panic attack.
And as you step out of the car, you can’t help but think—this could be an interesting week.
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
