The barbell hit the floor with a dull, echoing thud.
Toto didn’t wait before loading more weight. His arms ached. His lungs burned. Good.
Again.
He shoved the next set — faster, heavier.
The meeting played on loop in his head, your face when the announcement dropped, the way your body went still before you stood.
He gritted his teeth and pulled again.
The weights rattled back into place as he let the final rep drop. Breathing hard, he wiped sweat from his brow and grabbed his phone from the bench.
One missed call. No name. Just a UK number he didn’t recognise.
He frowned.
A second later, it buzzed again.
He answered with a clipped, “Hello?”
“It’s Mark.” The voice was familiar — calmer than expected, but firm. “I’m coming over. We need to talk.”
Toto stared at the wall, unmoving. His voice, when it came, was flat. “And what makes you think I want to listen?”
“Trust me,” Mark said quietly. “You do.”
Another pause.
Toto exhaled through his nose, then finally muttered his address.
“I’ll be there in thirty.”
Click.
Exactly thirty minutes later, they sat in the kitchen of Toto’s home. Mark didn’t touch his drink. Neither did Toto.
There was a taut silence between them, one neither man bothered to soften.
“Alright then,” Mark starts, folding his arms. “Let’s cut through it.”
“You want the personal explanation or the professional one first?”
Toto’s gaze didn’t waver. He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass, slow and deliberate.
“Start with the personal,” he said. “The rest can wait.”
Mark gave a tight nod, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees.
“She’s David's sister-in-law,” he began. “Well—my brother’s wife's sister."
Toto’s brows drew together, but he didn’t speak.
“We’ve known each other since high school,” Mark went on. “After her parents passed… my family kind of stepped in. Took them in, really. My mom treated them like her own.”
Toto’s jaw tensed. His thumb stilled on the glass.
“So no, she’s not some spy planted by legal or ops or PR. I hadn’t even seen her in two years. And then she showed up in that room like a goddamn ghost.”
Toto blinked, the words catching. “Two years?”
Mark hesitated. “Something happened. I won’t get into it. Not my story to tell. But she disappeared. Just… gone. No contact. No note. Even I didn’t know where the hell she went.”
Silence pressed down between them.
“She ghosted everyone?” Toto finally asked, voice low.
Mark exhaled. “Everyone.”
A silence settled. Thick, thoughtful. Toto’s fingers resumed their slow circling on the glass.
Then Mark said, “But that’s not why I’m here.”
Toto glanced up.
Mark leaned forward again. “You remember Edward Langford?”
Toto’s eyes narrowed slightly, thinking. “The name… yeah, vaguely. Wasn’t he in one of the founding advisory groups? Early investor who died?”
Mark nodded. “Died in a car crash.”
A brief silence. Just enough for the weight of that to settle.
“But what does this have to do with Y/N?” Toto asked, brow furrowing.
Mark didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched long enough that Toto looked up and their eyes met. The realization hit.
“She’s his daughter,” Toto said quietly.
“Yes,” Mark confirmed. “She inherited everything after he passed. His stake in the company, the trust. All of it.”
Toto leaned back, absorbing that.
“She doesn’t talk about it,” Mark said. “She barely touches it. Doesn’t draw from the trust, doesn’t vote the shares. It’s like she wants nothing to do with it.”
Toto frowned. “Why?”
Mark gave a half-shrug. “I think… she sees it as cursed. He died suddenly, and everything he left behind became this burden. So she stays away. Lets it sit. Technically, she’s a silent partner."
He paused, then added, “That’s probably why you weren’t able to piece it together, either.”
Toto let out a low breath. “Jesus.”
Mark continues “So, you see why she’d never betray this team? This isn’t just a job for her. It’s her legacy. Whether she claims it or not.”
Toto’s jaw tensed. “I never thought she did.”
Mark studied him, softer now. Not pity. Just… understanding.
“Just for the record,” Mark said, “you don’t look like someone who doesn’t care about her. Which is how she was describing you, by the way. While bawling her eyes out over the phone.”
Toto’s grip on the glass tightened. He looked away for a second, like the words hit harder than he wanted them to.
Mark didn’t let up. “You look like hell, man.”
Toto ran a hand over his face once, steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but not unsteady.
“I had to act cold,” he said. “You think I wanted to? That was the only way I could pull her name out of this before it got worse.”
Mark blinked, caught off-guard.
“The suspension… it’s a smokescreen,” Toto went on. “There’s something bigger going on. And if she told you about us”—he watched Mark closely—“then you know why I couldn’t take chances.”
For a second, something flickered in Mark’s expression. Apprehension. Or doubt.
Toto caught it immediately.
“I’m not playing games with her,” he said firmly. “If that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
He reached for his phone, unlocked it, and slid it across the table.
“Here,” he said. “This is what I got sent.”
Mark looked down.
The screen lit up with a photo: the two of them, alone. Late night. She was stepping out of his car. Or maybe it was the restaurant. The light was grainy, but the implication was crystal clear.
A second image. Another angle. Another time.
Below the images was the message:
“She goes, or this goes public. Your call.”
Mark’s face hardened.
Toto didn’t say anything for a moment. He just sat back like he’d already gone over this a hundred times in his head.
"Now, imagine what would’ve happened if that picture leaked too. Everything would’ve blown way out of proportion.” Toto added.
Mark didn’t argue. He knew Toto was right. The media wouldn’t have just latched onto the suspension—they would’ve twisted the story into something else entirely. A scandal. A cover-up. Worse.
Mark set the phone down slowly. “So you sent her away.”
“I had to,” Toto said, voice tight. “Didn’t even have time to explain. Just… had to make it stop before it got any louder.”
Mark leaned back again, exhaling hard. “She thought you regretted everything.”
Toto closed his eyes for half a second. “No. I regret not protecting her better.”
You’re back in Brackley. The skies are grey, traffic sluggish, the energy in the office clipped and clinical.
No one says anything when you walk in. But the silence carries weight. The kind of quiet that isn’t absence of noise, it’s restraint. It’s people pretending not to see, while very much seeing.
You keep your steps measured, your expression unreadable. You've walked into rooms colder than this.
Still, it stings.
You log in. Your inbox is already a mess — internal threads, calendar updates, too many FYIs.
You shoot a message to Toto.
Can we talk? Just ten minutes. Please.
No reply.
Caroline appears an hour later, two coffees in hand. She doesn’t say much — just sets one down beside your elbow like it’s any other Monday.
“You okay?” she asks, finally.
You manage a smile that feels like a lie.
She leans against your desk, glancing sideways like she’s checking if anyone’s listening.
“I mean... you? A spy?” She scoffs. “What a load of bullshit.”
That makes you laugh, briefly. Or at least, something like it.
She offers a shrug that’s all warmth beneath the sarcasm.
“They’ll move on. Give it a week. Two tops. Then it’ll be wind tunnel drama again.”
You nod. You hope she’s right.
By midday, a meeting invite drops in: Team Strategy Debrief – Led by Toto Wolff. No response to your message. But you take the win and show up. You take a seat in the back. It’s full. Not tense, just alert. And then Toto walks in.
Tall, composed, always unreadable in rooms like this. He launches straight into the agenda — budget outlook, sponsorship updates, recruitment plans. His tone is measured. Unbothered.
He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
Every time his gaze sweeps the room, it slides right past your chair like you’re part of the wall. He acknowledges questions, jokes lightly with one of the engineering leads. When someone raises a point you made last quarter, he nods as if it never came from you.
You don’t say anything. You don’t even try.
By the end, before you can make your way over, he’s already halfway out the door mid-conversation with another department head. You watch him go, shoulders squared, voice calm.
You linger for a moment. Then walk out the opposite way.
Later, you try to drop by his office. You’re not sure what you’d even say but you go anyway. His secretary looks up from her screen with a practiced smile.
“He’s in back-to-back meetings this afternoon,” she says.
Right.
Of course he is.
You thank her and head back to your desk. The silence has settled again, heavier this time. You glance at your phone. Still nothing from Toto.
It’s almost a relief when your phone rings.
David.
You step out into the stairwell before answering. His voice is quiet but steady, like someone who’s been through PR hell and found the fire exit.
“I spoke to Zak and the others. I've explained them everything. The team’s going to issue a statement later today. Your name will be out of it.”
You lean against the railing. “Thank you.”
***
You shut your laptop. It’s late. Most of the floor has emptied out.
You reach for your bag, when someone says, “Can we speak for a minute?”
It’s someone from HR. You follow them, saying nothing.
You already know this isn’t going to be a routine meeting.
Inside the glass-walled conference room, it’s just two people: Zarah Al-Kudcy, the Head of HR, and Toto — seated, unreadable, but watching you now for the first time since everything started.
“Please, have a seat,” Zarah says. Her voice is even, practiced.
“We’re placing you on temporary suspension while a formal investigation is conducted. This is a neutral step. It does not imply fault.”
The words hit, but your attention is split.
Because Toto hasn’t looked away. His expression isn’t angry. Not unreadable, either. Just… steady. Watching. Measuring.
Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it does. For a second, your throat tightens. You fight to keep your posture still.
“You’ll need to return your access badge and any company-issued devices before you leave. You’ll receive an official email shortly with further instructions.”
As Zarah finishes speaking, you wait hoping he’ll say something. Anything.
Not as your team principal. Not even as your boss.
Just... as him.
But Toto doesn’t say a word. In this moment you realise you don't know this person at all. Like whatever version of him you once knew has been boxed up and shelved.
You place your badge on the table, stand, and nod again, to no one in particular.
“Understood,” you say.
And then you walk out.
***
Your apartment feels colder than usual.
You drop your keys on the counter, toe off your shoes, and sit on the floor before even turning the lights on. For a few minutes, you just stay there, jacket still on, bag half-open, silence filling the room like fog.
Eventually, you pick up your phone and call your sister.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just… needed to hear someone who isn’t pretending none of this is happening.”
She doesn’t push. Just stays on the line while you tell her you’re back home. That you’re taking some time off work. That it’s complicated. You don’t mention the word “suspension.”
When the call ends, the silence returns. Louder now.
You stare at the ceiling. Then, without thinking too hard, you scroll through your contacts and tap on Mark’s name.
He answers with his usual dry charm. “Was starting to think you’d blocked me.”
“I considered it,” you murmur.
There’s a beat of familiar quiet. Then he says like he always used to: “What's up?”
You ask how things are going, how the team’s reacting to the press circus. He tells you David’s keeping things calm, Zak is on damage control mode, and Lando made some dumb joke in the sim room and got glared at for five minutes straight.
You laugh, weak but real.
Then the quiet creeps in again. And when Mark says, “How are you holding up, really?”, you stop pretending.
“I got suspended,” you say softly. “Officially, it’s neutral. Unofficially, it feels like the rug got pulled out from under me.”
Mark doesn’t interrupt.
You take a breath. “And Toto was there.”
Mark’s voice comes through the line, low and concerned. “Well… he is the CEO.”
“I know,” you say. “I’m just saying... he was right there. Didn’t say a word. Like I was a stranger.”
There’s a beat of silence. You could leave it at that. But the words keep pressing at your throat.
“I don’t know,” you exhale, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I thought… there might’ve been something there. Between us.”
Mark’s quiet for a second. Then: “Wait.. what? You and Toto?”
“It wasn’t anything official,” you say quickly. “No one knew. But… it felt like something.”
Another pause. You can hear the gears turning on his end. “Jesus.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“No, I just... ” He lets out a short breath. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “But when it started, it felt… real. And then today, he just sat there. Didn’t even look at me.”
Your voice cracks slightly. “I guess when the pressure’s on, some people just disappear.”
“You know… this whole thing might go away if you just told him. Explained who you actually are.” Mark says.
You go quiet for a second. Then: “Why should I have to?”
Mark sighs. “I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m saying it might help.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “He didn’t even ask, Mark. Not once. Not even a ‘what happened?’ Nothing.”
Your voice tightens. “Like I meant nothing. Like I was just another problem to be cleaned up.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“I get it,” you continue. “He’s got a team to protect, a company to run — whatever. But after everything? He couldn’t even look me in the eye.”
Mark’s quiet, but you know he’s still there. Letting you unravel.
“I didn’t expect him to pick sides,” you murmur. “But I didn’t think he’d act like I never existed either.”
Mark doesn’t interrupt. He lets the silence hold space for you.
And maybe that’s what makes the tears fall harder.
Subject: Regulatory Technical Session – London | Attendance Confirmation
You’ve been CC’d, along with a few others from aero and systems integration. Three bullet points outlined agenda items.
And a line at the end:
Please be prepared to speak to simulation discrepancies around proposed floor height regulations.
You stare at it for longer than you should.
By the time you close your laptop, your phone buzzes, travel info from operations. You're going to London.
You’re still holding the phone when it rings again — this time, a different number. Austrian code.
You hesitate for half a second, then pick up.
“Hello?”
A pause. Then: “Hi. It’s Toto.”
You blink. “Oh. Hi—uh—hello.”
“I may have pulled a small stunt,” he says, tone dry. “Used CEO privileges to get your number from ops. Hoping I don’t get reported to HR.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of you. “Should I be documenting this violation already?”
“I’ll write my own disciplinary memo,” he replies smoothly. “But first.. I wanted to make sure you’re okay with the London brief. It’s short notice.”
“No, it’s... ” you glance back at the email “it’s fine. I’ll be ready.”
“You don’t have to be brilliant,” he says, gentler now. “Just precise. I wouldn’t have looped you in if I didn’t think you could hold the room.”
The silence on your end must be just long enough for him to catch it.
“You’ll do well,” he adds, firmer. “And I’ll be in the room.”
Your heart knocks against your ribs.
“Thanks,” you say quietly. “I... appreciate the heads-up.”
There’s a pause again. Comfortable, somehow.
"Listen, you’ve probably got the itinerary from HR." he says. "You're travelling with the team. And I’ll be heading out early. Wish we could’ve coordinated. Would’ve saved me from a very dull drive."
You smile at that. “I’ll make a playlist next time.”
Then: “See you Thursday.”
Click.
You stare at your screen, blinking slow. It’s the kind of call you replay.
***
The Meeting – London
The venue is anonymous in the way expensive things tend to be, minimalist, echoey, glass everywhere. The kind of place where strategy leaks and reputations are quietly destroyed over filtered coffee.
You arrive early. Toto’s already there, speaking in hushed tones with someone from Ferrari. He catches your eye for a moment, a small nod, just enough. Not cold. Not performative. Just… contained.
You take a seat two rows behind. A few others from your team join.
The room fills quickly.
Red. Papaya. Blue.
Every team in the sport is represented.
The session moves fast: policy updates, FIA review structures, calendar shifts. You keep your contributions focused and clear.
When a question on simulator parity protocols sparks some disagreement, you weigh in. Concise, well-structured. You don’t look at him directly, but this time you know he’s listening. The corner of a page turns slowly under his thumb. He doesn’t interrupt. Just lets you finish before steering the room forward.
It’s not indulgence. It’s trust.
Later, as you shift in your seat to scribble a note, you sense his attention flicker again. Brief. Measured. Familiar.
When it’s over, you collect your notes with the easy precision of someone who’s learned to navigate rooms like this without drawing heat.
There’s a brief exhale, the kind that comes with thinking it’s done.
But someone’s waiting just outside the door.
Mark — one of McLaren’s key investors and your best friend.
Or… used to be.
He catches sight of you a half-second later and freezes.
You hesitate, just for a beat. Then start walking again.
He steps forward, tentative, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“…I knew it,” he says quietly. Not angry, more like someone whose mind has finally stopped glitching.
You glance away. “This isn’t really the place—”
“I saw your name,” he cuts in, voice low. “In one of the FIA memos. Three weeks ago. Thought it had to be a different person. Or a really messed-up coincidence.”
You give a tired smile. “It wasn’t.”
Another pause. Not quite awkward — just full of things he doesn’t know how to say.
“You’re really at Mercedes.”
You nod.
He exhales, something caught between a breath and a laugh. “Jesus. You just reappeared. Like nothing happened.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“I know,” he says, instantly. “I know you didn’t just walk away.
His voice is steady, but the weight of everything unspoken is right there — pressing against the edges.
“Your sister was wrecked,” he says, eyes on some point over your shoulder. “Like… absolutely gutted. She tried to act normal, keep things moving, but we could see it. She was checking hospitals, shelters, calling people she hadn’t spoken to in years. She’d show up to work and then disappear into her car for hours. Just… waiting, hoping for a message.”
You stare down at the floor. The words sting but you don’t stop him. You know he needs to get it out.
“David—he went into full mission mode. Like something in him just flipped. He was tracking old transactions, asking people on staff if they’d seen anything. Calling in favors. I think he would’ve burned down a city if it meant finding you. He didn’t say much, but he looked at me one day and just said, ‘She’s ours too.’”
You close your eyes.
Mark’s voice gets quieter.
He rubs the back of his neck, swallowing hard.
“Come home with me. Just for tonight. Let them see you. Let them see you’re still standing.”
Your throat goes tight.
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“You don’t have to justify the silence," he says. Just... come home. The rest can wait.”
You hesitate. And then nod. “Okay.”
He steps aside to let you through.
And just before you cross the threshold to the elevator, you glance over your shoulder.
Toto is standing down the hall, just beyond the glass — arms crossed, unreadable.
He probably saw the whole thing.
****
You don’t realize how tense your body has become until the front door swings open and the sound of home washes over you.
The smell hits first, something baked, something warm. A scent you forgot you remembered. You haven’t been here in over a year, but it still smells like Sundays and second chances.
Then—
“Mark? Is that you—”
Everything stops.
You’re standing in the hallway, still in your work clothes, hair wind-tousled, laptop bag half-forgotten at your side.
Your sister is the first one to see you.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. Just… freezes. Like her system short-circuits trying to make sense of the moment.
Behind her, someone drops a tea towel. Your brother-in-law, wide-eyed. A chair scrapes back somewhere behind them.
Then Lily is moving. Rushing. Hands out like she doesn’t trust you to be real.
And then you’re pulled into her arms.
No one says your name right away. They just hold you like you might disappear again.
And then the dam breaks.
Questions, voices, half-sobs. Arms around you, hands brushing your back. “Where were you?” “Are you okay?” “God, we thought—”
Mark steps back into the doorway, giving you space. But he doesn’t leave. His presence is there, just solid enough to keep you from drifting too far off center.
You don’t explain. You can’t. Not yet.
So instead, you say the one thing you know is true.
“I missed you. Every day.”
And somehow, that’s enough.
They pull you inside. You’re seated at the kitchen table, the same one where you celebrated birthdays and fought over slices of pie. Tea is made. Plates are filled, even though you say you’re not hungry. Your niece appears out of nowhere, climbs into your lap without hesitation, and starts showing you a sticker book like you never left.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Lily presses a napkin into your hand.
“You don’t have to say anything tonight,” she whispers. “We’re just glad you’re home.”
***
It’s strange, sleeping in your old room, or more like you're lying awake in the half-dark, eyes tracing ceiling corners you used to know by heart.
No messages. No calls.
Not a single word from Toto.
Not even “Did you get home safe?”
You try to be rational. Still, it stings more than you’d like to admit.
At 12:43 a.m., you unlock your phone.
You stare at the blank message field longer than you mean to. Then type:
Good night. I’m at my sister’s place.
Shocker, I know.
I’ll explain once I’m back.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
The message delivers. No reply. No read receipt.
You place your phone face down on the nightstand.
And let sleep take what’s left of the day.
The next morning, you're woken not by your alarm, but by the sound of your niece shrieking with laughter somewhere down the hall. For a second, it feels like any other morning from before everything — soft light, cereal bowls clinking, someone flipping channels too fast on the living room TV.
But your phone buzzes again.
And again.
And again.
You reach for it.
17 notifications. 6 missed calls.
Slack. Outlook. WhatsApp. Twitter.
And one unread message from Toto.
Your stomach sinks.
You open Twitter first — you shouldn’t, but you do.
The headline is already viral:
“Is Mercedes Employing a McLaren Insider? Strategic Analyst’s Sudden Appearance Sparks Controversy.”
Your photo — a blurry screenshot from the session.
Your name — mispronounced in the quote tweets.
Your role — exaggerated, twisted, speculated over.
And below that, a feed full of armchair strategists, conspiracy threads, and a few old racing journalists throwing your family name around like a bargaining chip.
“Didn’t her family have ties to McLaren back in the day?”
“She was spotted leaving with Mark Hollander after the meeting.”
“You really think Mercedes didn’t know who she was?”
“Toto Wolff better explain fast.”
Your hands are already clammy.
You swipe over to Slack. Brackley’s internal channel is too quiet. A few messages from your direct colleagues, checking in. One from your team lead saying, “We’re drafting a statement. Sit tight.”
And then you see his name.
Toto Wolff
Message, 6:22 a.m.
“I’ve seen the leak. Don’t engage. I’m handling it.”
That’s it?
You stare at the message until the words blur.
Then you toss the phone aside, swing your legs out of bed, and brace yourself.
Because whatever comes next, you’ll have to walk into it alone.
Summary; You were just out for dinner with friends and maybe a good bottle of wine. But one emergency, one shared glance, and one late-night text later… you’re caught in something unexpected.
A/N: This is what happens when my two fav universes collide aka grey’s anatomy and f1. Wrote this fast, didn’t edit, probably full of typos. Also, to the medical community I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies.
You stepped into the restaurant with the casual confidence of someone who’d just promised herself no pager, no talk of blood vessels or burr holes, just wine and gossip. The scent of charred rosemary and warm butter wrapped around you like a soft welcome. You scanned the buzzing dining room, trying to spot your friends.
Nothing yet.
You squinted toward the back patio when a familiar voice called out, “Well if it isn’t my favorite person pretending to have a work-life balance.”
You turned and smiled wide.
“Jack.” You walked toward him, barely hesitating as he pulled you into a hug that was both unexpected and familiar. “What are you even doing here?”
“Just in for the weekend. Some long-overdue catch-ups,” Jack says, gesturing to the table he came from. “Come say hi. Two minutes. C’mon.”
You follow reluctantly — not because you don’t want to meet his friends, but because you’re definitely giving post-call surgeon who didn’t brush her hair twice and not brunch-ready.
Still, Jack seems eager, and you’d missed him.
The table is mid-conversation when you arrive. Half-eaten oysters, designer sunglasses resting on folded napkins.
Six people, all turned toward you as Jack says, “Alright, quick interruption. This is one of my oldest and favorite humans, [First Name]. She’s a surgeon at Sterling West Hospital”
A few surprised glances, some polite smiles. You nod and give a soft, practiced smile.
Jack starts the round of introductions like he’s hosting a talk show.
“This is Simone, investment banking overlord, and Tom, serial disruptor or whatever buzzword he’s using this month. David’s the startup guy who never sleeps, Layla keeps luxury fashion profitable for all of us…”
His hand lifts toward the final person at the table. “And this is Toto Wolff.”
Your eyes meet his before Jack finishes the name.
And for a second, just one beat, everything else softens. The voices, the clinking glasses, even Jack’s animated commentary.
Toto stands slightly as you turn to him. He’s tall. Serious in presence, but not unkind. You take his outstretched hand.
“Toto,” he says.
You reply, “Dr. [Last Name]. Nice to meet you.”
There’s something else in the handshake. Not flirtation, not yet. Just… attention. Like he actually saw you in that moment. You pull your hand away, but you feel it linger in your chest.
Jack leans over and whispers, “I think you just activated his calm-mode.”
You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “I should get to my table before my friends order without me.”
Jack gives your shoulder a parting squeeze. “Save me from dying of boring business talk later?”
“Only if there’s dessert.”
You walk away, but not without catching it again. A glance. His.
Toto’s still watching you as you go.
You feel it. You don’t turn around.
You reach your table where your actual friends, the non-doctor, non-F1, very “normal” crew, are waving you over with excited grins. “Took you long enough!”
You slide into the booth, heart still adjusting to whatever that moment just was.
You shake it off. You’re here for laughs, wine, maybe some good gossip.
Fifteen minutes in, you’ve half-forgotten the encounter. Your food arrives. Your best friend’s halfway through retelling a Tinder horror story when—
A scream pierces the dining room. It silences everything.
Cutlery clatters. Conversations halt mid-sentence. You’re already out of the booth, weaving between stunned patrons and chairs pushed back in alarm.
You find the source at the far end of the restaurant — a man, mid-fifties, slumped awkwardly in his seat. His face is pale, lips tinged blue. Two people beside him are shouting over each other, voices cracked with panic.
“Call emergency services,” you say sharply to no one and everyone, kneeling beside the man without hesitation. “Now.”
His pulse — barely there. Shallow breaths, then none.
You rip off your light jacket, toss your bag to the floor.
“Sir?” you say firmly, tapping his cheek. Nothing. You tilt his head, listen. No breath. Your mind kicks into second nature.
“Help me get him on the ground,” you instruct the man beside him. He hesitates.
“Toto, help her,” Jack says behind you, voice tense.
Strong arms — his, you realize later — assist as you gently but urgently lower the unconscious man onto the hardwood floor.
You don’t register the crowd forming. You don’t hear your friends calling your name. You only see the man’s chest. Still.
“Starting compressions,” you announce, already over him. Palms laced, arms locked. You begin, firm, steady rhythm. You count silently in your head.
1… 2… 3… 4…
You lose yourself in the movement. The force. The sweat beginning to bead at your brow. You pause for breath, a quick two, and continue.
“Where the hell is EMS?” someone murmurs behind you.
“He’s not responding,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone. You glance at his face, still blue. You go harder.
Time bends strangely in these moments. You don’t know if it’s been three minutes or ten.
The sirens arrive — faint, then sharp.
You don’t stop. You feel your knees digging into the floor, your breath catching. You're dimly aware of someone moving beside you, paramedics, finally.
But you don’t move.
“Keep compressions going!” one shouts. “Ma’am, we’ll take over…”
“I’ve got it,” you snap, voice hoarse. “Help me get him in the ambulance. I’m going with him.”
There’s no time for debate.
You’re still compressing as they lift him onto the stretcher. Still counting. Still moving.
The restaurant spins away, faces blurred, people pressed against walls, Jack and Toto standing tall and unmoving, watching you as you pass.
****
In the back of the ambulance, straddling the patient, hands never leaving his chest.
You call out through the chaos, “Take us to Sterling West. That’s where I work. Trauma will be ready.”
The doors shut behind you, red lights flashing.
And just like that, your quiet Sunday lunch turns into something else entirely.
The doors to the trauma bay swing open as the paramedics wheel the man in. You’re already barking instructions.
“Let’s get a crash cart here, O2 at 15 liters, page cardiology on-call now.”
You don’t stop moving. Not when they lift him onto the bed. Not when they cut open his shirt. Not when his heart stutters but doesn't stop.
You lose track of time again.
And then finally the monitor stabilizes. A pulse. He’s alive.
You step back, chest heaving. Gloves soaked, scrub top sticking to your skin. Someone hands you a saline wipe. Another nurse touches your elbow and says, “Nice save, Dr. [Your Last Name].”
But your ears are ringing too loud to answer.
You walk out of the trauma unit and press your palms to your eyes for one long moment. You need to update someone.
You find Jack first.
He’s pacing in the waiting area, phone in one hand, the other gripping the back of his neck. His jacket is wrinkled now, worry etched into every movement. Sitting next to him, still composed but alert, is Toto, legs crossed, one hand resting on his knee, brow furrowed.
You exhale and push open the glass doors.
They both stand at once.
Jack reaches you first. “Is he—?”
“He’s alive,” you say, offering a tight, exhausted smile. “He had a cardiac event, possibly an arrhythmia, but we stabilized him. He’ll be monitored in CCU overnight. He’s conscious, responsive. You got lucky.”
Jack sags with relief. “God. Thank you. I mean—thank you.”
You nod, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll need follow-up, but he’s out of the woods.”
Then you turn and meet Toto’s eyes.
He hasn’t moved. Not quite. But he’s watching you with unsettling focus, the kind that makes you suddenly hyperaware of your posture, your breathing, the stray strand of hair that’s stuck to your forehead.
Jack’s voice breaks the tension. “You were incredible.”
You shrug. “Just doing my job.”
“You didn’t hesitate,” Toto says quietly.
You glance at him. “You learn to move when everyone else freezes.”
He nods, slowly, like he’s filing something away.
A beat of quiet passes between you, not awkward, just full.
Then Jack steps in again. “Do you want coffee? Water? Anything?”
You glance at a vending machine down the hall, then shake your head. “Honestly? I should probably change out of these first.” You gesture to your scrubs. “But I’ll be back in a few.”
Before you turn, Toto speaks again.
“You should rest,” he says, and it’s not performative concern. It lands like something heavier. Personal.
You meet his eyes again, steadier now. “I will. Just… not yet.”
You leave them standing there, but feel both their gazes on your back as you disappear down the hallway.
***
Jack insists on driving you home.
“You literally saved a man’s life today,” he says, unlocking the car. “Let me at least make sure you don’t pass out behind the wheel.”
You don’t argue. The adrenaline has worn off. Your hands have stopped shaking, but the weight of the day is catching up to you in waves.
The drive is quiet. Comfortable. Jack talks a bit — asks how the guy is doing post-CPR, cracks a few soft jokes, then eases into silence when he sees you fading.
Outside your building, he parks but doesn’t kill the engine.
“You okay?”
You nod. “Tired.”
He doesn’t push. “You were incredible today. I mean it.”
You smile, faint but sincere. “Thanks, Jack.”
“You gonna be okay alone?”
“I always am.”
He watches you for a beat longer before letting you go. “Text me if you need anything.”
***
You shower. Change into something soft. Pull the covers over you and let your body finally give in.
You’ve just turned onto your side, blankets pulled up to your chest, when your phone buzzes quietly.
Unknown Number:
I hope this isn’t out of line.
But I just wanted to say — you were incredible today.
You: Who is this?
Unknown Number:
Should I make you guess?
Tall Austrian. Watches Formula 1 cars go around in circles for a living.
Very impressed by CPR technique.
You stare at the message, thumb hovering. Your heart jumps a little, not from surprise, exactly. You had felt watched. Not in a bad way. Just… noticed.
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you picked something safe.
You: Let me guess… You got my number from Jack?
Unknown Number: I bribed him with dessert.
You: Should’ve just asked.
Unknown Number: Would that have worked?
You lean back against your pillows, biting your lip to hide the grin. You type quickly.
You: …Maybe.
Unknown Number:
Noted.
So…
Did you save that man’s life just to show off in front of me?
You:
Obviously. Nothing screams pick me like chest compressions and a stern look.
Unknown Number: Worked.
You feel your cheeks heat at that.
You: 🫠
Unknown Number: 🏳️
You: So what’s your post-near-death-experience routine?
Unknown Number:
Text the pretty doctor who saved the day.
Also: pasta.
You: Good combo.
Unknown Number:
What about you?
Do you usually look that unbothered walking into chaos?
You: Honestly? I was panicking the whole time.
Unknown Number:
Could’ve fooled me.
But I guess calm under pressure is your thing.
You: Was it that obvious?
Unknown Number:
The whole room was looking at the scene.
I was looking at you.
You: Are you… flirting with me, Mr. Wolff?
Unknown Number: Would it be very unoriginal if I said yes?
You:
No.
I would just need to recalibrate my heartbeat.
Unknown Number: I have that effect sometimes.
You: Cocky.
Unknown Number: Confident.
(Also a little impressed by how quickly you shut Jack down at dinner.)
You: Years of practice.
Unknown Number: Should I be worried you haven’t saved my number yet?
You blink at the message, lips parting in surprise.
Wait… how does he know that?
Then it hits you. Of course. The DP.
Your display picture shows up when someone doesn’t have you saved. Rookie mistake. You chuckle softly, caught.
You: Should I save it or keep pretending this is anonymous admiration?
Unknown Number:
Oof. That’s dangerously smooth.
Save it. Definitely save it.
You tap into the number and hit “Add to Contacts.”
Name field: Toto Wolff?
Feels like you’re saving a board member. Too formal.
Toto?
You’re not at that stage. Feels oddly… cozy.
You hover for a second, then type: TW
You save it. And for a beat, you just stare at the contact card like it might blink back.
Then you type:
You: Done. You’re TW now.
TW: That’s what we’re going with? TW?
You: Unless you have better ideas.
TW: I’ll allow it.
You: What else do you allow?
TW: Depends on the conversation.
TW: Can I ask something not entirely appropriate?
TW: What were you thinking when you looked at me?
At the restaurant.
You:
That you looked like someone used to being in control.
And a little like you needed someone to tell you to sit down and breathe.
TW: And did I?
You: Not yet. But I almost did.
TW: I would’ve listened to you.
You toss your phone onto the bed and fall back onto your pillow, staring at the ceiling.
That little smile?
Still there.
You take a moment to gather yourself and then reply.
You: Still can, you know. If you need someone to tell you to breathe.
TW: I think I do.
A long beat.
TW: Are you always like this?
You: Like what?
TW: Charming. Disarming. Unexpected.
You: Only when texting motorsport CEOs at 2 a.m.
TW:
Then I’ll try not to make it a habit.
But I’m not making any promises.
You don’t respond. Just smile to yourself in the dark, heart full, mind soft, and let sleep finally take you.
You’re late leaving again. Not because you have anything pressing to finish but because the silence of the office after hours has become strangely comforting. It’s easier to breathe when the building is empty, easier to think when no one’s watching.
You gather your things slowly. There's no rush. You know the lifts will be quiet, the corridor long and dim, the echo of your footsteps the only sound.
But he’s already there.
Leaning casually against the wall near the elevators, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding his phone. It takes you a second to recognize him. He’s dressed down, no tie, coat open, collar slightly turned up. He looks more tired than usual. And more real.
You pause, unsure if you should turn back. You consider pretending you forgot something at your desk.
Because your mind was pulling a blank you go for something dead obvious, “Do you always work this late?”
A small pause. “More than I should.”
You glance at him. “So we’re both bad at stopping.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Apparently.”
There’s a beat of silence. The elevator hums somewhere above. He slips his phone into his pocket.
“I’ll drive you home.”
You blink. “That’s not necessary.”
“I didn’t ask if it was,” he says, then softens it with a smile. “Just thought I’d offer. It's late.”
“I have my car.”
“Still. I’d feel better knowing you got home safe.”
You should say no. You always say no to things like this, to any offer that edges into personal. But tonight you don’t.
Maybe it’s the way he asked, not with expectation, but quiet certainty. Maybe it’s the way he didn’t fill the silence after, just waited. Maybe it’s how tired you are of constantly resisting the world.
“Alright,” you say, surprising yourself.
***
His car is clean and understated, not what you expected. There’s a quiet between you. The kind that lets you breathe.
He drives like he speaks. Controlled. Precise. Comfortable with silence.
“Long day?” he asks after a while.
You nod. “Lots of data to go through.”
“You always look like you're three thoughts ahead of everyone else.”
“That’s generous,” you say, watching the city blur past. “Mostly just trying to keep up.”
He smiles. “Well, you hide it well.”
The car slows at a red light. You glance sideways. He’s looking at the road, but there’s something unreadable in his expression.
“I’ve noticed you keep to yourself,” he says, after a beat. “Smart. Safe.”
You don’t answer. You’re not sure if it was a question.
“But it’s not always sustainable,” he adds, more to himself than to you.
You don’t know what to make of that. You don’t ask him to explain.
When you reach your place, he pulls over smoothly. Turns off the engine but doesn’t get out. Just watches you unbuckle, fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say, hand on the door.
He nods. “Anytime.”
There’s a pause. A small one. Just enough to notice.
You leave without looking back.
***
The next morning, you sit down at your desk and freeze.
There’s a sandwich next to your laptop. And a tea — your exact brand. You blink at it like it might disappear.
No note. No big gesture.
Just… lunch. Like someone had noticed.
You look around. No one’s paying attention.
You eat the sandwich. You pretend it’s not a big deal.
But you think about it for the rest of the day.
It happens again two days later. And again the week after.
Sometimes it’s a salad. Once it’s pasta. Always that same tea.
You start bringing back cups of coffee from the machine and leaving them on his desk during early meetings. No announcement. Just your version of whatever this is.
And still, you don’t talk about it.
Sometimes after late meetings, you catch him at the door. Or he’s just… there, already waiting, like he knew you wouldn’t go home on time.
Some nights you walk. Some nights he drives. A few times you both end up hungry and land in a quiet spot nearby — one of those tucked-away places with no rush and terrible lighting and good bread.
It never feels like a date. It just is.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You keep telling yourself there’s nothing to read into. He’s kind. He’s thoughtful. He treats people well.
But he doesn’t wait for everyone.
He doesn’t memorize their tea order.
He doesn’t look at them like that — like they’re something he can’t quite name but doesn’t want to look away from.
And you’re not supposed to feel this pulled toward anyone. That’s the whole point of staying separate.
But here you are, letting it happen.
It doesn’t change everything at once. Not outwardly.
You’re both still good at the performance — professional, contained. You don’t linger too long after meetings. You don’t sit too close in briefings.
But there’s a current under the surface now. Something pulling you both forward in increments.
It’s a Tuesday night when it finally tips.
You’re both at the factory late again. Everyone else has gone. You're hunched over your laptop, screen glowing. He’s pacing softly behind you, phone tucked between shoulder and ear.
A quiet call, in German. Something about logistics. You don’t listen.
Eventually, the call ends, and he exhales. Drops into the seat across from you.
“I thought you left an hour ago,” he says.
You glance at the time. “Lost track.”
He watches you for a second. Then: “Hungry?”
You hesitate. “I could eat.”
You didn't plan to say yes. But ten minutes later, you’re in his car.
The restaurant is tucked away on a side street. No sign, just a frosted window and the smell of something warm and slow-cooked drifting out into the cold.
It’s dimly lit inside, mostly empty. Wooden tables, candles in little glasses. A quiet corner booth.
He pulls the chair out before you can. Doesn't say anything about it. Just… does it.
You sit. Try not to overthink it.
He waves the waiter away from the menus and orders for both of you in crisp German — something with pasta, wine, and bread that arrives hot and fast.
You’re halfway through reaching for the bottle when he catches your eye and gently takes it from you.
“Let me.”
He pours and shifts the bottle just out of your reach like it’s second nature. It should irritate you. But it doesn’t.
You catch him watching you take the first sip.
Then he leans back.
“This place reminds me of Vienna,” he says. “When I was younger. Small, quiet. You didn’t have to dress up to feel like it was special.”
You glance down at your hoodie. “Right, I’m really hitting the fine dining dress code.”
He smiles. “I like you better like this.”
You look at him, then down at your food, heart skimming something you don’t want to name.
At some point, you close your eyes when you taste the truffle sauce. It’s involuntary.
When you open them again, he’s watching you — amused, but not mocking.
“Good?”
You nod.
He flags the waiter without asking and says something low in German. A few minutes later, another plate arrives, the same one you’d just finished.
You blink. “Did you just—”
“You liked it,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
The wine softens everything. Just enough to let the night breathe.
You talk more than you meant to. About your early jobs. The people who underestimated you. The ones who didn’t. He listens, asks the kinds of questions that only come from paying attention.
Somewhere between the second glass and the empty plates, your foot bumps his under the table. You start to pull back, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t move away.
You stay like that.
Not on purpose. But also, not by accident.
By the time the bill comes — discreetly dropped, immediately taken — it’s raining outside.
He doesn’t even offer you his coat. He just drapes it over your shoulders like it's always belonged there.
You don’t protest.
He opens the car door for you. You don’t say thank you. Not out of rudeness, just because it’s already understood.
On the drive back, the silence is different. Not awkward. Not heavy.
Just… full.
He doesn’t walk you to your door. He stops the car and waits for you to move.
But you don’t.
You look at him instead, and he looks right back — like there’s something on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say it yet.
You nod once. “Thanks for… everything.”
You step out. Close the door. Don’t look back.
But you feel it, the way something just shifted, quietly and completely.
Like the hinge of a door that won’t quite close the same again.
You return to your desk and do what you always do: sink back into the work.
Data sets. Wind shear anomalies. CFD revisions that don’t quite line up with real-world results. There’s comfort in the numbers, in the unspoken agreement that physics doesn’t lie. Human behavior, on the other hand...
You push the thought aside.
Lunch rolls around, and as usual, you eat late, when the café’s mostly cleared, the buzz replaced by silence and the faint hum of vending machines. You sit by the window with your wrap and an open notebook, not because you’re working but because it gives you something to look at when you’re not ready to be looked at.
“Working through lunch again?”
You glance up.
Caroline slides into the chair across from you before you can answer. She’s from aero integration, technically adjacent to your domain, close enough that your paths cross often. She’s sharp, social in the way you aren’t, and always seems to know what’s going on before it’s officially going on.
You offer her a neutral smile. “Just catching up.”
“Sure,” she says, popping open a can of sparkling water. “Or hiding.”
You don’t respond, and she doesn’t press. She’s always been like that — chatty without being nosy, friendly without being exactly your friend.
She starts talking about a new duct redesign that’s caused a scheduling headache, and you let her carry the conversation. You nod when needed. Add a quiet comment here and there. You’re used to this rhythm with her, the way she speaks like you’re closer than you are.
Eventually she tilts her head, mock casual. “So, the big boss noticed you today.”
You go still.
It’s barely perceptible, but she catches it. You can tell by the slight lift of her brow. You force a small shrug.
“He notices everyone,” you say.
She hums. “Not usually in the middle of a meeting. Not the way he did.”
You fold the corner of a page in your notebook, careful with your tone. “You’re reading into it.”
“Maybe,” she says, standing and smoothing down her blouse. “Or maybe I’m just good at reading people.”
You don’t answer. She leaves with a half-smile and a soft, echoing tap of heels.
The rest of the week passes in the usual blur of work and quiet efficiency. But something about that meeting, that moment, lingers longer than it should.
You find yourself walking more briskly past his office.
You avoid glancing toward the glassed-in conference room where he sometimes sits, half-shadowed and unreadable.
You tell yourself it was nothing. A moment. A misinterpretation. A curiosity that passed as quickly as it came.
And yet.
There’s a small, unexpected thrill when his email lands in your inbox on Friday evening. A question about wind tunnel calibration. A clarification about the correlation slide you’d presented. It’s not a request most team principals would send directly.
You type your response carefully. Precise. Crisp.
And maybe you linger just a beat before hitting send.
****
It's late again.
You’re one of the last ones still on the floor.
The office is quiet now. Lights are dimmed, screens dark, and the usual buzz of conversation and movement has been replaced by the low hum of vending machines and distant footsteps.
You lean back from your monitor, rub your eyes, and finally admit defeat for the night. You shut the laptop and slip it into your bag, stretching your neck as you stand.
On your way out, you make the usual stop by the vending machine. Just a small snack for the walk home.
The machine groans to life as you press the button. The chocolate bar drops with a mechanical clunk.
“Still at it?”
You turn at the voice. It’s Toto.
He’s walking down the hall with a bottle of water in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his tie loosened slightly. He looks like someone who should have left hours ago but didn’t.
You offer a small smile. “You too?”
He shrugs. “These things never really stop. They just pause.”
He stops a comfortable distance away and leans lightly against the wall. His tone is easy, just a touch lighter than usual.
You nod, unwrapping the chocolate bar. “It’s been a week.”
“You’ve had heavier ones,” he says. “I’ve seen you pull miracles before Spa last year.”
You blink at the reference. “You remember that?”
“Of course. You caught a design flaw none of us did.”
There’s a pause. You hadn’t thought it was a big enough deal to register with him.
“I like people who notice what isn’t obvious,” he says. “You’ve always had a feel for that.”
You look down at your snack, a little thrown by the compliment. “Thank you.”
He pushes off the wall. “Don’t let late nights become routine. It’s not sustainable.”
You nod. “I’ll go right after this.”
“Good.”
He starts walking again. “Night.”
“Night.”
Just a normal conversation. Simple. Professional. Barely two minutes long.
And yet, the way he said it, the way he looked at you—it stays with you longer than it should.
You tell yourself it was just a moment. The vending machine, the silence, the look. It didn’t mean anything.
But something’s shifted. You feel it the next morning — not anxiety, not anticipation, but an awareness. Like the air between you and him is charged now, in a way it wasn’t before.
You avoid the main kitchen during lunch. You take the stairs instead of the lift. Not paranoia. Just strategy. Just caution.
Still, three days later, you end up on the same elevator.
He steps in just before the doors close. He’s taller than you remembered, not just tall, but commanding, all clean lines and quiet power in a crisp shirt and cuffed sleeves. He doesn’t crowd the space, but somehow it still feels smaller with him in it.
A glance. A small nod. Nothing more.
He smells like bergamot and something darker, more grounded — the kind of scent that lingers even after he’s gone.
Your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
Neither of you speaks.
But the silence feels different now.
Not uncomfortable. Not empty.
Just… full.
You get off one floor early and take the long way to your desk.
*******
The next time it happens, it’s late again.
You’re reviewing chassis load data after-hours, the only one left in the department. You haven’t eaten since noon. There’s a stale granola bar in your drawer, but it doesn’t sound appealing.
You push back from your desk. The overhead lights hum.
You don’t expect him to be in the kitchenette. But he is.
Leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, stirring sugar into tea like it requires thought. He glances up when you walk in.
“Long day?”
You nod. “Forgot to eat.”
He gestures to the kettle. “There’s some left.”
You hesitate. You don’t do this — small talk, shared spaces, unplanned tea. But somehow, your feet carry you forward.
“I didn’t take you for a tea person,” you say.
“I wasn’t,” he replies. “Then I started sleeping less.”
There’s something underneath that. A weight you recognize. But neither of you names it.
You pour a cup. The tea’s terrible, but it’s warm.
“So,” he says, after a pause, “what’s your deal?”
You turn to him slowly. “Excuse me?”
There’s a flicker of something — surprise, maybe regret — in his expression. “No, I meant—” He exhales, almost sheepish. “That came out wrong.”
“Sure did.”
“I wasn’t trying to interrogate you,” he says, smoothing a hand over the sleeve of his black jumper. “I meant—how long have you been doing this? How did you end up doing what you do?”
You eye him for a second. He’s not the type to ask small talk questions. Which makes this feel... intentional. A little too intentional.
“Almost a decade,” you reply, cautiously. “Started as a research analyst. I took on more, proved myself, eventually landed here.”
“And before that?”
You hesitate. “Other teams. Other cities. But this is the first one that felt like it might stick.”
He nods, slowly. Then, without looking at you: “You don’t strike me as someone who stays anywhere they don’t want to be.”
You tilt your head. “That meant to be a compliment?”
He meets your gaze then. “Observation.”
You hold his stare for a beat longer than necessary, then tap your cup against the counter. “Well, I’m flattered either way.”
He smiles—small, wry. “Don’t be. I’m usually right.”
*****
The next week, he finds you in the sim lab.
You’re recalibrating a model. He’s apparently checking in on timelines. He doesn’t interrupt — just walks in, reviews a file, then pauses behind you.
“You have a good read on the car,” he says.
You blink. “I don’t touch the car directly.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s in how you think. The way you predict.”
You’ve built your entire life here by avoiding praise. Keeping your head down. Being useful without drawing attention.
“That kind of mind,” he adds, “doesn’t just appear.”
You pretend to check a graph, so he won’t see the way your chest tightens.
What is he doing? Why is he doing this?
And why aren’t you stopping him?
You used to flinch at kindness. Especially the kind that felt like it wanted something in return.
But he doesn’t ask for more.
He just sees you.
And something about that— something about that feels dangerous.
You’ve worked at Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team for almost two years.
Long enough to learn the power of invisibility.
Long enough to master it.
Your role is behind the scenes — tucked inside wind tunnel reports, simulation discrepancies, sidepod revisions. You don’t travel with the team. You don’t appear in race-day photos or stand in the paddock during post-qualifying chaos. You operate from the calm, fluorescent-lit core of Brackley HQ.
That’s the point. It was always the point.
You show up. You deliver. You keep your head down and your answers crisp. The engineers like you. You’re dependable. Quiet. Professional. You occupy space without demanding it.
And that makes you easy to forget.
Which is precisely how you prefer it.
Until today.
The quarterly technical review is the kind of meeting where everyone shows up five minutes early but pretends they didn’t. Mid-season data, update timelines, upcoming collaborations. You take your usual seat, back-left corner, notebook open, pen aligned with the table’s edge. Close to the wall, far from the spotlight.
Across the room, Toto Wolff enters.
You don’t look up. You don’t need to. There’s a subtle shift when he walks in, a pause in conversation, a shared awareness. He doesn’t demand attention; it simply follows him. He takes his seat at the head of the table without ceremony, scrolling through a tablet, expression unreadable.
The meeting begins.
You listen. You contribute briefly when asked, an update on aero correlation metrics. Your tone is even, your phrasing efficient. When you finish, he nods once in acknowledgement. No fanfare.
You should feel relief.
But partway through the discussion, a set of oversized printouts makes its way around the table, too large to pass easily between hands. You reach out to take them.
His hand reaches out too.
The touch is brief. Intentional only in its necessity.
Still, when your fingers graze his, you look up.
He’s already watching you.
Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… present. Focused in the way only someone very good at reading people learns to be.
His eyes flick briefly to your chair, then back to yours.
“You always take the corner seat,” he says.
It’s not a challenge. Not an invitation. Just an observation — quiet and matter-of-fact, like he’s noting a pattern in tire degradation or wind direction.
You on the hand are shocked. Because you both haven’t exactly interacted much. He’s mostly away hopping from one country to another for races and works here off season or during Silverstone GP.
So, the only time you ever have a conversation is during such meetings. And he shouldn’t be able to remember you much alone your seating habit.
His comment had knocked you off your balance. But you quickly gain your composure and offer the faintest of smiles. “It’s quieter back here.”
A pause stretches between you, just long enough to register.
“Corners are for people who need exits,” he says. And then he turns away, as if the conversation never happened.
The meeting continues.
No one else noticed. Not really. But your thoughts splinter, momentarily off-balance.
You stare at the papers in your hand, though you don’t absorb a word. You’re aware, uncomfortably so, of where you’re sitting. Of the fact that someone noticed. That he noticed.
You pack up quietly when the meeting ends. Leave as you always do: before the small talk, before the laughter, before anyone might ask you to stay a moment longer.
Prompt: You come home drained from a day of being everything for everyone. Toto sees right through the silence and holds you until you remember how to breathe again.
You don’t even remember how you got inside the apartment.
You must’ve unlocked the door. You must’ve said hello. But everything from the train home is just a blur of bright lights and your own looping thoughts. All you know is that the second you’re inside, your body starts to sag. Not in any visible way, maybe — but inside? You feel like a balloon with a slow leak.
And he sees it.
Toto doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks up from whatever spreadsheet he’s pretending to care about and watches you drop your bag a little too hard by the door.
“Liebling,” he says softly, and that’s all it takes.
You don’t even answer. You just walk straight toward him, slow and dazed, and stand between his knees like you’re waiting for the world to stop spinning.
He opens his arms without asking.
You go willingly — melt into his chest like you were always meant to land there. He doesn’t pull you too tight, doesn’t pepper you with questions. He just folds his arms around your back and presses a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s second nature.
Like holding you is the only thing that’s real right now.
“Rough day?” he murmurs into your hair.
You nod into his shirt. It smells like him — safe, clean, expensive. Warm.
“Too many people,” you whisper. “Too many expectations.”
He hums low in his throat. A sound of understanding. Of shared quiet. Of someone who knows exactly what it feels like to be pulled in a hundred directions until you forget what your own voice sounds like.
His fingers trace slow circles on your back.
“You don’t have to do anything for anyone right now,” he says. “You don’t have to be strong. Not with me.”
You blink hard against tears, because God — how does he know? How does he always know?
“Can I just… stay here?” you whisper.
“You can stay here as long as you need,” he says without hesitation.
“You don’t even have to talk. I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
You let yourself sink into his embrace. Into the steadiness of someone who never once asked you to earn your place. Someone who makes it feel like coming home doesn’t require performance — just presence.
He holds you for a long time. No fixing. No advice. Just his hands moving in slow, reassuring rhythms along your spine. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s allowed to rest.
“Thank you,” you mumble.
“For what?” he asks, kissing your forehead.
“For letting me fall apart.”
He smiles, soft and proud and devastatingly tender.
“Du, meine Liebe… I’m not here to love the version of you that has it all together.”
“I’m here for all of you. Even this. Especially this.”
And for the first time today — maybe the first time all week —
you finally let go.
Warnings: Mentions of miscarriage, insinuation of sex
Prompt: Reader was distressed after meeting a friend’s newborn baby due to past trauma. Soft Toto steps in to take care of the reader.
“Y/N” You could hear Toto’s voice even before he entered your shared bedroom.
Getting hold of his happiness he finally informed you about Laura giving birth to a healthy baby girl. Laura, one of Mercedes’s top executive, was also a close family friend of yours.
You could totally relate to his over-excitement because you were elated too.
You both made it to the hospital as soon as you could with happiness gleaming off your faces. You weren’t sure what you were more happy about, a little angel becoming a part of the family or you finding a sweet thing to spoil and shower all your love upon.
“Congratulations” you said or rather sung, hugging the new mother and releasing as soon as you heard the muffled words, “Thank you, y/n” which made you realise that the excitement got the better of you.
“I’m sorry. I’m just a big hugger” You move away and explain with an apologetic tone with her just laughing it off.
You were about to throw in inquiries about her health when a pair of large hands clutched onto your wrist dragging you away.
“Omg, y/n just look at her. Isn’t she the cutest little thing ever.” Toto whispered, his face resembling the joy of a ten year old seeing a candy bar. Your better-half looked so cute that you almost had to force yourself to look at the fragile thing lying in the crib with eyes open wide, looking with astonishment.
The moment you looked at her, you fell in love. You’ve seen new born babies before but why did this feel so different? The day you heard about their pregnancy something inside you changed and you didn’t know why.
And this was all you could think about on your way back from the hospital but somewhere deep down you knew why you were feeling the way you did. The flashbacks were more than enough to tug at your heart.
“Hey, what’s up?” Toto spoke up breaking the lingering silence in the car. Your eyes met with his for a brief moment before he diverted his attention back towards the road.
Taking advantage of the moment, you turned your head to look out the window – choosing not to answer. The blanket of silence once again engulfed with none of you uttering a word for the rest of the journey.
It had been at the very beginning of your marriage that Toto had accidentally knocked you up. And before you could figure out your exact feeling for the unborn, it had slipped through your hands - result of an unfortunate miscarriage.
The loss had obviously left a hole in your chest. But like every situation where you’ve been pushed against the wall and you’ve bitten back, you acted the same then too.
Like a supportive partner Toto had asked you about your feelings, probably to share the loss you both had suffered, but you played unfair and shrugged the matter rather harshly and he never brought it up again. And now in this moment sitting beside him, you didn’t know how to communicate your feelings to him, you didn’t know how to ask for the chance to lean on his shoulders, you didn’t know how to ask him to hold you when you were falling so hard.
Once you both were back in your shared bedroom you gave the excuse of washing off the hospital smell and escaped to the bathroom. However, the shower failed to bring any warmth to your freezing heart.
You got out of the shower and slumped to the floor. You body just gave up with the sorrow weighing you down. And at that moment you heard the door to your ensuite open and saw a worried Toto standing by the door.
He leaped towards you as soon as his gaze fell on your crying structure muttering “Jesus, y/n”.
“Are you alright?” He said crouching down beside you. And those words were enough to break your composure. You started sobbing uncontrollably.
You vaguely registered being pulled onto his lap between repeating I’m sorries. You didn’t know what you were sorry for more; for the loss of your unborn child, for not allowing him to comfort you; for not comforting him? So you just tucked your face in the crook of his neck and let his large arms engulf you.
After what felt like an eternity and your sobbing reduced to hiccups, you pushed back from the nook you were hiding in. He held your face between his hand and said “There nothing to be sorry about my love.”
“I should be apologizing for not taking into account that you might still be hurting. I thought you were over it. I shouldn’t have taken you to the hospital today.”
And suddenly you were aware of the situation you were in; ugly crying on you husband’s lap. You tried to get up but his strong hands forbade you.
“Talk to me baby” Toto said, concern etched in his voice. You hards started awkwardly playing the collar of his white shirt which now carried the evidence of your breakdown.
“I want to try again Toto” The words slipped through your lips but he didn’t say anything.
After a moment you looked up and realized he didn’t have to because his eyes, the warmth and love for you in them did all the talking. He leaned down and pressed the gentlest of kisses on your lips.
Between those soft kisses he got up with you in his arms and proceeded towards the shower.
“I already showered Toto”, you said voicing your confusion.
“Oh, we’re not showering, baby!" The smirk on his lips clearly conveyed what he had in mind.
Posting this from my mobile so the spacings are really messed up.
Also, if you’re wondering why am I posting this so late. Well let’s just say i procrastinated, a lot because I wanted it to post the very next day of his military discharge.
And, I should just declare myself an angst writer. (Ofcourse, if that’s even a thing lmao)
I’ll add the read more tag when I open it on my laptop. It’s really late here so bye for now.
Special mention to @apotatomashedbybts who constantly kept motivating me. Thank you friend <3
janainaart
snowghoul
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
kaledo-art
vaporwave
kianamaiart
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
