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Chapter Text

You were flying.

Every time you got in that car you felt as if you were flying, the swooping sensation in your stomach and the rush in your ears carrying you as adrenaline pumped through your bloodstream.

You adored racing, and despite not being from any sort of motorsporting family, you could have sworn it was in your blood. You never felt as good as you did behind the wheel, going over 200 miles per hour and hurtling into turns. It was two hours of pure adrenaline and nothing could beat that rush.

Like every other driver, you had been karting since you were a child, climbing through the ranks and finally earning your spot as a Formula One driver. It was your third year now, old enough to no longer be considered a rookie, but new enough that you were still frequently referred to as the ‘new kid’, despite being older than both Yuki Tusunoda and Lando Norris. But for you, it was a little different.

Because you were unfortunate enough to have been born a girl.

Your career from an early age had been followed by significant media attention, especially once you became the highest-ranking female driver and even that was nothing compared to the media storm you caused when it was announced you had signed to an F1 team. Aston Martin was nearly denounced by fans for taking you on, however, after finishing your rookie season in a respectable P9, they quickly shut up.

This year would be different still. You’d had a flying start, and without really noticing it you had found yourself fighting in the top five, and suddenly the words 'Championship contender’ were following you around. That week you were at Imola, a fine enough track in Italy but by no means your favourite. Qualifying had been tough, and you ended up in P8 on the grid, but you were quickly making progress.

Time seemed to move differently when you raced because you’d already done ¾ of the laps in what felt like just a few minutes and managed to claw your way up to P3 in a difficult and wet dog fight that had you nearly spin out twice.

“Y/N, radio check,” your strategist’s voice crackled into your earpiece. Feeling good about your current position you decided to entertain the crowd a little and sing a few lines from what had become your signature song as an F1 driver.

“She’s a maneater, make you work hard, make you spend hard, make you want all of her lo-o-ove,” You sent back. Being the only female driver on the grid had earnt you the playful title of 'Maneater’, for your rather vicious overtakes on some very impressive corners to gain places and shave seconds. You heard your strategist laugh down the radio for a second, and then he was back to business.

“You’re pretty close to Sainz now in P2. I want you to get on his tail, then we’re gonna pull a signature Maneater overtake on turn 7, okay?”

The plan made sense, except your mental map of the course made you falter. Turn 7 was a particularly nasty hairpin and in the wet weather, it would take all of your strength just to keep the car in tight and not lose time drifting wide.

“You sure it’s safe when it’s so wet?”

“Sainz has already pitted and his lap time is just above yours on wet tires. The only way to overtake him is through the bend, he’s not as strong on turns as you are,”

“Gotcha,” you signed off and turned all your focus onto catching the tail of the red Ferrari that had been coming in and out of your sight for a few laps.

Stepping on the gas and feeling the car leap forward into your hands made you grin like a maniac behind your helmet, and you took a quick sip of your drink before beginning your hunt.

By the end of the lap, you were virtually sitting on Carlos’ rear wing. You felt a bit bad because Sainz had become one of your closer friends on the grid, but there was no time for friends in the actual race, and you’d buy him a drink after as had become the overtake custom between you and a handful of drivers. The rain was starting to drive and the track was no longer damp but properly soaked. You could feel the spray from the car in front pelting you.

“Guys I don’t know about this overtake,” you admitted into the radio as you had to rapidly correct a slide into turn 5.

“Y/N, I promise you he’ll go wide to protect himself and you’ll have the perfect opening. If you want the championship we need you to step up the aggression and chase the title,” You were not happy with your strategist for pushing you in the conditions, but you knew at the end of the day that if you wanted to keep a lead driver position with the team and be within a fighting chance for championship then they were right.

As predicted, on the approach to turn 7 Carlos’ car drifted wide and you tucked yourself even closer, coming up on his inside as you rammed the car into the curb with all your might and pulled through the corner. It was working, and you could see the nose of your car draw level with his as you reached the apex of the turn.

Your mistake came when you hit the acceleration. Your aim had been to push the speed coming out of the corner and complete the overtake, but your tyres span on the wet tarmac and you felt the car jerk in your hands as the back end swang out, sending the front following it around and your stomach dropped as you felt the sickening sensation of a wet spin.

All you felt was an almighty impact that made your neck snap back against your support brace and your hands fly off the wheel, the impact then forcing the car to jolt the opposite way and a second fast spin followed by an even harder impact swept any comprehension from under your feet.

You weren’t sure if the car had stopped or not, because your head was spinning so violently and your body was still recoiling from the double impact and the intense G forces that had thrown you about. Your radio was crackling and buzzing in your ear, but clearly, the connection was lost. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus and you weren’t entirely sure if you were conscious, everything around you was silent and you felt like you were sitting underwater, watching everything happen above the surface. You could faintly smell burning.

You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you could, or if you just didn’t want to. You were warm, very warm. But it was nice. You were quite happy to sit in the fuzzy little bubble.

The only thing to bring you from the haze was the feeling of something gripping the shoulder pads of your race suit and tugging you upwards. You felt like you were moving in slow motion, but you finally registered that you were supposed to get out of the car and in clumsy movements, with much tugging, you managed to stumble from the cockpit.

The body you stumbled into immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and half dragged your body as your feet scrambled on the gravel and made sluggish attempts at steps. You felt yourself being hoisted, and you vaguely registered that you’d been pulled over the barrier and clear of the track. You were pulled further away and then forced into a sitting position with your back against a low concrete wall a little further away.

The person who’d dragged you out was in front of you, shouting something but their voice was muffled by their helmet. They were fiddling with yours, yanking it off your head followed by your baklava, and then their own. You recognised the Ferrari race suit and realised it was Carlos squatting in front of you. He was shouting at you, you could see his mouth moving but the words weren’t reaching you through the fog surrounding your head.

“Are you stupid!?” He was shouting over the noise, the words starting to reach you but you just stared at him blankly.

“Are you stupid!?” He yelled again, “What the hell were you thinking!?” He carried on a little, the same question of your stupidity and a string of Spanish swear words repeating rather frequently.

The fog in your head lifted momentarily and the full force of the accident suddenly hit you. Your whole body lurched as your stomach dropped and your head started to spin again as it throbbed with pain.

“I’m going to be sick,” was all you managed before rather ungracefully turning your head sideways.

Carlos immediately leapt up, helping to pull your body into a better position. One hand was gripping firmly to your shoulder strap, making sure you didn’t tip forward into your mess, and the other rubbed gentle circles on your back.

“It’s okay, Y/N, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here,” he was mumbling, face far too close for your liking with what was happening, but you were grateful. Your whole body hurt and you could feel the energy draining from you rapidly.

“Where the fuck is first aid!?” He was shouting again, but not at you. There was too much activity and you were too preoccupied to work out if someone was replying to him. “I don’t care! I don’t give a shit about the fire, she needs help! Where are they!?” You’d stopped dry heaving and he handed you his baklava to wipe your mouth, before helping you back into a sitting position so you could lean against the wall.

And then it finally hit you, that you’d collided with Carlos. “Shit, Carlos, are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry-” you were rambling but he cut you off.

“I’m okay, hey,” his hand found your chin and forced you to make eye contact with him. His eyes were wide and had a slightly wild look in them, but they were dark and honest, his cheeks were flushed pink and had lines from his helmet that stood out even against his deep tan, and other than his hair being damp and sticking up in every direction he really looked okay. “I’m okay,” he repeated, and you believed him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you sounded meek. The adrenaline and initial shock of the crash were fading and you were feeling very small and very tired.

“What were you thinking?” His voice was softer, the initial anger giving way to concern. “That overtake is bad even in the dry weather, why attempt it in the wet?”

You were starting to feel very warm again, and Carlo’s features felt like they were drawing away from you as if you were slipping through a tunnel. There was a ringing in your ears. Behind you, you vaguely registered the start of another flurry of activity.

“My strategist…” you mumbled, the words feeling heavier and heavier on your tongue “They told me to…if I want the championship…” Carlos’ eyes visibly darkened, thick eyebrows drawing into a scowl and he started breathing through parted lips, muttering a single word you didn’t recognise. The tunnel seemed to be extending and the last thing you saw before you let the darkness consume you was Carlos craning around frantically, the look on his face positively murderous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You came around under the bright white lights of the track’s sickbay in the pit lane. The hard foam of the examination table was pressing hard into your hips and shoulders, your head uncomfortably tilted upwards on a lumpy but simultaneously flat pillow.

You started to stir, tentatively stretching your legs out and carefully gauging your body’s reaction, testing the stretch available in your sore muscles. The track doctor must have heard you because he turned around from where we was stood with his back to you, examining something you couldn’t see.

He was a tall man, with pale skin, platinum blonde hair and washed blue eyes that reminded you of the colour of hospital gowns. He was neat as a pin, down to the iron pressed suit and row of pens clipped into his breast pocket lab coat, also pressed, and the stethoscope perfectly balanced around his neck.

“Ah, Miss Y/L/N, I’m glad to see you awake,” you couldn’t quite place the soothing yet slightly clipped accent he spoke with.

“I need to ask you a few questions, okay?” You nodded, which you soon realised was a mistake as the room seemed to swoop in front of you. You stilled and had to take a deep breath, determined not to let him see you in any worse state than you already were

“Can you tell me your name please?”

“Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N,”

“Good, and do you know what day it is?”

“Sunday,”

“Excellent. Now this last one is a little tricky, okay? Do you know why you’re here?”

You were quiet for a moment. And then it slowly started flooding back to you, the flash of red on green and the out of control feeling of the car spinning you into the wall. You remembered the force of the impact and, for some reason, Carlos Sainz’s face.

“I crashed,” you mumbled “I hit another car on the corner and span into the wall,” the realisation that you had a DNF and no points to add to your championship campaign created a knot in your stomach.

“Very good!” He seemed a lot happier about your predicament than you were.

“How long have I been here? Is the race finished? Is Carlos okay?” The apparent approval from the doctor opened a floodgate of your own questions, but he sushed you gently and encouraged you to quieten down and lay back on the bed.

“No need to panic, Miss Y/L/N, please. The race is finished and you have only been here a few minutes. You passed out when you were removed from the track and the ambulance crew brought you straight here, I was just taking your heart rate when you woke up. Mr Sainz is fine, he is a little shaken but has already returned to his team,”

You nodded, still in shock from the crash and you found yourself having to work hard to follow the doctor’s explanation.

He continued to examine you, shining a light in both of your eyes and asking you to perform several reflexes and further memory tests once you were able to sit up.

“Well, I am pleased with you. That was a big crash and you have no lasting injuries. As you managed to walk away we don’t have to send you to the hospital. You are not showing any signs of a concussion but I would like you to please be watching for the symptoms, okay? You will be sore for a few days, and I would like to you rest a little, but other than that I am happy to release you to your team,”

The doctor helped you to your feet and you found that you were able to stand, and despite most of your muscles screaming you managed a polite thanks and collected the slip of paper signing you off and making your way slowly back to your home garage.

The scene when you arrived was surprising, your teammate and mentor Sebastian Vettel was in a shouting match with your head strategist. Sebastian was backed by a small green-clad crowd, but the head of Aston Martin and your whole strategy team were stood opposing him.

“-because you know this isn’t the first time you’ve made her do something so dangerous in a race!” Someone tried to interrupt him but Sebastian was having none of it, “No! I have stood by and I have watched her be pushed and pushed and pushed! I won’t have it anymore, she’s your primary but I’m older and I have championships and this is not how you win. I won’t watch her win like this,”

“It’s not like that-” someone, you couldn’t pick out who in the flurry of activity, started.

“You are going to get her killed!” Sebastian jabbed your strategist in the chest so hard he stumbled back a step. “I won’t stand by and watch it happen.” He turned on his heel and stormed out, finally spotting you leaning against the entrance.

You must have looked a state because his face instantly softened and he rested a hand on your forearm.

“You’re coming with me now, we are going to cool down,” he turned and shot a venomous look at the team behind him, who looked completely shellshocked. “We will be in the meeting later.” And with that Sebastian led you out of the garage.

“I’m sorry for you to see that,” you shrugged.

“It’s okay, I’m okay anyway,”

“No, it’s not okay. I knew they were pushing you, and several other drivers have made comments feeling you are being dangerous this year. And now we know it was not your choice, I am just so cross that they are doing this to you. And that we needed a crash for something to be said,” he shook his head as he walked.

You didn’t know what to say in response, so you just swallowed the lump in your throat and said nothing. It had never occurred to you that your team had been putting you in such dangerous positions and that you, who had been awed by the promise of the first female championship, had been blindly following their instructions. You were also worried you’d let Sebastian down, he was your mentor and your hero. The idea of disappointing him was in ways worse than the entire of Aston Martin and the FIA combined.

Seb led you back to your driver’s room and left you to manage yourself whilst he did his own cooldown routine. Having not completed the race you decided against your usual routine, instead opting to look after your body for a change. A trick from Carlos sprang to your mind. You had mocked him when he had first admitted that a big part of his routine was sitting in a massive bucket filled with ice-cold water, but now the idea sounded glorious for the multitude of bumps, bruises and aching muscles you’d acquired. You fixed yourself an electrolyte drink and changed into your swimwear before submerging yourself in the shockingly cold water. It was unpleasant, but as you grew used to it you could feel it soothing your whole body, and when you clambered out you had to admit you felt refreshed and a lot more comfortable. Your physiotherapist was about, so you called her in and relished in the feeling of the deep sports massage and adjustments she did with you to help limit the pain you’d be in over the following days.

As much as you wanted to avoid the team meeting, especially after Sebastian’s outburst you knew you couldn’t. And before long you found yourself slouched in an uncomfortable chair around a large table in the corporate offices above the garage. As you had suspected, the meeting was the first in what would be a string of many at headquarters in the coming weeks. You were given a formal apology from your strategy team for the accident, and Sebastian sat grimly with his arms folded and refused to apologise for his words until they gave you more than the formal apology because he felt it wasn’t enough. Then the meeting was the usual, driver reports of the car’s performance, a quick review of the statistics and a couple of goals set for your next race. Nobody dared analyse the crash. Seb made life wonderfully difficult for the team, and every time they tried to get more than the essential information out of him he’d just remind them with a short “I’m still mad at you,” and simply refuse to say another word.

You had been told you weren’t allowed to drive yourself back to the hotel, which was fine by you because your body was so heavy and tired that you had no interest in driving at all. You even skipped the paddock walk or finding the podium boys to congratulate, deciding to opt for the injury excuse to avoid interviews and use the back exit to leave. Seb had offered to drive you back to the hotel, but he didn’t have a choice in the post-race interview matter, so instead, you tossed your PR manager-slash-bodyguard Katie, a rather fierce ex-England Rugby player, your keys and let her drive you back to the hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in the safety of your hotel room, the exhaustion of the day hit a whole new level. You just about managed a sitting-down shower to scrub the race-day grime from your hair and body and changed into a pair of your most comfortable sweatpants and an oversized crop top and you crashed out on the king-sized bed with shitty TV in the background.

It was only late in the afternoon, but it didn’t stop you from falling into a deep, empty sleep that you woke up from several hours later, to a completely dark and silent room.

You reached blindly for your phone, blinking in the bright white light as it turned on in your face to realise it was only just past 9pm. You contemplated simply rolling over and falling back asleep, but scrolling through your Instagram had woken you up too much, plus a loud growl from your stomach reminded you that you had barely eaten that day and had only had an electrolyte solution after the race.

You had a couple of notifications, mainly from family members and a handful of drivers wishing you well, including Sebastian who was asking for regular updates on your health. You wrote them all back and spent a little time scrolling through your tags on your Instagram account, even reposting a couple of fans’ stories of the crash and reassuring people that you were okay. You were sitting with the music channel on in the background once again as you browsed the room service menu. Nothing was really capturing your attention, as most of it was large, heavy meals you knew you weren’t allowed during training and that you didn’t really want when another text notification drew your attention back to your phone.

Carlos Sainz:  I hope you are feeling better now, Y/N.

Carlos and you texted every now and then. You had a good friendship with him, and you would consider him close, but it was more of an in-person friendship and you almost exclusively associated him with race-week antics. Your messages were largely confined within the realms of the odd well wish, a birthday message or double-checking group plans. Although this text was to be expected, it still made your insides warm a little.

You:  I am, thanks! Just had a big nap and I feel pretty much back to normal

That was a lie, your headache had definitely died down but you were still stiff and achy, not to mention embarrassed and frustrated and deeply confused over the conflict the incident had caused. You felt a little guilty for lying to Carlos, so before you could think you were typing out a follow-up message.

You:  I’m actually just about to order some food, so by Seb’s standards, I’m totally cured :D

You instantly regretted the smiley face, how embarrassing could you be? You tossed your phone to the side and started going back through the menu, but another notification came through almost instantly.

Carlos Sainz:  Would you like some company?

That was enough to send your heart rate up and you felt a small stirring in the pit of your stomach.

Carlos Sainz:  I didn’t eat yet either

You:  Sure, it’s the least I can do for you after today

You:  But you’re coming to my room, I’m not dealing with the dining hall tonight

Carlos Sainz:  I don’t mind

You swallowed hard, you didn’t really know why this was having such an effect on you. Maybe it was just because in three years’ time the only driver you’d ever chosen to spend one-on-one time with was Seb, outside of the paddock and other race week promo business you ended up on. Well, there was no going back now.

You:  Room 287

Carlos simply sent a thumbs-up emoji after that, so you assumed it meant message received. You knew he was staying in the same hotel as you, as were the majority of the drivers because nearly all the managers went for the same trick of booking the closest hotel to the track with a 5-star rating, but you had no idea what time he’d arrive.

Considering he had only ever seen you before in either your race suit or promotional paddock wear and the occasional formal outfit for events, you weren’t entirely sure what was appropriate now. You decided that the least you could do was splash some cold water on your face and re-do your hair into a neater ponytail that didn’t look like it had been recently slept on. You made your bed and quickly shoved some clothes that were lying around into the wardrobe so there was less clutter about. You were just contemplating changing outfits when there was a soft knock on your door.

Even though he’d barely made a sound, the knock still made you jump and you had to take a second to steady yourself before you answered the door. A rather sheepish looking Carlos was on the other side.

“I feel like I am sneaking around, doing something I shouldn’t be,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head as he stepped into your room, taking in his surroundings with the same analytical gaze he seemed to approach everything with.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “I’m just not feeling up to going anywhere,”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” he was quick to retaliate “It’s more important you get time to recover, no?” He finally looked at you then, with those deep brown eyes so full of emotion, a gentle smile just playing at the corners of his lips. He, too, was dressed more casually in a plain but well-fitting white t-shirt and his standard blue jeans. You still felt underdressed, because Carlos had a knack for always looking put together, and because you were still wearing sweatpants. You cleared your throat awkwardly, and unsure of what to say, nodded stiffly.

“Uh, yeah. So, um, do you wanna look at the menu?” Carlos followed you as you walked in front of him, plucking the menu from where it had been sat on your bed and handing it to him, before moving towards the sofa under the window and sitting down. It felt weird to sit on your bed around him.

Carlos seated himself on the desk chair but angled his body slightly so he was nearly facing you. He was leaning back in the chair, confident and relaxed with one leg crossed over the other but maintaining perfect posture. His arms were massive, even when just holding the menu up and the white top further accentuated his deep tan skin. His head was dipped forward slightly and the angle he was sitting at gave you a jawline sharp enough to slice through, well, anything. His eyebrows were drawn together as he scanned the page and his full lips moved slightly as he tested out certain words. His hair was jet black, shiny from a fresh wash and combed neatly behind his ears, but just tufting up a little at the back of his head and the fringe was long and flopped forward onto his face.

Suddenly, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on your head, you realised why you were so nervous.

He’s gorgeous, you thought, rapidly followed by; shit. Because you needed him out of your room now and you couldn’t see any normal way to say 'So I’ve suddenly realised you’re incredibly attractive and I can barely breathe when you’re around me let alone act normal so please can you go?’ It wasn’t that you hadn’t known he was attractive before, come on, you weren’t blind, but you’d never seen him attractive like that before and it was completely throwing you.

Just as you were about to blurt out some excuse as to why you suddenly couldn’t entertain guests this evening, Carlos lifted his head and looked at you.

“Is there anything you would like?” Maybe it was because he held eye contact the entire time he spoke, and held it after, or maybe it was the Spanish accent but you felt like you were in a vacuum. You forced yourself to smile, screaming internally to act natural and not fuck this up because losing him as a friend would suck entirely.

“I dunno, it all sounds pretty crap if you ask me,” You didn’t know how someone could look at you with childlike curiosity, and at the same time like they are about to say or do something entirely sinful. Instead, he leaned back and laughed and you found yourself breathing a little easier.

“Are you fussy? Like Lando? Please, no, I cannot deal with teaching another child to eat,” he groaned dramatically, but was grinning at you.

“I’m not fussy!” You defended yourself, but met his playful tone, “I just don’t know what I want,”

“Women,” he rolled his eyes “None of you ever know what you want to eat. Come on, not even the burgers sound good?” The way he dragged out the 'come on’ and rolled his r’s was simply distracting. Your stomach decided to step in and make a loud squeaky growl. Judging by the way Carlos’ eyes widened and he let out another free giggle, he’d heard too. “See, you are hungry! I’m ordering the burgers, okay?”

“Yeah, alright,” you agreed, and then “Actually yeah, burgers sound great, thanks,”

There was something about his confidence that you found innately attractive, the way he was instantly comfortable in your room, but still respectful. He picked up the phone on your bedside table and dialled down as if it was the most natural thing in the world, sending glances at you and pulling a funny face as someone spoke at him from the other side of the line like he’d been placing orders for you all his life. When he sat back down it was on the sofa, beside you, so you turned to face him.

“Hey, Carlos, look I’m so sorry again about the race today-”

“Ah-”

“No, I want to talk, please? I shouldn’t have ever attempted that corner so close to you, no matter what I was being told over the radio, and it was totally my fault. Not that it’s an excuse for dangerous driving, but they - my strat team - have been really getting in my head about this year’s championship, you know? I think something’s going on with it because you should have seen Seb, he went off the handle back at the garage. He said they were going to kill me, and he threatened to quit,”

Carlos’ face had changed too, his jaw a little set and he’d lost all sense of relaxed teasing.

“They will, if they keep asking you to make choices like that. You are young, still, and you are supposed to be trusting in your team, why should you question them, ay? You shouldn’t have to, not yet anyway,” he sounded cross, and then he softened a little. “Dios mío, when I saw you in that car. You didn’t move, Y/N, you weren’t responding. There was a lot of smoke,” his voice faltered for a second, and he stared out of the window, running a hand through his hair with a hard swallow. “I couldn’t-”

But you didn’t get to find out what exactly Carlos couldn’t because the food arrived.

You ate the burgers in mostly silence, both of you more hungry than you knew from the long and stressful day. Burgers were absolutely the right call, and you told Carlos so as you sat, finally satisfied with a belly full of comfort food, picking off the last of your french fries. He seemed pleased with you, and you couldn’t help but think how nice it was to have dinner with a man who was actively encouraging you to eat more, rather than questioning you for not choosing a salad. You told Carlos that, too.

“Food is important,” he said it so simply, just a plain statement. You noticed he talked like that a lot, in relatively short sentences, all of which were perfect statements. He never seemed to invite contradiction or conflict, as if everything in his world was just simple facts. You couldn’t help but find it addictive.

Once the food had been consumed Carlos rose without a word and collected the plates and glasses, neatly stacking them on a small table near the door.

“You don’t have to do that,” you started, standing to take the plates off him when you realised he was clearing up for you. Carlos turned, quite sharply, and met your gaze once more.

“I want to,”

There he went again, with those statements that you just couldn’t argue over. You decided to let him have his way, and once he was done the pair of you retired back to the sofa.

“I’m sorry I don’t really have anything to drink in here,” you felt a little awkward, maybe it was the stubborn English culture kicking in that had trained an entire country to rely on copious amounts of alcohol at any social event.

“Cola is fine for us both, no?” You wanted to say no it was not, because your nerves were starting to return now you didn’t have food to focus on and you would have quite liked a glass of wine or even a gin for a bit of liquid courage.

“Yeah, no of course it is,” he had such a warm smile, you just wanted to be close to him.

“I would like to ask, why do you have your TV on always?” Part of you wanted to withdraw and lie, but he was staring at you with those wide eyes as if you held all the secrets he needed and before you could think you found yourself speaking honestly, for the first time in a while.

“I hate silence,” you admitted “My head’s always full, mind racing you know? Wherever I go I turn on the radio or the TV first thing and leave it on, it’s just background noise really but it helps me drown out myself,” you laughed awkwardly because you didn’t quite know how Carlos would react to you telling him something quite personal, but he didn’t laugh. He reached forward and placed a large hand on your forearm and squeezed lightly. When he leant back you could have sworn there would have been a burn mark in the shape of his hand on your arm.

“I understand,”

After you’d opened up to him it felt like part of the tension in the room had broken, and you found yourself relaxing again. He was still the Carlos you knew on the track, just as kind and funny and eager to please. Only now you were the sole subject of his attention. And you had to admit that whilst it was a little intense, you were loving every second.

The conversation flowed more naturally too, chatting about anything that came to either of your minds. It was easy and pleasant and it was only when he caught you stifling a yawn that the flow finally ceased.

“Are you tired?”

“No, I’m okay-”

“It’s later than I was expecting,” he acknowledged, nodding towards the clock on your bedside table that was reading nearly midnight. He stood despite your reasoning and you found yourself following him to the door. “This was really nice, but you need to sleep, to feel better,”

You knew where he was coming from and you agreed, but there was a strike of panic that suddenly shot through you as his hand closed around the handle door handle to leave.

“No, wait!” He dropped the handle as if it was electrified, that wide brown stare fixed on you, confusion and concern flashing across his features.

“I just don’t think I want to be alone yet,” you admitted to the floor, the sudden spike of fear that had shot through you was yet to subside and you could feel the icy cold shot of adrenaline making its way through your system, and not in a good way “Please?”

Your voice faltered and Carlos immediately stepped forwards, reaching to hold both of your upper arms as if to steady you.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” That did it, the shock of the day and the realisation of everything that had happened crashed into you with full force and for a second you felt your breath hitch. Your vision started to cloud as your eyes burnt, and you had to look away to allow yourself to swallow and try to blink it away. But it was too late, the lump had already formed in your throat and the moment you blinked you felt hot, wet tracks streak down your face. Words were clearly not going to happen for you so you just gritted your teeth and managed the smallest shake of your head.

“No, no, Cariño, don’t cry,” without hesitation Carlos pulled you even closer, allowing you to bury your face in his chest as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you just enough to provide the pressure you didn’t know you needed. You instantly felt safe in his arms, like nothing could get to you when you were there. And it wasn’t long with your forehead pressed against his sternum and several steadying breaths that you managed to regain control of yourself. Carlos didn’t move a muscle aside from one hand gently rubbing your back, keeping you tight in the hug and not even flinching away from the contact until you managed to find the self-control to push yourself back, at which he immediately released you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, still staring at the floor. Then you dragged your fingers under your eyes and across your cheeks, perhaps a little harsher than necessary and managed to look at him. The expression on his face wasn’t difficult to read, but it was confusing because he was staring at you as if the two seconds of weakness you had shown had completely broken his heart. “Dunno what came over me. Here,” you moved back into the living space of the hotel room and threw him the remote control which he caught with ease “Do you wanna watch a movie or something?”

He nodded, not pushing you to talk which was good because the short burst of tears had done nothing but further tangle the mess in your head. Deciding that having to be dragged out of your car by Carlos and then have him subsequently watch you both throw up and cry within the space of only an afternoon, what remained of your dignity was now in tatters and so you climbed onto your bed without a second thought, too tired to care what he might think of you. He waited quietly, gently turning the remote in his hands as he watched you get comfortable on your side of the bed. You decided getting under the covers would be a step too far but opted for propping yourself up against the copious pillows behind you and stretching your legs out. Only when you stopped moving did he join you, sitting close, but not so close that he was touching you.

Within seconds you found that you had drawn your knees up to your chest, hugging them as you used to do when you were overwhelmed in your earlier years. You watched quietly as he flicked through the Netlfix options, squinting slightly to examine the titles. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the panicked feeling that hit you when the Spaniard had gone to leave your room.

“Did I hurt you?” Your voice was small, and you did not appreciate the wobble in your tone. Carlos’ attention was temporarily diverted from the television as you found him searching your face once more.

“No,”

“Don’t lie,”

“Well, it was a crash. You know how the G-force hits, the muscles get a little sore but I’m not hurt,” the look on your face clearly said that you weren’t buying it. “Y/N, I promise to you, okay? I have hurt myself more at the gym,” the way his hand landed on your shoulder, right at the top, on your neck really, a thumb caressing your cheek so briefly you could have sworn it never happened, was just enough to convince you to drop it.

“Okay,”

“Okay,” he nodded and went back to picking the movie. You wished you could be like that, so calm and collected, so seemingly unfazed by the chaos surrounding him. You let him decide on the film, it was an action movie and you didn’t even recognise the title but you didn’t care. You just didn’t want to be alone, you didn’t want to dwell on the inevitable, but even as you stared non-focused on the sword-wielding heroes in front of you, you could feel it bubbling still.

“If I lose my seat because of this I deserve it,” you said finally. The second the words were out of your mouth you felt lighter like your chest had finally been released and some of the weight lifted off. Something subconscious uncoiled within you.

“Drivers don’t get fired for mistakes,” he said like it was nothing.

“But it wasn’t a mistake, I was told to push on the corner and I did,”

“You didn’t plan to hit me, so it’s a mistake, you’re not gonna lose your seat,”

“But-”

“No,”

“Carlos-”

“No!” Finally, you thought, he responded to your worries with something other than total nonchalance. “You are so talented, Y/N, you’re one of the best drivers on the grid. Look at you, you’re fighting for the world championship in a midfield car - that’s incredible. They don’t wanna be losing you, and this is their fault anyway. So no more losing seats, okay? I don’t wanna hear it,” his eyes were blazing, burning right into yours and his cheeks were just starting to show a pale pink flush. Judging by the heat in your face, you were as red as a tomato. You were about to open your mouth to say, well, something, but Carlos beat you to it with a simple gesture forwards, and so you both turned and carried on watching the film in a slightly more tense, but still amicable silence.

You found yourself relaxing as the film went on. Carlos’ silence was actually quite pleasant, as he seemed relaxed too, leaning back against your bed with casual attention on the movie, not frightened to laugh or gasp along with it as he pleased. Mirroring him was almost too easy, and you allowed yourself to stretch out once more and relax your shoulders. If Carlos noticed, he didn’t say anything, and you appreciated that.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, but he dropped the knee of the leg closest to you out to the side, causing it to knock gently against yours. And he didn’t move away. The next thing you knew your legs were touching, all the way from your hip down to your ankle. It wasn’t a cuddle, just a light contact, but it was nice. You couldn’t help but feel calmer just by being in his presence. Before you could stop yourself you were leaning into his side, so your whole body was just pressed against his. He had an arm draped over your headboard, and you wondered if he would put it around you, but he never did, allowing you full control of the situation and the level of touch you wished to seek from him.

He was warm too, so warm, even in just a t-shirt. You supposed it was his Mediterranian blood. It was like having your own personal heater sat right beside you, a heater that was suddenly very still and had a wonderfully rhythmic breathing pattern. You found yourself naturally synching with his movements, and the film seemed to be quietening into the background.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You must have fallen asleep then because the next thing you knew you were waking up for the second time in a pitch-black room. You were sweating, your heart racing and your skin sticky and unpleasant, the only thing you wanted to do was remove everything from your body, instantly. You ripped the covers off and shimmied the sweatpants down your legs, kicking them quickly away from you and revelling in the way the cooled night air hit your legs. You were about to follow suit with your top when it occurred to you that you had not fallen asleep alone.

However, there was an eerie silence that blanketed you now. All it took was reaching a hand out to the other side of the bed to realise what your sinking heart already knew, Carlos was gone. You couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed, and actually quite embarrassed that he’d felt the need to sneak away from you. But the digital clock was showing it was close to 3 am and you weren’t even fully conscious, so you allowed yourself to flop back down and sleep off the rest of the night.

When you did wake up naturally once more, it was late in the morning. After scrolling through your phone for a bit, and finding yourself disappointed and actually quite annoyed that you hadn’t even had so much as a text from Carlos, you decided to have a shower and take advantage of the all-day breakfast menu in the restaurant downstairs. It was only after your shower when you were rummaging around searching for something that you spotted a piece of paper folded and propped up against your bedside table.

The note was addressed to you and written in a familiar loping script.

Y/N,

You fell asleep and I didn’t feel good to stay the whole night when you didn’t ask me to, so I went back to my room. I hope it didn’t upset you that I was gone, if I am to be so confident to hope you missed me!

I wish to thank you too for dinner last night. I wish I had been able to know you like that a bit more sooner. Perhaps you would like breakfast tomorrow? I will wait for you to wake up.

Love,

Carlos.

He’d written you a note. A real, old-school note and he’d signed it 'love’. You found yourself grinning like a schoolgirl, your heart racing and your face felt hot even though there was no one around. There was no point pretending, you thought to yourself, what was the point? You’d realised last night something was different and he made you feel good. Plus if you were about to go through a very challenging period with Aston Martin, and maybe even finding yourself losing a seat or transferring to a different team, then why didn’t you deserve to have a bit of fun in the meantime?

You changed into a sundress that you knew was far too pretty for the restaurant in the hotel, and spent a little time fussing with your hair and makeup before you picked up your phone. It was still before midday, so you decided to take control for once, and sent off a one-word text to Carlos,

You: Brunch?

Chapter Text

The five minutes after you sent the text felt like it stretched on for a lifetime.

Every little sound felt like it was dialled up, your skirt catching on the rough material of the desk chair felt like it was coming through a boom box.  When your phone pinged in response it sounded like a bullet echoing through your room.  You tried to ignore your shaking hands as you picked up the phone because it was ridiculous, you told yourself.  Carlos had invited you first in his note.  

Carlos Sainz:  When?

You:  Now

Because what was the point in waiting around?  Plus, yet again, you were starving.

By the time you’d swapped shoes three times he was at your door.  The awkward demeanour from yesterday was replaced with a much more Carlos look, all bright smiles and white teeth and clean-shaven skin. 

“Good morning, Cariño,” you weren’t quite sure how to respond, but Carlos didn’t give you time to worry about it, sweeping down and pressing a quick kiss to both of your cheeks.  You laughed to try and distract yourself from the blush you could already feel rising and pointed at the alarm clock on your bedside table. 

“Only just,” you admitted.  He grinned at you. 

“I don’t mind,” he was wearing a pair of darker jeans than yesterday, with a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top and the sleeves rolled up to combat the already hot Italian morning.  “Shall we go?”

You nodded, reaching down to pull on your original shoe choice a pair of pretty white sandals without too much of a heel.  Almost instinctively, and as he was stood so close, you placed a hand on his arm to balance yourself.  You felt Carlos tense a little but he didn’t move and let you finish and stand up.  You let go of his arm pretty quickly to grab your phone and purse and close your hotel room door behind you.  Carlos walked down the hall and into the elevator beside you in amicable silence, only speaking once you’d pressed the button to take you to the ground floor and turned to face him. 

“What is a brunch?"  You tried not to laugh because Carlos was looking at you with genuine question, but you couldn’t help it.  Hearing him try out the new word in his accent was sweet, even though he completely butchered it.  "What?” He questioned, searching your face with a good-natured smile as you shook your head at him.  “Did I say it wrong?" 

"Brunch,” you corrected “It’s like when you wake up too late to have breakfast, but it’s too early for lunch so you sort of have both in one meal," 

At that point, the elevator pinged and the doors slid open onto the ground floor.  You stepped out into the lobby and turned right towards the hotel restaurant on autopilot.  Carlos caught you by the elbow, making you stop in your traps and tilt your head at him quizzically. 

"It’s a nice day for a walk, no?” The sun was beating down on the road outside the hotel and you had to admit that the sun-baked city you were in looked very inviting.  So you agreed with Carlos and let him lead you out of the hotel. 

It was only a short walk down the road into the town.  It was hot, but not unpleasant and there was a breeze that brushed pleasantly against your legs.  Carlos was telling you about Imola and the surrounding area.  Since his move to Italy when he started working with Ferrari he had become a big fan of the country and was keen to share what he had learnt with you. 

“Do you wanna eat in the town then?” You asked, accidentally interrupting him midway through telling you about some of his favourite Italian food.  He looked down at you with an eyebrow raised, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“There is a small restaurant in the town,” he gestured forward to the cluster of buildings you were rapidly approaching “I think it will be very good for, ah, brunch,” he deliberately put too much emphasis on the word, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he did so to make you laugh.  

“Did you sleep well?” It was an innocent enough question but he caught you off guard, and you could feel your face warming a little. 

“Yeah…” in a split second you decided to be honest. “I woke up at like 3 am on my own, totally confused,” you couldn’t bring yourself to look up for his reaction. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair and adjusting the Ray-Bans on his nose.  “I thought maybe you’d prefer to wake up alone than to kick me out,” you were definitely blushing now. 

“And I snore!” He said, followed by a free laugh that immediately broke whatever awkward trance you had found yourself in.  You couldn’t help but watch as he dropped his head back with ease, his Adam’s apple moving slightly and hair shaking out behind him as he laughed. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” you said quietly.  If Carlos heard you he didn’t respond.  You were preoccupied anyway, winding your way through a European high street full of prettily coloured buildings and flower boxes bursting with colour.  He gestured for you to turn down a narrow cobbled street that looked almost deserted aside from a tiny hanging sign. 

“Here,” he said when you came level with the sign.  The restaurant was tiny, barely the size of a shop front but beautiful.  It was dimly lit inside even though it was midday, but each table had a candle glowing in a jar and fairy lights were strung haphazardly around.  The place was almost deserted, but even so, Carlos said something to the waiter in Italian and he led you round a corner to a table that was tucked away from the rest of the place.  He pulled out a chair for you before taking a seat opposite. 

In the low light, with Carlos watching you intently, there was a little voice in the back of your head wondering; is this a date? 

“So, what do you normally eat on brunch?” Carlos asked you as the waiter handed you a small menu each.  Of course, there wasn’t a word of English on the menu and you didn’t know much more Italian than your basic hellos, please and thank yous.  Sometimes you really hated that the culture of your education had left you severely monolingual.  You explained that it really could be anything, from a full English to French toast to Belgian waffles.  He watched you speak with his full attention as you described the array of dishes you were used to, leaning forward with his elbows on the table to prop his chin on his hands.  You picked up the menu again and flicked through it whilst you finished describing the complexities of avocado toast. 

“I don’t think I’m going to find anything that that here though, am I?” Carlos didn’t answer you properly, instead shrugging his shoulders and grinning at you. 

“Do you trust me to decide?” You nodded without thought.  One thing you’d learnt about Carlos was that he took food very seriously, and good food even more so.  So you sat back and enjoyed not thinking, getting very easily lost in conversation with Carlos.  When it came to ordering you couldn’t help but find it extremely attractive.  Carlos didn’t look at the menu once and conversed with the waiter as if he was a local.  You didn’t have a clue what we was saying but it sounded wonderful.  One thing you did recognise was the ice bucket that was brought to your table.  You quirked an eyebrow at Carlos 

“I thought you said cola was fine last night?” He waved you off as if it was nothing.

“No racing today.  And no head wounds.  How are you feeling, by the way?” You had wondered when the question of your health would come up. 

“Fine,” you said.  Your physio had done a brilliant job with you and paired with a decent sleep you were feeling surprisingly bright following the crash.  “I have two days off training to recover from any muscle strains but I can’t really feel any, and I was fine walking here,” you added when you noticed he was looking unconvinced. 

You found yourself pleasantly surprised at the bottle of champagne and peach puree that was brought to your table, the waiter assembling bellinis for yourself and Carlos.  Carlos raised his glass towards you for a toast, which you met, although you had no idea what he could possibly want to toast. 

“For a fresh start,” he explained.  The way he was leaning forward as he spoke, his hand so close to yours and eyes boring into yours made you think that he might have meant more than just forgiving you for the crash. 

“You said you don’t know what brunch is, how did you know to order these?” You questioned, nodding to the drink in your hand.  Carlos grinned, not a hint of shame in his body language. 

“I didn’t know it was for brunch.  I just like to have them,” well, you thought.  That was something you certainly didn’t know about him. 

“Well I can drink to that,” you returned his smile, feeling yourself truly relaxing into his presence.  

The food Carlos had ordered was heavenly, and you told him so multiple times.  There was an impressive spread of dishes, from bread and jams to cheese, to fried eggs and some small pasta dishes.  Your favourite was the bruschetta, the fresh bread toasted to perfection and topped with herby tomatoes and mozzarella cheese that melted in your mouth.  Carlos seemed to enjoy the fact that you were enjoying the food because he was taking great pride in explaining to you everything you didn’t immediately recognise and once more you found yourself just soaking up every second of his undivided attention. 

Once the plates had been cleared away and your glasses had been topped up several times you were filled with a pleasant buzz and starting to really enjoy yourself.  You were propped up on your elbows, leaning forward to be as close to Carlos as you could over the small table.  His forearms were resting on the table, falling just wide of your elbows.  One of his fingers was just gently grazing up and down your forearm, sending little tingles down your spine as he did so.  The waiter came back and you decided that by the one word you did recognise, he was being asked if he wanted to order more. 

“Tiramisu," 

You were, however, a little surprised when only one plate was brought out with two spoons.  You didn’t say anything because Carlos was already encouraging you to take the first bite and the way he watched you lick the spoon clean as you eagerly informed him it was the best tiramisu you’d ever had was downright sinful.  Sharing the desert had been a good idea because by the time you’d managed about a third of the cake you were completely stuffed and refusing another bite.  Carlos was only too happy to clear up for you. 

He was just finishing when you noticed the small smudge of cream clinging to his top lip.  You liked to think it was the champagne that spurred you to do what you did next. 

"You have a little-” you gestured to his lip, but before he could react you’d leant forward to wipe the cream away with your thumb.  Carlos was virtually frozen in his seat, his eyes fixed on you almost hungrily.  Before there was time for second thoughts or regrets you put your thumb in your mouth and licked the cream away.  His eyes widened as he watched you lower your hand before focusing back on your face.  You had to admit watching the blush bloom across his cheeks made you feel a little smug. 

It was probably a good thing the waiter arrived once more because you had no idea what to do or say following on from that, and Carlos for once looked too stunned to say something to you.  He mentioned something that sounded suspiciously like ‘bill’ so you immediately picked up your purse and began rummaging through to find your card.  Carlos looked downright horrified when you produced it. 

“No,”

“What?" 

"Put your card away," 

"Don’t be silly I’m happy to split it,” you started to argue but Carlos caught your wrist, his hand wrapping around it with ease.

“Put it away.  I pay today," 

"You really don’t have to, it was my idea-" 

"Y/N,” there was no argument in his tone.  “I took you out, I will pay,” you were fast learning that Carlos was painfully stubborn and when he had his mind set on something there was no talking him out of it.  So you tucked your card back into your purse as he handed his off to the waiter. 

“Fine.  But next time I’m taking you out, so I’ll pay,” you challenged with a raised eyebrow.  Carlos muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.  But it didn’t matter because the next thing you knew he was helping you to your feet and you were realising you were a little tipsier than you perhaps should have been for early afternoon on a Monday.  You weren’t drunk, but you definitely weren’t sober as Carlos and you made your way back through the quiet alley and onto the high street. 

He swerved as he was telling you a story about his football team, his shoulder bumping against yours.  Normally you would have been able to recover quickly but with alcohol-soaked reactions you found yourself grabbing his arm for support.  Carlos looked at you for a second, before breaking into a childish giggle that had you following suit as you realised that Carlos was also pretty tipsy.  He covered the hand on his arm with his own and repositioned you slightly so you were walking arm in arm.  You were just about to leave the shaded side street when you spotted something that made you hesitate. 

Carlos stopped when you tugged on his arm and discreetly pointed to the small group of people looking up and down the busy street.  They were all wearing bright red caps and t-shirts.  You had no idea how, but F1 fans, especially the Ferrari ones seemed to get themselves everywhere.  Carlos tilted his head at you, a little confused as you were both used to high levels of attention. 

“You don’t wanna be seen with me?” he couldn’t quite keep the dejection out of his tone. 

“Erm, not like this,” you mumbled, pointing to yourself and then him.  You hated it, but being a woman meant you had to think so much harder about where you were and who you were with all the time.  When you first joined the grid there were articles published after almost every race, speculating which of the drivers you were sleeping with based on the few moments of interaction they had caught in the paddock or during interviews.  Netflix was even worse, you hadn’t seen Drive to Survive, but it was now your third season on the show and you knew from the comments fans made when you met them that your romantic interests were frequently brought to the attention of the public eye.  It was the main reason you had made the rule for yourself that you did not spend time with any drivers other than your teammate outside of race tracks and events.  And now here you were.  Out in a silly sundress in a small Italian town with Carlos Sainz Jr, you virtually hanging off his arm and the pair of you drunk in the afternoon.  You’d barely spent any time with him and the thought of it already being taken over the media made your chest ache.  You wouldn’t even get the chance to figure things out for yourself before the internet decided to do it for you.

You tried to explain it to Carlos, but you felt like you weren’t doing it justice and you managed to say ‘it’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you’ about four times before he stopped you from rambling.  

“Hey, I get it, it’s okay,”

“Are you sure?” your confidence faltered for a second. 

“I promise,” those big brown eyes were searching your face again, the humour from minutes ago temporarily vanished.  He turned you effectively and walked you the opposite way down the narrow street which opened out onto a main road, where he was able to very rapidly locate a taxi and neatly tuck you inside before himself.  The taxi dropped you off at the service entrance to the hotel and you found that you were able to duck inside with no fan spottings to have to worry about.  Carlos insisted on walking you all the way back up to your room.  You had learnt he was staying on the opposite side of the hotel and had to travel around the swimming pool in order to reach you. 

The fan sighting had unnerved you a little, so you brought him into your room to bid him farewell.  As soon as the door was closed behind you, you visibly relaxed, slumping back against the wall as you looked up at Carlos, who had taken his sunglasses off and tucked them into his shirt.  

“Thank you.  For brunch and for, you know,” you felt embarrassed that you’d had to end the morning the way you had but Carlos didn’t need to hear it.  He was leaning down to speak to you, so close to hovering over you but not quite making the step into your personal space.  The playful shine was back in his eyes and you could still feel the buzz of the champagne.  Maybe that was why he reached forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand hovering by your face for a moment too long after. 

“It was perfect,” your stomach flipped at the word.  Because perfect meant a whole lot more than ‘a really nice time’.  There was a definite blush on your face now but there was no way you could do anything to hide it.  Not with the intensity of Carlos’ gaze entirely trained on you. 

“Carlos…” his name was barely a whisper.  He stepped closer, a hand landing on the wall beside your head as he did so.

“Y/N,” his gaze flickered down to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.  But it was enough.  Maybe you didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the one thing you knew was that you did not want to be friends with Carlos Sainz.  You caught a quick glimpse of his tongue poking out to moisten his full lips and you were done for.  Your heart was thudding in your ears.  Without a second thought, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled.  He let out a small yelp, but you didn’t give him time to respond any further before you kissed him.

He responded immediately, his arms wrapping tight around your waist and pulling you close to him.  Your body shut down for a moment, because kissing him felt so damn good.  Like everything with Carlos he had an irresistible intensity about him, from the way he tightened his arms around you to how he nudged your head to the side slightly to gain better access.  You finally managed to let go of his shirt to wrap your arms around his neck, the kiss becoming sweeter. 

You waited until your lungs were burning to pull away.  His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown and lips a shade brighter as he stared at you like you’d just told him the secrets of the universe.  But there was a smile behind the shock.  

“Where are your plans next week?” The question caught you off guard, but you couldn’t stop the smile that was making its way onto your face. 

“I’m going back to England early tomorrow.  Spending the week at home and then I fly to Miami on the Monday,” Carlos nodded in thought. 

“I arrive on Sunday,” 

“Well I did say I’d take you out, how does Tuesday in Miami sound?” it was a little over a week away, which felt like an acceptable time for a second date.  If it was a second date. 

“I can’t wait,” you realised that you were still in his arms, his hands warm where they covered your hips.  You weren’t sure what to do with your hands so you fiddled with the small strip of excess material where his shirt buttoned.  One of his hands came up to tilt your chin up so he could press another chaste kiss to your lips.  He was like a real-life Disney Prince, you thought, and it was making you weak in the knees.  

“What are you doing?” 

“When?” He was kissing your cheek. 

“This week, later…” he kissed your lips again.

“Going home, to Maranello,” he kissed your jaw “Later is boring.  Meetings for dinner and my PT in the gym,” you nodded and he found your mouth again.  It was getting difficult to focus.

“I have to pack,” you agreed absentmindedly.  Things needed to get done today and a tipsy Carlos in your hotel room was not the way to achieve anything, well anything productive at least.  He nodded against your skin and pulled away, releasing his grip on you but not stepping entirely away. 

“I’m very excited to see you in Miami,” you agreed because already a race you were beginning to dread was becoming more and more exciting.  “Maybe you’d even like to see the golf courses?”

You sighed with a shake of your head and an easy laugh, playfully shoving him towards your door.  You knew Carlos played golf, it was difficult to not know.  He was constantly putting pictures on his Instagram at different courses across the globe and if you caught him and Lando in the same room you’d not be able to get a word in edgeways as they talked about the sport incessantly.  

“We’ll see about that,” you mused playfully.  Carlos turned to you once more.  He didn’t kiss you again but he pulled you in for a hug that couldn’t have been any different to the one he had given you the night before.  He kissed your cheek as he bid you goodbye and you couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten a little as you watched his frame retreat down the corridor towards the stairwell. 

You couldn’t process a single thing that had just happened.  Your brain felt like someone had thrown it into a blender, your mind spinning.  If someone had told you this time yesterday that Carlos fucking Sainz would be snogging you off your feet, there was no way in hell you would have believed them.  You collapsed back onto your bed and decided you could afford to avoid the tedious packing process for another hour or two by calling your best friend and giving her a play-by-play analysis of the last 24 hours.  It involved a lot of squealing down the phone and enough ‘oh my god’s to earn the pair of you a lifetime of Hail Mary’s at the Catholic church. 

You had dinner booked at the hotel with Katie later to discuss plans for the week and when you’d be reuniting with the team in Miami, so you changed into a simple blouse and jeans for that.  She was curious about what you had been up to that morning as you had failed to answer three texts from her.  You considered telling her that you’d been out with Carlos and just omitting the kissing, but you just couldn’t be bothered to deal with any lectures so instead, you said that you’d spent a quiet morning recovering from the crash and had taken yourself on a small walk in the afternoon.  It was a good lie because Katie didn’t even question your very simple order of margarita pizza and a glass of water.  Packing was really the last thing you wanted to do, but after dragging out dinner as long as you could you found yourself returned to your hotel room with no more excuses and a flight in eight hours. 

You haphazardly threw everything into your suitcase aside from the clothes you needed tomorrow and your carry-on bag that you never packed until the morning and collapsed onto your bed.  You only realised then that it had been quite a busy post-race day, you usually spent them either snoozing on planes or lounging around in luxurious hotels avoiding any sort of responsibility for as long as you could.  An old rom-com was on the TV and within ten minutes you were passed out fast asleep, a smile still on your face and the faint scent of Carlos’ cologne in the air. 

Chapter Text

The first thing you noticed about Miami was the heat.  If you’d thought Imola was hot with its dry European spring, then Miami was a boiling swamp.  It was the kind of hot that took your breath away from the second you stepped off the aeroplane, especially after spending the last week of April in England, where the weather had yet to catch up with the extended daylight hours.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Given the chaos of the introduction to Miami, you thought Thursday might have been a bit quieter.

You were, inevitably, wrong.

You had breakfast with Katie and a small entourage of Aston Martin staff who were trying to make your life as easy as possible, much against your will.  You spent most of the meal staring over Katie's shoulder, where you could see the back of a mop of jet black hair and strong shoulders with the number 55 splayed in yellow between them.  You hated how even the back of him made your stomach clench these days.  You could tell by the animated movements he was deep in conversation with his own team, watching as he spoke with his hands to describe something.  You wondered what he was talking about.  Probably tyres if you knew Carlos at all, it was always about the tyres with him. 

“Y/N!”  Katie snapping her fingers in front of you brought your attention back to your own table.  “Are you even listening to me?”  You looked down at your yoghurt, wondering shortly if you could get away with pretending. 

“No,”  you admitted with a sheepish smile.  She sighed and rolled her eyes.  

“I was telling you where you need to be today, if you actually wanted to know,” 

“Not really,”  you grinned at her and she tutted at you behind her iPad, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  You propped your elbows up on the table and battered your eyelashes sweetly at her.  “Okay hit me, who do I have to make happy today?”

You wondered if the PR people get a sick kick of satisfaction out of jamming their driver's days full of mindless crap just to watch their faces fall as their own ideas of how their day might go fly out of the window.  That was how it felt anyway, as you were briefed that not only would you attend your seat fitting, practice session meeting and the fan signing sessions as expected, but you were to spend any free minute in the Aston Martin hospitality watching and supporting the lower level races and entertainment being hosted on the pit lane.  The only saving grace, you figured, was that Sebastian would be there with you. 

You were allowed a swim after breakfast, followed by a quick stretch-out session before you were herded out into the paddock to begin duties.  Surprisingly, the day slipped by quite pleasantly.  The fan meet and greet was so busy it took hours to get through everyone, but the fans were insane which made it worth it for you.  You’d never been given so many gifts, had so many kind words and some slightly bizarre requests.  After the third man asked you to sign his bare chest you decided to place a blanket rule on body signing.

You also found yourself enjoying the lower races much more than you thought you would.  Lounging in a deckchair on your fourth non-alcoholic beer watching the chaos of the pit lane from above was actually quite nice.  Not being the one in the middle of it all, stressing about stop times and tyre strategy and arguing on the radio, instead just enjoying the thrill of motorsport as you had when you were a child.  It was safe to say you’d missed it.  You never regretted becoming a driver, but it made you think of the driver’s wives and girlfriends and part of you was a little envious of the glamour of it all, of the kind of life where your main concern would be picking your outfit for the day.  You and Seb were also running a halfhearted betting pool on the F2, and lazily arguing about the most effective lines into a couple of the corners.  There were a handful of sponsors around, but not enough to be much of a bother and you were pretty sure at one point when you looked over at Seb he was napping behind his sunglasses. 

Much to your honour,  you’d been asked to present the awards for the W-Series race, and for once you found yourself not bitterly hating the media duties and public appearances that came with being a professional athlete.  The W-Series race had been a spectacular display of driving and there was no doubt that you were excited to hopefully be sharing the F1 grid with more women in the coming years.  You told Jamie Chadwick you looked forward to racing her as you handed her the first-place trophy, and the young woman looked like Christmas came early as she caught you with a firm spray of champagne.  A photo was taken of the entire female grid, with you in the centre afterwards.  You saw it later, all of you with rosy cheeks and arms flung around each other like old friends and immediately bought a framed copy. 

You’d heard only briefly from Carlos throughout the day.  He was doing a filmed exposé out on one of the fancy golf courses with Lando for the majority of the day.  He’d texted you a picture of a very elaborate-looking mocktail, followed by a terrible selfie of him and Lando captioned ‘muppets’.  You told him about the W-Series to which he reacted with a thumbs up.  By the time you’d had your police escort back to the hotel complex, it was a little past 7 pm. 

You: Fancy dinner?  Just got back to the hotel 

You didn’t think too much about sending the text.  You knew it was a long shot given the schedules of the day, but you were itching to catch up properly with Carlos and if it meant you could avoid another dinner going over the fine details of your life with Katie, well, who were you to complain.  By the time you’d had a shower and changed into a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting top to try and keep the humidity away, you had three texts. 

Carlos Sainz: Still in meetings, they delivered us pizza. 

Carlos Sainz: I am sorry, Cariño.  You can take me to the date after I win on Sunday.

His emoji use really was horrible, you thought; a chilli, a flexing arm and a winking face with its tongue out.  It still made your insides warm.

Track Dad: Come to dinner with me, I’m hiding from Antti.

That was Seb, who’d earnt the nickname last year when he spent most of his time in the paddock chasing yourself and Mick Schumacher around like a parent with toddlers that kept running off.  The media loved the relationship the three of you had kindled, with Seb very much mentoring the pair of you.  And as for you and Mick, well you just adored him.  You’d be surprised if anyone could even dislike the young German, he was nothing but nice, probably one of the sweetest men you’d ever met.  He was endlessly kind and surprisingly humble to the point of being shy despite his heritage.

You sent Carlos several snoozing emojis in response and wished him luck with the meetings (but not the race) and responded to Seb that you’d meet him in the lobby in five minutes.  To no one’s surprise, when you stepped out of the elevator into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, Seb was waiting for you in deep conversation with Mick.  You greeted them readily, pulling Mick into a big hug as you’d not seen him around in a while. 

The three of you had a wonderful dinner in the hotel, even if your menu had clearly been sent forward from your nutritionist, containing a thrilling array of steamed fish and steamed veg and plain carbohydrates.  It was always easy to be yourself around the three of them, and it made you laugh how when Mick was around Seb changed from the equally troublesome teammate he was with you to a fond parent.  You didn’t mind too much, because Mick was equally fun to bounce off and Seb inevitably would end up in the chaos in some way or another.  You talked mostly about the upcoming race, trying to find out how best to approach a track you’d never driven before and what the weather meant for tyre strategy and how bad the first turn would be.  

You fell asleep easily that night, feeling strangely satisfied and excited to get the car out for practice.

Chapter Text

The Friday practise sessions were of little note.  You got through FP1 relatively smoothly, only reporting back that your car felt a little slippy on the rear and you had to correct quite a few near-spins.  It was hard to set a fast lap with hard tyres and the cluster of yellow flags you had to work your way around, but you still came out with a decent P6 and a bunch of notes you spent your lunch break poring over.  FP2 started much better, and already you felt like the small adjustments your engineer had done were giving you a much sturdier and quicker drive.  Working onto the medium and soft tyres was also helping, and you were just starting to enjoy the track and work up to putting some good times on the board when you drove past a flashing yellow flag. 

“Virtual safety car?”  You asked down the radio. 

“Yep, confirmed,”  you sighed, with a roll of your eyes and took the time at a cruising speed to take a sip of your drink. 

“What happened?  Is there debris on track?”  What you really meant was who happened, but it wasn’t normal for drivers to ask that. 

“Negative, no debris on track.  Sainz into the wall at Turn 14,” 

Fuck.

You knew this was going to happen.  It was the nature of the sport that no driver was ever safe or cushioned from accidents.  World champions, rookies and everyone in-between crashes out or spins or has technical problems.  Hell, just last week you’d proved that.  But you really hadn’t expected to hear his name like that so soon.  You weren’t ready for the way your stomach dropped and your chest squeezed and the only thing you cared about was if he was okay or not.  At least last time you’d been so out of it you’d barely been aware of your own injuries let alone someone else’s.  This time all you could think about was what kind of mess he was in. 

As you approached the third sector of the track you slowed to a virtual crawl until the stricken Ferrari was visible.  It was sat flush against the concrete barrier deep in a gravel trap, but Carlos was out and you saw a flash of his red race suit as he hopped the fence, providing only a small flood of relief to know he walked away.  You were distracted for the rest of FP2, even so, you managed to pull a P5 and gain 1.3 seconds on your FP1 time.  

Your team seemed pretty pleased with you, and you managed to ignore their comments about Sainz’s sudden trend in finding gravel.  It was taking everything you had not to ask everyone you saw if they’d heard anything and if he was okay.  Instead, you sat through your debrief meeting, desperately refusing to acknowledge the way Seb was watching you quizzically as you fidgeted and stared at the clock behind Mike and almost bolted out of the door the second it was over.  You had your head down in your phone before you’d even turned into the corridor.  Carlos had already updated to his Instagram that he was fine and would be competing in the rest of the weekend as normal, and you were halfway through drafting a text to him when you walked right into someone. 

“Sorry,”  you mumbled, barely looking up from your phone as you hit the send button. 

“Hey, what’s the rush?”  It was Seb, who’d steadied you and stepped back, his expression unreadable. 

“Nothing,”

“You didn’t seem all there at debrief.  Is everything okay?”  As much as you loved Seb, his attention to detail was sometimes a nightmare. 

“Yeah I’m fine, I was just…”  You trailed off, unsure of what you were just doing. 

“I was on my way to get a coffee, come with me,”  one thing you loved about your teammate and mentor was he never asked you anything.  His invites were more statements, and you liked that.  It made you feel wanted and included and especially in your rookie year it was exactly what you’d needed to help you settle on the grid.  It didn’t take long for the pair of you to have fallen into step and locate the nearest coffee machine in the building.  You were nursing a steaming americano and quietly observing the emptying paddock when Seb started again. 

“Forming close, ah, relationships, with fellow drivers is tricky.  You spend so much time together it feels inevitable, but also they are your competitors.  It’s hard to find the balance, how much time do these people deserve of you?  How much of yourself?  How much of your care?”  He was staring into the distance, a look on his face that made you wonder if he was thinking about someone in particular as he spoke.  “When it takes over your mind, when you can’t concentrate because of them, it can be dangerous.  And bad for your career,”  he chuckled dryly to himself.  “You see it more often than you think.  It’s why a lot of us have to change teams,” 

“What do you-” 

“I think it is very good you are branching out, making other friends.  I’m too old to be keeping you company so much, and Carlos is a good man.  I wanted to be the one to tell you, so you know it’s not trouble, but to be mindful.  Be mindful of how much you think of them when you’re on the track.  No matter what’s happening elsewhere,”  

“Oh,”  Seb offered you a warm smile as he sipped his drink.  You could feel the heat rising into your face.  “Well I’m not - he’s not my- it’s not like that,”

“Don’t panic so much, Y/N, consider it a general warning about getting close to anyone.  I have to be careful myself with you and Mick, and of course back when…”  he tailed off and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of Mick’s father and Seb’s initial mentor.  The news of Micheal’s accident had been devastating to all motorsport fans - but for Seb, who was as close to him as family - you didn’t want to think about how much it had hurt him.  Your phone pinged in your pocket and on instinct you checked it, leaving Seb lost in his memory a little longer. 

It was Carlos, assuring you he was fine, but nonetheless, his room number was supplied. 

“Go see him,”  Seb’s words brought you back to the present as you finished the dregs of your coffee.  He had a wry smile that was a lot more Seb.  You nudged his shoulder affectionately and thanked him for the coffee and chat, before turning to leave him on the balcony.

“Hey, Y/N,”  he caught you, making you turn to look over your shoulder for a moment.  “Not that you need it, but I approve of him very much,”  he winked at you, the shit.  In the sinking sunlight, his blue eyes were twinkling playfully.  You hoped you weren’t blushing too much as you nodded awkwardly at the floor and hurried out. 

There was a Seven-Eleven on the way back to the hotel.  You stopped and bought a slice of rich-looking chocolate cake from the fridge section. 

Carlos was quick to open the door for you, his face lighting up when he realised it was you who was knocking.  You noticed he was a little slow as he made his way back over to the bed with a stilted gait. 

“I brought cake,”  you held up the plastic case in your hand as if it wasn’t obvious.  You felt a little small and stupid, but Carlos was watching you as if you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

“Why?”  You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up as you looked at your shoes. 

“My mum used to - if I got in an accident - she used to get us chocolate cake on the way home,”  Carlos nodded slowly.  

“Thank you,”  you leant down to place the cake in his minifridge and gently toe your shoes off, padding over to the chair opposite his bed and dropping into it. 

“I suppose it means that bad days can end nicely or something,”  his expression changed at your throwaway comment, an eyebrow creeping up into his hairline and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that made you feel like a deer in headlights, frozen under his gaze. 

“It’s ending very nicely,”  before you could open your mouth to question him, he was gesturing for you to come closer, patting the space beside him on the bed.  You were all too happy to oblige, your skin bristling pleasantly whenever his arm brushed against yours. 

Carlos had been watching a game of football, and you leant quietly against his shoulder as he explained the rules to you.  If you were being entirely honest, you couldn’t have given less of a shit about football if you tried, but it was clearly something that Carlos was passionate about and you would have sat there and listened to him recite Pythagoras’ Theorem as if it was the only thing you could ever care about.

It felt strange, but the nice kind of strange, to be back in a plain hotel room together, sitting a little too close on a king-sized bed.  Except this time you were trying to ignore the way your skin was thrumming with electricity and the way you couldn’t stop thinking about the last time you saw him when he’d taken you on the most beautiful date you’d ever been on and then kissed you.  You wondered if he wanted to kiss you again.  It felt like dates when you were 15.  When you were so enthralled by the new world that was physical touch that you spent most minutes with a boy wondering if - or when - the next moment would come where your fingers brushed against each other or his arm found its awkward place on your hips or his nose bumped yours as you kissed, badly. 

Carlos must have noticed you drift off because he was poking you gently, a playful smile tugging at his features. 

“Am I really so boring to you?” 

“What?”

“You weren’t listening!” 

“I was!”

“No, you didn’t!”  He was pouting, somehow managing to look both ridiculous and adorable at the same time.  “You came all this way to make me feel better and then you didn’t even listen to me,”  you couldn’t help but snort, partly because Carlos was still poking softly at your sides in a way that was starting to tickle.

“All the way from down the corridor, sure,”  you rolled your eyes playfully and Carlos gasped with mock offence, matching your energy as his fingers dug into your side, making you squeal as he began to tickle you in earnest.  You tried to shimmy away, but he was quick - an arm snaking around your waist and holding you firm against him as he made you squirm.  You couldn’t control the high-pitched giggles he was pulling from you.  You hadn’t noticed he’d rolled back, dragging you with him so you were balanced in his lap until your stomach was sore and you were begging for him to stop and let you breathe. 

The grin on Carlos’ face faded quickly when he realised the position he’d put you in.  You didn’t miss the way his tongue slipped out to moisten his lips.  One of his hands slipped down from your ribs to your hip, the other reaching up to softly brush a strand of hair that had worked its way loose in the struggle behind your ear.  You tried to ignore the way your face was heating up and his touch sent a trail of goosebumps raising along your arm.  You placed a tentative hand on his chest, stabilising yourself and searching for boundaries all at once. 

Carlos lunged for you.  He cradled the back of your head and pulled you down to meet him at the same time as he sat himself up, catching you in a kiss that couldn’t have been more different to the last one.  It felt like something was burning between you, something that made you hungry, desperate for him.  The smell of cologne and burnt rubber fogged your mind.  He was so warm, pulling you close so as much of your body was pressed against his as possible.  He made a small noise against your mouth and you felt any resolve you had melt away, your body becoming soft and malleable in his hands. 

His arm found its way around your waist again and you allowed yourself a second to revel in the security of him as you broke away from his lips to press experimental kisses along his jaw bone.  Carlos shuddered against you and in one smooth motion rolled you sideways onto your back, settling himself between your legs. 

Or at least that had been the plan.  He leant down to reconnect your lips and winced, pulling back.  You reacted immediately, trying to push down the bolt of insecurity that shot through you as you scrabbled up so you could sit opposite him.  Carlos groaned and fell back into the position he had been in, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

“Are you okay?”  You hoped you didn’t sound as panicked as you felt.  His eyes were closed and his breathing a little too shallow.

“Yes, just-”  he winced again  “Not steady enough.  I was told to be resting,”  

“Sorry-”  you felt small, and suddenly the room was too hot and too cold at once and all you could think about was finding an excuse to leave rather than face him.  But Carlos was shaking his head before you could get any further. 

“No, Cariño, not your fault.  I wanted to,”  his thumb was rubbing smooth circles against your hip bone.  “God, I want to,”  there was something strained in his voice.  Your chest blossomed with warmth at his admission that his desire matched your own, and it gave you the confidence to push it down.  It wasn’t the right time, for either of you.  Not before qualifying, not with injuries.

“How bad were you hurt?”  You murmured, your eyes glued to the spot on his neck he kept touching.  He shrugged, but Carlos had never been very good at hiding his facial expressions and you knew he was in pain, and probably a little embarrassed.  

“My neck - we don’t know how bad yet.  There were too many Gs and the concrete wall was bad, I don’t know why it wasn’t Tecpro.  And the hip - it’s a contusion but okay,”  you made a face as he spoke.  You’d had a hip contusion before and you knew Carlos was downplaying the pain.  

“Where?”  the word was barely a whisper from you, but Carlos understood and he lifted the left side of his t-shirt up. 

Arching in a half-moon was a streak of purple that fanned out at the edges, the bruise already well-formed in the hours since the accident.  It followed the shape of his hip perfectly, the final tendrils reaching down into the groove that disappeared below the waistband of his boxers.  You couldn’t stop yourself as you ran your fingers carefully along the shape of it.  Carlos’ eyes never left yours as you watched his face for any signs of pain.  He gave you none.

“Shit, Carlos,”  you felt his stomach move beneath the pads of your fingers as he huffed out a dry laugh. 

“It’s not that bad,” 

“It looks bad, are you icing it?”  He groaned, but there was a smile behind his eyes. 

“Mrs Nurse,”  you gave him a stern look.  “In the fridge,”  ignoring his protests you made your way back to the mini-fridge, collecting an ice pack from the freezer box at the top which you’d previously not noticed and wrapped it carefully in a t-shirt you plucked from the pile on his desk that was waiting to be put away.  Before he could protest, you pressed the pack against his clothed hip.  He hissed as you did so, but relaxed into your touch.  You tried to push down the image that the noise created in your mind. 

Carlos’ hand came to cover yours on the ice pack, so you carefully slid away and let him adjust it against himself.  You settled against his good side as he turned his attention back to the football, now showing the highlights of the game.  You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching up to press a kiss against his cheek, enjoying the way his lips pulled into a smile and his cheeks flushed a little. 

You sat with him until the football highlights ended, and your phone had pinged three times with questions from Katie about why you hadn't collected your dinner yet.  At the thought of dinner, your stomach growled, which made Carlos’ gaze fix on you with a startled expression. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t eat again,”

“It wasn’t on purpose!”  You defended  “I came here straight after debrief,”  the arm that was around your waist squeezed you into his side and he pressed a dry kiss to your temple.

“‘M glad you did,”  you hummed against him. 

“Me too,”  you could have stayed there all day, but your stomach was making a lot of noise and Carlos was laughing and pushing you to your feet and walking you to the door.

“Go eat, Y/N, otherwise you’ll be no fun to beat tomorrow,”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t be on the front row, Sainz,”  he grinned at you. 

“P2 is good to start from, no?”  You slapped his chest with no malice.  

“See you in my mirrors,” 

“See you on the podium,”

“Top step baby,”

“I’d still be taller,”

“It’s not about height though, is it?”  And then he was kissing you again and pushing you out of his door and you stumbled down to the restaurant to collect your dinner, the haze of him still carrying you. 

Chapter Text

Qualifying was relatively unexciting.  After a strong start and a couple of purple sections you were pleased to have made it to Q3, but that was where things started to slip.  An unfortunate late spin saw you struggling to make up time, and your final fast lap was disappointing.  You weren’t really surprised when you were told you’d gotten P7, and you didn’t know what was worse.  The disappointment of knowing you had so much more to give, or the fact that your team were celebrating because, unlike Seb, at least you made it into the final qualifying round.  Carlos had gotten P2, and you watched as he did his live interviews on the grid alongside Charles and Max.  You were a little surprised that Max was only in P3, but you weren’t exactly going to be complaining if it meant keeping the championship battle open a little longer. 

You survived interviews in the media pen, working your hardest to hitch a smile onto your face and answer politely and professionally as you were questioned on your mistakes in every which way.  You knew it came with the territory, but you still dreaded the headlines that evening.  Every driver was criticised by armchair experts the second they weren’t at the top of everything, but for some reason, your gender seemed to only become part of the story when you’d either majorly fucked up or snatched a good win.

You were kind of hoping to see Carlos either in the paddock or on the way back to the hotel, but by the time you’d made it out of the team debrief and you’d had a good long rant with Seb about everything the paddock was nearly empty and so was the restaurant.  You took your meal up to your room and sat stoically watching a sitcom you didn’t follow and pointedly ignoring the internet and anyone from Aston Martin.  The only texts you’d replied to were from your family and the one from Carlos, which came in just as you were about to go to sleep.

Carlos Sainz:  Bad luck today.  Drive fast tomorrow, I want to battle my favourite maneater. 

You were too tired to properly reply, so you just sent him a little heart emoji and slipped into sleep. 

You woke up early the next morning.  Over a quiet breakfast in your room, you made a resolute plan to blatantly ignore everything that had happened up to this point in the weekend and train all your focus on nailing the race.  You made Katie spend nearly two hours in the gym with you going over the final warm-up and conditioning exercises, followed by an extensive stretch-out.

You thought you’d be able to avoid a lot of the chaos of race morning by heading to the stadium early, but you were strongly informed that it didn’t matter how early you were, you were still being escorted by the police to and from the stadium.  The second you stepped out of the hotel into the sunlight you were almost blinded by flashes from cameras, and it took you 20 minutes of ignoring the paparazzi and signing items from fans who were wishing you all the luck in the world today before you could even get to your car.  Usually, you didn’t much enjoy the fan interactions.  It was always nice to have people in your corner but you found being stopped constantly, having to smile for photos and sign something every few steps could wear you down, not to mention the kind of fans that had no boundaries and assumed you would be their best friend, despite having met them ten seconds ago.  However today you found their positivity was fuelling something within you, the desire to outperform everyone else stronger than ever.

As a result, you spent most of the day hiding out in the Aston Martin garage and the offices above.  Several hours were dedicated to agonising over minute details with your head engineer and strategist, the three of you more determined than ever to put you back on the podium as a minimum.  You also spent much longer on your warm-up than normal and went through two cooling vests before you even made it down for the grid walk and National Anthem. 

Sometimes you didn’t mind the grid walk, and Martin Brundle wasn’t exactly difficult to chat to.  But today, standing beside Daniel Ricciardo for the anthem and admiring the headphones that he wore to avoid talking to anyone before a race, you understood him entirely.  It didn’t help that the grid walk was packed.  Simply turning away from the anthem lineup to walk back to your car felt like you were immediately absorbed into a mosh pit.  A throng of hot, sweaty bodies pressed against you from all angles was doing nothing to help you keep a narrow tunnel of focus.  You had three different phones shoved into your face, asking you to say hi to a TikTok live before you even got to the first row.

It almost, almost, felt good to be absorbed in the sea of Ferrari tops buzzing about the place, because at least here you were shielded from pseudocelebrities all clamouring for a piece of - well what you didn’t even know because most of them clearly were not Formula One fans.

When you made it to your car you immediately climbed in, ignoring the way you already felt unbearably hot and how you knew sitting like this for ten minutes before you even got to the formation lap was a bad idea.  You spotted Martin Brundle, looking awkward as he tried to flag down celebrities to interview.  It looked like he knew as few people as you did.  You decided the best thing you could do for yourself was just zone out.  You closed your eyes, finding the right groove in your seat where it felt like your whole body was being cradled by the car, the straps comforting in the way they anchored you in.  Your helmet smelt like a new car, the way you liked it before the padding became soaked in your sweat.  You checked the water tube, twice, and adjusted the position of your radio.  By the time you were sent out on the formation lap you felt like a greyhound out of the trap, the only thing on your mind was the stupid stuffed rabbit you just needed to sink your teeth into. 

And then you were in position and you were revving and you watched, heart thudding throughout your entire body as those five red circles went out and your whole body was thrown backwards and you accelerated like your life depended on it. 

The race in itself was actually quite dull for the majority of it.  You took Lando, who started just a place ahead of you in the first three laps and then sat in a comfortable P6 for nearly half the race.  The leaders had put a significant gap between yourself and them that you didn’t even see George Russel, who was holding his own in 5th until you’d been driving for nearly an hour.  It was an eight-lap battle to get past the Mercedes, who was clearly fighting you for everything he was worth and it took you six DRS zones to finally draw equal enough with him that you could cut him off through a corner and take the position.  It wasn’t until after your strategist complimented you on the particularly smooth manoeuvre that you realised it had been at Turn 14. 

Just ahead of Russel was Perez, the Red Bull’s tail already taunting you and you could see the back of a Ferrari dancing just ahead of you as well.  If you’d thought the battle with Russel had been drawn out, the opposite was true for Checo.  It was like you’d caught the Mexican by surprise as you zipped down the inside straight with your DRS open and there was nothing he could do to stop you. 

“Okay Y/N, gap for P3 is 2.8 seconds,”  your radio crackled. 

“Time to send it?”

“Send it.” 

“Copy,”  you couldn’t keep the grin out of your tone as you began your drive for real.  On a reasonably fresh set of soft tyres, you felt like nothing could stop you as you started driving like it was Q3 all over again and your only goal was pole position.

The Ferrari in front of you was making your life difficult.  You felt like you were almost matched in pace, every time you got close it inched further away.  Every time you took the corner so tightly you could have been Dutch, so did the car in front.  For every attack line you could throw at him, he had a perfect defence line. 

“Gap to Sainz 0.8 seconds, you’ll have DRS on the next lap.  Three laps left,” 

“Copy,”  of course it was Carlos.  He said he wanted a battle and he was sure as hell giving you one.  Determined not to cause a second Imola, you played the game mirroring him and just biding your time, inching ever closer.  By the final lap you were virtually side by side, but every time your DRS opened his did too as Charles didn’t have much of a lead.  You imagined the commentary must be going insane, a Ferrari and an Aston Martin neck and neck into the final lap. 

You decided to take a risk and try a manoeuvre you’d only ever discussed in theory.  You dropped back, letting Carlos take the lead on you again but staying within DRS.  You were trying to pick up a slipstream, hoping that you’d be close enough when your DRS ended that you could use the continued boost of power to just slip past him on an inside corner.  It was like Carlos could read your mind, because you got your perfect opportunity, gaining on him with the DRS open, so close you were almost touching his rear wing.  You took a deep breath, swinging left to come into the first turn of the chicane sharper than him.  You were almost level as you began to push the drift to keep the speed for the second half, but then the Ferrari shot forward and you found yourself following him into the final straight. 

You tried to pull level again, throwing everything at the car on the straight, your eyes entirely trained on that chequered flag as you came over the line and pulled off the throttle. 

You couldn’t help but hold your breath as you waited for your result over the radio. 

“Fantastic drive, Y/N, simply perfect!”  Your radio was alight with delighted messages from the team.  “P4 confirmed, that’s P4 with the fastest lap.  Well done,”  you felt yourself deflate a little at losing the podium.  You’d really wanted it, to saunter into the media pen and smile sweetly at everyone who critiqued you yesterday.  But P4 was good points, and it was your first-ever fastest lap.  You had to admit there was something very pleasant about knowing you had the edge on both the Red Bulls and the Ferraris, yet there was still a bitter taste in your mouth as you pulled off the track and into the pit lane to greet your team. 

*****

The following few hours were a blur.  Your team was delighted with you, and even more so because Seb had clawed his way to P7, meaning double points for the team.  The interviews were insane, lasting twice as long as usual as you answered question after question, most of them about the battle with Carlos on the final laps and if you thought there was anywhere you went wrong. 

You watched the podium from below, and something in you eased a little.  Carlos was all but glowing in the golden evening sunlight, his beam visible across the entire stadium.  The trio also had to wear football helmets instead of the Pirelli caps, and there was some bizarre streamer party which was enough for you to be at least a little satiated with watching from afar.

Seb had congratulated you with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Good drive.  No mercy,”  he’d winked as he clapped you on the back and you had to ignore the blush creeping up your cheeks.  

There was talk of an after-party, which you were planning on tactically avoiding.  You weren’t always straight-laced, and when you were in the mood you loved getting very, very drunk and partying the night away in clubs around the world.  But Miami was Miami and you’d had enough.  The race had taken everything out of you, you were still struggling to want to celebrate the P4 and to be blunt you were sick to the back teeth of people asking you stupid questions.

You had been about to slide off towards the back entrance when Katie caught you.

“Not a chance,”

“What?”

“You are not sneaking away tonight,”  you groaned dramatically, dropping your head back like a small child.  

“I wasn’t-”

“The after-party is at this place,”  she handed you a business card which you looked wearily at.  You didn’t like the idea of a nightclub that comes with its own business card.  “It’s being hosted by a lot of sponsors - don’t look at me like that I’m just relaying the message!  Mike says it’s mandatory.  I’ll be at your hotel room at 9 pm, sharp.”

You just rolled your eyes and grumbled something about free booze, before joining the small queue of drivers waiting for their police escort back to the hotel complex. 

Back at the hotel, you showered in record time and then spent half an hour drying your hair whilst staring blankly at your wardrobe.  You’d asked Katie if there was a dress code and she was yet to reply, which usually meant no.  The idea of clubbing and a sponsorship event happening simultaneously didn’t sit right with you.  You couldn’t exactly wear jeans and your team polo to what seemed like one of the most exclusive clubs in Miami.  You also couldn’t wear the usual skin-tight, see-through and/or barely-there garments clubbing usually came with.  In the end, you picked out one of the shorter dresses you carried with you. 

It was a ridiculous little thing and you hadn’t even been sure where you were ever going to wear it, but you’d seen it in a tiny boutique at home and it plagued you for days until you eventually went back to get it.  It was satin, silky smooth and the perfect slip, and of course, it happened to be Aston Martin green.  You liked it because you thought it made your figure, which was naturally very muscular due to the nature of the sport, appear softer and feminine in a different way to what you were used to.  You decided to pair the dress with black strappy stiletto heels that you’d definitely end up taking off or running the risk of breaking an ankle in and a delicate choker necklace.  You left your hair down and even experimented with some smudged eyeliner that softened and accentuated your eyes before there was a knock at the door and you were greeting Katie.

Katie immediately commented on the green, so you decided that meant it had been a good choice.  She was wearing a skirt and a pretty cami top, also green.  You met up with a handful of other team members in the lobby, including Seb who was wearing dress pants and a white button-down shirt with the top button popped open.  He’d also trimmed his beard and attempted to control the mane of hair he was currently sporting into an organised sweep.

The club was within walking distance of the compound, much to your dismay as you tried to settle into the rhythm of wearing heels.  You wished you were one of those girls who wore heels everywhere, but you spent most of your time in trainers or racing boots so it was taking a little time to get used to the change.  Seb let you hold his arm though, and you were almost the same height in your heels. 

The queue for the club was already winding around the block when you arrived and you found yourself secretly thanking your privilege as your little entourage was sent straight through a black velvet rope and into a VIP door. 

No matter how fancy they are, all nightclubs smell the same.  Of sickly sweet alcohol, sweat and an acrid mingle of perfumes and aftershaves.  You found your nose wrinkling instinctively, and then within seconds spotted a camera so quelled your expression into a soft smile that said ‘I want to be here’.  The party was clearly sponsored by one of the beer brands that had banners all over the race because the usual bar was closed and instead, it was lined with rows of hundreds of green glass bottles, tall tables dotted around also piled high and you even spotted several men in full suits carrying around trays dipping under the weight of the bottles.  The rest of the team had dispersed immediately, and you realised that for a lot of the group it would be more about securing investments and sponsors than it would be about celebrating a good weekend. 

You were glad you had Seb by your side, quickly joined by Mick who looked very sweet in a red bow tie with a lost expression.  The three of you plucked a bottle each off the nearest table and made your way to the seated area where you could watch over the rapidly growing crowd. 

“It must be nearly full already?”  Mick was shouting over the thumping bass, casting a wary look at the entrance where a steady stream of people dressed to the nines was still flowing in.  Seb shook his head, shouting something back that you didn’t quite hear.  The three of you stayed in the booths, having quickly worked out that if you lounged around and looked bored enough a man in a suit would bring you a tray of beer.

You were three in and finally starting to relax when Mick grew tired of trying to make small talk over the noise and started begging you for a dance.  You decided to agree, Seb taking pictures as you and Mick began a horrible rendition of the funky chicken to a song you didn’t know.  He was pulling a wide variety of concentrating expressions as if he was trying his best for you, and it was sending you into fits of giggles.  Eventually, Seb clearly couldn’t stand watching the two of you mimic TikTok dances that were getting worse and worse by the minute and cut in. 

He was showing off, scoping you up into a ballroom pose with one hand respectfully high on your waist and the other supporting your hand delicately as he swept you around in a couple of easy steps.  Mick looked dumbfounded. 

“I didn’t know you can dance!”

“A gentleman that can’t dance, tsk tsk,”  was his smug response.  Ever since he joined Aston Martin, Seb liked to lean into the fantasy that he was James Bond and should behave accordingly.  He was drunkenly trying to show Mick how to dance, you not so subtly videoing off to the side when someone caught your elbow.  

You’d half expected it to be Carlos, you weren’t sure why, you hadn’t seen him all night, but it didn’t stop the small blossom of disappointment in your chest when you found yourself face to face with a man you didn’t recognise, who was holding out a beer for you.  You politely declined as he introduced himself as one of the managers of a company that had stakes in Aston Martin, so you smiled sweetly and made a little bit of idle chit-chat about the cars and the good result until he spotted someone who was clearly more important than you, patted you on the exposed middle of your back in a way that made you shiver uncomfortably and disappeared into the crowd. 

You switched onto the alcohol-free beers after that. 

The rest of the night followed suit.  It was what felt like a seemingly endless cycle of accepting a 0% beer from a man you didn’t know, making a weak attempt at conversation and having a carefully distanced dance with him before he’d see someone else he needed to talk to and move on, leaving you free to sneak off to the toilets for a moment to breathe and take some selfies with the women in there.  You’d lost Mick and Seb shortly after the second businessman dragged you onto the dancefloor, and you liked to think you were holding your own quite well, but you still felt a little lost.  You were trying to fight the urge to crane your neck around in search of Carlos, but you’d given up after a few hours and accepted there was an even more exclusive party for the top teams. 

You’d excused yourself to make another trip to the bathroom, checking your phone on the way to realise it was nearing 1 am and the night was nowhere near over when a hand landed on your bare shoulder, making you turn sharply.

“Cariño!”  It was Carlos.  He was grinning at you languidly.  “There you are!” 

“Hello,”  it was the first real smile you’d managed all night.  Even in the low light, Carlos looked incredible.  He was wearing another white shirt, with the top two buttons popped open and the sleeves rolled up the way he had on your date.  His hair was a little dishevelled, as he ran his fingers through it you realised why.  His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright, still with that podium glow as he looked at you.  And then he looked at you, his eyes flickering down as he took in your whole figure, right down to your toes that were still miraculously in their shoes, and then raked his way back up to your face.  You watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. 

“You look stunning,”  he leant in to speak to you, lips gently grazing the sensitive shell of your ear and his hand almost burning on your waist.  Your body automatically melted into him.  If you thought you’d been relaxing earlier when you were dancing with Seb and Mick, it paled into comparison with the way you felt so right as your body slotted against his, finding your place on his hip with ease. 

“Not so bad yourself,”  you grinned, playing with the collar of his shirt.  His eyes searched your face once more and you knew that if you hadn’t been in a crowded nightclub crawling with journalists and paparazzi and bosses, you would have been all over each other.  “You gonna ask me for a dance?”  You reciprocated his earlier movement, your lips deliberately catching his ear as you spoke.  You felt his chest vibrate in response. 

He took your hand and let you carefully to the dancefloor, spinning you expertly and catching you with ease as he found a spot.  You looped your arms over his shoulders as he began to move slowly.  And then there was a fat hand landing on his shoulder. 

“Carlos, my man!  My guy!”  And Carlos spun around, apparently recognising the man because he dropped you like a hot coal, sending you an apologetic glance and mouthing the word ‘later’ as he was dragged back towards the bar.  You should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy to get a dance with a trophy-holder.  Although you spotted Charles alone in a corner of the dance floor, thrusting into thin air with a grin on his face that said he was already drunk out of his mind. 

You went back to your routine of non-alcoholic beer, bathroom trips and chatting up sponsors, but you weren’t really interested.  You were nodding along absentmindedly as they spoke to you, not really listening as you scanned the crows from your new vantage point on the balcony upstairs.  You spotted Carlos every now and then, each time deep in conversation with someone pressing another beer into his hand. 

By 2:30 am you were almost sober, bored out of your mind and your feet were hurting.  You thought you must have done enough for the team and decided to call it a night, texting Katie quickly to let her know where you’d be.  The second you were outside the air was like a drink of iced water.  It wasn’t cold, instead just soothing as the breeze carried through your lungs and you felt yourself open up as the fumes of the club washed off you.  You kicked off your shoes and padded back to the hotel barefoot.  You probably shouldn’t have walked back alone, but the streets were alive with post-race celebrations and you followed the well-lit road the whole way back. 

You’d barely had time to throw your hair up and wipe off your makeup when there was a hammering at your door.  The figure swayed through the peephole, but you knew who it was. 

When you opened the door there was Carlos, leaning against the doorframe. 

He looked sexy for all but two seconds until he stumbled forwards.  You just about managed to steady him and lead him into your room. 

“Hello,”

“Mi sol,”  his voice was low as he pawed at your dress, not really trying to take it off you but just watching the way the fabric slipped through his fingers. 

“How did you get my room number?”  

“Seb,”  he pursed his lips, making the ‘b’ sound pop, and giggled to himself.  He swayed again and you realised he was very drunk.  His interest had left the dress and he was nosing at your exposed skin, placing kisses messily along your shoulder towards the base of your neck.  You couldn’t deny the goosebumps rising on your skin. 

“And how many beers have you been given, hm?”  You questioned lightly, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. 

“Enough to know you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,”

His lips tasted like beer.

“Carlos,”  you weren’t really protesting as you let him walk you backwards until your knees hit the bed, and he crawled on top of you as you laid back.

“I want you so bad,”  you could only manage another high-pitched sigh in response, your mind clouding over with your want for him.  It felt like he was leaving trails of crackling electricity along your skin.

“Carlos,”

“I know,”  he groaned against your mouth, pressing his hips down against your leg, his fingers teasing up your thigh and slipping below the hem of your dress.  He was pressing sloppy kisses on any part of your neck he could reach.  “You feel so good,”  he was drunk, you told yourself.  This wasn’t right.  It was hard to break away from his spell because he was right.  It did feel so good, and he was barely doing anything.  “The things I wanna do to you,”  you shuddered.

“ Carlos, ” 

“Do for you,”  Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Carlos, you’re drunk,”  he hummed against your neck, his hips rolling down against yours in vein.  You steeled yourself, fighting every instinct in your body as you gently pushed him back, and moved out from under him. 

“This isn’t a good idea,”  he pouted and whined, reaching out for you like a child.  Those stupid brown eyes would be the death of you one day, you thought.  You let him hold your hands.  “Not tonight, at least,”  he had a glazed look on his face. 

“Okay,” 

You’d have thought he’d fight more than that, but instead, he simply stood up, walked over to your couch and collapsed, eyes closing. 

“Carlos, honey, you can’t sleep here,”

“‘S warm,”  he burrowed down.  You had no idea how he looked so cute, trying to curl up on your couch.

“Come on, you need to go back to your room or they’ll ask questions,”

Carlos, fortunately, had the good grace to be a cooperative drunk and let you walk him back down to his room, you got him in and let him go about wrestling his clothes off whist you got him a glass of water and left a packet of painkillers on the bedside table for him.  He crawled into bed after you helped with the final buttons of his shirt, and diligently ignored the way he was trying to encourage you to lose your dress to match. 

“You should come to Barcelona early,”

“Hm?”

“Stay with me.  I know all the good places,”

“All of them?”  He grinned at you, but it slipped quickly, his eyes sliding out of focus before fluttering shut. 

“All of ‘em,” 

You pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead.

“Okay,”  you said, and made your way back to your empty hotel room.

Chapter Text

“So… when are you coming?”  His voice was rich even through the crackle of the phone line.  It made your insides warm and if you were in an ’80s movie, you’d have been twiddling the coiled cord of the landline phone around your fingers as you giggled down the receiver.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was cooler when you woke up. 

The windows were open, white linen curtains fluttering with a gentle breeze.  The sun was creating a small pool of golden light on the wooden floorboards a few feet from the bed and bathing the rest of the room in a soft glow. 

You stretched, arching your back and straightening your legs, stretching your toes to find a cool spot in the sheets.  Carlos registered your movement with a low, sleepy grunt.  The arm he had thrown over your waist tightened, pulling you closer so that your back was pressed flush against his chest, his legs tangling with yours.  You couldn't stop the lazy smile from making its way onto your face as you absentmindedly traced through the dark hairs on his forearm.  He was warm and surprisingly soft in a way that made you feel safe. 

You felt the rumble of his chest as he spoke.  You'd never heard Carlos talk in the morning and his voice carried a heavy, husky accent that made you shiver. 

“Good morning, mi cielito,”

Carlos pressed kisses along the line of your bare shoulder, your fingers tangling with his as he did so.  You hummed in appreciation, your own good morning barely a whisper on your lips.  He pulled you close again, rocking his hips forward and pulling you back into him as he did so, allowing you to feel the way he was already hard against your thigh. 

“Mhm, it is a very good morning,”  you could hear the smirk on his face from behind you.  You wiggled your hips from where you were still pressed tight against him, enjoying the way he groaned into your neck.  “Don't tease, Cariño,”

Warmth pooled in your stomach at his words and you turned in his arms so you could face him. Carlos was squinting at you, the bright light making his eyes more like honey than their usual dark cocoa. There was a small, toothy smile tugging at his full lips. 

“Hi,”  you murmured, brushing a piece of hair out of his eyes.  In one smooth motion, Carlos had you on your back, his forearms bracketing either side of your head as he caught you in a sweet kiss. 

More than an hour later you finally stumbled out of bed, giddy and stupid.  Carlos pushed into the shower and, despite your protests, did not join you.  He handed you a big fluffy towel and left to make coffee with a lingering kiss.  You sat in amicable silence at the kitchen island, so close your hips were pressed together.  An old radio was crackling in the corner, just about tuned into a local station in rambling Spanish.  The song stopped and you recognised by the tone of the presenter that it was a news reading. 

“What time is it?”  You managed sleepily from where your head was resting on Carlos’ shoulder, enjoying the way the smell of his soap mixed with coffee.  Carlos paused as the newsreader finished his segment.  He huffed a short laugh, pulling you closer to him as he did so. 

“Close to eleven,”  you groaned, trying to hide further into his body, closing your eyes against his soft t-shirt and the smell of his washing powder.

“My flight is at one,”

Carlos refused to let you set foot in another taxi.  Instead, your bags were meticulously packed Tetris-style into the back of the Ferrari that was definitely not designed for airport runs.  The ride over was fairly quiet, Carlos’ hand resting on your thigh as he pointed out occasionally details in the rapidly evolving landscape around you.

“Why do you have to leave today?”  He pouted in a quiet corner of the airport check-in desks.  You were in his arms again, his thumbs rubbing smooth circles along your hip bones.  You tried to avoid looking at his face because he was giving you some spectacular sulky looks that were making you question even boarding the plane.

“Not all of us get to do promo for private jets who can fly whenever they want,” you shot back, slapping his chest playfully. Carlos grinned at you, looking almost proud of himself. 

“Not all of us get to drive for Ferrari,” 

He swept you into a kiss before you got the chance to argue back and you could feel your brain turning to mush as he released you and sent you on your way. 

*****

Your parents' flight was landing an hour after yours, giving you just enough time to go and collect your car for the weekend before you were due to pick them up. You couldn't deny how excited you were to see them; in your rookie year they came to nearly every race with you and they were screaming in the crowd of Budapest where you took your maiden victory last year.  Still, as you'd grown and settled into Formula One they'd not needed to attend the entire calendar.  Fortunately, Monaco being one of the most prestigious races on the calendar meant that you were given free rein on personal Paddock Invites and your parents always sat top of the VIP list.

You found a piece of cardboard and wrote out their names to hold up at the arrivals gate, Love Actually style.  Maybe writing your surname in block capitals wasn’t the smartest idea, because it took you taking photos with everyone and their great aunt’s dog to get to the gate and you ended up almost late to meet them.  Typically, your mum burst into tears when she saw you, pulling you into a crushing hug that you just knew was going to be plastered all over the internet in the next hour as she babbled about how much she missed you.  Your dad pulled you into a quiet hug.  You could feel his chuckle in your ear as your mum wetly relayed every thought she’d had during the last race at you, regardless of the very public attention currently on the three of you.

Apparently worrying about you driving racecars was not where your mother’s concerns ended.  You soon learnt that it extended to giving your parents lifts in supercars.  Your poor father found himself tucked in the back alongside all the bags as she packed herself into the front seat beside you and clung on with white knuckles. 

“Careful, Y/N!”  She cried out as you rounded a corner onto the hill to take them up to the hotel the three of you were staying in.  You couldn’t help but laugh and roll your eyes at your dad in the backseat, who was trying hard to control himself. 

“I’m below the speed limit and off the racing line,”  you grumbled as you pulled into the car park and handed the keys to a valet.  You didn’t think you’d ever get over the little things like that that showed just how much your life had changed in the last few years.  “Where is Amelia, anyway?”  You checked into the hotel and handed your dad the keys to your parent's room.  Your mother was ignoring you from where she was standing off to the side totally absorbed in her pocket diary. 

It wasn’t until you’d bundled them into the lift that your mum finally spoke again. 

“Mexico!”  You looked at her, slightly startled with an eyebrow raised.  “Your sister is jumping in Mexico this week.  For the GCL,”  You nodded.  The GCL, or Global Champion’s League was probably best described as the equestrian solution to Formula One.  Countries presented teams of up to three riders who competed in fantastic locations all across the world for points towards the final championship.  You had to admire your mum and her general sense of calm with two kids competing across the planet in sports far too dangerous for their own good.

The restaurant you’d picked for lunch was a third-hand recommendation that you didn’t really want, but also you didn’t know the first thing about Monaco or what the city had to offer.  You’d visited the principality twice before; both on the Grand Prix weekends.  It wasn’t that you had anything against the city, you just had never found yourself drawn to the built-up, glamorous, celebrities-all-over lifestyle.  You’d been having a coffee break with Carlos when you’d mentioned that you had no idea where you could take them out.  Lando, who had just bought an apartment in Monaco was only too keen to help you - almost falling over himself as he flooded you with suggestions.

If Carlos hadn’t been looking at him like he was speaking the gospel, you would have probably ignored Lando’s suggestions, after all his fussy-eater habits were not exactly uncommon knowledge.  In the end, you settled on a place he called “really posh” that had originally been suggested to him by Max. 

As it turned out, Lando-through-Max had excellent taste.  You found yourself in a beautiful gilded conservatory with the floor-to-ceiling panelled windows thrown open to let in the scorching afternoon sun.  The drinks were cold and the seats comfortable, so naturally it was your favourite kind of place.  You’d forgotten to book a private area in advance, but one of the waiters had recognised you and had been kind enough to find you a table a little distanced from the other diners in the room.

You made it all the way to your starters arriving with your meal-plan-approved Caprese salad when the pleasant catch-up switched tracks. 

“Aren't you hungry dear?  Surely you need more than a salad?”  Your mum pursed her lips, eyeing your plate as if it were about to leap up and bite her. 

“Andrea, don't-”  your dad tried to weakly interject. 

“No, Micheal, I'm allowed to be concerned.  I know you have dieticians but are you sure it's enough?”  You suppressed a sigh and bit back the snarky retort on the tip of your tongue.  Getting into racing young meant you'd spent nearly all of your teenage years carefully researching and religiously sticking to athletic diets before you were finally signed to a big enough contract that you were assigned a dietician.  You also didn't want to mention how frequently you'd broken said diet recently, between fancy restaurants and wine tasting and street food with a certain Spanish coconspirator.

“It's only the starter,”  you muttered, which earnt you a withering look.  “And I'm not like, starving myself - it's just athletic stuff.  Y'know nutrient balance, strength, energy: that kind of thing,”

Andrea sighed and pursed her lips as if she wanted to say something else, but let the topic lie.  You knew she had issues with your weight and body type - driving a Formula One car wasn't exactly conducive to her idea of ‘feminine’, but you’d never really cared.  You'd always felt comfortable in your skin and it wasn't like you'd ever really struggled romantically; the brief string of short-term boyfriends that had decorated your earlier years in racing was evidence enough.  

“Anyway, Dad, what did you think of the new body upgrades?  Seb seemed to look good yeah?”  Unlike several of your peers, your dad had never been a racing driver, but he was your hero regardless.  He’d grown up an avid Formula One fan and had an encyclopedic technical knowledge to rival some of your engineers.  From the day he saw you bank a corner in your Little Tikes car, he had you enrolled in karting and the rest was history.  You were instantly distracted, transported back to being a young girl, the pair of you crowded around the television as you carefully dissected every aspect of a race weekend. 

You managed a solid twenty minutes before you were curtly informed that ‘shop talk’ was not appropriate at the dinner table.  With identical expressions, you both gave your mother a sheepish apology.

“How are you though, Y/N?”  

“I’m good, Mum,”  you promised, working your way through the steamed salmon you’d ordered. 

“Don’t you ever get lonely, always on the road?”  You had to fight the urge to roll your eyes, an internal cry of here we go again ringing through your ears.

“Not really, you know how busy I am,”

“Everyone needs a friend, love,”  you stabbed a potato.

“I have friends.  I have Katie and I text Amelia all the time, there’s Seb and Mick-”

“Mick,”  your mum mused, a dreamy look crossing her features.   “Now, there’s a nice young man,”

“Ew, Mum! No!” 

“What!?”  You glanced helplessly at your dad, clearly begging him to go back to discussing the cars and not your colleagues.  “Don’t you think he’s very handsome?”

“He’s like my brother,”  you tried to keep the disgust out of your tone.  You adored Mick, you really did, but not like that.  It had never been like that, even when you were in the Academy together.

“That’s not what Hello Saturday said,”  she grumbled, busying herself with the steak she’d ordered and apparently not noticing the way your stomach turned. 

“So you believe the tabloids over me?  It was never a date - Seb was at the bar getting the three of us drinks!  And I’m seeing someone else anyway,”  you snapped, the words clattering onto the table alongside your fork.  You hadn’t even registered what you said until your ears stopped ringing and you realised your parents were staring at you with dumbfounded expressions.

“I don’t think you meant to say that, did you?”  Micheal tried to soften the blow, the joke creasing in the corners of his gentle eyes.  You hung your head, unable to remove your focus from the sad, squeezed-out lemon slice on the side of your plate as you gave a subtle shake of your head. 

Andrea, of course, was delighted.  Her cheeks were stained pink as she babbled about how happy she was for you and directed a thousand questions for you to deflect.  She was desperate for a name, but you managed to stave her off under the guise of anyone in the seats surrounding you could be listening in.  You didn’t have the heart to refuse her all details, so you made up some facial features and told some half-truths about a kind and gentle man you’d been on a couple of dates with.

“Well, if it’s not Mick I hope it’s not another driver.  Imagine the PR nightmare that would be for you!” 

“Yeah okay, thank you mother,”  you refused the dessert menu being offered to you, instead requesting the bill.  You loved your mother, you really did, but you’d had enough of a grilling for one day.

You paid and dropped them off at the hotel spa, claiming you had a meeting at the Paddock (you didn’t) followed by a workout with Katie (you did).  Micheal managed to mouth an apology to you, which you shook your head at quietly.  Your mum always meant well, her only wish was for her children to be happy in their lives.  She just lacked the tact and you lacked the patience to have a proper conversation about it sometimes.

*****

You woke up to your phone ringing, your head spinning with the speed at which you’d suddenly travelled from unconscious to conscious in your scramble to answer. 

"Hullo?" 

“Good morning!”  You croaked out a laugh that turned rapidly into a groan.

“Jesus Christ, Carlos it’s like-”  you pulled your phone away from your ear for a second to squint at the time  “Seven am,”

“What time is your meetings today?”  You groaned again, your heart hammering in your chest as you slowly started to come to and pick ineffectively at the crust in your eyes.

“In the afternoon, you great pillock,”   

“Wow!”  You had no idea how long Carlos had been awake in order to be able to laugh good-naturedly as you cursed him out down the phone line.  “Someone is not a morning person, eh?”  

“Not when you wake me up like it’s a fucking emergency,” 

“Sorry,”  You could hear the grin in his voice and you knew there was not a chance of him being anywhere close to sorry.  

“Whaddyou want, anyway?”

“Be outside the hotel, at ten, okay?”

“Okay…?”  The phone line clicked as he cut the call before your sluggish brain could formulate anything vaguely akin to a question.  You shrugged to yourself, deciding whatever he wanted was a problem that could wait for at least another hour and several snooze buttons.

When ten o’clock rolled around you found yourself standing outside the hotel entrance.  It was another scorching hot day in Monaco and in the few minutes you’d been standing in the sunshine you were already feeling sweaty.  You just hoped the heat would pass before you had to drive the car, after the sweltering mess of Miami and then Barcelona it would be nice to be able to race and not feel like you’d been punched in the face by heat exhaustion by the end of it.

You were pulled from your musings over track temperatures and ice vests by a roaring engine that made you stop in your tracks.  A sleek black Ferrari came screeching round the corner before pulling up with the passenger door lined up perfectly with your body.  The car was an open-topped model and sat grinning at you in the driver’s seat with Ray Bans on his nose and windswept hair was Carlos himself.  Even if he was totally smug, there was no denying the way your chest squeezed and your stomach fluttered at the sight of him.  You thought he had to be one of the most handsome men on the planet as he leaned over to open the passenger door and beckon you into the smooth leather interior. 

“Hello, this is very low-key,”  you commented over the radio and the sound of the engine.  Carlos just turned his head, a dogged grin on his lips.

“It’s Monaco, baby,”  he tilted his glasses down to wink at you.  You rolled your eyes at his ridiculousness.

“Oh my god, not you too,”  he laughed.  Loud and open and free as the wind whipped around you and he sped off.  “Why is everyone so obsessed with this place?”

“Today, we are learning Monte Carlo.  Fancy car, fancy shopping, fancy people,”  you groaned, but there was no denying the secret bubble of excitement building up inside of you.  “It’s the glamour, Y/N, that’s why people like it here,”  he explained on seeing your expression change. 

“That is literally the opposite of my thing,”

“I can be discrete,”  you didn’t have it in you to point out that the car Carlos was currently driving you to the city centre in was the furthest thing from discrete you’d ever seen.

The shops Carlos took you to blew your mind.  You had money, much more money than the average high-class citizen, you were certainly aware of that.  But you’d grown up relatively middle class.  Your parents both worked good jobs, full time to pay for the house and lifestyle you grew up in.  Between your go-karting and your sister’s horses, it wasn’t exactly cheap and so blowing money on designer closes wasn’t something you’d ever been privy to.  You’d always been ‘comfortable’, always had what you needed and been able to afford nice things.  It was difficult not to sound like you were bragging - and the private school education had not helped - but you were always grateful for everything your parents had done to be able to give you the life you had.

After Gucci and Versace and Louis Vuitton, you started to lose track of the names.  Shopping with Carlos was fun; it reminded you of the Saturday afternoons you used to while away with your best friend at the local shopping centre where you went to school.  He would deliberately pick up the most outlandish, ridiculous things to make you laugh.  If you were being entirely honest, you had never been one for understanding high fashion, in fact, you didn’t see a problem with your polo shirts at all.  It wasn’t a surprise that after a lot of fun and several hours you hadn’t really bought anything. 

Carlos dragged you into yet another shop, promising  “Just one more, Cariño, this is the best one,”  when you tried to protest on behalf of your aching feet and the 200-euro sunglasses now sitting atop your hair.

He wasn’t wrong; it was a department store that put Harrods in London to shame in both the size and grandeur of the place.  You were ID checked by bouncers on the door before they even let you in and you wouldn’t have really been surprised if they’d asked to see how much money was sitting in your bank account.  The shop felt like a museum, with high marbled ceilings and thick carpet, more products in glass casing than available to touch, and displays so elegant they looked like historical set-ups.  The way he navigated the store with ease was doing something for you.  He looked like some kind of Netflix show prince, in his tight-fitting jeans and black polo shirt, hair a perfect mess with his sunglasses pushing holding it off his face, allowing it to fall in elegant waves.  His brow was knitted as he was looking at each item with considered seriousness.

“Try this on,”

You turned from where you were absentmindedly filtering through a ‘sale’ rail to examine the item he was pointing at.  As soon as you followed his gaze to the hanger he was holding out to you, you rolled your eyes.

“Oh Carlos, come on.  No , ”

He was holding a red dress.  On the hanger, it looked nothing too special - a sleek floor-length gown with a designer's name you didn't know and far too many zeros in the price tag.  You'd worn, and owned, a hundred of the like.  You recognised the bratty expression that came across his face - one of someone who knew they were about to abuse their good looks to their advantage. 

“Please?  For me?”  There was no way you could ignore him pouting like that, batting his lashes at you. 

“Fine,”  you huffed playfully, snatching the dress from him and making a show of stalking to the changing rooms with Carlos in tow.  The second you’d taken the dress from him you realised it was made of heavy silk, luxurious even to the touch.  The woman in the changing rooms (because you got a personal assistant when you went to change and a free drink) nodded at your choice and presented you with a gorgeous pair of black heels that matched perfectly.

It was only when you saw yourself in the mirror under the perfectly balanced lighting of the changing room that you realised this wasn’t just a red dress.

It was the exact fucking shade of Carlos’ car.

You stepped out of the changing room and into the… well you didn’t know what it was called because you’d never been in a shop so fancy.  But in the centre of the fitting rooms was a stand surrounded by mirrors where you supposed designers, personal shoppers and whoever else the rich and famous took with them found themselves approving chosen items.  For you, it was Carlos, who was sitting on a spindly golden-legged chair in the corner of the room, his legs spread and looking alarmingly at home amongst the plush grandeur as he messed with something on his phone as he waited for you. 

He looked up when you cleared your throat, gently drawing his attention to you settled on the platform.  You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and you had to admit that you understood why Carlos was staring at you, mouth open and frozen in place. 

You didn’t even look like you.  Your hair had been pulled up, assistant in the room had helped pull out stands to give you a casual but classy updo.  A glittering necklace had been placed around your neck and the heels meant the dress pooled on the ground at the perfect length.  The deep red colour was foreign on your body, compared to your usual palate of greens and neutral tones.  And the fit - you didn’t think you’d ever worn something that felt as if it was just made for you, the bias cut of the material stretching and hugging your body perfectly, the neckline plunging enough to make you feel sexy and the back - oh the back.  It was backless, the delicate straps clinging to your shoulder blades and travelling all the way down to the small of your back before it met material once more.

Carlos let out a breath, standing slowly and walking towards you in a way that reminded you of an animal stalking its prey.  He never broke eye contact with you in the mirror as he stood on the small platform behind you, his body pressed against yours to make himself fit with you.  You could feel his breath on your neck and with the way your upper body was exposed there was no way he didn’t notice the goosebumps rising along your skin.  You watched him in the central mirror in front of you as his gaze raked shamelessly up and down your body, his fingers tracing the point of your shoulder as he did so.  His eyes looked almost black in the careful lighting. 

“Perfect,”  

You made a noise of agreement.  As much as you wanted to tease him about picking out the one dress that happened to match his car, it was flawless.  You’d never worn much red before and the way it complimented you was astounding (in fact you thought you liked it even more than green, although you’d never admit it to anyone) and you had to agree - the dress was the perfect fit for you.  Not to mention wearing his colours… well, it was certainly doing something for you.  You felt sexy and gorgeous and powerful and desirable and a whole host of other wonderful things that didn’t usually occur to you in your team polo and shorts.  Maybe you did understand why Lewis put so much effort into his Paddock looks after all.

“I’m going to buy it for you,”  his lips were on your neck, the words vibrating through your entire body.

“You can’t-”  you gasped.  

“I can,” 

“No - I don’t even need a new dress and I have enough money to get it myself if I wanted it.  Which I don’t,”  You argued back.  You had never spent this much money on any clothing.  Even when you could afford to something in you was holding back, it was excessive and unnecessary.

“You don’t want it?”  Carlos raised an eyebrow at you in the mirror, his gaze making you almost squirm.  He had a hand on your waist and you could feel the heat from his fingers seeping straight through your skin and clouding your mind.  It didn’t help that his other hand was sneaking through the leg slit on the opposite slide, gently grazing your bare thigh.

“I don’t need it,”  you clarified.  Carlos clicked his tongue disapprovingly.  He gazed at you through the mirror as he pressed a kiss against your shoulder, then the base of your neck and finally the point of your jaw before his mouth was on your ear and he was speaking lowly. 

“I am going to buy this dress.  And you are going to take it home.  You don’t need it, but you want it.  I want you to have this, this is a thing that is only something you want, it is expensive and beautiful and you love it.  I believe everyone should have something like this.  And I am going to buy it for you because when you wear it I want you to think of me,”  His voice dropped lower as he spoke, velvety smooth.  The way he was holding you was intoxicating and you felt like you were drunk.  You were genuinely considering dragging him into the changing room and letting him ravish you in the stupidly stunning dress right there and then.  You’d be willing to put money on the store assistants having signed Non-Disclosure Agreements just to be employed there.

Just as you were about to give into him Carlos stepped away, casually adjusting the front of his jeans and looking quite pleased with himself.  The coolness of the air conditioning hitting your exposed back was enough to pull you out of the trance and you nodded mutely, making your way back to the changing room with legs like lead and a face on fire.  You needed to get out of this shop before the low lighting and expensive perfume haze made you make any more questionable decisions.

Carlos did buy the dress.  And the little shit handed it to you in the Ferrari gift bag he seemed to always carry on race weekends as if he couldn’t afford the branded bag the clerk offered him.

“To meetings?”  He asked you, hand slipping into yours as you left the shop and he collected the keys from the valet with a  “Thank you, Sir,”  that made you have to look the other way and think of very sensible, neutral things.  Part of you was screaming internally that you were out in broad daylight, holding hands with and getting into the Ferrari of Carlos Sainz.  Part of you was so happy you simply didn’t care.

You thought Carlos was going to drop you off at the hotel to allow you to pick up the DB7 you’d been driving that weekend, but instead, he turned off towards the circuit.  You turned to look at him questioningly.

“What?  We can arrive together, no?”  You dropped your head gently onto his shoulder, the sun warm on your face with the feeling that nothing in the world could touch you.

Seb smirked at you when you walked into the garage.  His eyes were trained on the bag with the prancing horse emblazoned on the front of it as you placed it in your driver's room and made your way up to the offices together. 

“That's not very subtle, Y/N,”  he told you in a sing-song voice, before changing the subject to the upcoming weather forecast and the potential storm on Sunday as you walked up to your afternoon of meetings.  

*****

The last thing you wanted to do after a long afternoon of headache-inducing meetings was watch football in the rain.  However, when Carlos Sainz is your lift home, it appeared there wasn't much choice in the matter. 

You still put up a good argument the whole drive to the stadium.  The rain was pattering on the soft top of the convertible Ferrari but Carlos just shook his head at you. 

“You are English, Cariño.  I know you can live in rain,”  he informed you with a wink and a pat on the leg as he pulled into the car park. 

“Just because I can doesn't mean I want to,”  you complained, checking the stairwell below the stadium was clear before you gave him a quick kiss.  “At least make it entertaining for me,”  you told him as you left him to head down to the changing rooms and took yourself to the viewing stands. 

You had a seat in a VIP box along with a couple of other famous faces.  No other F1 drivers were there because they were either competing in the charity match or keeping up with their excuses to avoid playing.  You'd already been collared by a couple of journalists asking why the only woman in F1 didn't want to be the only woman playing football.  You'd given them your prepared statement that had been written by Katie and learnt by you - something about a knee ligament injury you were preserving, so you were just there to make a donation and support your friends.

The rain was starting to come down heavier as the poor excuse for pre-match entertainment started.  You pulled the hood of your waterproof coat closer around your ears, the ‘luxury’ box already springing a few leaks.  You decided to take out your frustrations on the group chat. 

You: Can't believe you bailed.  I do not know anyone here and the reporters have it out for me

Track Dad: I'm too old for sitting out in the rain 

Mick: Don't drink the stadium coffee! 

You: I hate you both

Track Dad: Make some new friends

You: No x

Luckily, Carlos clearly understood the assignment when you told him to make the match entertaining.  From the second he stepped out onto the pitch you couldn't rip your gaze from him for even a second.  You knew he was a football fan, but you didn't realise how talented of a player he was.  Admittedly, you had no eye whatsoever for football but it didn't take a genius to see that Carlos shone ahead of the other drivers playing.  Watching him play was exhilarating and you found yourself clapping and shouting for the team along with the small crowd that had still turned up to watch despite the weather. 

Between the rain and sweat, Carlos was completely drenched, leaving the strip sticking to his skin as he moved.  His hair was a mess, most of it plastered down onto his face and he kept shaking his head and pushing his hand up through the dark locks to push it away from his face.  There was just something about Carlos - he moved with a natural grace, a comfort on the pitch that was innately attractive and was only aided by the glistening skin on display and a dark, determined look on his face.  You never usually got to see that side of Carlos' competitiveness; it was usually shrouded behind his helmet and you driving alongside him.

You had to admit, the way he set his jaw when he had eyes on the ball was downright sexy.  You were used to a much softer version of Carlos, steady and quiet, well-spoken and calculating.  As he carried his team, the dangerous glint in his eyes was something new.  You were starting to feel uncomfortably warm in your zipped-up coat. 

By the time the game was over and he'd received the Man of the Match award and recovered from a brief ankle injury, you were fidgeting in your seat, your body uncomfortably warm despite the rain dripping down the back of your neck for the last twenty minutes.  Most of the drivers and a couple of the other celebrities were hanging back after the pitch had emptied, making their way to the stands in order to take photos and sign merch with the fans loyal enough to stick the weather out.  Even watching Carlos shake his head like a dog, water flying everywhere was enough to set you on edge.  It felt like you'd swallowed hot coals and he was just casually stroking the fire, consistently stirring something up in you.  

Carlos was slowly directing himself towards the tunnel, preparing to head back to the changing rooms.  There was a half-baked idea in your mind as you slipped out of the viewing box and made your way down the stairs.  With a flash of your paddock ID, you were allowed back into the changing rooms and you made your way forward towards the tunnel, waiting for Carlos. 

He didn't spot you as he passed, not until you reached out and grabbed his wrist, making him yelp in surprise.  Before there was time to second guess you yanked him, forcing him to follow you into the storeroom you’d conveniently placed yourself by.  The door swung shut behind him, the pair of you cloaked in the sudden darkness.

“Y/N?”  now that he was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Shut up,”  

You grabbed him by the soaked front of his football shirt and pulled him down into a searing kiss.  Carlos responded instantly, his hands fumbling in the dark until he found your cheeks, palms impossibly warm as he gripped you with a muffled noise against your mouth.  The lights flickered on.  They must have been motion-activated, triggered as you pulled flush against each other.  His hands fell to your shoulders, moving you back.  In the soft light, you could see every detail of him.  The front of your top was wet.  You watched a single raindrop fall from his hair, run down his forehead and drip right off the tip of his nose.

“What are you doing?”  Carlos murmured as you pushed yourself close to him once more.  It was like he was exuding some kind of drug, your mind fogged and narrowed down until he was the only thing in your sights.  You shook your head, pulling him back into another heated kiss, this time his hands falling to your hips and gripping tightly as you whined into his mouth. 

“Hey,”  he chuckled against your neck  “What is it?”  You failed to answer, only succeeding in placing frantic kisses on any part of exposed skin you could reach. 

“You,”  it came as a gasp as Carlos threaded a hand through your hair, watching you with almost clinical fascination.

“Me…?”  He was teasing you, eyes shining.  You shook your head, your face pressed in the damp of his neck, breathing in deeply as if the smell of his sweat would help still your swimming mind.

“It should be illegal,”  your hands were roaming, grappling for purchase against wet polyester until you managed to slip in the small space between top and shorts, enjoying the way he shivered against your touch.  “Looking that good chasing a fucking ball around,”

His chest swelled at the compliment, a dangerous glint in his eyes accompanied by a wolfish grin.  He traced the curve of your jaw as if it was glass, studying your every move under the flickering electric light.

"And you even couldn't wait to go back?"  His tone had changed, the gentle teasing swapped for something more urgent, laced with anticipation.  You couldn’t.  It was as simple as that.  You felt feral, being driven by something almost animalistic that just needed and it needed now.

There was no way you could articulate how you were feeling, despite the way he was desperately searching your face for an answer.  So you did the only thing that had been running through your mind for the last hour.  

You sank down onto your knees. 

“Wait, wait, I'm sweaty,”

You were well aware of his state, having watched him wind himself up like that over the last two hours in the pouring rain.  Your knees were already starting to feel damp from where his clothes had dripped onto the floor.  But you were beyond caring and besides you'd grown up surrounded by racing drivers - it would take more than a bit of sweat to make you shy away.  The air in the small room was heavy with the scent of him, only adding to the growing sense of desperation within you to do something .  

You ran your hand over the poorly concealed bulge in his shorts, relishing the way Carlos' breath hitched as you did so. 

“Cariño…”  he trailed off, distracted as you started to mouth around his thighs, tight and warm from the recent exercise.  You pulled away, your hands resting in the dip of his hip bones as you blinked up at him. 

“Please,”

The word was barely a whisper on your lips, but it echoed like a scream in the confined space. 

“Shit,” Carlos swore, his head falling against the wall behind him with a dull thud as he pushed his shorts down his hips with trembling hands.  “Shit.  Yes, okay,”

It was quick, but it was always going to be.  Carlos was tensing before you even had your mouth fully around him, the muscles in his legs fasciculating under your fingers.  He hissed as you moaned, unable to stop the way his hips bucked forward.  One of his hands dropped down, threading his fingers through your hair. 

He stayed still, staring at you through blown pupils as if you were a gift from the gods as you took him in your mouth.  The way he was watching you only spurred you on as you met his eyes, drawing out a heavy, shaky gasp from him and his legs began to tremble in earnest. 

“Fuck, you're so good,”  he praised as you relaxed, pushing as deep as you could take him.  Your knees were sore, back aching, throat constricting and eyes watering.  Nothing about it was comfortable, yet you were soaked, feeling yourself clenching around nothing as you poured your entire focus onto Carlos.  Your entire universe in that moment consisted of him and him alone.  

You felt him tense, twitching in your mouth and scrabbling at your shoulders as he managed to stumble out half a warning.  You took that as a sign to hollow your cheeks, sucking and swallowing with everything you had, your entire body ignoring its natural reflexes for him.  Carlos came with a muffled shout, a hand flung over his mouth, chest heaving and other hand twisting hard in your hair.  You sat still, ignoring the way you weren't sure if the tears streaming down your face were from physical exertion or because you were so desperately close yourself. 

You waited until his breathing steadied and he'd stopped making quietly broken noises before you released him, taking his hand gratefully as he helped you to your feet.  Carlos watched you in rapture as you chased a stray dribble from the side of your mouth with you thumb and licking it clean without thought.  The light had gone off at some point.  You hadn't noticed at the time, it was only now as you became aware of your surroundings once more that you realised your eyes were straining, blinking as the lights stung unprepared pupils. 

He didn't stop at the changing rooms, instead just grabbing his bag and your hand as you made your way back through the maze below the quietening stands to the car park.

The drive back to the hotel was quiet in the best way.  Carlos took the scenic route; the rain had stopped and the lights of Monte Carlo were sparkling below you through the dark blanket of the sky.  His palm was warm against your crossed legs and he kept stealing glances at you, sending you a stupid little grin when you met his eyes.  The radio was blaring, the roof down and cooling wind in your hair.  His football shirt was pulled back against his body, hair flying freely around his face.  His eyes were shining, dancing with joyful freedom, whole body relaxed as if he and the leather seat below him were one shared entity. 

You wished that drive lasted a lifetime.

Chapter Text

The usual pit of dread for media day didn't descend upon you until you were midway through breakfast.  You knew about it because the sausages started to taste like cardboard and you'd stopped listening to Katie, who was talking you through a rundown of the day. 

“It's not the worst,”  Katie promised you over the sceptical look you threw her as you examined your schedule for the day.

In her defence, it really wasn't bad at all.  You had the usual press conference, but by some stroke of luck both Carlos and Mick were going to be there with you and you had a long lunch blocked out for a silly video with Seb after.  There were no special features and the remainder of the day was filled with meetings and training.  The fanzone sessions were, you noticed, double the length as usual but you could understand that; it was Monaco after all.  And they were never really bad - signing, a quick photo and messing with Seb without an escape.  There were the odd weirdos, but there were so many lovely, kind people that were so thrilled just to say hello to you that it was usually quite enjoyable.

Carlos had already texted you from the gym that morning with a sweaty, smiley photo that made your stomach clench with a reminder of the evening before.  He was loving the momentary release of pressure he'd been given, with the double-header resulting in his home race being immediately followed by that of his teammate.  Not only was it Leclerc’s territory, but one of the most revered races on the calendar and naturally all eyes were on the young Monegasque.

Your own morning started well, with a workout session where Katie pushed you so hard that by the end of the weight sets followed by sprint intervals on the treadmill you were flat on your back and panting heavily.  She pulled you through a stretch-out that made your abused muscles scream, but by the time you made it to the paddock you were loose and comfortable and incredibly grateful for her expertise.  

The conference room was already warm when you stepped in, despite the fact that the corral was less than half-full with a sleepy trickle of journalists.  The platform for the drivers was lit with warm yellow stage lights that felt more like the outdoor heaters one would find in European cafés and bars, simply walking across it made you sweat and the coffee in your hand felt like a mistake.  With another ten minutes before the interviews began, you decided you could make a detour to the green room to swap your travel mug for a water bottle and discard your hoodie.  You were midway through shrugging the tight hoodie off in a corner of the backstage excuse named the ‘green room’ when there was a low whistle behind you.

“Be careful, no?  Teasing all the drivers,”  you straightened up and turned to face Carlos, who was standing behind you with a smirk on his face.

“Right, because a few inches of my lower back will drive all the boys wild,”  you rolled your eyes, then caught the way his eyes flashed and he opened his mouth.  “No,”  you jabbed him in the chest  “Don’t even think about saying it,”  he stepped back with ease, his body swaying as he rebalanced with a shameless grin, holding his hands up in surrender. 

You’d not done press with Carlos yet this season and it was nice, even backstage.  Nice to have someone you were genuinely comfortable with, someone who you could relax around a little bit.  You were midway through comparing notes about the bizarre exercises you’d been put through by your respective trainers that morning when you spotted Mick enter the green room looking a little lost and more frantic than usual.  Valterri Bottas and Nicholas Latifi completed the group of five you were spending the day with, the pair of them sat separately absorbed in their phones.  You looked over Carlos’ shoulder and waved Mick over, his eyes following your movement.  His expression changed for half a second before Carlos stepped to the side, allowing Mick to join the pair of you.

Mick immediately pulled you into a hug as you greeted him warmly and turned to shake Carlos’ hand.  He started explaining an issue he’d had with his motorbike that had almost made him late when the stressed-looking stage director appeared, calling you all to take your seats on the stage.  You naturally found yourself settled between Carlos and Mick, prepared to while away the least enjoyable part of your day by throwing sideways looks at the two of them in silent mockery of the ridiculous, shit-stirring questioning the self-appointed journalists would direct at you.  

You’d been right earlier: it was hot.  You could feel your face already starting to shine under the searing lights and now that the floor was packed with cameras and bodies it was as if there was a wall of heat, radiating towards where you were trapped in the strangely uncomfortable egg-shaped chairs.  Carlos looked zoned out from the minute after his name had been called, a blank look crossing his features as he stared at a spot on the wall above the heads of the crowd.  You could feel yourself joining him, mentally slipping away as the questions directed at other drivers kicked off the session.

Someone calling your name dragged you back into the stuffy room.  You hitched a false smile onto your face, squinting against the powerful lighting to try and identify the person clamouring for you.

“Can you confirm that you’ll be seeing the new upgrades on your car this week?  Did you feel it was unfair you were forced to wait a week whilst Seb had them?”  And so it begins.   Big smile, don’t say anything inflammatory, don’t rise to anything they say.

“As far as I’m aware, yes, I will be receiving the upgraded package.  Of course, everything will be finalised tomorrow over the practice sessions,”  you smiled.  No true information, nothing Krack wouldn’t want to give away.

As per usual, one question slid rapidly into an onslaught.

“Did you feel your performance was compromised by being denied the upgrades in Barcelona?”

“Are you actually aware of what’s in the upgraded package?  Do you know how it will impact your drive?”

“Is there friction within the team between yourself and Sebastian following the split in upgrades?”

“On evaluation, do you believe there were other factors resulting in your performance last week?”

You answered each question as it was fired at you, trying to politely ignore every hint at your gender or the invisible rivalry between yourself and your mentor or communication breakdowns within the team or your lack of technical understanding or anything else equally ridicilous.  You could feel your heart rate building the more the questions were directed at you, unforgiving voices probing until you felt like you were on the verge of slipping up and just telling them to all shut up .

You tried to distract yourself by re-tying your hair and taking a drink out of your water bottle as the hoard descended on Latifi for a moment, questioning his so far pointless performance.  Mick caught your gaze, raising an eyebrow and mouthing the question of if you were okay.  You nodded your head with a tight smile and he pulled a silly face which forced you to break into a short laugh.  You could have sworn you heard the bones of a journalist’s neck crack as he whipped around to locate the sound. 

“Y/N, you were seen entering the paddock with Carlos yesterday, any comment?”  You threw Carlos a look that was met with a sympathetic smile and kind, understanding eyes that said ‘I’ll follow your lead on this one’.  You galvanised yourself, wondering whether death by imaginary rivalries with Seb or constantly having your personal relationships dissected live on air was worse.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, sorry I can’t read your name tag from here, Carlos and I are in the handful of drivers that don’t have properties in Monaco.  Turned out we were staying in the same hotel - I bumped into him at breakfast - so it made sense to come in together.  After all, when Seb is your mentor, you see ways to save the planet everywhere you go,” 

At least your comment about Seb distracted the reporters, earning you a delayed chuckle that broke out in smatterings through the crowd.  Carlos sent you a lopsided grin, his attention finally back in the room. 

“She just wanted to go in a Ferrari,”  they loved that. 

Luckily no one seemed to have noticed that you’d spent the morning gallivanting around Monaco with Carlos before arriving together and it was easy enough to deflect questions about your presence at the football with the same statement you'd been using the day before.  You didn't miss the way Carlos stopped staring into space and started watching the floor with a smug grin when said football match was brought up. 

“Mick, how do you feel about Y/N's newfound friendship with Carlos here?”  It was the last question, and you found yourself reeling.  Mick himself looked startled, bright blue eyes desperately searching you and then Carlos for help.  You knew where this was coming from, Hello Saturday was by no means the only gossip column that firmly believed you and Mick had been dating since the days you were both in Prema.  

You barely heard Mick’s stumbled response, your ears were ringing and hands shaking with pure, white-hot anger.  It felt like you were sitting in a straight jacket, unable to move or speak, bound to your seat and just staring at the high clock mounted on the back wall until it chimed the hour and you could leave.  It felt robotic the way you stood and walked back out to the green room.  You picked up your hoodie and coffee cup, making your way to the door when Mick's hand on your shoulder finally jolted you back into yourself. 

“Was that okay?  What I said?”  He looked frantically at you, his gaze jumping to Carlos who was approaching behind him and back.  He looked like he was going to cry as you nodded vaguely back at him.  “Okay, good.  What a mess, huh?”  You managed to huff out an agreement before mumbling something about having to go to a meeting, your only desire to get out of the building and to the opposite side of the paddock as quickly as possible. 

Carlos caught up with you as you were marching across the paddock.  He didn't say anything as he fell into step beside you.

“You know, I haven't a clue what Mick said,”  you mused, your blood pressure was slowly returning to normal and you were starting to feel like a reasonable person again.  “How dare they?  How dare they comment on my social life in front of me and not fucking ask me!  As if Mick or any man has any right to so much as an opinion on the company I choose to keep!”  Okay, so maybe not entirely reasonable, but it wasn't like you had no right to be angry. 

He nodded quietly. 

“Yes.  That’s very much what Mick said.  Maybe nicer, though,”

“Good,”  you'd walked around the back of the trailers where it was quieter and had come to a halt hovering outside the entrance to Ferrari, the Aston Martin zone separated by the McLarens.  Carlos was watching you with an expression you weren't used to.  It was - kind, without judgement or sympathy or anything else you were used to.  It almost made you uncomfortable the way you felt naked under his gaze.  You sighed heavily, unable to shift the heavy weight that had settled in your chest. 

“Look, if you don't want to keep doing this I'll understand,”  you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes, instead focusing on the comforting green of the trailers over his shoulder.  

“Excuse me?”

“This,”  you gestured between you.  “They're like bloodhounds with me.  Do you remember Hungary last year? Max hugged me on the podium and they wrote articles about our secret passionate affair for weeks.  They think I've fucked half the grid, if they've got a sniff there's something going on with us it's going to be relentless,”

“Do you want to stop?”

“That's not what I-”  Carlos had stepped closer, so your back was pressed against the rack of tyres you were concealing yourselves behind.  He'd caught your wrists, those wide brown eyes piercing through you as he trapped you, forcing you to face everything you'd been shoving down for weeks.  

“If you don't want to anymore, that’s okay.  But you can't make me go away because of media.  Not if I don't want to and you don’t want to,”  it really felt like he was boring into your soul.  You so desperately wanted to shy away from him, your whole body itching to squirm out of his grip and run away.  The only thing keeping you in place was his body blocking your escape route.  Like a trapped animal, you knew you'd lost.  You felt yourself deflate as you gave in, collapsing back against the tyres and going limp against Carlos, who gently released you. 

“I don't want to stop either,”

“Okay then,”  he shrugged as if it was that simple.  You immediately informed him he was incorrect.  Analytical eyes found you.  “Does denying all the rumours make them stop for you?  You tell the press ‘no I didn't date Mick’, but they still think you do, no?”

“Yeah, but I don't see what this has to do with-”

“So what is the difference now?  You say ‘No I'm not having sex with Carlos’, they don't believe you.  You say ‘Yes I am having sex with Carlos,’ then what do they have to say?  It doesn't change anything.  And you know what is true.  And what matters,” 

“I mean, I'd rather them take me as a serious athlete and not say anything at all,”  you grumbled, but you understood what Carlos meant.  Whatever you did, whoever you saw and in whatever capacity that was the media were always going to take it and twist it in the way that was the most scandalous.  It wasn't fair and you were never going to get over the unfairness that you faced as a woman in sport, but it didn't mean you couldn't enjoy anything. 

“You're quite wise really, aren't you Chili?”  Carlos paused and cocked his head at you like a curious dog. 

“You never call me Chili?”

“Well… that's what your friends call you isn't it?  And your family?”  You hadn't expected him to really react to you using his nickname at all, a spark of worry that you’d overstepped a line began to flare in your stomach.  

“Say it again,”

“What?  Chili?”  He shook his head, but his signature grin was back in place as he stepped between your legs, fingers deftly caressing the side of your face as he brushed back a piece of hair.  He made a small, almost thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. 

“My name sounds much prettier in your mouth,”

“ Carlos! ”  You squealed and tried to duck away from him, his hot breath on your ear making you shiver, the hand you hadn't noticed on your waist slipping beneath your shirt for a fraction of a second making you squirm against him.

“Just like that,”  he whispered.  “Go to your meeting, Cariño,”  you were sent away to finish the short walk to Aston Martin with a pat on the bum that had it been delivered by anyone else, you'd have scolded them.

*****

Your meeting, in fact, was not a meeting at all.  You were collared the second you walked into the Aston Martin box and dragged up to the team common room where Seb was already seated at one of the two small tables placed in the centre of the room.  

It was a nice afternoon, almost enough to make you forget the mess of the conference as you and Seb filmed a little video showing off some new merchandise and talking about a new sponsorship partner you'd picked up.  Apparently, it had been someone from the stuffy dinner you'd attended in Miami but you had absolutely no idea who was sent from the company or what they even did.  You didn't really care anyway, as you flashed a travel mug and pulled on a hoodie way too big for you, in the same green you were used to with just an additional logo embroidered on the arm. 

Then there were meet and greets with VIPs and Paddock Club people.  You took a small hoard of children on a tour of the garage whilst Seb distracted Mike and the parents with something technical and funny and just brilliantly Seb that when you returned with several impish little faces decked out in green hats and clutching photos of themselves in your car, Mike couldn't say a word against you.  Your dad pressed a coffee into your hand whilst you were taking a ‘break’ to check in with your race engineer and before you could start to dissect the turbulent weather reports for the umpteenth time, Katie was pulling you away to the fan zone to meet the masses. 

Several hours and an aching wrist later you were freed from signing cards of yourself and grinning for distant selfies.  You'd accumulated a good hoard of gifts which Katie carried over to your trailer.  It was a habit you'd picked up in your rookie year when you were so overwhelmed by any scrap of kindness shown to you that you took and kept everything fans handed to you and where you could, you'd send a thank you note or tag them on your Instagram.

By the time you were doing final seat fittings and checks for the first practice session, the sun was setting, casting the garage in a soft orange glow.  Katie handed you a boxed couscous salad from catering at some point between an in-depth discussion on whether changing the angle of your headrest would save a few hundredths through La Rascasse.  Several teams were still in the paddock.  You could hear the raucous laughter from Red Bull, usually meaning they were filming something ridiculous.  You ended up taking a bike for a sunset lap, just soaking up the late afternoon sun by yourself before everything kicked off.

Chapter Text

You’d never been so excited for a qualifying day in your life.  Seb had taken the lead for FP2 with you coming in a close second and the media had exploded overnight.  Just like you’d predicted you found yourself walking into a media storm in the paddock when you arrived on Saturday morning, but for once you welcomed the questions. 

The Green Red Bull was the official unofficial nickname for the Aston Martin that had spread throughout the paddock, and suddenly the only questions being thrown at you were about you and your car.  There wasn’t a peep about Mick or Carlos or any other men.  It felt good, refreshing even.  You’d much rather spend your days fiercely denying that your team weren’t cheating and the car was actually more similar to older models of Red Bulls than the current season’s car anyway than arguing about your relationship status any day.  Sure, no drama at all would have been ideal but at least this made you feel like a real driver.

You and Seb were inseparable, even more so than usual.  You spent the entire day in the garage, heads pressed together and passing notes back and forth with data and evidence.  Seb had dug up his 2011 notes for you so that by the time you were actually strapping into your car and setting out for qualifying you had no idea what year it was, all you knew was that your viens were alight with adrenaline and you were itching to go.

It was a hot qualifying, with temperatures reminiscent of Miami and Barcelona and Australia.  You could feel your body fighting you through the whole of the first session.  You blatantly ignored every warning sign because the car was flying and there was no way you were going to miss the opportunity to get pole position in Monaco because you were a little overheated.  Naturally, both green cars breezed into the top ten and for the first time in forty minutes, you were able to suck in a deep breath and relax a little.  Your first flying lap took a purple sector two and planted you in third.

“Outstanding lap, Y/N, box box,”  you pulled down the pitlane, welcoming the heavy-duty fans pointed at your body as the car was tuned up, given brand new soft tyres and the bare minimum fuel load.

“Empty my water bag too,”

“Copy,”

Max and Carlos had gone faster than you before they pitted, meaning that in the final three minutes when you were released back onto the track for the final flying laps you were sat in P5.

“Okay Y/N, we really believe you could cinch a pole today.  Full send, good luck,”

“Full send,”  you agreed with your engineer, putting more effort than you ever had into warming up your tyres to the perfect grip so that when you rounded the final straight and the start line came into view you were accelerating like a bullet. 

Your whole world narrowed down to the tiny strip you could see through your visor, which was bouncing so violently you were driving the track almost entirely on memory.  You knew you would be gaining attention, the way you were taking the corners was borderline idiotic but you’d never felt so in control before.  You glided around the hairpin like it was nothing, and you were just approaching Portier.

“Abort lap, red flag, abort lap!”  

“No!”

“Track blocked before the tunnel abort now,”   

“Fuck’s sake,”  you swore down the radio, not giving a shit that the TV companies would have to bleep you out as you eased off the acceleration and brought the car back down to a cruise.  As you approached the tunnel you could see why the race had been red-flagged, with a Red Bull in the barrier and a Ferrari that had clearly spun in a too-late attempt to pass, blocking the track completely. 

“What do I do then?”

“Wait there.  Marshalls are moving the Ferrari and then come back to the pits.  Looks like you’re keeping your P5,”

“Copy.”  You switched off the radio and sat cursing everything and anything as you felt the heat of the midday sun and the boiling engine surround you fully now that you weren’t distracted by the racing line.  It would be just typical that the one you had a shot at pole, not just a top ten start would be the day there’s a red flag on the final lap.  Luckily, it didn’t take long for the Ferrari to be reversed back, and you pretended not to see the apologetic look Carlos threw you from where he was standing behind the barrier with Sergio Perez.  How did he always seem to be the one involved in these incidents?

You cruised back to the garage and hopped out to a sea of sympathetic faces.  Seb looked as stormy as you did, he was stuck all the way back in P8 and your hopes of a magical one-two finish were sorely bruised.  Your dad, who had been watching from the garage pulled you into a hug and for a second you allowed yourself to feel like the little girl who’d had a win slip through her fingers at the karting tracks.  He smelled the same and felt the same as he did back then when he was your manager, engineer, coach and everything else.  You tried to swallow through the hot prick of tears in your eyes and bite down the disappointment because there was no way you’d be allowed a moment of private grief. 

Instead, you pulled back, hitched a grim smile on your face and made your way to debrief.

Chapter Text

You woke up at 5 am.

Not by choice.  Your heart was hammering in your chest as you tried to settle your breathing.  You desperately wracked your brain but you couldn’t remember the dream you’d had that had clearly woken you up so dramatically for the life of you.  Your window was still a black square against the soft glow of the bedside lamp you’d turned on.  The sheets were pooled around your waist, and the oversized blue shirt you always slept in was damp and sticking to you with sweat leaving you feeling close and uncomfortable.

Your alarm was due to go off within the hour anyway, so you decided there was no point in trying to go back to sleep.  There was a strange dull ache in your head and the air in the room felt particularly close.  You cracked open your window and were hit in the face with a wall of hot, sticky hair.  You groaned, immediately acutely aware of why you’d had such a terrible start.  It was a weird thing, but you were incredibly sensible to barometric pressure and you always had horrific headaches when a storm was close, and this one was close.  There was an almost metallic taste in the air.  You slammed the window shut as your head throbbed, and decided the only sensible thing to do was sit on the floor of your shower and wait for the steam to soothe you.

The storm had broken by the time you’d succeeded in your first shower of the day.  You could hear thunder rumbling in the distance and the invisible weight pressing on your sinuses had lifted, thankfully, but the spattering of rain against your tiny, square window was not filling you with joy.  Not only were you on the third row of the grid on a track that was notoriously impossible to overtake on, but it was also looking like a wet race after two days of dry running.  It was going to be a disaster.  Your phone pinging broke you from where you were miserably watching the weather, hair tied up in a towel and cup of tea cradled in your hands.

Carlos Sainz: This is going to be fun

You: You and I have very different ideas of fun

You’d never known a morning so long.  Maybe it was because everyone kept bringing up how it was due to rain right when the race was due to start, or because with your disappointing starting position you just wanted all the “what-ifs” to be over and done with.  Between workouts and warm-ups, meetings and fan greetings you felt like a listless version of yourself, just allowing people to shuttle you forwards and backwards as you smiled and waved and pretended you were fine.

You stood next to Daniel for the driver’s parade.  He had his headphones on and other than a warm smile there was no pressure to talk.  Max was with him, who was waving at the crowd and half paying attention to something Checo was saying at his side.  Lando joined you shortly and of course, where there was a Lando, a Carlos was never far behind.  They started yet another spirited discussion about the weather, resulting in Daniel having to shush his young teammate before he gave away three of McLaren’s tyre strategies.  It was enough to break you out of the mood you’d been in and you managed a half laugh at his expense.  After that you found yourself starting to relax as the float carried you through the second half of the track, aided by Carlos sharing some rather amusing stories of Charles’ attempts to cope with his home race ‘curse’.

The rain started again just as you’d had your seatbelts tightened for the formation lap.  There was a sudden flurry of activity as you felt the first drops hit your visor.

“What’s happening?”  You radioed your engineer as two sets of mechanics moved through the grid past you with trollies of new tyres.

“Unsure currently,”

“I don’t want inters unless it’s bad,”

“That’s risky,”

“I’m not settling for P5 today,”

“Copy,”  So you sat with your mediums on, watching the chaos of the grid evolve in front of  you.

“Race delay, nine minutes,”  you made an exaggerated groan that you knew would be broadcast.

“I’m bored,”

“Safety first,”

“I need a wee,”  you tried to bargain, partly for entertainment purposes and partly because your legs were starting to fall asleep and you really were bored.

“You’re not getting out of that car, Y/N.  Do you want inters now?”

“I hate inters,”  you were treated to another few minutes of radio silence for your adamant refusal of the intermediate tyres.  The grid was still alight with activity, you could see the Red Bulls directly in front of you had tyres everywhere, and just in front of them was a swarm of red suits belonging to the Ferrari mechanics.  Lando was starting just behind you in P6 and you had to crane your neck a little to get a good view of the Mclaren, but you could see tyre racks lining the outside of the grid there, too.

“Alright, Y/N, you get your way.”  your engineer made you jump as your attention turned back to your own car.

“What?”

“Rolling start behind safety car, so it’s full wets.  No intermediate tyres,”

“Yay,”  you knew your tone was full of sarcasm but you didn’t mind too much.  You much preferred the blue-rimmed full wet tyres over their green cousins that seemed to hate you.  Every time you’d driven with inters you’d had some kind of accident or at the very best a near miss.  A rolling start was boring, but at least you’d get to move after having been sat there for close to twenty minutes. 

It wasn’t quite “Light’s out and away we go!”  but you still felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as you eased the car forward and slotted in behind Max.  The wet tarmac made you focus more on your drive and you found yourself fighting the back end of the car constantly, but you were reassured that the line in front of you looked as questionable as your own.  Two laps of “racing” were completed before your radio crackled and you had to suppress an irritable eye roll.

“Yellow flag,”

“Ugh,”

“Latifi in the wall at the hairpin,”

“I’m behind the car anyway, I don’t care,”

“And red flag,”

“Oh come on! ”  You would admit the rain had been coming down heavier, but you were finally moving and you didn’t want to stop.

“Everyone to box,”

At least you were allowed out of the car for a wee.  You sulked in the back of the garage watching the weather reports on the screens with Seb, strategists buzzing around you.  You didn’t know how many times you told them you wanted nothing to do with intermediate tyres, but it was enough that nearly an hour of being stationary felt like the entire afternoon and by the time you were allowed to get back in the car for another safety car restart you were just grateful to be racing at all.

The green flag had never looked so sweet as you snapped the car forward and stuck yourself onto the Red Bull’s tail and started to push your race on.  Monaco being Monaco meant that you followed in a lovely line for ten whole laps.

“I can see a dry line,”

“Already?”  your engineer sounded sceptical but you could feel the speed falling as your tyres started to struggle on the drier ground.  There was no way you could pull off an overtake, let alone four to get to the front like that. 

“Think so,”  

“Okay, yep, Haas and Alpha Tauri are on inters and lapping faster,”

“Let’s go to slicks,”

“Strategy is go inters for a dry line,”

“I will crash this car if you give me inters.  Will hards last to the end?”

“Pit window for hards opens in five laps,”

“I can nurse wets until then,”

“I strongly disagree,”  there was an edge to his voice that said maybe you shouldn’t be arguing over the pre-agreed strategy mid-race.

“Can you guys just trust me?  Please,”  You had a feeling you were right, you couldn’t explain it but the dry line just seemed to jump out to you and as much as the car was working well on the wet tyres there was an almost visceral yearning within you for the dry tyres.  And you weren’t above begging on the radio if it meant avoiding the dreaded intermediates.

Five laps later you were the first one to change to the hard compound slick tyre.

“Don’t crash,”  was the only advice you received from your engineer as you came out into clean air, just ahead of a DRS train of lapped cars.

You were starting to get some heat into the tyres and were feeling good, like really good.

“Where’s everyone else?”  You asked when you realised you’d not caught up to the drivers ahead of you despite setting a new fastest lap.

“You’re leading.  All have pitted for slicks and come out behind.  There are three lapped cars between you and P2,”

“Haha nice,”  was your only response.

“Head down, you’re doing great,”

“Gotcha,”

You felt great.  Clean air, packed stands, and blue skies coming up ahead of you.  You felt yourself finally relaxing into the race and starting to push.  You set two more fastest lap times and were coming up to half-distance when you saw the first flash of yellow.

“Yellow flag?”  

“Confirmed.  Big crash through the chicane, be careful,”

“Think it’s gonna go red?”

“Yep, standby to box,”

You slowed the car as you guided it through half of the lap before you saw the damage.  You thought you were going to be sick.

Scattered across the track was an absolute mess of a formula one car.  The rear half had been completely ripped off, the tecpro barrier morphed out of shape with the force of the impact.  Debris was littered around as if a bomb had gone off inside the actual car itself.

“Jesus,”  you mumbled as you passed the site.  One thing that stuck out to you was the name on the sidepod, a large tear in the metal slicing through the red lettering, but you could easily identify the Haas.

“Please tell me that’s not who I think it is,”  you could hear the ugly strain in your voice as you contacted your engineer. 

“Red flag, Y/N, box box,”

“Who,”

“Y/N…”

“Who is that?”

“It’s Schumacher,”

Chapter Text

You felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs. 

You couldn't breathe, let alone speak.  Crashes were one thing, and both you and Mick had had your fair share of nasty ones over the years, but seeing his car literally torn in half was something else.  You couldn't get the image of it, back half discarded and front half buried in the barrier, out of your mind.  It was like it was painted on the inside of your visor, an unyielding reminder you couldn’t see past. 

Radio silence had never been so loud as you cruised back to the pit lane on autopilot, your entire body numb.  Your team were swarming you, undoing buckles and helping you out of the car but it was like you weren’t even there.  The second your feet hit the ground you were off sprinting to the Haas garage. 

Several marshalls tried to stop you; it was an unspoken rule that drivers were not allowed on garage visits and especially not during red flags, but no way would that stop you.  You rather violently cursed out a marshall who'd grabbed your shoulders just meters away from your destination.  The white and red of the Haas garage was in view and you could see the wreckage on their screens in the garage.  The poor marshall had no choice but to let you go when you twisted hard, worming your way out of his grip and scooting past.

You'd grabbed the first person you saw, demanding any and all information they had.  The poor mechanic was young and clearly low ranking.  He had barely stuttered out an explanation for his not knowing when a hand landed on your shoulder and you turned to be met with a grim-looking, heavy-breathing Sebastian, eyes locked on the mechanic in front of you. 

Faced with a four-time world champion, the boy paled and disappeared into the back of the garage with the promise of help.  

“Seb, I can't-”  you could feel your breathing threatening to spiral out of control.  Your chest was squeezing, the pain becoming more and more blinding with every passing minute.

“I know,”  was his only response, but his hand didn't relax on your shoulder.  You didn't even care what it looked like, two panicking Aston Martin drivers harassing the Haas team.  There would be publicity hell to pay but you didn't care.  There was a crane on the screen and marshalls on the track were starting to clear the debris around the main body of the car.  Someone in a white buttoned shirt appeared from the depths of the garage, the pale-faced mechanic you'd stopped scampering behind him. 

He turned to where you and Seb stood, sticking out like sore thumbs in your deep green suits.  His gaze was cold and unimpressed.

“He's out.  Radio was broken,”

“So?”  You found yourself demanding before you could stop.  

“ So ,”  you didn't care for the man's hostile tone.  “He is on his way back in the medical car.  The two of you can kindly leave now,”  you sent a bitter look at the man, turning on your heel and stalking to the end of the pit lane where the medical tent was situated, Sebastian hot on your heels. 

“He's okay, Y/N,”

“We don't know that,”

“But he's not-”

“Don't.”  flashes of another accident, one from several years ago in Spa ran through your mind.  You'd been told Anthoine was okay too, at first.  No one needed reminding of how that had ended. 

You sat on the floor outside the medical tent, blatantly ignoring the cameras surrounding you.  You knew at least one of them was Netflix, partly because they weren’t subtle about how they thrived on the drama and partly because you weren't stupid enough to not recognise the boom mic hanging over your and Sebastian's heads.  The pair of you sat in a resolute, mutual silence, refusing to give them a fraction of your mind. 

The hum of the engine preceded the entrance of the medical car that had you leaping to your feet.  The door opened and low and behold Mick stepped out onto his own two feet.  You didn't give him chance to prepare himself, a strangled sob ripping from you as you ran at him and threw yourself into his arms. 

Mick took a step back but easily caught you, wrapping his arms around your back and squeezing you tight.  You felt Seb, one arm circling you and pulling both you and Mick close to him.  That only made you cry harder because the moment of suspension when your little trio had become a duo was deeply sickening. 

“Hey, I'm okay,”  you were taking shaky breaths, fighting to regain control as followed Mick into the medical tent.  They tried to stop you but Seb must have given the medics a death glare because they stepped aside and allowed the three of you in without question. 

“I drove right past you.  The car’s in pieces,”

“You know they always look worse than they are,”  Seb tried to calm you as you were handed a cup of water.  You'd stopped crying as Mick was given a quick once over and permission to return to his team.  “The cars are built to break so we don’t,”

The three of you walked slowly back up the pitlane to the garages.  There were still big screens with the red flag notice everywhere so you weren't feeling particularly rushed to be getting back in the car.  Not much else needed to be said.  Mick was sandwiched between you, the warmth of him close enough to help you settle.

“Sorry,”  you managed.  “You know I hate crashes.  Ever since…”  you trailed off but the feeling of Mick wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you was enough.  It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that you’d been the first car to avoid the carnage at Spa.  That you’d seen the awful, awful mess firsthand.

“At least I didn’t end up in the pool,”  it was typical of Mick to make you laugh.  You headbutted his shoulder gently and the three of you resumed the normal conversation, which was, of course, complaining about intermediate tyres until you reached the Haas garage.  You gave Mick another tight hug and Seb clapped him firmly on the back before the two of you made your back to Aston Martin.

“Is Mick okay?”  

You hadn’t even registered Carlos walking straight towards you until he spoke.  He was searching your face, eyes wide and concerned as he ran a hand through wild hair.  You nodded, and he let out a heavy breath, stepping forward into your space.  Seb raised an eyebrow at you and gestured that he was heading back to the garage, leaving you alone with the Spaniard.  You tried to ignore the way your hands were still shaking as the pair of you stood together in the middle of the pit lane.  It was a hive of activity with mechanics running every which way, drivers trying to entertain themselves up and down the lane and cars guarded by umbrellas.  Several drivers stopped to ask you about Mick on their way to the Haas garage to find out for themselves.

Carlos watched you in that quiet way he had about him when he was witnessing someone else processing.  You’d moved back, so the pair of you were leaning against a wall as you observed the flurry around you.  

“Are you okay?  You’re pale,”  Carlos’ hand twitched as if he wanted to touch your cheek, but thought better of himself as a Sky cameraman passed by you, the lens obviously pointed at the pair of you as he did so. 

“Yeah - sorry,”  You shook your head and pushed forwards, bouncing on the balls of your feet a few times to force your blood to keep moving.  “Bad crashes always get me, ever since-”

“I know,”  

“Mick’s one of my best friends.  He’s like family, fuck he’s closer than some of my family.  For a second I thought I’d lost him,”  Your voice quavered for a moment, your mind betraying you by dragging you through the alternative outcome of the accident.  One where Mick didn’t come back in the medical car.  Carlos instinctively moved in front of you, it looked like you were having a simple conversation, but realistically he was shielding you from the prying cameras for a minute. 

“Deep breaths, Y/N,”  you did as he said, fighting the sting in your eyes as you tried to compose yourself for what felt like the millionth time that weekend.  His voice lowered, head dropping down for only you to hear.  “Come back to me,”  you allowed yourself half a second to press your forehead against his chest, before pulling away and snapping yourself back into reality.

“Right, I have a race to be leading,”

“You’re in P1?”

“Oh nice, try not to sound so surprised,”  you snarked back at his shocked expression as the two of you began to amble towards your respective garages.

“I thought it was a Red Bull,” 

“She’s green ,”  you pointed at the very distinct livery of the car parked at the front of the procession, ready to lead out of the pitlane if there ever was a green flag.  Carlos shook his head.

“Too many lapped cars here,”  you could agree with that.  

“Hello guys,”  Charles joined you, he looked pained.  

“Hi mate,”  Carlos greeted his teammate with a clap on the shoulder.

“Mattia said to me to find you,”  he ran a hand through his short hair, green eyes searching for something along the row of parked cars.  “Meeting before the restart,”

“Oooh, have they added plans J-through-X for you?”  It was common knowledge that Ferrari’s strategy was questionable at best and accompanied by an intricate, lettered system that no one else could even try to decipher.  Charles didn’t look like he found that as funny as Carlos did.

“Only Plan B: to beat you,”  Carlos added, then left you with a wink and a wicked smile as the two boys made their way to the bright red garage. 

With twenty minutes confirmed until the race was due to restart you were met with a strained-looking Katie.

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”

“I was just outside,”  you tried to justify, a little confused as to why Katie thought you were lost when you’d had a camera following you for the last half hour at least.

“Seb said….”  she trailed off with a noise of annoyance that meant she realised she’d fallen for whatever Seb had told her you’d been doing.  “Come on, I’m not letting you throw this away,”

“I’m not throwing anything away!”  You protested lightly, nevertheless following her to the back of the garage to run through some re-focusing exercises and a shortened version of your warm-up routine so that by the time they were finally calling for drivers to get back in their cars you felt sharp and ready to go.

They’d swapped you onto a new set of medium tyres, with word that due to all the delays the race was to be cut short.  Within moments of being on the track, it was confirmed that you only had twenty minutes plus one lap remaining of racing.

“What about points?”

“Awarding full points,”  there was a spark of hope in your chest.  The mediums were doing a nice job, you were putting in some quick lap times and pulling away from the pack.  “Just keep doing what you’re doing, defend with everything you have and bring it home,”

You didn’t even bother radioing a reply back.  You had never been so focused in a race in your entire life, there was a car hot on your tail and you were driving every lap like it was qualifying, pushing for perfect speed whilst simultaneously planting your car square in the middle, doggedly blocking every overtake attempt made on you.  Even with the medium compound, you were struggling to pull more than a second away from the car in second who was sitting on your rear ring just waiting for you to screw up.

It was the most exhausting drive you’d ever given, but when the message came in that you were on the final lap you thought of nothing else but to floor it.  You wanted your fastest lap bonus point.  The car felt alive beneath you, the tyres finally warm and responsive, the track dry enough to demand from it what you wanted.  The car behind you leapt forward, but you finally broke the DRS link as you pulled away.

“Okay Y/N, just keep it together kid, keep it together.  You’re about to win Monaco,”  you were shaking, body spent from the exertion and adrenaline as you pushed and pushed and refused to let up.  As you rounded the final corner you knew you were crying, but you didn’t care.

You’d only taken two other wins in your career, both from the previous season.  Your maiden had been in Hungary, and a second lucky one had come for you in Mexico after the two cars battling for P1 and 2 wiped themselves out in front of you.  Not that either didn’t mean everything to you, but taking a win on an archaic track, one of the most iconic and famous venues on the Formula One calendar was something else, especially after fighting tooth and nail for it.  As if you’d done it hundreds of times before, you crossed the line and passed under the chequered flag.  

“Y/N Y/LN, you’ve just won Monaco!”

There was nothing else you could do.  The only response you could manage was a broken sob through the radio as you slowed the car for a celebratory lap.  You couldn’t see a thing anymore, entirely relying on muscle memory as you guided the car through the streets one-handed.  The other shakily stuck up in the air in an attempted wave at the crowds you could hear roaring for you, at you, with you: in reality, you didn’t care.

“Oh my god.  Oh. my. God,”  you could hear your engineer chuckling at you, various voices you couldn’t all assign names to hopping on to congratulate you.  “That was mega.  Thank you, everyone, thank you!”

“What a drive!  You defended like a lion,”

“A lioness!”  You corrected before a fresh wave of emotion whacked you in the chest and you had to drive into Parc Ferme in choked-up silence.

You wanted to wait until the cars in second and third pulled in before you got out, but you found yourself unable to get out of the car immediately.  Your entire body felt numb and alight at the same time.  You were shaking hard as you disconnected your helmet and neck support, the headrest and the steering wheel.  There was a gentle stream of drivers from the non-podium positions trickling past you, patting you on the head and grasping your hands as you stood up.

Taking a deep breath you finally forced yourself to rise, standing victorious atop the ‘Green Red Bull’.  Hands thrust up into the air, head tilted back, eyes screwed shut you allowed yourself to soak in the moment as the crowd erupted for you once more.  The second you’d put the fixings back in the car you ran directly at the barrier with a scream.  In the middle of the Aston Martin team that was waiting to celebrate you was your dad, eyes shining and face wet in silent tear tracks.

“Dad!”  You threw yourself at him, a hundred hands fisted in your suit and pulling you over the barrier, but it was your father’s arms around your neck, holding you close. 

“That’s my girl!”  He gripped either side of your helmet which you were yet to take off.  “The tyre call?  Pure genius.  I’m so proud of you,”  You were crying again, but so was he, and your mum who was sobbing beside you so hard she couldn’t even acknowledge you.  Katie, your engineers and mechanics were all screaming at you, faces alight and wild.  The first win of the season always felt good.

“I love you,”  you told him.

“Love you too, go get 'em, kid,”  you nodded, the team helping you safely back on the correct side of the barrier.  You felt like you were eight years old again, having won your first ever race and you knew that nothing in the world would ever feel like that again.  Winning Monaco felt very similar.  You finally managed to rip your helmet off, taking a deep breath and unashamedly dragging your baklava across your wet eyes.  That was when you took a long, hard look at the cars parked in P2 and P3.

55 and 5.  With your number 15 right in the middle.

Seb caught your eye first.  His eyes were shining, hair wild.  He looked younger than you’d seen him in a long, long time.  You couldn’t contain yourself as he squeezed you tightly, the pair of you jumping on the spot like over-excited teenagers.  

“Simply magical.  Maybe I will name this car, too, after all,”  was all he said, and then with a nod over your shoulder and a complicated gesture that meant ‘I’ll see you in the cool down room’ he retreated to where the FIA officials were beginning to weigh the stream of drivers trickling through. 

Standing behind you was Carlos.

He was watching you with an expression you didn’t recognise.  You couldn’t make sense of your thoughts.

So you ran at him, full speed.

You connected with his body at force, making him stumble back as his strong arms flew to your legs, steadying you as he picked you up with ease.  

It only lasted a second before you were placed carefully back on the floor.  Friendly to an outsider, but the lingering touch on your hip screamed otherwise.  The way he was looking at you, making you feel like you’d just crossed the line all over again screamed otherwise.

“Congratulations,”  he mumbled into your neck, so close you had to ignore the way you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin.  You squealed because fuck it, you’d just won Monaco and you were allowed to squeal and cry and react however you wanted and the added layer of Carlos to all of it was enough to formally tip you into overdrive.  You could feel him laughing warmly beneath you as you stepped back.  There are races where you play your wins cool, where you shrug it off and go “Yeah, easy mate, one of the boys, no problem,”  and then… well then there’s Monaco.

Your whole body felt like it was thrumming with energy, which you decided to use as the blaming device for the way you couldn’t stop waving and jumping and hugging anyone who came near you.  You found yourself pacing around the cool-down room, unable to sit down as you constantly readjusted the Pirelli cap with the intricately stitched 1st on the side until Seb finally placed his hands on your shoulders and fixed it on your head.

“Leave it alone now,”

“Alright Dad, ”  His eyes shone with something that you hoped was pride.  God, you really did love Seb.  It would hit you sometimes like that, he’d do nothing much at all and you’d find yourself choking up in the emotion and admiration you held for the man you were so privileged as to call your mentor and teammate.  He tipped the peak of his cap at you playfully and your attention returned to the large screen behind him that was playing the race highlights. 

You hadn’t realised at the time just how close Carlos had been to overtaking you after the restart.  The Ferrari had not only been within DRS range, but lunging at you lap after lap after lap, just searching for an overtake gap that wasn’t there.

“Bloody hell Carlos, I had no idea you were so close,”  He shrugged.  You’d seen Carlos come second a couple of times.  He was still waiting on his maiden win and ever since Monza in 2020 there was always a look of mild disappointment when he stood on the second or third step.  Every driver’s dream was to win, of course, it was, but ever since he’d joined Ferrari there seemed to be something that bit more tragically desperate about Carlos’ podium finishes.  But right then, well, he was looking at you like the entire universe was in your eyes.  There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy, disappointment or anything even fractionally less than positive in him.

He shrugged, and you had to resist the urge to bump him with your hip.

“If I’m coming second to anyone, I want it to be you,”  he said quietly.  You could feel yourself blushing, the tone of his voice clearly giving away the secondary meaning in his words and you could only pray that it hadn’t been picked up well on the broadcast.  Seb, however, clearly did not miss the memo because he took a long drink of his water bottle, eyes trained on Carlos in a way that gave you flashbacks to a much younger Sebastian staring down Mark Webber after he’d thrashed his teammate on track.  Your face was on fire as you decided it was best not to look at either of them, instead staring intently at the TV screen.

“Your overcut worked,”  Carlos tried to change the subject as footage of one of Sebastian’s pitstops was being shown.  Luckily, deep down there was still a little egomaniac in Seb that loved to be stroked and you could see the giveaway eyebrow raise that said he was interested in what Carlos had to say.

“I just took advantage of the slow stops,”  He pointed out.  You hadn’t realised that both Charles’ Ferrari and one of the Red Bulls had suffered fumbled stops.  Seb had also pulled off some spectacular overtakes on three cars to fight his way to the top and capitalised on a technical issue with Max’s car.  He’d done far more than take advantage, but whilst he loved being complimented, Seb would never say anything himself.

Thankfully, stewards were buzzing around the room and before you’d found something else broadcast-appropriate to say to two of the most important people in your life at one of the defining moments of your career, you were being sent out to the podium.

It felt like a dream.

Not in the way people normally say things like that feel like a dream.  Not, like, happy clouds and rainbows and magical moments.  It felt like a dream because the sound of the crowd was deafening, yet it was like you were wearing ear defenders; the noise a little muffled and warped.  Walking across to take your place on the top step was the same: like walking in a dream where your legs aren’t yours and they seem to work slower than your mind is willing them to.  It felt like a dream in the way everything was too bright and detailed, but not bright or detailed enough all at once.  It felt like a dream when a princess shook your hand and your skin felt like rubber and you didn’t remember what the touch of another human was supposed to feel like.  It felt like a dream how you wanted to remember every precious second and already it was feeling like a fuzzy memory, fading right in front of you.

The popping of champagne corks was the moment when you’re swimming and you come up for air.  The moment when you break the surface tension of the water and suddenly everything clicks back into place.  You can see the clock on the wall and the lane ropes beside you, you can hear the radio echoing around the chamber-like walls alongside instructors shouting and children playing.  You can hear the old lady two rows across breathing steadily and the athlete next to you splash heavily as they dive in. 

Just like that, you’re back in the room.

You could have sworn you’d memorised every face in the crowd.  You’d waved to your parents and Mick who was standing right at the front, beaming at you even though he was holding an ice pack under his shirt.  You could see Katie and your engineer clinging onto each other, and Mike beaming up at you.  

And then you submerged back into the water.

If water was Ferrari champagne and submerged was Sebastian tipping his bottle directly over your head.  If submerged was Carlos attacking you with a vicious foaming. 

You shrieked, high and happy and completely content as you matched them, popping your bottle and hitting both with an aggressive spray before rounding on the poor apprentice who’d thought being sent up for the Constructor’s Trophy was an honour and not a rinsing.  When the fanfare had stopped and the bubbles had settled the three of you looked like sticky drowned rats.  You stood on the top step, suits squelching together for a soggy, smiley photo.  You turned, forming a triad as the bottles were clinked together.  Seb lifted his to his mouth immediately.  You were about to follow suit when Carlos presented you instead with his bottle, a wicked grin on his face. 

“More in here,”  he told you, gesturing for you to hand him yours in return.  Already drunk off the pure sensation you allowed him to come closer, gently lifting his bottle and placing it to your lips, holding it in place as you took a long gulp.  Victory, if anyone was wondering, tastes sweet and acrid and warm.  His eyes darkened as he continued to hold the bottle for you, watching the way you stuttered for a second before meeting his eyes and taking on the challenge to continue to down the very un-downable champagne when he made it clear he wasn’t letting you go.  Your hands came up to wrap around the neck of a bottle in a display that your mother would call positively uncouth.  Carlos looked physically pained as he let go, lifting the dregs of your bottle to his mouth and taking a much smaller drink than you had. 

When you let the bottle down, messily, with champagne spilling over the corners of your mouth and splashing down your chin with a wet grin, Carlos was staring at you shamelessly.  You sent him a subtle wink as you leant forward, reclaiming the bottle with a “1” on its neck and returning his “2”. 

Carlos followed you back into the green room, so close behind that it was only too easy for him to bend down and whisper into your ear.

“Your hotel room number.  Send it to me,”

The nod of your head was so subtle not even a journalist could have spotted it.

*****

“So lemme get this straight,”  Katie folded her arms, watching you with one hip popped out and a falsely interested expression as you spoke.  “I just fucking - fucking won Monaco, and instead of getting a head start on partying like all the other teams I have to do more press?”

“Shall we stop pretending like we’ve never attended a podium press conference before?”  She asked you lightly, her good nature and familiarity with post-celebratory alcohol poisoning from her rugby days giving her an edge of patience not many would have with a complaining driver.  She tried to adjust your cap, but you dodged away.  “You’re soaking wet, are you sure you don’t want to change first?”

“‘M never taking this off,”  you mumbled, not entirely sure if you were talking about your race suit or the winner’s cap on your head.  Your suit was already becoming uncomfortable, it was somewhere between wet and dry, the heat of your body making the fabric warm and very, very sticky.  It wasn’t pleasant in the slightest but you’d just won Monaco and there was no way you could be conned out of the magical suit, half a bottle of champagne influenced or not.

“Never work with kids or animals,”  she muttered to herself, grinning as she handed you a water bottle and watched you pull a face of disgust when you realised it wasn’t, in fact, more champagne.  “They should add athletes to that,”

“ You’re an athlete!”  You complained.

“My point exactly,”  She grinned at you.  Katie wasn’t an unattractive person, but there were hints about her that were just so… rugby.  Like the way she was so much taller than you, and wider too.  She was nearly all muscle, strong and sturdy.  She had a plain face, with a broad nose and strong jaw and eyes like steel.  Like the way when she grinned, you could see the gap in her molars where a tooth had been knocked loose.  Or if she turned her head in the right light there was a small, silver scar behind her ear:  “A walking reminder of why you never trust a girl with false nails,”.  Or now, when she was grinning at you in a way that said “I’m going to get you completely and utterly shitfaced tonight, but not if I get there first,”

You liked Katie a lot.  It was moments like these when you were reminded that behind the hardass manager, there was an old friend of yours who put up with an awful lot of your shit on a daily basis.  

“C’mon you, time to go see some journos,”  You groaned playfully as you scooped up the water bottle and followed Katie dutifully out of your driver’s room and down the paddock back to the conference hall.

Both Carlos and Sebastian had the good grace to change out of their sweaty, sticky race suits.  You took your place between them, a lopsided grin hitched on your face and not a care in the world.  The press conference was the best one you’d ever done, although maybe that was because the crowd were nothing more than a blurry haze and nothing they could say was able to so much as wobble your foundations.

It was almost too easy to smile and bask in their congratulations.  Let them call you things like a genius for your tyre call.  Even the more mocking comments, particularly keen to reference your adamant refusal of intermediate tyres felt no more than a friendly jab.  

The hour dragged by painfully slowly despite all the attention on you and you found yourself working hard to not let your head loll to one side and let the sweet buzz running through your veins carry you into a much-needed nap.  Instead, you found yourself hauled off for yet another round of photos before you were finally released from duties.  You knew there should be a debrief, but it had been swapped for team photos and promises that it could be done later for once.

“Where are we meeting?”  Someone shouted out, you couldn’t figure out who.  Several more (albeit smaller) bottles of champagne had been produced from the depths of Aston Martin hospitality for the photos, resulting in a fresh soaking of you and several more drinks.

“Y/N?”  Mike was looking at you expectantly.

“Hm?”  You asked, not quite following. 

“Winner’s pick.  Where do you want to go for the after-party?”  You shrugged, far too hazy to consider organising anyone.

“I don’t know, just meet at the hotel,”  you told them, Katie collecting your car keys and the two of you departed from the rapidly dissipating group.

Most of the traffic had cleared by the time you’d packed yourselves into the ridiculously tiny sports car and made it out onto the roads.  You were grateful that your parents (or at least your dad) knew the order of events well enough to not want anything to do with you until late tomorrow afternoon.  From the gentle sway of the passenger seat, you managed to type out a few messages: thanks to friends, family and fans contacting you over the win, your room number to Carlos and invites to the team meeting point to several carefully selected gatecrashers.

*****

You slid into your hotel room to a pleasant surprise.  Yet another large bottle of champagne was placed on your bed and, on your desk, a large gift basket filled with chocolates and small bottles of French liquors you didn’t recognise.  The card attached was with warm congratulations from the hotel staff.  You decided there was nothing wrong with continuing your pre-drinks party alone, plucking one of the glasses off the side to pour out some champagne and popping a chocolate into your mouth as you did so.

You were midway through stripping off your race suit, down to your fireproofs and trying to balance finding the music channel on the TV with turning on the intricate shower system when the long-anticipated knock on your door made you jump before a dumb giggle escaped you.

Carlos was on the other side, yet another bottle of champagne in hand.  He took up your space so easily as he stepped inside that it felt only natural he was there.  He cast a sweeping look over the room, eyes lingering shamelessly on your skin-tight fireproof top for a split second.

“You started the party without me?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna bring more champagne,”  you defended as he poured himself a glass from the currently open bottle, clinking it against yours.  “I also didn’t know what time you were coming,”

“I didn’t know you already have admirers,”  he countered with ease.  He was still wearing the polo shirt he’d been in for the press conference.  “What’s your plan, then, mi ganadora?”

“El plan,”  you snorted quietly.  “No, um, I was gonna have a shower and get changed and then everyone is meeting in the lobby in like an hour?”  

Carlos nodded thoughtfully, his steady gaze never leaving you.  You only noticed then the bag he’d dropped on the floor beside his feet. 

“Go on then, Cariño, have your shower,”

You cocked your head at him, surprised at his response, to say the least.  Carlos gestured towards the bathroom where the noise of the shower already running was gently emitting from.  You stared him down as you took another drink from your glass, before placing it on the desk and taking yourself off into the bathroom.  

You thought about locking the door, but a small voice in your head told you to leave it.

The warm water was immediately soothing, your whole body relaxing the second you were under the stream.  The adrenaline from the win finally felt like it was wearing off and you allowed yourself to sit in the moment under the scalding hot water and feel everything as you gently started to scrub the champagne out of your hair and off your skin.  Carlos must have found the music channel on the television, you could hear it playing faintly through the door.  The steam opened your lungs as you tilted your head back, allowing it to carry you back to several hours ago as you relieved everything that’d just happened.  Trying to memorise and freeze in place the way everyone important to you had looked when you’d clambered out of the car, how the podium felt, and how the celebrations had gone so perfectly.

You yelped when hands landed on your waist. 

“Woah, hey, I’m sorry to startle you,”  Carlos was right by your ear, his voice a low rumble that felt like it had been transplanted directly into your brain.  His hair was already becoming damp; you could feel the ends of it tickling your cheek.

You relaxed against his chest instantly, the way he was so broad and warm and solid behind you was like a drug.  You didn’t know for how long or how badly you’d been craving this latest hit until you’d gotten it and now you were euphoric before the high had even kicked in.  His hands gently worked up and down the length of your body, helping you to finish washing before you turned in his arms and returned the favour.  He let you soap him up without comment or complaint about how long (or reverently) you spent on his back and chest as if you were trying to memorise the planes of his muscles and the places where he was softer.  When you reached up to start on his hair he caught your wrist with ease, ducking away with a free giggle.

“Not my hair,”  you raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk creeping onto your face.

“Did not have you down as the fussy about their hair type,” 

“I already washed it,”  he was still holding your wrists, your body pulled so close to his that you didn’t know if the heat radiating around you was from the shower or him.  All humour evaporated from the situation as you met each other’s gaze and you both registered the position you’d put yourselves in. 

Carlos’ chest was heaving as he watched you with dark, honest eyes.  His skin was glistening under the water, making him look unreal beside you and you had to take a moment to remind yourself that he was really there and it was you he’d chosen to seek out.

“Carlos,”  your voice was barely more than a whisper.  He swallowed, stepping forward so your chests were touching, his face impossibly close.

“Do you want your reward now?”

“Hm?”  He was nosing along the slope of your neck, his hot breath distracting your already clouded mind.

“You won, Y/N, let me congratulate you,”  he’d let go of your wrists.  One hand came to cup your chin, tilting your head slightly so he could press a kiss on the point of your jaw, as if he needed to make his intentions abundantly clear.  You were gripping helplessly to his arm, already putty in his hands at such a simple gesture. 

You couldn’t manage much more of a response than a high-pitched sigh and a subtle nod of your head, giving over completely to him.

He didn’t give you time to blink before you were pressed back against the wall, Carlos all over you in every way.  He was kissing you feverishly, his hands everywhere, you responding but gripping to him like he was the only thing grounding you.

“I have thought about this for hours,”  he admitted between heavy kisses  “Since I saw you get out of that car,”  You were trembling against him.

“Carlos please,”  

“So good,”  he told you, his mouth dropping down to your collarbones, and then lower to your breasts.  “Asking so nicely,”

“ Oh my god, ”  You didn’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about how turned on you were, your thighs tensing and legs trembling before he’d even really done anything.

And, as if it wasn’t enough, Carlos Sainz sank down onto his knees right in front of you.

He devoured you, giving you no time for pause or adjustment as his mouth went straight to where you wanted him most.  Your hands flew to his hair, small fists preying for him to ground you in any way he could.  And Carlos, well he knew how to keep a promise.  He was determined, working in calculated and precise motions that had you keening and crying with every stroke of his perfect tongue.  Two fingers slotted their way inside of you, motioning and beckoning you to come ever closer to him.  His other hand held you in place, the large expanse of his palm pushing your pelvis back and holding you still.  He was looking up at you like there was no place on earth he'd rather be, moaning filthily against you to make a real show of how much he enjoyed what he was doing. 

You couldn’t stop it if you’d tried.  The orgasm hit you hard and fast and heavy, rushing over you without so much of a warning.  Your legs nearly gave way as you violently shook against him, head dropped back against the cool tiles as you called his name over and over.

Carlos relaxed against you as you slumped, peppering gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, mixed through with soft words of praise for you.  Or at least you could assume it was praise, several things he said were in Spanish.  His arms were like a cradle scooping you up with ease as he rose back to your level, breathless but pleased with himself nonetheless.  You reached for the back of his neck, pulling him towards you in a desperate kiss.

“I need you,”  you mumbled against his mouth, hand reaching down to grasp him and finding yourself pleasantly surprised at how hard he was.  “ Now,”  he chuckled against your lips.

“Always in a hurry,”  

He helped you out of the shower, picking you up like you weighed next to nothing and walking the pair of you back to the bed.  He dropped you down so your head hit the pillows, before crawling on top of you and making his way up your body reverently.  Every time he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you for the first time.  It set something off in you that felt electric and wonderful all at once.

“I know,”  he whispered, responding to the way you were shifting your hips against him as he took his time making his way up you.  “So good.  No more waiting,”

Carlos was true to his word, kissing you ferociously and sliding into you all at once, eliciting a gasp that melted into a moan from you, leaving you scrabbling along his back.  It was like he could read your mind, the way he instinctively knew and could give you exactly what you needed.  There was no room for talking as a large hand wrapped around your bare upper thigh and hooked it over his hip, allowing you to draw him even closer into you as he began to pick up the pace into a perfect rhythm.

You didn’t think you’d ever get over the way Carlos felt inside of you, the way he could move so gentle and so smooth, yet at the same time be working you up to a pace that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head as everything else in the world but the two of you just melted away into the distance.  He pinned your hands above your head, able to hold both of your wrists in just one hand with ease.  You whimpered at the onslaught of sensation. 

“Shh, I’ve got you,”  Carlos whispered, his face so close that the raw heat of the moment was broken by a lightning strike of intimacy.  “Let me give it to you, Cariño.  All for you,”

You were so worked up from the moment in the shower, and now, with Carlos towering over you but still promising to take absolute care of you it was enough to have you clenching and crying as you came for the second time, his grip on you tightening as he cursed through the sensation and forced himself to keep moving as your hips worked up to match him.  His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he muttered strings of Spanish against you.

“Can you do more?”  It was an innocent enough question, but the feeling of him still waiting for his own release had you nodding through your quietening cries and struggling to break free, gripping his face as you pulled him into a deep kiss.  You could feel him begin to move again, already sloppier and less controlled until it was Carlos shuddering and sweating and you following after him once more, until the pair of you were collapsed on the bed, chests heaving but with satisfied smiles.

“That was good,”  you hummed quietly.  Your head was on Carlos’ chest, listening to his heart slowing back to its usual steady rhythm that you found so soothing.

“Oh!  Only good?”  He teased, earning a weak slap against his abs. 

“You know what I mean,”

“I know,”  He gathered you in his arms, rolling you and poking you until you shrieked and started to wiggle away.

“Ew, Carlos!  You didn’t put a towel down, my bed’s soaking!”  He’d rolled you right into the spot you’d been in just moments before - both bodies having stepped straight out of the shower and into bed had left a significant wet patch in your bed.  Carlos was scooping you back up and settling you directly on top of him so you weren’t touching the sheets before you could complain further.

“It doesn’t matter,”

“And why would that be?”

“Because,”  he paused for effect, wide eyes shining and soft smile making him look almost - almost - innocent as he spoke, “You'll come back with me, to my room, no?”

*****

“You’re late,”  

There was a whole group in the lobby, but it was Daniel who spoke, the usual broad grin stretched across his face like a Cheshire Cat as he looked between you and Carlos, who had just stepped out of the elevator together.  A quick scan around and a head count told you that you were the last two of the party to arrive.

“What was it they say about being fashionably late?”  You tried to play off what had obviously just happened, but Seb’s keen gaze was trained on you, and judging by Danny’s comment he wasn’t the only one who had an idea of why exactly you’d been late.

“So, Y/N, what’s the plan?”  Mike asked.  It was rare team principles joined for after parties, but when it’s Monaco and both of your drivers for what is normally a midfield team find themselves sharing a podium - well needs must.  You could feel the smirk creeping onto your face as you regarded the crowd - Aston Martin staff made up the bulk of the party.  The drivers included were yourself and Seb, Mick, Carlos, Daniel and Lando.

“Well, that’s actually where you come in, Mr Ricciardo.  I need your help,”  always up for trouble, Daniel was never one to disappoint.  His face nearly split in half, eyes positively dancing and body actually dancing as he struggled to contain his energy.

“At your service,”  he added, addictive laugh and mock salute to join.

Twenty minutes later and your plan was in full swing.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?”  Mick whispered from somewhere behind you in the dark stairwell you were currently being led up, Daniel in front claiming something about Honey Badgers not needing torches.

“Absolutely not,”  

“How much did you drink before you came up with this one?”  Seb asked.  He was trying to go for a weary parent tone, but his clear excitement gave him away.

“Oh, I don’t know… since 2011?”

“Et voila,”  Daniel pushed a fire door open, allowing the group of drivers and a small handful of the Aston Martin party back out into fresh air.

“Lando, have you got it?”  He fumbled for a second before handing you the folded square of fabric.  “Go stand the other end, John,”  you instructed the social media admin, who moved silently in the direction given.  You kicked your shoes off, padding silently in the opposite direction.  You could hear John quietly directing everyone else to get behind him and the shuffling of several people not used to being quiet trying to do exactly that.

“Ready?”  Daniel’s voice floated from somewhere off to the right, his Australian accent distinctive.  You called across, waiting for John and the others to confirm.

“Go!”  That was John.

Daniel responded immediately, the floodlights blinding for a second as they threw the dark balcony into perfect light.  Refusing to give yourself the time to adjust you continued to stare in the direction where you knew John was filming, stretching your arms wide so the Union Jack flag rose behind you like garish wings on a giant bird.  With the flag flying, you took a deep breath, squeezing your toes and launching yourself with all your might as you pushed off the ground and fought every instinct in your body as you tucked yourself tight into a somersault. 

You hit the water with a hard splash, the flag falling from your grip as you held your breath, using the over bright lighting to re-orient yourself in the water so you’d resurface directly into John’s camera.  You bobbed up, perfectly timed with a wide grin on your face.  

“Well, myth busted everyone.  The Red Bull pool isn’t filled with Red Bull!”

“And cut!”  The moment John stopped recording and called cut the balcony erupted.

Carlos helped you out of the water and handed you the towel you’d told him to bring, an impressed look on his face to which you responded with an exaggerated wink and a demand for the real party to begin. 

You changed into your dry clothes - the ones Carlos had also been carrying - behind the currently deserted bar whilst Mick and Seb were distributing champagne bottles to the group, because after all if you’d managed to infiltrate Red Bull you should at least go the whole nine yards and have a drink on enemy territory.

The two previous pool divers were sat with their feet in the water, sharing a bottle of champagne.  Lando, Carlos and Mick were absorbed in conversation on the sofas that were primarily used for PR videos.  A few of the Aston Martin staff were milling about, most of the others that had joined you had gone back out to find their coworkers and John had gone to find wifi so that he could edit and post the video everywhere.

You decided to join the ex-Red Bull drivers and lowered yourself onto a dry spot of the poolside.

“So, am I part of your elusive club, yet?”  Daniel laughed, hearty and loud as he handed you his bottle to drink from.

“But so much yet to learn, young grasshopper,”  he told you, the wise expression offset by him already breaking character.

“Your Miyagi is off,”  Seb told Daniel without so much as a sideways glance.  He was watching the way the crimson bulls painted on the tiles at the bottom of the pool rippled as Daniel kicked his legs in the water. 

“Alright,”  back to thick Australian for a second, then breaking into Texan  “Well ma’am, the night is young, how may we keep ya company?”

“What even was that?”  you snorted as he tipped an invisible cowboy hat at you, before breaking into his signature laugh.  Carlos looked over his shoulder for the source of the noise, his gaze finding you for a moment and raising his eyebrows in a silent question that you answered easily with a nod.  You could feel Seb’s eyes on you again and chose to ignore him.

“I don’t know.  I hadn’t really thought any further than here,”  

“Oh!  Max is at Jimmy’z,”  Daniel was looking at his phone where the message had just beeped through.  “He said we’re welcome to join,”

“What’s Jimmy’z?” 

“What is Jimmy’z!?”  Daniel held his hand to his chest, shouting in mock horror. 

“Wait, who doesn’t know about Jimmy’z?”  Lando was calling from the other side of the pool.

“Y/N!” 

“No!”  You rolled your eyes at the way the younger McLaren driver mirrored his partner’s reaction.  “You wound me, Y/N,” 

“Can someone please be normal and just tell me what this place is?”  You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Seriously though do you just like, not go out?”

“Lando!”

“I’m just asking!”  

“Lando, I swear-”

“Okay!”  He retreated with his palms up in surrender, although you thought it likely had more to do with Carlos who tugged on the collar of his shirt and made him yelp than your tone.

“It’s just a nightclub,”  Daniel provided  “It’s killer, we go all the time,”  you assumed that by ‘we’ he meant the drivers that called Monaco home.  You were feeling loose enough for a bit  of an adventure, so you shrugged with another mouthful of the champagne that was tasting slowly better the more you drank it.

“Let’s go to Jimmy’z then,”

So then it was a scramble to collect shoes and belongings and leave the Red Bull rooftop precisely as you found it before trying to get twenty drunk people to stumble back down the dark stairwell and spill out into the paddock.  You had no idea how anyone managed to communicate over the babble of noise.  Aston Martin people were peeling off from the core group of drivers rapidly, whilst Lando and Daniel argued loudly over a map on someone’s phone.  Seb, Mick and yourself were hanging back, brazenly continuing to drink as you decided to use your winner’s rights to take no further responsibility for the rest of the night.

You couldn’t have said how long the walk was, but even after all the rain, the clear spring air was warm and almost balmy.  Some sweet talking to a bouncer courtesy of Daniel and you found yourselves being ushered through a side door that was claimed to be the “VIP entrance”.

Something about Jimmy’z reminded you of your brief stint at university, where you managed one term before your racing schedule made it impossible and you were forced to drop out and instead complete your engineering degree through Aston Martin’s apprenticeships scheme.  You’d only been clubbing to one place there and you had no idea why but Jimmy’z was taking you aggressively back.  It wasn’t the sticky carpets that had tested positive for chlamydia, nor the sickly smell of late teenage body spray and cheap spirits nor (as far as you could tell) was it everyone taking their tops off to the Baywatch theme song.  Maybe it was the multicoloured lights and the way everyone seemed to be having the most fun of their lives.

Your group, which had shrunk significantly on the journey over, made their way to the bar where champagne was replaced by spirit mixers and questionable shots, everyone clamouring to buy you something with a slap on the back.  There were strangers you didn’t know shoving phones in your face but for once you were too happy to mind.  Then it was a paper trail of linked hands onto the dance floor.

“Daniel!  Daniel!”  Someone was shouting off to your left over the thumping bass.  The circling lasers and rainbow lights flashing in your eyes meant you were mainly dancing with your eyes closed, but you turned your head blearily to focus on the incessant calling for Daniel.  Half expecting to see a crazed fan, you were pleasantly surprised to see one Max Verstappen, blue eyes shining and dimples on full display.  He was wearing the same white shirt you always saw him in whenever he was out, a few too many buttons undone to expose the pale expanse of the top of his chest. 

Daniel grinned, wide and welcoming as Max slammed into his side, arms wrapping around his friend in glee.

“You came!”

“Hey Maxy,”  Daniel’s voice was fond and if you hadn’t been next to him you wouldn’t have heard it.  “Good shout coming here,”  The Dutchman smiled wider if that was even possible.

“Thanks for letting us crash!”  You shouted, trying to hide the smug grin from knowing this was only the second Red Bull event you’d crashed today.  A sweeping glance around the club with half a sharp mind was enough to notice that nearly half of the population were in the team’s polos.  Max finally detached himself from Daniel and pulled you into an albeit shorter hug.

“Congratulations, Y/N,”  Even when he was shouting over the music he still had a slight lisp in his accent.  Despite him being less than a year older, it made him appear younger, and more innocent.  You liked Max, not particularly close simply for not being in the same circle, but he was always kind to you when you crossed paths.  There was a sweetness to him not enough people knew of, you thought.

“Thanks!”

“No, really.  You deserved it,”  You clutched his hand and squeezed warmly.

“You drove great too.  I’m sorry about the technical issues,”  He shrugged and waved them off.  Giddy on something, clearly.

“Have you seen Checo!?”  He was half turned to Daniel again, but your whole group’s attention was still on him.  Daniel shook his head at Max, leaning close to follow his direction.  Max swayed a little as he pointed to the outskirts of the dancefloor, where Checo was dancing aggressively by himself, one of his shoes in his hand.  “He’s so drunk mate!” 

“Didn’t he just have a baby?”  Lando cut in, concern lacing his tone.  He didn’t drink as much as the rest of you and was mildly more sober.  Max shrugged, clearly bored of the conversation he’d started.  

“There’s Charles!”  The other half of Ferrari was indeed making his way forward, the beautiful Charlotte by his side.

It could have been minutes or hours you spent in Jimmy’z, honestly, you weren’t aware.  All the sounds sounded the same, and with someone pressing another drink into your hand, you were fuzzy enough to not notice the transitions.  Daniel had disappeared off with Max to locate some old Red Bull friends.  Carlos and Lando had gone with Charles for a bit, leaving Seb and Mick packed close together with you.  At some point Carlos had returned with a flushed, grinning Lando trailing behind him babbling about the girl he’d just kissed.

A familiar thumping beat caught your attention.

“Carlos!”  You turned to grab the Spaniard, who looked at you startled.  “Dance with me, now!”  Mick raised his eyebrows at you in a poorly timed sultry wiggle, but you ignored him.  Your alcohol-soaked one-track mind was on a mission and there was nothing that could stop you as you pulled Carlos back into the middle of the dance floor from where you’d previously been working the periphery.  

“Why?”  

“It’s my song!”  You were grinning widely, newfound confidence pulling him closer to you as the opening lines to Nelly Furtado’s Maneater rang out.  A slow smirk of understanding washed across his handsome face as he understood why you were suddenly so demanding. 

It started innocent, Carlos indulging you as you wiggled your hips out of time and tilted your head back as you soaked in the moment of invincibility.  You were powerful, untouchable.  You’d beaten 19 men at their own game on hallowed grounds.  You were the Maneater. 

Carlos didn’t dance.  You knew that, but it was fun to bother him nonetheless.  Your hands went from your poor and likely very unsexy moves to looped around his neck.  He found your hips to match, strong grip pulling you far closer than appropriate for coworkers.  He encouraged you to keep moving, his nose running from your ear, down the side of your neck and ending near where your collarbones met, on display thanks to the low-cut top you’d chosen.  What was worse was the way he slowly made his way back up the hollow of your neck until he was hovering right over your lips.  He had a hold of your head, tilting you backwards so just as you were about to boil over and give into him, you couldn’t quite reach.  It didn’t help that the more your hips moved in a rhythm you were fast becoming familiar with, he was pressed so close to you that you could feel him hardening in his jeans.  It made your mouth water, and all thoughts of anything sensible completely wiped from your mind.

The song ended with his lips behind your ear in a promise of so many things you wanted and so many things you really shouldn’t be taking right then.

The music morphed back into melded drum and bass you didn’t know.  Carlos’ cologne in your nose was almost sobering, enough to make you come back to yourself. 

“I’m starving,”  You told him, mouth on his ear under the excuse of him not being able to hear you otherwise.  He shook his head at you, not understanding and eyes dark with lust.  “Hungry!  I’m hungry,”

You took his hand and led him back out to where Seb, Mick and Lando were starting to slump against the wall.  If you were sober enough to care, you’d hope that they’d at least assume your sweaty and flushed face was simply due to the volume of bodies packed into the dark space.  

“Lando!”  He looked up from where he was showing Mick something on his phone.  With a tilt of your head he nodded and lead the remaining five of you back out onto the streets of Monaco.  You found yourself gluping, drinking in the cool air to help steady your spinning mind.  “Oh official Monaco tour guide,”  you clasped your hands together as if you were praying.

“What, me?”  Lando looked mildly alarmed.  You nodded at him, wide eyed and desperate.

“Please tell me where the nearest chippy is,”

“Chippy?”  Mick looked confused.

“All I want is a plate of chips and gravy,”  Lando snorted.

“This is Monaco, ” 

“I refuse to believe there isn’t a fish and chip shop here.  So please, please, direct me to the nearest fast food place that’s open.  I’m willing to settle for French Fries,”  you pulled a face.

Walking was a little blurry, but you found yourself leaning between the arms of Seb and Mick as the three of you struggled to walk three abreast down the narrow streets, giggling to yourselves.

“Can you believe we did it?”  Seb hummed happily.  “Mick you need points!”  He chuckled.

“I’m just happy to be here,”  you leant your head on his shoulder. 

“Me too,”

Your memories cut in and out after that.  You remembered the five of you huddled up in a questionable kebab shop, you guarding your plate of chips against Lando’s prying fingers and watching stupid videos on his phone.  You remembered Carlos being the only person you allowed to steal from you.  You remembered Lando peeling off to go home.  You didn’t remember Seb and Mick leaving you, but you were aware of being pushed against a wall in a dark alley, Carlos’ warm lips all over you and lighting a fire in your belly with a mumble of not being able to wait any longer.  You remembered stumbling into his hotel room as he predicted, too drunk and silly to do anything other than make out and clumsily help each other undress.

You remembered his arms warped tight around you as you lay on his bare chest.

You remembered never feeling as happy and as contented as you did that night.  Not even the winning, but spending the night with the people who meant the most in the world to you, aside from family itself.  The little found family you’d build in the sport you’d made your home. 

You’d never want anything more.

Chapter Text

Newton's third law is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. 

The following hangover lasted for two days.

The next morning, you thought you were dead. Or at least you did for the thirty seconds you got to sit in that odd, floaty feeling you get when you wake up with a hangover, right up until the point where a quiet “Cariño,” brought your attention to the side of the bed where you met the soft brown of Carlos’ eyes as he waved a croissant under your nose. 

You groaned loudly as your stomach flipped and a wave of nausea crashed over you with such force you physically shuddered. 

“Get that thing away from me now,” you managed to groan against the pillow. Carlos must have managed to understand the muffled garble because the rich, buttery send drifted away.

“Good morning,”

“No,”

“What?”

“Just…” you stopped to swallow down another wave, Carlos’ peppy attitude grating on you intensely. You couldn’t finish the sentence. “‘M going to lie on the floor now,” you rolled out of bed and army-crawled into the bathroom where the cool slates were all but calling your name in the balmy morning. 

You got a whole five minutes of peace before he was grinning over you again. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Monaco winner,” you squinted at him and caught the lens of his camera flash as the sunlight caught the polished glass. You made a certain hand gesture in his direction that made him make a gleeful noise. 

“I think I’m dying,” You heaved yourself over the toilet bowl and felt his presence come mortifyingly closer before his hand landed warm on your back.  For the first time, it occurred to you what you were wearing - after a second of sifting through your swimming mind you realised it was a T-shirt, much bigger than anything you owned.  “It feels like my soul is being ripped from my body,”  You coughed, felt your mouth water and weakly tried to push Carlos away when you realised there was no escaping your imminent fate.

“So dramatic,”  he tutted, but his tone was softer, his touch careful and he stayed far too close for comfort as your body tried to expel whatever alcohol was remaining in your stomach.  Suddenly you were small again, fragile.  Something he could so easily break should he choose to. 

“Says the person who kept feeding me champagne,”  you moaned, the word like acid on your lips, and you felt your stomach heave again at the mention of it.

“Come on, you’re okay,”  Carlos’ encouraging hands were lost on you, he was trying to get you to stand, but the thought of standing made your head spin and you flopped back onto the floor, pushing your forehead harder against the tiles as you waited for the feeling to pass again, swallowing furiously and breathing deeply through your nose.  “Oh Cariño,”  he seemed to realise that there was no amount of enticing he could do to get you off the floor right then.  “Can I help?”  

“Please,”  you were so hungover tears were pricking your eyes.  “I just need a shower,”

You were semi-correct.  One cold shower and a bottle of electrolyte-spiked water later you’d made it downstairs to the lobby, lolling your seat in the breakfast lounge with sunglasses firmly in place.  But you were sat up, opposite Carlos, and picking at the display of bland, carby foods he’d fetched for you.

Carlos, who’d started the day annoyingly bright, seemed to have finally felt his hangover arrive.  He’d lost a bit of colour from his cheeks and had also gone from trying to wolf down the buffet he’d raided for himself, to nudging the bits of ham curling around the edge of his plate with his fork.  You’d have had more sympathy for him except for the fact that it was largely his fault you were in such a state. 

You were about to open your mouth to tell him off for complaining that he, too, wasn’t feeling so good when the other half of his bad influence dragged a chair around the table that was clearly meant for two, and down plopped Charles, fully accessorised with a large pair of Ray-Bans.

“Lando is not coming for breakfast,”  that didn’t surprise you, the younger Briton rarely drank and even he’d been roped into the chaos of last night.  “He’s not in good shape,”

“Surprised you’re here,”  you mumbled.  Charles shrugged, and made a vague gesture that said ‘me too’.  “D’you know where Seb and Mick are?”  If the group of twenty-something-year-old athletes had taken such a battering, you dreaded to think what had happened to poor Seb.

“Flew back to Switzerland earlier,”  Charles told you, swiping a pastry from your untouched plate as payment.  You took another gingival sip of the black coffee you were cradling, not even bothering to protest the blatant thievery.

“Where’s my phone?”  You patted your pockets, knowing full well your phone wouldn’t be there.  You hadn’t looked at it all morning, in fact, you weren’t even sure it had survived Jimmy’z and made it back to the hotel.  “Oh god,”  the words were small and defeated, accompanied by your head falling into your hands.  You knew that if your phone were missing, it would have to stay missing for at least another day; there was no way you could stomach going on the hunt for it in the state you were currently in. 

“Upstairs, I put it on the charger,”  Carlos didn’t even look up from his eggs, but you nudged his foot under the table and felt him respond with gentle pressure against your ankle.

“Thanks,”

Charles stood in a dreamlike fashion shortly after, hardly remembering to bid the pair of you goodbye as you watched him drift unsteadily back to the elevators.  The rest of the morning was spent back in your room.  The Champagne remainders were untouched, but Carlos made a good effort at finishing off the French treats that came with the celebratory hamper as you curled against him, your eyes unfocused on the mindless, trashy TV you were both pretending to watch.

The afternoon followed with an hour of lazy head, Carlos so settled between your thighs you’d thought he’d fallen asleep there.  You came quietly against his mouth, rocking your hips to match his languid pace, your fingers tightening in his hair.  The endorphin rush that spread through your body, too, was slow.  It gently made its way through your nervous system, clearing your head and healing you so blissfully that you barely noticed him kissing his way back up your stomach until you were cuddled against his chest.  Carlos held you tightly as you slept off the last of the hangover together.

“I hate this bit,”  his calf-like eyes were focused on you again.  He had that devastatingly handsome look on his face, the one he had in interviews when he’d just missed out on a pole, or a podium, or a few hundredths of a second to Charles.

“It’s just over a week,”  You promised.  He shrugged.

“Always feels like longer these days,”  You felt yourself melt against him at his words.  The advantage to Carlos’ private jet sponsorship was the equally private lounge access he got before his flight; at least this time you could say a proper goodbye.  You pecked his lips for what felt like the thousandth time that day.  You wanted to tell yourself it was just the hangover and the adrenaline crash that was making you feel clingy, but you knew deep down something had changed.  You just weren’t sure what - or how - just yet.

At least it was a night flight home.  You slept from the moment you found your seat until you were set to land, and that was only because a steward gently touched your shoulder and informed you so.  Your dad picked you up at the airport and you slept once more, the whole car journey home.  You were way too big for him to do so, but somehow you remembered briefly waking up to the feeling of him lifting you out of the car and placing you into bed.  For a moment you were the eight-year-old girl who’d won her first-ever karting race, a gruelling, wet affair that had taken everything out of your tiny body and that night too you’d slept all the way home and right through your dad carrying you to bed.  You’d clutched that trophy so hard you woke up the next morning with it still in your hand.

This time around there wasn’t a trophy in your hand the next morning.  There was the dull ache of the final stages of recovery headache and an equally dull, gnawing hunger that seemed to be coming from somewhere much deeper than your stomach.

*****

“ Finally, ”  was the first word to pass Andrea’s lips as you made your way downstairs for breakfast.  You weren’t sure if she was referencing the monumental lie-in you’d had or the fact that you’d cancelled the celebratory brunch you were supposed to have yesterday morning before their flight home.  You figured she meant both.

“I told you not to expect her yesterday,”  Your dad sent you a wry smile from across the breakfast table and slid you a mimosa.  Your stomach twisted, but it was weak and you wanted to make it up to your mum for standing them up yesterday.  She’d had a busy morning; a spread filled with pancakes, waffles, even french toast, with a whole tray of bacon, eggs and sausages.

“Bloody hell mum, were you expecting The Queen?”  You joked at the sheer volume of food, not that you were complaining as your dad piled your plate high, the day of barely eating finally catching up to you.

“Just my little champion,”  You smiled appreciatively, not even bothering to correct her terminology.  A single win wasn’t a championship, but this one sure as hell felt like it.  Either way, you weren’t going to complain when you had a “sim and gym” day with Katie and were going to need all the energy you could muster to survive that.  The other downside to having a rugby player as your coach, she got some kind of sick kick out of forcing you to do the most gruelling workouts on the days when you needed it the least.

Fortunately, your parents lived within an hour from Silverstone, so you took advantage of the slow lunch before getting changed into your team colours and packing your laptop and a gym bag for later.  The green seemed to shine a little brighter that morning.  You couldn’t help but admire the way your new Ray Bans seemed to complement your polo perfectly.

You hadn’t expected an honour guard, but the welcome you got when you walked into the Aston Martin headquarters was oddly quiet.  The receptionist barely lifted her head as you scanned in, and you made it all the way to your office completely unbothered, which, you thought, must have been the first time that had ever happened to you.

You popped one of those little pods into your coffee machine and contemplated snapping a picture to send to Carlos.  The man was a borderline coffee snob and with Ferrari being so deeply Italian, they seemed to have professional barristers on every corner endorsing the habit.  He’d scoff at whatever you had in your hand whenever you saw each other in the paddock and you knew his reaction would be the same towards your little coffee machine.  Could you really complain though, given how many of their exquisite drinks you’d had for free in the last few weeks?

Your thought process was interrupted by a knock on the door.  A young man in a polo shirt that was at least two sizes too big and a name badge pinned on an angle you had to tilt your head to read was hovering in the door.  You could tell by the blue of the badge that he was an intern.

“Hi,”  you volunteered it became apparent he wasn’t going to offer words.

“Oh, um, hi,”  

“What’s up? Did Katie send you?”  You could see the poor boy physically wracking his brains trying to remember if he’d met a Katie yet.

“Uhm, no I can’t remember her name - sorry - but, there’s a- like a meeting, soon?”  He paused to check his watch  “In twenty minutes.  Whole team in the… the big conference room,”

Why they had sent an intern to tell you rather than Katie, or even an email, was lost on you.  

“Thanks,”  The intern moved as if he was going to rock back on his heels to leave, and then changed his mind, swaying forwards again.

“Congrats on Monaco, by the way!”  He almost shouted, making you flinch a little and the champagne-induced throb in your head threatened to return for a moment.  “My little sister - she loves you.  And - I mean I do too - not like that!  But you’re really cool,”

He’d gone an impressive shade of pink, but the sentiment warmed your heart.

“That’s very sweet of you guys!  Hang on,”  you leaned over and grabbed a sticky note from your desk.  “What’s your name?  And your cubicle number?”  He hastily told you his name was Luke, and gave you the location of his desk in the intern pen.

“Cool, thank you.  I’ll get something for your sister sent over there,”  He nodded and retreated in a rush of thank yous.  There were always boxes of merch in your office, so it didn’t take you a minute to put together a little gift bag with a couple of your driver cards, a mini helmet model and a couple of caps, all signed for Luke and his sister along with a few other Aston Martin branded bits you had lying around.  You stuck the note with Luke’s number on the top of the bag, grabbed your coffee and made your way out.

The intern pen was on the way to the meeting rooms, so you slipped the bag under his desk on your way down, thankful that the rest of the interns also seemed to be out running errands. You’d been caught before in there and when one intern gets a sniff of their hero, you tended to get stuck in a mob it would take you at least an hour to extract yourself from.

The sheer size of the big conference room always surprised you.  Four long tables made a square, with projectors on all four sides of the room and space for a speaker to stand at one end with a platform and a microphone.  You very rarely had to go in here, meetings involving you were usually smaller affairs, or they were much larger and much more informal whole-team briefings. 

You were one of the first to arrive, despite the fact that the meeting was due to start in two minutes.  Fortunately, Seb was already there and almost instinctively you found yourself sliding into the empty seat beside him.  Despite your mother’s incredible brunch spread that morning, you still found yourself a little disappointed that there wasn’t a snack in sight.

“Do you know what this is all about?”  You whispered to Seb, the room so imposing you felt like a child in a school assembly hall, unable to raise your voice despite several other conversations happening around you.  A steady trickle of people were making their way in, several of whom you didn’t recognise, others you were more familiar with.  Your whole pit wall team was present, as well as Katie and Britta, John the social media admin and even Mike, who sat close to the podium with the microphone.

Seb shook his head, curls following the movement with a gentle bounce of defeat.  You made a non-commital noise of acceptance.  “How was yesterday?”  The question was accompanied by an elbow in your side and eyes shining with mischief.

“How was yours?”  You instantly reflected the question, but Seb stopped you with a clear look of ‘I asked you first’.  “It was rough,”  you admitted, trying hard not to recall the gory details of the morning in Monaco, but even so there was a small, proud smile fighting to make its way onto your face.

“I nearly missed my flight,”  He admitted with a wry smile.  You wanted to push for more details, but something Charles had said at the hotel breakfast distracted you.

“Wait, you went back to Switzerland - how are you here?”

“Supposed to still be there,”  he sent a look in the direction of Mike that screamed Red Bull sulk for a second, eyebrows drawn in and an impressive pout.  “I was only told about this last night.  I had to fly in this morning,” 

You were about to press further when Mike stood up and cleared his throat, effectively commanding the full attention of the whole room.  Silence fell so suddenly it was as if a mute button had been pressed.

“Right, well thank you all for coming.  I think we all know why we’re here,”  You did not like the pointed look he sent in the direction of you and Sebastian, especially considering you very much did not know why you were there.  You sent a desperate look towards Katie, hating the feeling of being caught out.  She wouldn’t meet your eyes.  

“First of all, congratulations where it’s due.  First and third for the team is an outstanding effort,”  there was a round of rather stilted applause, you and Seb standing out as you both launched into much more enthusiastic clapping, which you quickly ceased.  Mike was fiddling with the projector.  You took the opportunity to lean towards Seb.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be positive?”

“Y/N, where do you want to start?”  Mike’s direct address snapped your attention right back to the front. 

“Um…”  Under his steely gaze, you had nothing to say.

“Let’s give you some options, how about that?”  The tone of his voice made it clear that that was not a question he was waiting for you to answer.  “How about assaulting a marshall?  Or marching into the Haas garage?  Acting as if you’re the only one in charge of the decision-making? Breaking into the Red Bull hospitality!?  Or perhaps your concerning relationships with other drivers? To name a few, ”

Oh.

“‘Oh’ indeed,”  

“Sorry-”  Sebastian interrupted, the attention of the room immediately gravitating towards him. 

“You’re not innocent either, Vettel,”  Mike’s tone was icy as he spat the German’s surname.  You felt Seb shift beside you and knew immediately that he was switching from the gentle, bee-loving neo-hippie mentor back into the petulant driver who rose to world-dominating fame.  A fantastic scowl graced his features, clearly offended at being interrupted in such a manner.  

“What assault?”  The ‘W’ came out like a ‘V’ when he was cross.

“We’ll start there, then,”  Mike snapped.  He threw a letter down and watched it slide along the elongated desk to where you stopped it.  You didn’t need to open it because there was a copy of the contents being projected on all four sides of the room.  An official FIA statement.

A fine of 20,000 euros is to be paid by the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) alongside a requested formal apology for the physical assault of a pit lane marshal during the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.  The driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) shall receive 1 point on their Superlicence for unsportsmanlike behaviour.

It wasn’t the money that felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest.  

“Unsportsmanlike?”  Your voice was smaller than you would have liked.  “But I didn’t assault him,”  you sounded like a child, and it was clear in Mike’s expression he wasn’t interested in your side of the argument.  

“What did you do then, Y/N?”

“I-” You took a nervous sip of coffee.  This was going to be a long meeting and you were not going to cry at the first accusation.  “I was running to the Haas garage to find out about Mick.  He grabbed me and stopped me,”

“And then what?”

“I…wriggled,”  it sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.

“So you got into a physical altercation with a pit lane marshall?” 

“I didn’t hit him or anything!  I just got away from him,” 

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear it.”  You knew better than to argue back.  “Which brings me to my next point.” The image changed slightly, and two more letters were sent down the desk.

A fine of 5,000 euros each is to be paid by the driver of car number 5 (Sebastian Vettel) and the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) for the illegal entry into a competitive garage (HAAS Formula One Team) during racing hours in the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.

“Oh come on!”  Sebastian spoke from beside you where he was reading his copy of the statement.

Mike was staring right at the two of you with an exasperated fury that made you want to disappear.  You weren’t one for getting in trouble at school, but you could easily imagine this was the way teachers looked at naughty children.  It didn’t sit well in your chest.

“Sebastian, you illegally entered their garage!  Please argue that,”

“It was very clear we were both only there for the concern of our friend, ”  Seb spat the word at Mike like it was venomous.  “Y/N couldn’t tell you a single detail of that garage, she was in a state,”

That was true, the only memory you had of the Haas garage was the stony-faced man in the white shirt who told you Mick was alive and the feeling of the world splitting apart beneath your feet. 

“And you want the FIA to believe that?”  Mike ran a hand through his short, grey hair and for the first time, you noticed the bags under his eyes.  You wondered how long he’d known he was going to have to handle this.

“Sportsmanlike behaviour?”  Sebastian scoffed.  “Clearly not,”

Mike had had enough of the conversation.

“You’re not to argue the fines,”  he sent a pointed look in Seb’s direction.  “You’re both to pay in full out of your personal accounts, you’re both to write formal apologies.  And you’re never going to display such immature, unprofessional behaviour again.  This goes against everything we stand for as a team and you’re both going to make a very public rectification, understood?”

You nodded, your focus suddenly extremely limited to the square of the desk in front of you, unable to look up and meet the eyes of anyone in the room.  Your face was burning, your vision was swimming and you knew you had never been so embarrassed in your life.  You could feel Sebastian beside you, almost quivering with rage and his hands balled into tight fists in the periphery of your vision.  Unlike you, his whole body was tense, on high alert and ready to fight.

“You’re also extremely lucky that Christian is a very reasonable man and isn’t pressing charges for your little stunt in the Red Bull swimming pool.  How stupid could you possibly be thinking that was a good idea?”  You sank further into your seat, what had appeared nothing more than a hilarious prank at the time suddenly was thrown into harsh, bleak contrast as you realised just how dangerous your idea had been.  Although it had been your idea, John was rounded on for his turn of telling off.  You didn’t even feel like the pressure had been taken away from you, as you watched the beloved members of your team that you had slowly grown closer and closer to being reprimanded on your behalf.  The guilt was eating you alive.

“A team apology has already been issued to Red Bull.  I don’t want to hear another word about this now-”  Mike interrupted at least three of you who had spoken up over the stunt at once.  “John, you stick to your team’s ideas only from now on and Y/N and Sebastian - you’ll be having separate PR briefings because you know Drive to Survive will be all over this,”  Mike paused to rub his temples.

A break was suggested, and half the room stood to go and locate coffee.  Mike took two paracetamol and you couldn’t help but think he had the right idea, however, you felt like you were glued to your seat.  Katie was still refusing to meet your gaze and with Seb and Britta murmuring over an iPad in rapid-fire German, you suddenly felt very small and very alone.  You were almost willing for Mike to hurry up and continue the onslaught because at least it gave you something to focus on.

After the break, you moved on from fines to receiving a very public lecture about your attitude towards tyres.  Apparently arguing with your strategist over broadcasted radio is not something well endorsed by Aston Martin, regardless of who’s opinion was right. 

“You have one job, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “Just the one!  Drive the fucking car.  The idea of it being a team sport is that we sort the rest,”

That was enough to tip you from embarrassment to anger.

“ I drove that ‘fucking car’ to first place!   And had you boxed me to inters I would have driven that fucking car right into a fucking wall.   I argued because I was right,”

“You weren’t right, you were lucky!”  

“I’m the driver, if anyone knows the tyres it’s me, ”

“You’re barely out of your rookie season.  You respect the strategy we give you,”

“Not when it’s wrong!  I listened to you in Imola and-”

“Enough!  Y/N that is enough!”  Mike was red in the face, and his hands slammed down right in front of you so that he was towering over your seated frame as he shouted.  “Maybe your friends at Ferrari can call their shots but you are not contracted for your opinion and we do not want to hear it.  Need I remind you Lawrence’s son is waiting for your seat,”

“How dare you talk to her like that,”  Sebastian’s voice was so controlled it screamed danger.

“Be quiet, Sebastian,”  Britta’s hand landed on his arm.  Seb dropped whatever he was about to say, but it couldn’t break the intense stare you were stuck in with Mike himself.

“And as if that wasn’t enough damage-” 

Mike stepped away from you, clicking on a few slides further where a collection of images made your stomach sink.

“Schumacher is young, he’s popular and he’s already formed a close alliance with Sebastian.  We chose to ignore whatever your relationship with him may be.  Your personal life should be none of our business,”

You knew what was coming next.  One of the pictures on the screen was of you wrapping your entire body around Mick right as he’d stepped out of the safety car, his head buried in your neck and Sebastian closing in on you.  The second image was taken shortly after; you were gripping each other’s forearms with your heads pressed together.  To an outsider who didn’t know the depth of your bond, it was obviously intimate.  The third photo was at the end of the race when you’d jumped into Carlos’ arms and he’d held your legs.  You hadn’t noticed at the time but here, caught in HD, the way his fingers splayed across your bum was not friendly, nor was the way he was looking at you in total awe.  The quality of the final photo dropped off significantly, but the evidence was so much worse. 

A grainy picture that was taken in the dark of Jimmy’z.  Carlos’ hips pressed so close to yours there wasn’t a spec of space, his hand in your hair and the other on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose was at the juncture of your neck and lips millimetres from your skin.  You were no better, eyes closed and lips parted in clear bliss, a hand gripping his bicep for dear life and the other fisted in the front of his shirt, clearly encouraging him into you.  

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,”  Katie’s voice was quiet enough that few people would have heard her.  The disappointment in her tone echoed in the pang in your chest.

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“Shut up, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “You have done enough for a lifetime in less than 24 hours.  I don’t want to hear another word from you,”

“But I’m not dating Mick, it’s not-”

“ENOUGH!  The adults are talking now,”  

That stung.  The tears that had been intermittently welling in your eyes finally spilt over as you swallowed the lump in your throat.  You made an exaggerated gesture of running both hands across your face in frustration to remove the evidence, although you knew it was obvious he’d finally made you cry, and in front of the whole team no less. 

The PR team were suddenly speaking up, discussing how much they’d offered the magazine companies that had hold of the paparazzi photos to keep their silence.  Mike had sat down and for the first time, there was an efficient, business-like feel to the meeting rather than a public humiliation.

Within the next half an hour several cover-up stories had been prepared and were ready to be released if - and when - the rumours started.  You weren’t consulted on a single one, despite it being your personal life under the microscope.  Katie was the only person sticking up for you, and you had a strong sense that you were not going to be received well if you tried to offer anything.  You didn’t understand the full scope of what the PR team were suggesting, too many business-like words and complicated, contractual terms for simple things that you were simply too overwhelmed to be handling right then.  From what you understood they’d be saying you’d broken up with Mick and Carlos was nothing more than a drunk moment.

Agreements were starting to be murmured and there was a restlessness you could feel spreading amongst the whole meeting.  Mike announced the dismissal and people were nodding and iPads were being packed away.  You didn’t dare move.  Seb was the second person out of the door, his expression nothing short of stormy.

Mike spotted that you were still rooted to your seat amongst the steadily growing flow of people leaving.

“I want your apology done and published tomorrow.  Pay the second the FIA contact you.  Keep your head down, you do nothing between now and Baku but train and I swear to god Y/N, you pull another stunt like this again and you’re out, I don’t care how talented you are,”  

You held Mike’s gaze, something childish in you refusing to acknowledge him further than a swift nod.  You tried not to look too much like you were scampering out of the meeting room with your tail between your legs, but you knew it was obvious.

Sebastian was in your office.

“Looking for these?”  He held up your car keys, which were exactly what you were looking for.  There was nothing in the world that could stop you from immediately getting out of the Silverstone complex as quickly as possible.  You nodded, fully aware that your chin was wobbling as you fought off a fresh wave of tears. 

“Good.  Come on,”

He marched ahead of you through the building, out into the car park and unlocked your car, opening the passenger door for you with an expectant look.  He didn’t say a word as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the complex with impressive speed.

“Cry now,”  He said.  You didn’t need much encouragement. 

He drove in silence for ten minutes, whilst you tried to cry as quietly as you could.  There was something big building in your chest and it was hurting the more you tried to control yourself.  Seb pulled off the main road into a leafy, sheltered run-off that was totally uninhabited.  He parked, rounded back over to your side and without a single word pulled you up and into his arms.

He held you tight and allowed you to finally let out the broken sob that sent you spiralling into a full-blown panic attack. 

“Sorry-”  you choked out but Seb immediately cut you off with a firm ‘no’.  He didn’t try and talk you through it or get you to stop, instead letting you work your way through the way your body was attempting to rip itself in two until you somehow found your own breathing rhythm and your chest stopped squeezing and the sobs settled to a gentle stream of tears.  He just held you, firm and fast against his chest and let you figure it all out yourself. 

“You need to cry,”  He told you when you tried to apologise again,  the both of you now sat on the floor in the late May sunshine.  “You’ll feel better.  But not in there,”

“Oh my god, Seb-”  the wave of dread that had temporarily pulled back crashed over you once more, and you immediately curled towards your senior, his arm opening and pulling you into his shoulder as if it was second nature.

“I know,”

“My career is over,”  you moaned, a fresh stab of pain shooting through you.  “Lance has been waiting for me to fuck up for years,”

“They are not going to sack the winner of Monaco,”

“But-” 

“Look,”  Seb handed you a stack of papers you hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

“What is this?”  

“I printed them off last night.  I thought we might need them,”  Each sheet was a photocopy of a news article, each about a scandal involving an F1 driver.  Seb himself and the Multi-21 incident was on the first page, there were several other on-track episodes, but what mattered most to you at that moment was the list of after-party allegations.  From wild parties to sex scandals, the list of drivers with gossip surrounding them was ridiculous.  Seb plucked the bottom paper from your hands.  It was several screenshots of ‘news’ from Monaco two nights ago.  Lewis in the club bathrooms, Checo allegedly cheating on his wife, Lando had been caught kissing that girl he was talking about, Charles had a very public fight with Charlotte, and Mick had been seen walking a girl home. 

“Scandals are part of the job,”  was all he said.  “How many of these do you remember, Y/N?”  You flicked through the pages again.

“Maybe three?” 

“Exactly my point.  It all dies the second they see something more interesting to talk about,”

“But it’s different, they already don’t take me seriously because I’m a girl, and now they all think I’m fucking half the grid and have evidence,”  The image from the club flashed across your mind again.  You had a feeling Mike had only put up a select sampling.

“I know,”  Seb pondered  “I don’t have the answers for that one,”

“Thank you,”  you hoped he knew how much you meant it.  “I think you’re the only person who can make this feel like it isn’t the end of the world,”

“Do you know how many times Christian told me off in front of the whole team?”

“No?”

“Enough that I just used to laugh when he tried,”  You gave a wet giggle at that.  “Do you want to go to McDonald’s?” 

“I always want to go to Maccies,”  you agreed, allowing Seb to once again drive as you pulled out of the quiet spot and rejoined the main road to find the nearest food source.

“One day, we will laugh about this,”  He handed you the prized milkshake from the drive-thru window.

“I can’t believe he actually called me a diva over tyres,”  Seb managed to grin around his veggie burger. 

“Yes.  But you need to know, Y/N, the way he spoke to you was completely unacceptable,”

A few of Mike’s choicer phrases bounced around your head. 

“No jokes about that, okay?  I’m going to do something - or say something - I don’t know what yet,”

“You don’t have to,”

“I’m your mentor.  And you’re my friend.  I’m not letting anyone talk to you like that and get away with it, do you understand me?” 

“Yes, but shouldn’t I say something?  Feminism and sticking up for myself and all that?”

“I think experience is more important here.  And keeping you out of any more trouble,”

“Thanks, Grandpa,”  

“Hey, enough of that!” he nudged your elbow, and the pair of you dissolved into emotionally drained giggles over your shitty burgers.