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Chapter Text

Imola, April 2014

TYRES SQUEALED. ENGINES HOWLED. Amara gripped the wheel tighter, sweat gathering beneath her gloves as she prepared for a lunge into Tamburello. Her heart thundered in her chest, part nerves, part fury.

She had been stuck behind the Fortec car for six laps.

#16

Fast. Controlled. Precise.

And currently in her damn way.

She adjusted the brake bias slightly. Her engineer's voice crackled in her ear, urging her to play it smart, bide her time, pick the moment. But Amara Velasquez had never been one to wait politely for an invitation to overtake.

The window opened at Turn 2. She went for it.

A sharp jolt. Carbon fiber cracked. Her front wing clipped the side of his rear tyre. His car skidded off-track as hers bounced onto the runoff and straight into the gravel trap.

Yellow flags waved instantly. Dust clouds rose.

Inside her helmet, Amara swore—not out of regret, but frustration. She slammed the steering wheel off and shoved the cockpit open, climbing out as marshals ran toward the wreck. Her adrenaline hadn't even settled when she heard a voice—clipped and furious.

"You couldn't wait one more lap?"

She turned to see him. Brown curls plastered to his forehead, suit half-unzipped, helmet in hand, fuming.

"You braked too early!" Amara snapped, pulling off her own helmet. Her long braid whipped over her shoulder as she stepped closer. "You were crawling through that corner."

"I was defending the inside. You didn't even commit properly—"

"You didn't leave space."

"You weren't there to begin with!"

Their argument drew a few amused glances from the marshals and mechanics nearby. Two young racers, barely fifteen and sixteen, squabbling like playground rivals in fireproof suits.

"I would've made it if you weren't—"

"You never had the corner!"

"Maybe try defending like someone who isn't afraid to—"

"Merde, I'm going to separate you two like puppies." A third voice groaned.

They both turned.

Anthoine Hubert stood there with his arms crossed, helmet swinging loosely from one hand and an exasperated grin on his face.

"Are you seriously fighting over who's the bigger idiot?" He asked, stepping between them. "Because spoiler alert—it's a tie."

Amara blinked, caught off-guard.

Charles frowned. "You know her?"

"Obviously," Anthoine said, bumping her lightly with his shoulder. "This is Amara Velasquez. Karting champion, Filipino storm cloud, no patience for anything slower than P2. And this idiot,"  gestured toward Charles, "is Charles Leclerc. Monaco's golden boy. Constantly stressed. Eats pasta like it's a personality trait."

Charles's eyebrows rose. "Thanks for the intro."

Amara finally cracked a reluctant smirk.

Anthoine grinned. "There we go. Now — I'm hungry. And you two are going to sit down, eat, and stop looking like you're about to punch each other."

Still glaring, Charles muttered, "She ruined my race."

"She was trying to pass you," Anthoine replied easily. "Let's call it a learning experience."

Amara crossed her arms. "I was alongside."

Charles rolled his eyes. "In your head, maybe."

"Oh shut up."

"Enough," Anthoine sighed, already walking away. "I swear, you two are going to be either best friends or bitter rivals. There's no in-between."

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‎THEY SAT ACROSS FROM EACH OTHER UNDER THE PREMA HOSPITALITY, STILL FUMING, ARMS CROSSED AS ANTHOINE FORCED TWO SANDWICHES INTO THEIR HANDS AND STARTED GOING ON ABOUT THE CHAOS IN TURN 5. Silence lingered between them, tense, awkward, until Amara finally glanced sideways.

"You really think you're hot shit, huh?"

Charles didn't look up. "You really can't brake on time, huh?"

A beat.

Then, quietly, Amara said, "I've got the fastest karting lap at Lonato."

Charles looked up. "Prove it."

And just like that, the tension broke.

They started talking. About karts. About who had the worst hotel room that weekend. About how terrifying the Prema team boss was when angry. About how much Anthoine snored when he slept.

Amara leaned back in her folding chair, a half-eaten sandwich in her lap. "So, you're from Monaco?"

Charles nodded, sipping from a water bottle. "Yeah. Small, expensive, too many yachts."

She snorted. "Sounds annoying."

"Not if you like rich people pretending to be humble."

Amara gave him a side glance. "You don't seem like the yacht type."

"I'm not. I'm the 'don't-crash-in-Turn-Two' type."

"Well too late for that." She grinned.

Across from them, Anthoine smirked, arms folded behind his head. "Look at you two. From throwing helmets to flirting in under an hour. Beautiful."

Charles choked on his water. "What?"

Amara immediately sat upright. "We are definitely not flirting."

Anthoine laughed. "You literally called him hot shit ten minutes ago."

"I meant it as an insult!"

Charles tilted his head. "Could've fooled me."

Amara tossed a piece of sandwich bread at him. "Don't make me crash into you again, Leclerc."

"Try it Velasquez. I'll defend better next time."

"Oh, you'll try." She shot back.

Anthoine sighed dramatically. "Great. Now I've started a rivalry."

Amara rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. It wasn't often that she clicked with someone like this—not in a world full of egos and elbows. But Charles wasn't like the others. He was sharp, competitive, and irritating as hell, but something about him felt... familiar. Comfortable, even.

He stood up and brushed crumbs from his race suit. "Come on. Walk the track with us."

Amara blinked. "Us?"

"Anthoine and me. We always do a lap after the first race weekend."

"I thought you two were rivals."

"We are," Anthoine said. "But sometimes we pretend we're friends."

Amara hesitated for a second, then stood.

"Fine. But I'm walking ahead. You two are slow."

Charles grinned. "In your dreams, Velasquez."

She turned around. "You're gonna be saying that behind my car for years."

Anthoine called after her, "You guys are definitely going to end up punching each other."

Amara jogged a few steps ahead, walking the racing line with the focus of someone already breaking it down in her head. Charles watched her, amused.

"She always this intense?" He asked Anthoine quietly.

"She was born intense," Anthoine replied. "The girl probably came out of the womb complaining about tire degradation."

Charles laughed, shaking his head. "She's good."

"Better than good. You should see her in the wet."

As if hearing them, Amara turned around and walked backward, grinning. "You two done gossiping, or should I slow down so you can catch up?"

Charles smirked. "You're confident for someone who just caused a DNF."

"You braked too early!"

"I didn't—!"

Anthoine threw an arm between them like a referee. "Alright, children. No fighting on track walks."

They kept moving, the three of them falling into rhythm as they traced the curves of the track. The sun dipped lower, casting golden light over Imola's historic asphalt.

Charles kicked a loose stone off the edge of the track. "I still think you owe me a front wing."

Amara rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll give you mine when I win."

"Oh, you're winning now?"

"Obviously."

Anthoine laughed. "I give it two races before one of you starts throwing helmets again."

Amara grinned. "Three. I'll be civil."

Charles nudged her shoulder. "We'll see."

She looked up at him for a beat longer than necessary—a flicker of something unspoken passing between them, before turning her eyes back to the track.

"So," She said, more softly now. "Why do you do this?"

Charles glanced at her, then up at the empty grandstands. "To make it out. To make it matter."

Anthoine hummed. "To prove I belong."

They both turned to Amara.

She paused, her gaze fixed ahead.

"To rewrite the story they already wrote for me."

Charles's expression shifted—thoughtful now.

None of them said anything for a few steps.

Then Anthoine clapped his hands together. "Alright! So... pizza after this?"

Amara laughed. "Only if Charles pays."

"What? Why me?"

"You took me out, remember?"

"She's got you there." Anthoine grinned.

Charles groaned dramatically. "This is going to be a long season."

Chapter Text

Monza, July 2014

AMARA TIGHTENED HER GLOVES AS SHE STOOD IN THE PREMA GARAGE, eyes fixed on the track shimmering under the late afternoon sun. The roar of engines down the straight blurred into background noise. Her pulse wasn't racing because of the competition, it was something else. Something closer to home.

She hadn't seen her mother in over four months.

That was normal now. Racing came with distance: airports, host families, FaceTime birthdays, texts that always arrived a few hours too late. But today was different.

Today, her mother was here.

"Amie, you good?" Charles's voice came from behind her, laced with that easy Monaco drawl. Curious, casual—the way he always tried to mask when he actually gave a damn.

She turned, helmet under one arm, the Prema logo shining off her race suit. "Just.. waiting."

"For the lights or something else?"

Before she could answer, a voice cut through the noise.

"Mara!"

She froze. Her head snapped up, eyes wide.

A woman stood at the edge of the paddock, dark hair tucked under a borrowed Team Prema cap, sunglasses pushed up on her head, clutching a lanyard like she didn't know what to do with it. But her smile was unmistakable.

"Mama?" Amara whispered, voice catching. Mom?

She didn't even realize she had dropped her helmet until it hit the garage floor with a thud. Then she was running.

She practically crashed into her mother's arms, clinging to her like a lifeline.

Behind her, Charles bent down almost instantly, scooping up the helmet before it could roll too far. He brushed a thumb over the scuffed edge, gaze lifting just in time to see Amara throw herself into her mother's arms.

"I missed you so so much," Her mother whispered, pressing kisses to her forehead. "You're taller again. Taller than me na talaga."

"You always say that," Amara sniffed, hiding her face in her shoulder. "You came all the way from Manila?"

"For this," Her mother said warmly, cupping her face, "And to finally see what kind of storm you're stirring up here in Italy."

Amara laughed, tears blinking back. "Makikita mo, ma." You'll see, Mom.

As the two finally stepped back, her mother looked beyond her shoulder—toward the boy in the black Fortec suit lingering just out of the way, hands in his pockets, trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.

"And this is...?"

"Oh!" Amara turned quickly, wiping at her eyes. "Ma, this is Charles. Charles Leclerc. He races with Fortec. He's—" She hesitated, then glanced at him, "—He's kind of annoying, but he's fast. And... he's been helping."

Charles stepped forward, posture instinctively straightening under her mother's sharp gaze. "It's really nice to meet you, Mrs. Velasquez."

"My name's Alma," She added, giving his hand a firm shake, "But you can call me Tita."

Charles blinked, uncertain. "Tita?"

Amara leaned in, suppressing a grin. "It's like 'auntie' in Filipino. It's a sign you're in her good graces."

Charles gave a small, sheepish smile. "Then I'm honored, Tita."

Alma nodded, clearly approving. "Mm. Polite. I like this one."

"So, you're the boy I keep hearing about in her calls."

Charles's ears turned a shade redder. "I hope only the good parts."

"She only mentioned how often she beats you."

Amara grinned smugly.

Charles blinked, feigning offense. "Ouch."

Her mother chuckled. "You two fight like a couple."

Amara snorted. "We fight like rivals."

Charles shot her a look. "Rivals who almost crashed in free practice yesterday."

Her mom raised her brow. "Almost?"

Charles gave a sheepish shrug. "Depends on who's telling the story."

"Don't believe a word he says, mama." Amara muttered.

The paddock speakers crackled overhead, announcing the call to the grid. Prema engineers were already waving Amara over. The tension that had gripped her earlier now buzzed into something sharper, focus.

Her mother pulled her in for one last hug, whispering, "Go give them hell, anak."

Amara smiled, her voice steadier than she felt. "Always."

She turned, ready to sprint toward the garage, when—

"You forgot this."

The glossy black and red design of her helmet gleamed in the Italian sun as Charles gripped it with both hands.

Amara reached for it, their fingers brushing briefly.

"Thanks," She said, clutching the helmet to her chest. "You didn't have to—"

"I know," He cut in, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But you'd be useless out there without it, and then I'd win too easily."

She rolled her eyes, even as her mouth twitched into a grin. "Dream on, Leclerc."

"Still waiting for that wake-up call, Velasquez."

With that, she jogged back toward her team, already flipping the switch in her mind to race mode. Charles lingered a moment longer, watching her go—a streak of confidence and fire wrapped in a Prema suit.

Her mother glanced sideways at him, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not her amusement.

"Charles," She said, voice quieter, "You look out for her out there, okay?"

"I'll try," He said honestly, eyes still on Amara. "But honestly, I think she's the one keeping the rest of us in line."

Her mother's laugh echoed softly. "Smart boy."

He smiled at that, small, real—then grabbed his helmet and followed her into the light.

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‎THE ROAR OF ENGINES STILL ECHOED IN HER EARS AS AMARA STEPPED OUT OF HER CAR, HEART POUNDING AND FIRE SUIT CLINGING TO HER SKIN. Monza smelled like hot rubber and oil, the scent of speed and sweat and second chances.

"P2," Her engineer grinned after Race 1, handing her a water bottle. "Not bad, Velasquez. But I saw your hands, you're hungry for blood."

She didn't laugh. Her eyes were fixed on the podium where Charles Leclerc stood tall, trophy in hand, smile modest but undeniably proud.

Race 1: His win. Precise, elegant. Everything the paddock expected from the Monaco boy with the perfect CV.

She peeled off her gloves and helmet, watching as he offered a bashful smile to the cameras. Her jaw clenched. She didn't like losing—not even to a boy she was starting to call her best friend.

"You look like you're trying to kill him with your eyes," Said a familiar voice.

Amara turned to find Anthoine leaning against the pit wall, his arms crossed, the usual teasing glint in his eyes.

"If that worked, he'd have crashed in Turn 1," She muttered.

Anthoine laughed. "Come on, hija ng bagyo. Race 2's your shot. You know this track better than anyone—your braking into Variante Ascari? You scare the engineers." Come on, daughter of storm.

"Good." She replied, sipping water. "They should be scared."

He nudged her shoulder. "And Charles?"

"What about him?"

"He said he was impressed. Kept going on about how aggressive you are in Lesmo 2."

She rolled her eyes, heat rising to her cheeks. "He's still Fortec's golden boy."

"And you're Prema's storm."

The next day, Monza opened its arms to chaos.

Amara lost ground on the first lap but made it up in the second—one by one, picking off her competitors like chess pieces. Her engine humming like it knew this was her moment.

By the time the final lap came around, Charles was in front of her. Again.

She wasn't having it.

Stay tight. Don't show your nose too early. He's smart.

She stayed glued to his gearbox through Variante della Roggia, her tires screeching over the curbs. She was quicker in the corners, but Charles defended hard, elbows out, unyielding.

Into Parabolica, she sent it.

Late brake. Left side. He twitched.

And she was through.

Across the line, her name flashed first.

P1 — Amara Velasquez.

The cheers that erupted were deafening.

Her fists flew into the air the moment she crossed the finish line, scream muffled beneath the helmet but no less visceral. The pit wall blurred as she flew past, her Prema team already leaping, waving, slapping each other on the back.

Victory at Monza. Her first win in Formula Renault.

By the time she pulled into parc fermé, the adrenaline had twisted into something like disbelief.

She yanked off her helmet, barely breathing.

Then—

"AMARA!"

Her mother's voice cracked through the crowd like lightning.

Amara turned just in time to be tackled into a hug, her mother barreling past a poor mechanic to reach her. Laughter burst out of her chest as they nearly toppled over, both crying and laughing and not caring one bit that they were in front of half the paddock.

"You did it, anak! I told you—I told you—storm talaga!"

Amara's hands trembled as she held onto her mother. "I did it. I really.. I won."

"You didn't just win," Her mother beamed, brushing back her sweat-soaked hair, "You owned it."

A blur of black and white in the corner of her eye.

Charles approached slowly, helmet under his arm, hair tousled from his own race. His cheeks were still flushed from the heat and effort—or maybe something else.

"That move in Parabolica..." He started, shaking his head with a huff of disbelief. "What was that?"

Amara smirked. "You left the door open."

"I didn't think you'd kick it down."

"That's your mistake." She said, nudging his shoulder with hers.

Charles looked to her mother. "She deserves it. That was a proper win."

"Thank you, Charles." Alma said, her voice warm again, but this time a little gentler. "You pushed her. That's good. She races harder when someone makes her mad."

"Trust me," Charles grinned, "I know."

Before Amara could roll her eyes again, another figure burst through the crowd.

"VELAAAAASQUEZ!"

Anthoine tackled her from the side, locking her into a wild, bouncing hug. "YOU LEGEND! YOU LUNATIC!" He shouted, spinning her in a circle before setting her down.

"You scared me so much on that send," He continued, breathless. "I thought you were gonna bin it. But you stuck it! Jesus, Mara, you stuck it!"

Amara laughed, high on the rush, hands to her face. "I—I didn't even think. It just... happened."

"That's how you know it was instinct," He said proudly. "You're not driving anymore. You are the car now."

"I am not the car," She groaned, but Anthoine was already fist-bumping her mother and clapping Charles on the back.

They moved together toward the back of the garage, where someone handed Amara a tiny bottle of celebratory champagne—not quite podium-grade, but cold and sweet and fizzy against the inside of her cheeks.

Someone started blasting music from a speaker nearby. It was chaotic, messy, joyful. No press, no podium interviews yet. Just friends. Just family.

Her mother held up her phone, trying to get a photo.

"Mama, no." Amara protested.

"Yes." Alma said firmly, squeezing her into the middle. "One with your boys. Para sa lola mo, she keeps asking who these pogi racecar boys are." For your grandmother, she keeps asking who these handsome racecar boys are.

Amara groaned as Charles and Anthoine flanked her, all three sticky and sweaty but smiling wide.

Click.

The flash froze the moment: the daughter of a storm, cradled between two of the few people who knew just how hard she had fought for that win.

Later that night, the three of them—Amara, her mom, and Charles, sat at a small café just off the main road in Monza's town center.

"She always tells me that she's going to be the first Filipina in Formula One," Alma said with quiet pride, stirring her coffee.

"She's probably right," Charles replied. "She's got more guts than most of us."

Amara gave him a look. "Don't make me regret inviting you to dinner."

"You didn't. Your mom did."

Her mother smiled, sipping her coffee. "He's clever. I love him already."

Amara groaned. "Ikaw rin, Mama?" And you, Mom?

Charles leaned back, grinning. "I grow on people."

"Like a fungus." Amara rolled her eyes at him to which he just chuckled.

But her mother just looked at them, eyes flickering between her daughter, fierce, young, chasing dreams that terrified and thrilled her—and the boy beside her, just as stubborn, just as determined.

She saw it already. The gravity.

"You two... take care of each other." She said simply.

They didn't answer right away.

But under the warm lights of a café in Italy, the words sat with them.

Later, walking back to their hotel, Amara nudged Charles with her elbow. "You were alright today. In the wet."

"I was better than alright."

"Not better than me."

He laughed. "Not yet."

She looked over at him. "Thanks... for being cool with my mom. That mattered."

Charles shrugged. "She's proud of you. Easy to see why."

And there it was once more: that silent, secure distance between them.

She didn't say anything. Just bumped his shoulder one more time before picking up the pace.

"Come on, Monaco. Try to keep up."

He grinned, jogging to catch up with her. "Not a chance, Manila."

Chapter Text

Hungary, September 2014

EVEN OFF-TRACK, THE HUNGARORING BUZZED WITH THE KIND OF ELECTRICITY THAT MADE AMARA's FINGERS TWITCH FOR A STEERING WHEEL.

It felt strange for Amara, being here as a spectator. But Fortec had invited her, and Charles had insisted, practically blowing up her phone.

MONACO BOY: Come on, Monza rematch but in the stands this time. You promised.

MONACO BOY: Also Anthoine is here. He'll get mad if you ditch.

MONACO BOY: And someone else you'll want to meet, trust me.

So here she was.

Her mother had flown back to Manila around two weeks ago, after a rare, beautiful fortnight of watching her daughter's life unfold in Europe. It had been too short, it always was. But Alma had left with a smile and one last hug whispered with "I'm proud of you, anak." I'm proud of you, my daughter.

Now alone again, she tugged at the hem of her Fortec jacket as she spotted the familiar white tents near the garage. The buzz of pit activity surrounded her, laughter, tools clinking, the occasional shout, but it all seemed to blur into the background when she heard—

"Amie!"

Charles waved her over from the shade of the Fortec hospitality area, Anthoine beside him, both lounging in their half-zipped race suits with bottled water in hand.

"Took you long enough," Charles said with a teasing grin as she approached.

Amara shrugged, lips curled in a smile. "Had to make an entrance."

"You always do," Anthoine quipped, pulling her into a quick side-hug. "What took you so long?"

She smirked. "I stopped to say hi to half the paddock, thank you very much. Some of us have fans."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Delusional."

"Jealous." She shot back.

"How did qualifying go?"

"P2 for me," Anthoine grinned. "And your boyfriend—"

"Oh he's not—" Amara started.

Charles smirked. "—took pole."

Amara rolled her eyes but smiled. "Of course you did."

Before Charles could reply, a voice called from behind them. "Charles!"

All three turned.

A tall figure approached—lean, confident, eyes hidden behind sunglasses but smile unmistakably warm. The Ferrari badge on his polo caught the sunlight.

Charles lit up instantly. "Jules!"

He jumped to his feet and embraced him tightly, the kind of hug that only came with history. "Didn't think you'd actually make it."

"I said I'd try," Jules replied, pulling back. "Figured you'd want some post-qualifying coaching."

"You figured right."

Jules looked over to the others. "Anthoine! Always good to see you."

Anthoine grinned. "I'll pretend I'm not offended you greeted Charles first."

"You're used to it," Jules smirked, then his gaze slid toward Amara.

"And you must be the famous Amara I keep hearing about."

Amara blinked, surprised. "You've... heard about me?"

"Non-stop," Jules said, eyes twinkling. "Charles talks like you invented racing."

Charles groaned. "Pas vrai, Jules—" Not true

"It's true," Jules laughed. "Every other sentence is Amara did this, Amara beat me here, Amara's ridiculous in the wet."

Amara flushed, laughing nervously. "He exaggerates."

"Still letting him drag you to races?" Jules said, eyes back on Amara.

"I like to keep an eye on my rivals." She replied smoothly.

Jules laughed, impressed. "Quick with comebacks too. You're dangerous."

He extended a hand, genuine. "I'm Jules Bianchi. And if half of what I've heard is true, you're going to be trouble for all of us very soon."

She shook his hand firmly. "Amara Velasquez. And thank you, that means a lot coming from you. I've seen you race. You're kind of a big deal."

Jules gave a modest shrug. "Just another guy trying not to screw it up."

"Tell that to Marussia," She replied. "You literally scored their first points ever."

He chuckled. "Yeah, they're still celebrating that in three different time zones."

"And Ferrari's watching," Charles added, nudging him. "Don't act like they aren't."

Jules grinned. "They're always watching. Being in the Academy's like having older brothers who yell at you in Italian."

Amara laughed. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is," He deadpanned. "But it keeps you sharp."

The group settled into the shade together. Jules leaned casually against the table while Charles flopped back down beside Amara.

"You sticking around the whole weekend?" Anthoine asked.

"Yeah," Jules nodded. "Got a few meetings, but mostly just here to support the next generation. And maybe hand out some advice if anyone's actually listening."

"Charles never listens," Amara said without missing a beat.

"I do when it's you," Charles quipped, then turned to Jules. "She doesn't take compliments well."

"She'll have to learn," Jules said, now addressing Amara more seriously. "You've already got eyes on you. More than you probably realize."

Amara's expression faltered slightly — not from fear, but from the weight of it. "I know."

"It's not fair," Jules added. "You'll have to be sharper, cleaner, smarter. And still they'll try to find something wrong."

"I'm already used to it," She murmured.

Charles glanced at her, quieting.

"But," Jules said, "You've got something special. It's not just talent. You've got presence. When you walk into a paddock, people notice."

"Because she's short and dramatic," Anthoine muttered.

She smacked his arm, and Jules grinned.

"Don't let them shrink you," Jules said. "You're already doing what most only dream of. Remember that when it gets hard. Because it will get hard."

The honesty in his voice made them all pause. Even Charles.

"I've only made it this far because people like Jules said things like that to me," Charles admitted, voice softer than usual. "At the right time."

Amara blinked, touched by both their sincerity. "I'll remember. Both of you."

Jules sipped his water and looked at her thoughtfully. "You remind me of someone I raced with once. Same fire. Same refusal to be boxed in. She's not racing anymore, but I'll never forget how she made everyone uncomfortable just by existing where they didn't expect her."

"That sounds... familiar." Amara murmured.

He nodded. "That's why you need people around you who get it. Who won't let you forget why you started."

"And to keep me from punching journalists." She added with a smirk.

Jules laughed. "That too."

Charles leaned over, bumping her shoulder lightly. "You've got us. Even if I'm still annoyed you beat me in the wet."

"You'll get over it, Monaco." She teased.

Jules stood up straight, stretching. "Alright, I've got to check in with someone from Marussia, but I'll be around after. Come find me later. I'll show you where all the real snacks are."

Anthoine raised a brow. "You've been holding out on us?"

Jules winked. "Perks of being unofficial big brother to every French junior."

He clapped Charles and Anthoine on the shoulder, gave Amara a warm smile, then disappeared into the paddock.

As the three of them watched him go, Charles exhaled. "You know, someday that's going to be us."

Amara tilted her head. "What, handing out snacks and wisdom?"

He grinned. "Maybe. Or the ones kids look up to."

Anthoine looked between them. "Then let's make sure we give them something to look up to."

Amara, eyes fixed on where Jules had disappeared, whispered, "Yeah. Let's."

──── 🏎️ ────

Monaco, Late September 2014
Before the Final Round in Jerez

AMARA WASN'T DISTRACTED BY THE SUPERYACHTS OR THE WINDING BALCONIES ABOVE THE HARBOR. She was too busy trying not to drop the ice cream cone in her hand.

"Are you seriously losing a battle to gelato?" Charles teased beside her, his eyes crinkling in amusement as he watched a streak of pistachio threaten to melt down her fingers.

"It's your fault," Amara shot back, licking the side quickly. "You told me to get the double scoop. This is a two-handed commitment."

"You're holding it like a scared tourist," he smirked. "Give it here."

"Touch it and die."

Jules laughed, walking a few steps ahead and then turning back to look at them, sunglasses perched on his head. "You two argue like you've known each other since diapers."

Amara grinned as they caught up. "That's generous. It's only been, what? Four months?"

"Four months too long," Charles muttered under his breath with a poorly hidden smile.

Jules looked between them knowingly. "Trust me, some drivers go their entire junior careers without building something like this. Hold onto it."

Amara looked at him. "Is that what you had with your teammates?"

He shrugged. "Some, yes. But Charles, he's lucky. You're sharp. A little stubborn, though."

"Gee, thanks," Amara replied dryly.

Jules grinned wider and leaned back against the railing overlooking the water. "I'm serious. You've got talent. But more than that—your instincts, they're special. That move you pulled at Monza in the second race? Only someone who trusts their gut would even try that."

Amara blinked, surprised. "You saw that?"

"I watch every race I can. Especially Charles's. And now yours too." Jules crossed his arms, suddenly more serious. "You remind me of someone I used to know. A bit reckless, full of fire. But that fire... if you learn how to control it, it'll take you all the way."

Charles glanced between them, his voice soft. "You mean yourself."

Jules only smiled, not answering.

They sat on the steps later, gelato long gone, feet dangling close to the water. Amara leaned back on her hands while Charles laid flat, arms behind his head, sunglasses covering his eyes.

Jules sat beside them, humming thoughtfully. "You know, I think you two are going to surprise a lot of people."

"How so?" Amara asked, tilting her head.

"Because people underestimate what comes from friendship in motorsport. They think it's all individual talent, raw speed, car setups. But it's who you keep around you that keeps your head straight. You'll see."

The wind blew in from the bay, and for a brief moment, it all felt still. The world outside racing—the pressure, the expectations, the constant comparison—melted away.

Chapter Text

Circuito de Jerez, Spain, October 2014
Final Round of Formula Renault 2.0 Alps

THE CHECKERED FLAG HAD WAVED. THEIR FINAL RACE IN THE ALPS SEASON WAS DONE.

Amara had finished second—just behind Charles. The two shared a short celebratory moment on the podium, champagne glinting in the sunlight as it sprayed across the air. But the smile Charles wore never quite reached his eyes.

It wasn't until later, after the adrenaline had settled and the drivers retreated into the garage, that the weight truly came crashing down.

Charles stood outside the hospitality tent, phone clutched in his hand. The air had gone oddly quiet. His posture was tense, unmoving.

Amara jogged up to him, still pulling off the top half of her race suit. "Char, You disappeared—Charles?"

He didn't respond.

She followed his gaze and saw the headline on the screen.

"Jules Bianchi in critical condition after Japanese Grand Prix crash. More updates to follow."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The noise of the paddock felt far away.

"No..." She whispered as her heart dropped. "No, that can't be..."

Charles exhaled shakily. "It.. It happened right after our race. Under safety car. It was raining. He went off at Dunlop... straight into a recovery tractor."

"God..."

"I don't—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "He's in surgery. Head injury. No updates yet."

Amara felt a chill run through her, despite the Andalusian sun. She stepped closer and gently took the phone from him, setting it down beside his bag. Her hands found his, fingers curling slowly.

"I just called him last week," Charles said, voice low, cracking. "He texted me. Wished me luck for Jerez. Told me to keep Anthoine in check."

Amara's breath hitched. She remembered Jules's teasing smile, the way he ruffled Charles's hair, the way he gave her advice that sounded like jokes until they weren't.

"He was just with us," She said. "That day in Monaco. He was.. he was fine. Laughing."

Charles looked down at their joined hands, his voice low and hollow. "He told me last month to take care of you and Anthoine. He said the world would try to break us but that we needed to stay together."

"He believed in us." Amara whispered, almost to herself.

Charles nodded slowly. "He was always checking on us. Every race. Even when he was doing F1. He never forgot."

Amara then gently took the helmet from his other hand and set it aside. She wrapped her arms around him—not a dramatic gesture, just simple and sure. He didn't pull away. For once, he leaned into it.

"I know you looked up to him," She said. "We all did. But you were more than that to him, Charles. You were like family."

He didn't speak, but his fingers gripped the back of her fire suit.

"I'm scared, Amie." He admitted quietly, after a long moment. "I don't want to lose him."

"You're allowed to be scared, you're allowed to feel this."

"And we haven't," She continued. "He's still here. You'll carry him with you every time you race. Every single time."

He dropped his head forward, pressing it lightly against her shoulder. "It's not fair."

She held him tighter. "I know."

The sky over Jerez turned darker, tinged with the weight of faraway rainclouds. For a long while, they stood like that, just the two of them in a silence thick with fear and helplessness. Amara closed her eyes, recalling Jules's words in Monaco.

"Keep racing like it means something. That's how you know it's real."

And it was real now—more than ever.

──── 🏎️ ────

Monaco, January 2015

ALMA HAD AGREED WITHOUT HESITATION WHEN CHARLES' MOTHER, PASCALE, OFFERED TO LET AMARA STAY WITH THEM FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE YEAR.

After all, Pascale had said, "She's like family now, Alma. Let her be here."

So Amara stayed—through the cold grief that blanketed the Leclerc home, through the quiet dinners, the unopened doors, the early mornings when Charles would disappear to train before the sun even rose. He was trying to outrun pain, to train harder, go faster, chase the ghost of Jules Bianchi like it was a finish line he could reach.

Amara sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, sipping tea as Pascale moved gracefully through the kitchen. It had become a familiar routine—waking up early, sharing soft conversations while Charles trained, and waiting for the sun to rise over the harbor.

A soft shuffle of socks against tile made her glance up. Arthur wandered into the kitchen, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, eyes still puffy from sleep. He paused when he saw her on the couch.

"Morning." He mumbled, yawning.

"Hey." Amara greeted with a small smile.

He made a beeline for the fridge, pulling out orange juice and drinking straight from the carton until Pascale swatted him on the arm with a dish towel.

"Arthur!" She scolded.

"What? No one else drinks it." He grumbled.

"Well I do." Amara said as she rolled her eyes.

Arthur blinked. "Shit—sorry."

"Language." Pascale and Amara said in unison, earning a groan from him as he slumped into the seat across from her at the kitchen table.

"You still up early?" Arthur asked her. "You don't even have training today."

"Force of habit," Amara said. "And... I like the peace before the day starts."

He gave her a knowing look. "You mean before Charles turns into a ghost again?"

Amara's smile faded.

Pascale stepped in then, placing a plate of toast and jam in front of her. "You don't eat enough." She said gently.

"I'm used to skipping breakfast during race weeks," Amara replied with a tired smile. "Old habits."

Pascale gave her a look that reminded her of her own mother—stern but warm. "You need strength, ma belle. Especially now. For yourself. For Charles."

Arthur stayed quiet, but Amara felt his gaze linger on her, thoughtful in a way she hadn't expected from him.

She lowered her eyes, tracing the rim of her cup. "He barely talks to me anymore."

"It's not you, chérie. It's grief." Pascale reached over and squeezed her hand. "Jules.. was his heart. His mentor. His idol. When he died, a part of Charles froze. All he sees now is the path Jules left behind—and he's terrified of failing him."

Amara looked up, the sting of frustration at her throat. "But I'm right here. I haven't gone anywhere."

Pascale smiled faintly. "Then remind him that."

Arthur cleared his throat. "If it helps... he still listens when you talk. Even if he pretends not to."

Amara raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"I hear things," Arthur shrugs, getting up to grab another piece of toast. "He was watching your last kart race stream in his room the night before New Year's. I caught him."

She blinked. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Arthur said, chewing. "He even got mad when it lagged. So, you know... maybe he's not totally gone. Just... hiding."

Amara looked down at the plate in front of her, then at the soft light pooling over the kitchen tiles.

Maybe Arthur was right.

Maybe Charles just needed something to remind him that he wasn't alone in the dark.

──── 🏎️ ────

Private Karting Track, Monaco

THE AIR WAS COLD AND CLEAR UNDER THE FLOODLIGHTS. Amara had pulled a few strings to reserve their old karting circuit for the night. No press. No cameras. Just them.

She hadn't told Charles. Only Anthoine knew. And he'd shown up with a solemn nod, already dressed in his old karting suit.

"Does he know what this is for?" Anthoine asked, adjusting his gloves.

Amara shook her head. "Not yet."

A few minutes later, they heard the hum of an approaching scooter. Charles arrived with a furrow in his brow and confusion on his face as he spotted them. The scooter beneath him coughed softly as it came to a halt in front of the track gates.

"Amara? Anthoine?" He called out, removing his helmet as he glanced around. "Why did you tell me to come here? It's freezing."

Amara stood by the track fence, bundled in her jacket, her gloved fingers tapping lightly against her side. Anthoine gave her a nod from a few steps away, helmet in hand.

"Surprise." She said, but there was no grin in her voice.

Charles looked between them, brow knitting. "What's going on?"

"It's not a race," Amara said, stepping forward. "Well... it is. But not one we're trying to win."

He gave her a dry look. "You dragged me out here on a Saturday night for cryptic metaphors and old tires?"

She smiled faintly. "No. I dragged you here for Jules."

The silence that followed seemed to swallow the hum of the floodlights overhead. Charles looked down at the ground, then back up, slower this time.

"We haven't been back here since... since the last karting session with him."

"I know." Amara said gently. "That's why we're here. Just us three. No one else. One lap each. No racing. Just driving. For him."

Charles swallowed. He didn't speak for a moment, gaze drifting to the track. "You should've told me."

"I didn't want to give you time to say no."

Anthoine looked between the two of them and quietly walked toward the garage to prep the karts.

Charles exhaled through his nose. "You think this will help me?"

"No," Amara said. "I think it will help us. You're not the only one who lost someone. I know he was your godfather, Charles, but he was ours too in a way. All of us looked up to him. You're allowed to grieve. You're also allowed to stop punishing yourself."

He stared at her. "I'm not—"

"You are," She said, voice firm but soft. "You barely talk to me and Anthoine anymore. You train like you're chasing a ghost. You look through me half the time. And I know it's because you're hurting. But I miss you."

He looked down, jaw clenching.

"Charles, I miss my best friend," Amara continued. "The one who used to shove pasta in his mouth too fast and nearly choke when I said something dumb. The one who raced me to the docks just to watch the yachts go by. The one who held my hand when I nearly cried after crashing in Italy."

"I didn't know how to let you in!" Charles finally snapped. "It's easier to focus on training. On what Jules would've wanted."

"Jules wouldn't have wanted you to cut people out," Amara said, stepping closer. "He would've told you to live. To drive with heart. And he loved you, Charles. Not because you could win. But because you were you."

Charles looked away, blinking fast.

"Come on," She said, voice gentler now. "One lap. That's all."

They took their laps one by one.

Amara drove first, her movements graceful and instinctive. Her mind wandered back to the first time Jules had come to watch her kart—how he'd teased her for being too serious and offered advice even when she didn't ask.

"You drive like you're already in Formula One," He had said with a grin. "That's good. But don't forget to enjoy it, too."

She let go of everything on that lap. The pressure. The grief. The fear. She drove like she was thirteen again, chasing corners for the love of it.

When she pulled in, Anthoine was already suited up.

"Go easy on the tires, old man." She teased.

He rolled his eyes. "Just because I'm taller doesn't mean I age faster."

Anthoine went next, silent and steady, the floodlights casting long shadows across the track as he passed. A simple lap. But his salute at the end said everything words couldn't.

Charles took the longest to get into the kart. His hands flexed over the wheel, eyes closed. And when he finally pulled onto the track, it was like watching poetry unravel under floodlights.

His lap was something else. Beautiful, almost reverent. Like he was speaking to Jules in every corner, every straight. The kind of driving that made silence sacred.

When he returned to the pit lane, he stayed in the kart for several seconds, unmoving. Then he pulled off his helmet and walked straight to Amara, pulling her into a hug that surprised even her.

"I'm sorry," He whispered to her. "I've been a shitty friend, Amie."

"I missed you." She replied, arms tight around him.

"Thank you for not giving up on me."

That was the last night Charles Leclerc ever pulled away from her.

Chapter Text

Hungary, June 2015

IT HAD BEEN TWO MONTHS SINCE AMARA HAD JOINED THE EUROCUP FORMULA RENAULT 2.0 WITH PREMA. Her days were spent on simulators and circuits, her nights in rented apartments or hotels, watching race footage until her eyes blurred. Some days she felt like she was gaining on the pack—other days, like she was barely treading water.

But this weekend, at the Hungaroring, felt different.

The Hungarian heat was the kind that clung to your skin. Even in the shade of the Prema garage, Amara could feel the sweat gathering under her race suit. Her helmet rested on the workbench beside her, still warm from qualifying, as she slowly ran a cloth over the visor.

Her car still ticked and hissed beside her, its engine cooling after a grueling qualifying session.

She hadn't even seen Charles for almost a month.

The paddock buzzed around her, mechanics shouting instructions, radios crackling, tires squealing from the pit lane. She barely registered it.

A familiar voice floated in from behind her, cutting through the noise like a song she knew by heart.

"You still try to murder everyone in sector two?"

She didn't have to turn to know who it was.

Hair slightly longer than she remembered, curls damp from the heat, sleeves rolled up on his black polo. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, but the tilt of his mouth told her he was smiling.

"Charles Leclerc." She said, smirking over her shoulder. "And here I thought you'd forgotten about us slower categories now that you're a big F3 driver."

Charles grinned, stepping into the garage. The white of his shirt was already damp with heat, and his hair was just messy enough to suggest he'd run a hand through it one too many times.

"Never." He said. "But you didn't answer my question."

"I prefer the word assertive," Amara replied, leaning one hip against the workbench. "Besides, sector two here is boring unless you make it interesting."

Charles laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Interesting? That's what you call nearly launching yourself off the track last lap?"

Before she could answer, he suddenly reached out, pulling her into a quick hug. Then, with a mischievous grin, he spun her around once, his arms still holding her close. Amara tapped him on the shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

"Hey! Put me down, Charles!" She said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

"That was controlled!" Amara insisted as he finally set her back on her feet.

"That," Charles then countered, "was terrifying."

Her laugh, quick and bright, made something shift in him. He wanted to be the one to keep pulling that sound out of her, to be the reason her eyes lit up the way they did now.

"How's F3 treating you?" She asked.

Amara noticed that Charles was taller now. More composed, maybe. Something in the way he carried himself had shifted. F3 suited him—but it had also changed him. She felt the difference, even if she couldn't name it yet.

He gave a soft chuckle. "It's good. Competitive. Brutal, actually. Every race feels like a war. It's not like karting anymore. Everyone's fighting for blood."

"Good," She said. "You need to bleed a little."

He raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to be inspiring or terrifying?"

Amara smirked. "Yes."

They stood in a small pocket of comfortable silence before he glanced toward the paddock walkway. "Amie, come on. There's someone I want you to meet."

"More sponsors?" She teased, following him.

"Worse," He said, grinning. "My best friend."

Amara rolled her eyes with a smirk. "I thought I was your best friend..."

She followed him past the neighboring garage to where another young driver leaned casually against the pit wall, his Red Bull cap was pushed back over unruly brown hair, sunglasses dangling from his shirt collar. He was in conversation with one of the mechanics but straightened when Charles called out.

"Pierre!"

The guy turned, his grin immediate and warm. "Took you long enough," He said. "I thought you were ditching me."

"Amara, this is Pierre Gasly," Charles said. "A pain in my ass since karting."

Pierre offered his hand. "So you're the infamous Velasquez. I've heard about you."

Amara arched a brow. "From Charles?"

"From Anthoine, actually," Pierre replied. "Though Charles talks enough that I feel like I know your entire racing career already."

She gave Charles a mock glare. "Funny. Because Anthoine never told me about you."

Charles snorted.

Pierre shrugged with an exaggerated sigh. "That's probably my fault. I've been stuck in my own training schedule for months. This is my first real break in a while. Most of the time, I don't even remember what country I'm in."

"I get it," Amara said, her expression softening. "Still, I'm surprised he didn't introduce us sooner."

Charles gave her a knowing look. "Well. Now you've met the other half of my brain."

Pierre pointed at Charles. "And the more annoying half, to be clear."

Amara laughed. "I like you already."

Pierre winked at her. "I tend to grow on people."

"Like mold?" Charles offered.

"Like charisma, actually." Pierre replied with a grin.

"Charles says you brake like a lunatic but still somehow hit the apex. That's... rare."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one."

Charles nudged Pierre and cleared his throat lightly. "We were about to grab something from the hospitality tent. You should come with us."

They ended up at one of the smaller tables under the awning, the air thick with the scent of grilled food and tire rubber. Pierre told ridiculous karting stories , like the time Charles' suit zipper broke mid-qualifying—and Amara laughed so hard she nearly choked on her drink.

Charles caught himself watching her instead of listening to Pierre. She had that post-qualifying glow—not just from adrenaline, but from the kind of joy that came when she was fully in her element. He wanted to be the one who made her laugh like that, to keep her smiling in a sport that so often drained the light out of people.
Pierre nudged him under the table. "You've been quiet."

Charles blinked. "Just listening."

"To what?" Pierre asked. "Her taking the piss out of you?"

"It's a full-time job." Amara added sweetly.

The three of them stayed well past sunset, sprawled across folding chairs and makeshift benches near the paddock's edge, their drinks replaced by water bottles as curfews crept closer. They talked about the future, not with certainty, but with the cocky, burning belief that they'd make it. Somehow.

Amara leaned back against the fence, arms crossed behind her head as she looked up at the darkening sky. "Do you think we'll ever stop chasing it?" She asked all of a sudden.

Pierre shifted on his feet, looking out over the circuit with a thoughtful smile. "Formula 1?" He said, his tone almost wistful. "I don't think so. Once you've felt that speed, that adrenaline it gets under your skin. It's like an addiction. You keep coming back, no matter what."

Charles nodded, running a hand through his unruly hair. "It's more than just the racing," He said, eyes sharp but distant. "It's the pressure, the constant fight. Not just against the other drivers, but against yourself. Every lap is a battle, every race a war. You never really stop chasing because you never want to lose."

──── 🏎️ ────

Monaco, February 2016

THE LECLERC APARTMENT WAS QUIET IN THAT RARE, DELICATE WAY WINTER AFTERNOONS COULD BE. The usual background noise of cars on the street below was muted, the pale light from the balcony filtering across the living room.

Charles sat quietly in the corner armchair, legs stretched out, the soft glow of his phone screen catching in his eyes. He scrolled aimlessly at first, then stopped, thumb hovering above the screen as his thoughts drifted back again to tomorrow.

He barely noticed when the kitchen door clicked open.

"You've been sitting like that for twenty minutes," Pascale's voice cut through the quiet, warm and teasing at the edges. She stepped in carrying two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up into the cool air. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were plotting something."

Charles gave her a sheepish smile. "Maybe I am."

Before Pascale could respond, footsteps padded in from the hallway. Arthur appeared, holding a half-eaten apple and wearing that look of mild curiosity he reserved for situations he suspected could be entertaining. "He's definitely plotting," He said, leaning against the doorframe. "You only sit that still when it's serious.

Charles rolled his eyes. "Don't you have something to do?"

Arthur grinned, taking a loud bite of his apple. "Not when my brother's being suspicious."

Pascale set one mug on the coffee table beside Charles and took the sofa opposite, her gaze locking on his in that way only a mother could. "It's about Amara's birthday, isn't it?"

Charles didn't bother denying it. "Yeah."

Arthur smirked. "You mean you want to impress her."

Charles gave him a glare sharp enough to make his brother take an exaggerated step back. "I mean I want to do something nice for my best friend."

"Uh-huh," Arthur said, unconvinced, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

"That's a thoughtful way to look at it," Pascale said, wrapping her hands around her mug, though her eyes flicked to Arthur with a hint of amusement. "And you're involving everyone? Arthur, Anthoine... Pierre?"

"Pierre actually gave me the push," Charles admitted. "He told me I should do something big—not loud, just... something she won't forget."

Arthur muttered, "Guess love's contagious."

Charles didn't even look at him this time, just muttered, "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Pascale chuckled, sipping her coffee. "Pierre Gasly, the mastermind. Who would've thought?"

"He just knows Amara's been working hard."

"And?" Pascale asked, her tone knowing.

"And," Charles continued, ignoring his mother's look, "He suggested this restaurant by the harbor. Private room, Balcony view, quiet enough to talk without shouting over music. I thought... yeah, that sounds right."

Pascale leaned back, a spark in her expression. "Well, if we're aiming for unforgettable, I have something in mind."

Charles tilted his head. "What's that?"

"I called Alma today," Pascale said simply.

Arthur stopped mid-bite. "Wait, Amara's mom?"

"Yes," Pascale replied, a satisfied smile tugging at her mouth. "She's flying in tomorrow morning. She'll stay with Amara for at least a month."

Charles blinked, the words hitting slowly before his grin spread. "You're serious?"

"I am," Pascale said. "She hasn't seen her in almost a year. Can you imagine the look on her face?"

Charles could imagine it, Amara's wide-eyed surprise, her hands flying to her mouth, maybe slipping into that mix of Filipino and French when she was emotional. The thought warmed him instantly. "She's going to lose her mind."

Arthur grinned. "And cry. Definitely cry. Probably in three languages."

"That's the idea," Pascale said with a quiet laugh. "But we'll need to keep it airtight. If she gets even a hint, she'll figure it out."

"Anthoine's handling that part," Charles said. "He'll tell her the team needs her to stop by the restaurant for something quick, papers to sign, or some sponsor thing. She won't suspect it's for her."

Arthur raised his brows. "You're lucky she trusts Anthoine. If I told her that, she'd instantly know I was lying."

"True," Charles said with a smirk. "That's why you're playing the role of uninterested little brother."

Arthur shrugged, clearly not offended.
"Easiest role I've ever had."

Pascale smiled over her mug. "Charles, if this works, she'll walk out into that room and see all of us... and her mother. That moment alone will make the whole night."

Charles exhaled slowly, the thought already replaying in his head. "Yeah. And it'll be worth every bit of planning."

"She will cry I bet," Arthur said knowingly. "French for the shock, English for the jokes, Tagalog for the real emotion."

That made all of them laugh.

"Well then," Arthur said, tossing the apple core into the bin on his way out, "I hope you have tissues ready, Romeo."

Charles groaned, throwing a cushion in his direction as Arthur disappeared down the hall.

The sunlight filtered through Amara's apartment's thin curtains, creating lovely stripes on the floor. She was already awake, curled on the couch in her training hoodie, with a mug of coffee in hand.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table—another notification. She picked it up and saw a cluster of messages in her group chats.

PIERRE: Bon anniversaire, Amara! Hope today's not all work.

ARTHUR: don't get too old too fast.

ANTHOINE: Happy birthday, champ. I need a favor later—nothing big. Will explain.

She rolled her eyes at Arthur's message, smiled at Pierre's, and frowned slightly at Anthoine's.

"'Favor later'? On my birthday?" She muttered under her breath. She typed back: It's my birthday, Anthoine. What's the favor?

The reply came quick.

ANTHOINE: Just some quick paperwork with the team, maybe 15 minutes. You'll be near the harbor later, right?

She sighed and set her mug down. Yeah, I guess.

Across town, in the restaurant Pierre had suggested, the preparations were already underway. The balcony was strung with small, warm fairy lights that glowed even in the afternoon haze. The tables were dressed in cream linens, and the harbor stretched out beyond, dotted with yachts.

Charles was adjusting the placement of a vase when Pascale walked up behind him.

"You're going to wear that tablecloth thin if you keep smoothing it." She teased.

He looked up. "Maman, I just want it to be perfect."

"It already is," Pascale said, brushing an invisible speck from his shoulder. "Alma's in the private room. She's nervous."

"Tita's nervous?" Charles asked, a little surprised.

"She hasn't seen her daughter in almost a year, Charles. She's worried Amara might... I don't know, be overwhelmed."

Pierre approached then, dressed a little sharper than usual. "She'll be fine. If anything, Amara's the one who's going to cry."

Arthur, leaning on the railing, added dryly, "She'll probably punch you first for keeping it a secret."

Charles smirked. "Worth it."

By late afternoon, Amara was walking along the harbor toward the restaurant, her hands in her coat pockets. Anthoine had been vague, telling her only, "Just meet me inside, second floor."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, and froze.

"Surprise!"

The voices came all at once—Pierre grinning, Arthur smirking, Pascale waving from the far side of the table. But it was the figure stepping forward from behind a pillar that stopped her in her tracks.

"Mama?" Mom?

"Amara.." Alma said softly, her voice warm and trembling.

Amara's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes already stinging. She crossed the space in seconds, throwing her arms around her mother. "Hindi ako makapaniwala... Ma, you're here!" I can't believe this Mom

"I'm here," Alma murmured, holding her tightly. "Almost a year apart—it's been too long, Happy birthday, my love."

Amara's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't think you'd be here," She admitted. "Namiss kita." I've missed you.

Alma pressed her forehead to Amara's. "Me too, Amara. Nandito na ko. And I'm not going anywhere." I'm here now.

Arthur, standing a few steps away, gave Charles a sidelong glance and muttered just loud enough for him to hear, "Told you she'd cry."

Charles smirked faintly, still watching Amara and her mother. "And in three languages, just like Maman said."

Arthur looked deeply pleased. "Exactly as predicted. I should start placing bets."

When Amara finally pulled back, still laughing through the tears, Charles stepped forward, a small bouquet of soft blush-pink ranunculus in his hands.

Charles smiled, holding them out to her. "Happy birthday, Amie. You deserve all this and more."

She blinked at him, touched in a way she couldn't quite hide. "Merci, Charles... they're beautiful."

From behind them, Pierre's voice piped up, sly. "Flowers now? You've really stepped up, Leclerc."

Anthoine leaned against the wall with a smirk. "Careful, you're setting the bar too high for the rest of us."

Charles shot them both a sharp glare over his shoulder, the kind that promised they'd regret it later. "Shut it, you two."

Pierre raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying."

The dinner continued in waves of discussion, warm and overlapping, rising and falling outside the balcony windows like the sea. Pierre was in the middle of telling Amara about their most recent racing adventure when he turned to smile slyly.

"Your French accent was all over the place that day," Pierre said, poking his fork in her direction. "One minute you sound like a Parisian newscaster, the next you sound like... how do I put it... a lost tourist."

Amara laughed, covering her mouth. "Excuse me? My accent is perfectly fine. I just switch sometimes. You try thinking in three languages mid-race."

Arthur snorted from across the table. "Yeah, well, maybe if you focused more on racing and less on dramatic monologues in three languages, you'd win by a bigger margin."

"I did win by a big margin." Amara shot back, narrowing her eyes.

"Barely." Arthur muttered, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

The restaurant had quieted down as the night wore on, the last of the guests drifting toward the door. Laughter and the clinking of glasses still echoed faintly from the main dining area, but the private room they'd reserved was starting to empty.

Amara had just returned from saying goodbye to Pierre and Anthoine—both of whom had made one last jab at Charles before leaving—when she glanced toward the table and saw several plates still untouched.

She leaned toward Charles, who was lingering by the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Is it bad if I admit I'm still kind of hungry?"

He smirked. "We've been eating for like three hours, Amie."

"Yeah, but you know I didn't really get much," She countered, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Too busy talking to everyone. And besides—there's still that pasta dish I never got to try."

Charles tilted his head, amused. "So you're telling me you want to go back in there, sit down, and eat again? After everyone left?"

"Pretty much." She gave him a grin, the kind that made something in his chest loosen.

He shook his head, but there was no real protest in him. "Fine. But I'm not letting you eat alone."

They slipped back inside the private room, the door closing softly behind them. The glow from the chandelier felt warmer now, more intimate without the crowd. Amara immediately crossed to the table, grabbing a plate and spooning a generous portion of pasta onto it.

"You sure you don't want any?" She asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Charles sat down beside her, leaning back casually in his chair. "I'll keep you company. Someone has to make sure you don't steal all the desserts too."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, twirling pasta onto her fork. "Like you'd stop me."

For a while, they just talked—about the race calendar, about Alma's surprise arrival, about how Arthur had nearly knocked over a centerpiece earlier. The quiet between them was comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

Then, Amara reached for the breadbasket on the far side of the table, stretching across him without thinking. At the same moment, Charles turned toward her to ask if she wanted more water.

It happened so quickly it was almost a blur—her lips brushed against his, just the lightest touch, but enough to make both of them freeze.

Her eyes widened. "Oh—"

"Sorry—" They said at the same time, their voices overlapping.

Amara pulled back, cheeks already flushing. "I was just trying to—"

"Get the bread, I know," He said, giving a quick, awkward laugh. "I shouldn't have turned so suddenly."

They both sat back in their chairs, the air between them suddenly carrying a faint, unspoken tension. Charles kept his eyes down, idly tracing the rim of his glass, while Amara twirled the last strand of pasta, staring at her plate like it was a puzzle she hadn't solved yet.

The silence wasn't exactly uncomfortable—but it wasn't the easy quiet they'd shared just minutes ago either.

Amara took a small sip of water, willing her pulse to slow. The pasta was gone, and she didn't trust herself to look at him without thinking about what had just happened.

A few minutes later, she stood, smoothing her dress. "I'm... going to go.. to the balcony."

Charles nodded, giving her a polite smile, though inside he felt the faint sting of her retreat. "Alright. I'll... be here."

She slipped out of the private room and into the cooler air of the restaurant's open balcony. The night sky stretched above Monaco's glittering harbor, the water dotted with reflections of the city lights.

Out there, Alma stood leaning on the railing, speaking quietly in French to Pascale, who was listening with a warm smile. Arthur was perched on one of the balcony chairs, scrolling through his phone, but looked up when Amara appeared.

"There you are," Alma said, her face lighting up. "Akala ko nawala ka na sa sariling party mo." I thought you disappeared from your own party.

Amara laughed softly and went over to hug her. "Ma! Just needed a little food break."

"Again?" Arthur teased, smirking. "You really are a driver. Always eating between sessions."

"Better than you, who forgets to eat until you're about to pass out." Amara shot back.

Pascale chuckled, resting a hand on Amara's shoulder. "It's been such a lovely night, Amara. You've made so many people happy just by being here."

Amara smiled, leaning against the railing with them, letting the cool breeze calm her. She focused on her mother's voice, on Pascale's soft laughter, on Arthur's playful complaints about his winter training. Anything but the fact that Charles was still inside—probably replaying the same moment she was trying to forget.

From inside, through the glass doors, she could faintly see him still at the table, elbows on the wood, watching the harbor lights with an expression she couldn't read.

By midnight, the balcony felt quieter, the air crisp and tinged with the faint scent of the sea. Amara remained by the railing, her back to the door, arms resting lightly as she chatted with Alma, Pascale, and Arthur. She was laughing at something Arthur said, eyes bright despite the late hour.

Charles lingered in the doorway for a beat, watching her before stepping outside.

"Amie." He called softly.

She turned, her smile faltering just slightly—she knew why he was here. "Hey."

He gestured toward the far end of the balcony, away from the others. "Can we talk? Just... a moment."

They moved down the railing until the voices from behind were just background noise. The air between them was awkward at first, the memory of what had happened earlier hanging in the space.

"I just wanted to say..." Charles exhaled, glancing briefly toward the city lights before meeting her gaze again. "That thing earlier—it was... an accident. Nothing more."

Amara's brows lifted, then softened. "I know. I shouldn't have avoided you after. That was childish."

"You didn't avoid me." He said automatically.

She gave him a look. "Charles. I did. You know it."

He almost smiled. "Maybe a little."

They stood there, the memory playing in both their heads—the brief moment in the private room, how close they'd leaned over the table, how their lips had met before they even processed it. No build-up, no lead-in... just a collision of surprise.

"I'm sorry if I made it awkward," She said. "Really. We can just... pretend it didn't happen."

He nodded, even though the agreement didn't sit right in his chest. "Definitely. It meant nothing. We were just... too close."

"Exactly." She smiled now, genuine again. "Honestly? It was my first kiss, so... maybe it's better it happened by accident. Less pressure, you know?"

Charles froze for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft laugh. "Funny. It was mine too."

Her mouth fell open. "No way."

"I swear."

They looked at each other, and then the ridiculousness of it—the fact that they'd shared their first kiss by accident in the middle of a birthday dinner—hit them both. Laughter broke through, easy and warm, cutting through the awkwardness.

"Guess we'll both have a weird story to tell one day." Amara remarked, shaking her head.

"Or never tell." Charles replied, still smiling.

From Amara's perspective, it ended there—an odd, slightly embarrassing moment smoothed over with laughter. But as she turned to walk back toward the others, Charles lingered at the railing, watching her go.

In his mind, it hadn't been just an accident.

The faint press of her lips still lingered, and the sound of her laugh when they'd both admitted it was their first—it had lodged itself somewhere deep. He didn't know why, and he wasn't ready to think too hard about it. But he knew one thing: he wanted to see that glow on her face again. And next time, he wanted to be the reason for it.

Chapter Text

Monaco, Early March 2016

AS THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN PAINTED THE APARTMENT WALLS A GOLDEN HUE, THE BREEZE IN MONACO HELD A SUBTLE WARMTH THAT INDICATED THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING. When the apartment phone rang, Alma was sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee and leisurely discussing her training schedule with Amara.

Alma reached for it.

"Velasquez residence, this is Alma speaking."

The voice on the other end was calm, composed, and instantly recognizable.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Velasquez. This is Toto Wolff from Mercedes."

Alma's eyebrows lifted slightly, her eyes flickering toward her daughter, who had stopped mid-bite of her toast.

"Oh! Mr. Wolff," Alma greeted warmly, "This is quite the surprise."

"It's a good surprise, I hope," Toto replied with a faint chuckle. "I wanted to speak with Ms. Amara, if she is available."

Alma covered the receiver. "It's Toto Wolff." She mouthed.

Amara blinked, momentarily frozen, before carefully wiping her hands and taking the phone.

"Hello, Mr. Wolff," She said, her voice steady despite the sudden rush in her chest.

"Ms. Amara," Toto began, the faint sounds of an office in the background. "I'll get straight to the point. Mercedes is offering you a spot in our Junior Team, as well as a development driver role shared between Mercedes and Williams. You'll work closely with both teams, gain technical experience, and we'll support your racing progression."

Amara's grip tightened on the receiver. "I—yes, absolutely! I'd be honored."

"I know it's a lot to take in," Toto continued, "But we've been watching your performances lately. You have the skill and the mentality we want to invest in. If you accept, the program starts immediately."

She glanced at Alma, who gave her an encouraging nod. "Take it." Alma mouthed.

"I accept," Amara said without hesitation. "Thank you for this wonderful opportunity, Mr. Wolff."

"Excellent," Toto replied, his tone pleased. "Our team will send over the necessary documents. Congratulations, Amara. I look forward to working with you."

When the call ended, Amara set the phone down, her pulse still thrumming. Alma crossed the kitchen and pulled her into a hug.

"Pinaghirapan mo ito, anak," Alma said softly. "Mercedes will be lucky to have you." You've worked hard for this, my daughter.

The following weeks passed in a blur. Amara balanced simulator sessions, fitness training, and preparation for her upcoming European Formula 3 season. She began spending more time between Monaco and Brackley, soaking in the engineering briefings and technical feedback.

Around the same time, Charles had joined the Ferrari Driver Academy and began his role as a development driver for Ferrari and Haas. Their schedules rarely aligned, but when they did cross paths in Monaco, it was in short, hurried moments—an exchange of smiles on the street, a wave from across the marina.

──── 🏎️ ────

Germany, October 2016

RAIN CLOUDS CLUNG TO THE EDGES OF THE CIRCUIT AS AMARA SAT IN THE PREMA MEETING ROOM, THE AIR THICK WITH STRATEGY TALK. The championship came down to this weekend, her versus Lance Stroll. Two rounds. No mistakes.

After the meeting with her engineers, she sat in her driver's room, helmet on the table, suit unzipped to her waist. The pressure weighed heavily, her mind replaying every possible scenario.

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a familiar name, Alma. Her mother had flown back to the Philippines months ago.

"Hi, Mama." She answered, voice tight.

"You sound tense," Alma noted. "What's wrong?"

"It's just... this is it," Amara admitted. "Two more rounds. If I screw up even once—"

"You won't," Alma interrupted gently. "You've worked too hard to let doubt take over now. I believe in you, anak. Race your race, and the rest will follow."

Amara exhaled slowly. "I'll try."

"Not try. Do." Alma's tone was firm but warm. "You'll win."

The call ended, and Amara sat back in her chair, letting Alma's words sink in—until a pair of hands suddenly covered her eyes.

She jolted. "What the—?"

When the hands pulled away, Charles stood in front of her, grinning, with Pierre just behind him.

"Surprise!" Charles said.

Her mouth dropped. "What are you—? Your birthday's tomorrow! I thought you'd be in Monaco."

"I wanted to see you win, my birthday can wait." He replied simply, eyes warm. "And I wasn't going to miss this."

Pierre smirked. "Besides, we both know you race better when you've got people cheering for you."

"Also, we wanted to see you beat Stroll in person."

Thirty minutes later, the lights went out on the grid. For twenty laps, Amara held her ground, until a braking error in Turn 8 let Lance slip past. He took the win.

She barely made it to her driver's room before locking the door behind her, helmet still in hand. She was halfway through ripping off her gloves when the door clicked open.

Charles stepped in, leaning casually against the wall. "You drove well."

Her shoulders sagged, and she sank onto the couch. "I can't believe I messed up like that."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Charles reassured Amara as he sat next to her. "What matters is how you come back tomorrow."

The dam broke, and she leaned into him, tears stinging her eyes. His arms came around her immediately, steady and sure.

"You're going to win tomorrow," He whispered to her. "I know it, Amie. I believe in you."

Determination burned in Amara's chest as she arrived at the Prema garage the next day, her steps quick, the hum of the paddock wrapping around her like an electric current. Mechanics bustled, tools clinked against metal, and somewhere in the distance, an engine roared to life. But none of it mattered—her mind was fixed on the race ahead.

On her phone screen was a short but powerful message from Alma: Do your best, Amara. I believe in you. She read it twice, letting the words settle into her heart like an anchor.

Charles was already there, leaning casually against the pit wall with a small paper bag in his hands. The early sunlight caught the edges of his hair, and when he noticed her, he straightened, his expression softening.

"I've been here since sunrise," He said, stepping forward and pressing the bag into her hands.

Inside was a light breakfast—still warm, neatly packed, the smell of fresh bread mingling with something sweet.

"You need to eat," Charles said simply, like it wasn't a request but a fact of survival.

She grinned faintly, shaking her head. "Happy birthday, Monaco."

"Breakfast before presents, Manila." He replied with a smirk, that familiar teasing edge in his voice.

Pierre and Anthoine appeared moments later, their presence bright and loud as they brought the energy of a small cheering squad. They didn't come empty-handed—Pierre had a bottle of water, Anthoine had a grin wide enough to be seen from the opposite end of the paddock.

"Pressure's on, champ!" Anthoine said, bumping her lightly on the shoulder.

"All of you better be loud from the pit wall," She warned, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

"Always." Pierre promised without missing a beat.

The minutes before the race blurred—helmet on, gloves tightened, heart pounding in sync with the distant countdown.

When the lights went out, she launched from pole like a bullet, the adrenaline flooding her veins. The track was hers—lap after lap, corner after corner, she held the lead with razor-sharp precision.

Until the final laps.

Lance came at her with a daring overtake, slipping past for a brief, gut-wrenching moment. But Amara fought back, pushing the car to its limit, the tires screaming as she reclaimed the lead in the last corners.

When she crossed the finish line, the words burst from her throat before she could think. "Oh my god! I'm a champion! We did it!" Her voice cracked over the radio, and her hands trembled on the wheel.

In the garage, Charles and Pierre erupted, hugging anyone within reach.

Now on the podium, champagne still clinging to her suit, Amara looked out at the sea of faces. Her eyes found them—Charles, Pierre, Anthoine—front and center with the Prema team, clapping, shouting her name.

The Philippine flag rose as the national anthem played. She looked up at the sky, the melody swelling in her chest, the weight of the moment sinking in.

This was hers.

Later, back in her driver's room, she found them all waiting. But her gaze went straight to the ball of white fluff in Charles' arms. The puppy's thick, snow-like fur gleamed under the lights, her dark eyes blinking up at Amara with curious innocence.

"What... is that?"

"A gift," Charles said, stepping forward. "Yeah, yeah, I know it's my birthday, and you've also got something for me. But I wanted to give you something for your win. To show I believed in you—we all did."

Amara's jaw dropped as she took the samoyed puppy into her arms, the tiny creature wriggling against her chest and sniffing curiously at the zipper of her race suit. The puppy's fur was impossibly soft, warm like fresh laundry, and Amara could feel her heartbeat slowing just from holding her.

"She's perfect.." Amara whispered, almost in disbelief. The puppy gave a small yawn, revealing a tiny pink tongue before settling comfortably in her arms. She stroked the velvety ears, heart melting at how ridiculously fluffy she was.

"What will you name her?" Anthoine asked, leaning over with a grin, already offering the pup his finger to chew on.

"I'll name her Ulap." Amara said after a moment. "It means 'cloud' in Filipino."

Charles smiled, that small, private smile she'd come to recognize. "Fitting." The Samoyed puppy yipped in agreement, earning a quiet laugh from Amara.

Pierre chuckled from the corner. "You're going to spoil her rotten, aren't you?"

"Obviously," Amara said, nuzzling her cheek into Ulap's fur. "She's coming with me everywhere."

"She's going to hate the travel after the first few flights." Anthoine teased.

Amara looked up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Then I'll just have to convince her she's a world-class jetsetter."

Charles stepped closer, brushing his fingers gently over the pup's head. "She's calm around you already. Guess she knows you're hers."

Amara looked up at him then, her arms full of warm, white fluff, and an unspoken feeling that she didn't want to yet recognise, together with a mixture of thankfulness and comfort moved between them. Her voice softened. "Thank you, Charles."

For once, he didn't hide behind a teasing remark or a careless shrug. His eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary, steady and unguarded, before he gave a small nod, the faintest smile still tugging at his lips.

Anthoine clapped his hands suddenly, breaking the moment. "Alright, before this turns into some cheesy puppy adoption commercial, we should eat. I'm starving."

Ulap let out a small bark at the sound, making all of them laugh.

Chapter Text

Abu Dhabi, November 2017

OVER THE PADDOCK, THE HEAT OF ABU DHABI SPARKLED IN THE AIR. It wasn't unbearable—not like Bahrain, but it was still enough to make Amara swipe her sleeve across her forehead as she leaned against the Prema hospitality table, cold drink sweating in her hand.

Her phone buzzed. Alma's name lit up the screen. She let it go dark. Whatever her mother had to say could wait. Right now, she was too busy watching Charles across the room.

He stood half-hidden behind a stack of equipment crates, racing overalls tied around his waist, talking animatedly with one of the engineers. His hands moved as fast as his words, brows drawn in focus. But when his gaze flicked up and caught hers, all that sharpness softened in an instant—the corners of his mouth tugging up, just a little.

"You're staring." A voice drawled from her right.

She didn't have to look. "Hi, George."

George Russell smirked, leaning one elbow lazily on the table. His ART Grand Prix cap shadowed his eyes, but she could still make out the smug glint there. "You two are like... the it pair of Prema. Even though we all know you're not actually dating, you still look like you're about to announce your engagement on live TV."

Amara groaned. "Can you please shut up? She popped a grape into her mouth, doing her best to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. "Don't you have your own race to panic over?"

He grinned, unbothered. "Oh, I'm not panicking. I'm going to win. Just thought I'd check in on you—you know, make sure you're mentally preparing for second place."

She gave him a deadpan look. "Wow. Such a gentleman."

George was still chuckling when Charles walked over, a water bottle in hand, towel slung over his shoulder. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Amara said quickly.

"George here thinks I'm going to lose to him," She added after a beat, shooting George a glare.

Charles chuckled, handing her the bottle. "Well... he's not exactly wrong. He's been annoyingly consistent this season."

George tipped his head toward Charles, smug. "See? Even he gets it."

"I hate you both." She whispered, though her smile gave her away.

They didn't get much time to keep up the banter, Charles' engineer was already waving him back over, and George had to head toward the ART garage.

But before he left, Charles glanced back at her over his shoulder.

"Find me before the race."

She didn't.

Not until hours later, when the chaos of the grid had mostly settled and she finally spotted him near the Prema car, helmet tucked under one arm. He looked up almost instantly, as if he'd been expecting her all along, the din of the paddock fading into something quieter in her head.

"Long time no see, Velasquez."

She rolled her eyes at the smirk in his voice, though there was a traitorous warmth curling in her chest. "You saw me this morning."

"Still feels like a long time," He said easily, shifting his helmet so he could extend a hand toward her in mock formality.

She slapped it away without hesitation. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," He said, eyes glinting, "You're still here."

"Didn't think I'd get you to talk to me without a TV camera around."

Charles chuckled, leaning against the railing beside her, the red-and-white of his half-zipped Prema suit bright against the paddock's muted backdrop. "I've been busy winning a championship, you know. It's exhausting."

She huffed a laugh. "I've been busy trying to win one. Big difference."

He raised a brow. "George still giving you trouble?"

"Trouble? Please. He's driving like a robot programmed by ART. I don't stand a chance."

He leaned in slightly, voice pitched lower, almost conspiratorial. "Don't sell yourself short. You've been right on his tail all year. One good race and you could surprise everyone."

She gave a quiet laugh. "Yeah, well, unless he drives into the wall on his own, I'm stuck with P2."

There was no bitterness in her tone—just honesty. George had been near untouchable all season.

"Then make P2 look good," He said with a shrug. "You always do."

That caught her off guard—Charles rarely gave compliments without a punchline attached. She tilted her head, studying him. "That almost sounded sincere."

"Almost." He admitted, smirking.

For a moment, they simply watched the ebb and flow of mechanics, engineers, and trolleys stacked with tires. Then Charles broke the quiet.

"So... last race of the year."

"Yup," She said, letting the weight of it settle. "And the last time I'll be in GP3."

His head snapped toward her. "Wait—what?"

She grinned. "Prema called my manager weeks ago. They want me in F2 next year. Mercedes pushed for it too."

His face lit up instantly. "That's amazing! Amie, you're going to kill it."

Before she could answer, he pulled her into a quick, warm hug that caught her completely off guard.

"Thanks," She said, still smiling when they broke apart. "I'm still processing it, honestly. But... yeah. It's happening."

"When's the announcement?"

"Probably during the holidays," She replied. "They want to roll it out with the full driver lineup. But... I'm finally moving up."

Charles shook his head, grinning. "I can't wait to watch your first F2 race. You're going to dominate that grid, I just know it."

"And you?" She asked knowingly. "I'm guessing you're not sticking around in F2 after today."

The grin that spread across his face was pure mischief. "Sauber might have called."

Her jaw dropped. "Might have called?"

"They want me in their seat next year. Not official until December, but..." He shrugged like it was nothing, though his eyes betrayed him.

"Charles!" She exclaimed, smacking his arm. "That's huge!"

"I guess I beat you to F1 after all," He teased.

"Oh, don't start. I remember that stupid bet we made years ago. You only won because Mercedes is keeping me in the program longer."

"No excuses," He said lightly. "I'm still the winner."

"You owe me dinner for losing this bet." She shot back.

"I won the bet."

"Exactly," She said smugly. "Winner pays."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine. But one condition—you have to let me fly with you to the Philippines for winter break."

Her brows rose. "You're serious?"

"Why not? I've never been. And your mom makes amazing food."

"You haven't even asked your family if they're okay with you skipping Christmas," She said, half-laughing.

He smirked. "My mom will understand. Besides, she likes you."

Amara stared at him, then shook her head. "You're insane. But... fine. If you actually get the green light, you can come."

"Deal!" Charles said, holding out his hand.

She shook it, sealing what felt suspiciously like the beginning of yet another bet.

Chapter Text

Philippines, December 2017

THE SECOND AMARA STEPPED PAST IMMIGRATION, she felt Manila's humidity cling to her skin like an old friend. The airport buzzed with the chaos of balikbayans hauling boxes wrapped in duct tape, kids tugging at their parents' sleeves, and the faint echo of Christmas songs looping over the speakers.

Beside her, Charles tugged at the strap of his carry-on. His hair was messy from the 17-hour flight, but his eyes flicked curiously around the terminal, drinking it all in.

"Welcome to the Philippines," Amara said, a grin tugging at her lips. "Hope you survive the heat."

He fanned himself dramatically with his boarding pass. "Amie, you didn't warn me it was going to feel like... like stepping into a sauna the moment I left the plane."

"Charles you'll live," She teased. "Besides, you're the one who begged to come."

"I did not beg," Charles countered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. "I only said I wouldn't mind seeing where you come from. And maybe..." His eyes glinted as he glanced at her. "Maybe begged a little."

Before she could reply, a familiar voice broke through the crowd.

"Amara!"

Her mother, Alma, stood by the arrival gate, waving with both hands, her face lit up despite the late hour. Amara dropped her bag immediately and rushed into her mother's arms, clinging tightly. The scent of sampaguita and perfume was overwhelmingly comforting.

When they pulled apart, Alma's eyes landed on Charles, who straightened his posture like he was about to face a press conference.

And then, very carefully, he said, "Magandang gabi po, Tita."

Alma laughed in delight, the sound echoing in the terminal. "Ay, ang galing! Very good, Charles!"

Charles beamed, clearly proud of himself. Amara groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"You practiced, didn't you?"

"On the plane," He admitted, smug. "She taught me."

Charles had sat cross-legged in his economy-plus seat, phone in hand, brow furrowed like he was studying telemetry data.

"Okay, say it again." He insisted.

"Magandang gabi po." Amara repeated slowly, exaggerating each syllable.

"Magan—" He stumbled, his accent tangling the vowels. "Magandang gabi... po."

She snorted. "That was terrible. You sound like an old Spanish priest."

"I am trying!" He protested. "Tagalog is harder than Italian."

"It's not," She said smugly. "You're just bad at it."

He narrowed his eyes, typing the phrase into his Notes app with intense concentration. "You'll see. I will impress your mother."

By the time the car pulled into the gated subdivision, Charles was quiet, staring out the window. When the driver stopped in front of a sprawling modern mansion, his jaw slackened.

"This is... your house?" He asked, voice half a whisper.

Amara fiddled with her hoodie strings. "Yeah. My dad bought it years ago. Before—well, before he left."

Charles shot her a sideways glance but didn't press. Instead, he took in the sight as they walked up the driveway. "It's... bigger than my whole apartment building in Monaco."

"Don't exaggerate," She said, though her cheeks warmed.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of polished wood and jasmine. Charles's gaze wandered over the family portraits on the wall—Amara in pigtails at a piano recital, a young Alma in a dress, Amara clutching her first karting trophy, grin wide.

"You were cute." Charles said with a grin.

"I still am." She shot back.

He chuckled. "Can't argue with that."

"Amara!" An elderly woman bustled in, her gray hair tied neatly in a bun. Amara rushed to hug her grandmother, inhaling the comforting scent of old perfume and talcum powder.

"Lola, I missed you so much." Amara whispered.

When Charles stepped forward, Rosalinda's sharp eyes studied him. "And who is this handsome young man?"

"Charles Leclerc, Lola," Amara introduced. "My—uh—best friend."

Rosalinda smirked knowingly. "Best friend? Hm. You sure he's not your boyfriend?"

Amara sputtered. "Lola!"

Charles, instead of denying, bowed slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, po."

Her grandmother's smile softened. "Ah, polite too. I remember you. Alma sent me pictures from Monza in 2014. You and Anthoine."

Charles blinked. "You... remember that?"

"Of course, hijo." Rosalinda said proudly. "I keep every photo of Amara's races. You were just boys then. Look at you now."

When they entered the dining room, Charles stopped short. The long table was covered with dishes that seemed endless—lechon, sinigang steaming in a clay pot, sisig on sizzling plates, golden lumpia stacked high, pancit, bulalo, trays of turon and halo-halo waiting for dessert.

Amara gasped, hands over her mouth. "Oh my god, Lola. Mom. I haven't had any of this in a year!"

She hugged them both tightly, eyes shining.

Charles leaned toward her, whispering, "This looks like... ten dinners in one."

"That's Christmas here," She said proudly.

When they sat, Amara eagerly pointed at the dishes. "Okay, you have to try sinigang. It's my favorite. And lumpia. And sisig. Actually, try everything."

Charles obediently spooned some sinigang into his bowl. The sour tamarind broth hit his tongue and his eyes widened. "Oh. That is—wow. Different. But good."

"Told you." She said smugly.

They nudged plates back and forth, playfully insisting the other try something new.

"Here, halo-halo," Amara exclaimed, shoving a glass of colorful shaved ice toward him.

Charles eyed it suspiciously. "It looks... confused."

"Just eat it." She scooped a spoonful and, before he could protest, held it to his mouth.

He tasted it, chewed, then blinked in surprise. "That's... actually amazing."

"See?" Amara grinned. "Never doubt me."

After dinner, Amara led him upstairs. Her room was tidy, almost too tidy, like it had been waiting for her to come back. Shelves still lined with trophies, medals carefully arranged, and posters of Vettel and Hamilton taped proudly to the wall. A soft lavender scent lingered in the air.

Charles let out a low whistle. "They really keep everything clean for you."

He brushed his hand across the piano in the corner, fingers hovering like he was afraid to smudge it. Dustless, polished, as if someone still sat there every evening.

Amara paused by the doorway, her voice soft. "Feels nice. Like I'm not forgotten."

Charles glanced at her, catching something vulnerable in her expression. His lips twitched into a faint smile. "Forgotten? You? Impossible."

Her eyes flicked to him. She was about to say something, but he broke the weight of the moment by pointing at the posters. "So that's where you got your aggressive driving. Senna, Schumacher, Hamilton, Vettel... makes sense now."

She groaned and smacked his arm, not too hard but enough to make him laugh. "Shut up, Charles."

He rubbed his arm dramatically. "I'm just saying, I should've guessed. You drive like you think you're invincible."

"Better than driving like you're eighty," Amara shot back, grinning.

His grin widened, eyes bright with mischief. "Touché."

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‎THE MALL WAS DECKED OUT FOR CHRISTMAS, WITH ENORMOUS TREES DRAPED WITH LIGHTS, CAROLS BLARING SOFTLY FROM THE SPEAKERS, AND THE AROMA OF ROASTED CHESTNUTS AND CINNAMON FILLING THE AIR FROM A NEARBY STAND. Amara tugged her jacket closer, a little overwhelmed by the bustle, but also undeniably charmed.

"Okay," Amara started, balancing a half-unzipped tote on her shoulder. "Pasalubong for your mom, your brothers, Anthoine, Pierre, and George back in Monaco. Then Christmas gifts for my mom and my lola here." She ticked each name off on her fingers like she was planning a military operation.

Charles smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets. "That's... a very long list. Are we shopping or invading the mall?"

"Both," She shot back, tugging him toward another store before he could protest. "And unless you want to be that guy who shows up empty-handed to Christmas dinner, you're helping."

"Excuse me, I've never shown up empty-handed." He lifted his brows, feigning offense. "At worst, I bring wine."

She snorted. "You're hopeless. Come on, your mom deserves more than wine."

They slipped into a home decor shop, the shelves glowing with gold and silver trinkets. Amara stopped almost immediately, her eyes catching on a delicate glass ornament shaped like a star. She held it up, letting the light scatter across its edges. "This feels like something Pascale would love," She said softly.

Charles tilted his head. "You think so?"

"Definitely. She'd hang it right by the window."

He reached over and gently took the ornament from her hand, careful not to let his fingers brush hers for too long, though the thought lingered. "Alright," He said after a beat, voice low, "We'll get it."

Hours blurred as they wandered through store after store, arms slowly filling with bags. Amara laughed at silly trinkets, tried on scarves she had no intention of buying, and shook her head whenever Charles jokingly suggested wrapping up a frying pan "For George, because he needs to cook better."

"Stop," Amara nudged him, "He'd actually take that personally."

Charles only grinned. "Then I'd tell him it was your idea, Amie."

"Charles!"

Her laughter echoed louder than the carols. It drew stares, but neither of them seemed to mind.

At one point, she lingered near a display of plushies shaped like tiny race cars. Her fingers brushed one, her expression softening almost unconsciously. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to grab it—but instead, she bit her lip, shook her head, and walked away quickly.

Charles' gaze followed her.

The second she turned the corner, he doubled back. "Excuse me," He muttered to the cashier, placing the plushie on the counter. He slid the bag under his jacket like contraband before catching up with her.

Later, a few fans recognized them. Children approached first, clutching notebooks and shy smiles. Mothers nudged them forward, whispering, "Go on, anak."

Amara knelt to their height, signing autographs with a grin, cheeks pink when someone called her "the pride of the Philippines." She laughed and posed for pictures, even crouched to take a selfie with a little girl holding a toy car.

Charles stood just behind her, arms crossed loosely, watching the whole scene unfold. Pride curled warm in his chest—something quieter than victory, steadier than adrenaline.

When the crowd dispersed, Amara straightened, adjusting her hair, still flushed. She noticed his eyes lingering on her, unreadable but intent.

She elbowed him lightly. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

He didn't even flinch. "Because," He said simply, "You belong here."

Her breath caught, caught off guard by the weight in his tone. She ducked her head quickly, pretending to fuss with the shopping bags so he wouldn't see her smile tugging at her lips.

By 7 p.m., the kitchen was chaos—pots boiling, the smell of garlic and onions filling the air. Alma and Rosalinda worked with practiced ease while Amara flitted between them, sleeves rolled up.

Charles stood awkwardly at the counter until Alma shoved a chopping board toward him. "Here. Onions."

He lasted thirty seconds before wincing, tears stinging his eyes. "Why do my eyes burn?!"

Amara nearly dropped the ladle she was holding, laughter spilling out. "Oh my god, Charles, are you crying?"

"I.. I am suffering!" He squinted, trying to keep chopping. "This is worse than losing a race. At least in racing I can see the track!"

"God you're so dramatic. Drama king." She teased, handing him a towel.

He pressed it against his face with a groan. "Why do people cook like this willingly?"

Rosalinda chuckled from the stove. "Welcome to Filipino cooking, hijo."

Amara smirked. "Don't worry, chef Leclerc. You're doing amazing."

He shot her a look but couldn't hold back his own laughter.

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‎AFTER MIDNIGHT MASS, THE CHURCH BELLS FADED INTO THE NIGHT AIR, REPLACED BY LAUGHTER AND CHATTER SPILLING OUT INTO THE STREETS. The December breeze carried the scent of roasted chestnuts and lechon, a mix of smoke and sweetness lingering as families gathered outside.

Then—cracks of light split the darkness. Fireworks burst overhead, bright blooms of red, gold, and green unfurling like flowers in fast motion. The sky became a canvas of color, each explosion mirrored in the waters beyond. Children squealed, pointing, while older couples pressed close together, whispering prayers for the new year.

Among the crowd, lanterns, parols, began to float upward, glowing softly as they drifted like stars freed from earth.

"They symbolize hope," Amara mumbled. Her dark eyes reflected the fireworks, catching each flicker of light. "The parols guide us. Remind us of light, even in the darkest nights."

Charles didn't lift his head to watch the sky. His gaze lingered on her instead, soft and unhurried, as if he were afraid to miss something more fleeting than the fireworks themselves. "It feels... magical," He said finally, his French accent brushing against the word like it carried more weight than usual. "Different from Monaco. Less..." He trailed off, searching.

"Less polished?" Amara offered, a teasing lilt to her tone, though her smile was fond.

"Oui," Charles admitted with a small laugh. "Less polished. But... warmer. Real."

Back home, wrapping paper scattered across the floor. Amara tore into one box and gasped. The plushie she had seen earlier.

"You—!" She whirled on him. "Charles, you sneaky—"

He grinned, utterly pleased with himself. "Merry Christmas, Amie."

She hugged it to her chest, then leaned over and hugged him too, tight. "Thank you."

When it was his turn, she handed him a neatly wrapped box. Inside: a leather notebook, his initials embossed on the cover.

His expression softened instantly. "This... means a lot. Merci, Amara."

Before either could say more, Alma entered with two pajama sets. "Now both of you change. Family photo time."

Charles obediently changed, emerging in candy-cane stripes. Amara burst out laughing, clutching her stomach.

"Stop laughing!" He muttered, red in the face.

"You look ridiculous." She said between giggles.

Alma snapped photos of them together. "You two look perfect." She said.

Neither argued.

The next day, after Christmas, they flew to Palawan for a short getaway—Amara's idea of showing Charles more of the Philippines beyond the city.

The beach shimmered under the sun, sand warm beneath their feet. They built lopsided sandcastles until Charles ruined one by accident, earning a squeal from Amara as she chased him into the waves.

Later, a street vendor walked by. "Taho!"

Amara bought two cups and handed one to Charles. "Here. Try it."

He poked the soft tofu with suspicion. "This is... dessert?"

"Yes! Just eat it."

He took a bite, blinking. "Actually... this is good."

"See? Trust me more."

Then came the jeepney. Charles ducked in, immediately smacking his head on the ceiling. "Ow!"

Amara nearly collapsed laughing, holding her stomach. "God Charles, you're too tall for this country!"

That night, they lay on the sand, the sea stretched endless and dark before them. The waves rolled in steady rhythm, soft and unhurried, as though the ocean itself was trying to lull the world to sleep. Overhead, the sky glittered with stars—clearer and brighter than either of them were used to in Monaco.

Charles pointed upward, his voice low as he traced invisible lines between constellations. "That one—Orion. The hunter. Strong, but cursed to always chase what he cannot catch."

Amara followed his finger, eyes squinting as if the stars might shift if she stared hard enough. In return, she began telling him the stories her lola used to whisper when she was small: about a giant who slept beneath the mountains, about star-crossed lovers who had been turned into twin lights in the sky so they'd never be apart. Her words were hushed, as if the myths were fragile things that could shatter if spoken too loudly.

Silence stretched between them after, not uncomfortable but full. The kind of silence where nothing needs to be said because everything already has.

Charles shifted, turning his head to look at her instead of the stars. "So next year," He started, "F2 for you. F1 for me."

Her lips parted slightly, the reality of it sinking in. "We've... we've come a long way," She whispered, her gaze fixed on the sky so he wouldn't see how much the words meant to her.

He didn't look away. Not from her. "Amara," He said, his voice firmer now, carrying a weight that made her finally turn to meet his eyes. "When your debut comes... I'll be there. No matter what. Cheering the loudest. You have my word."

She blinked, caught between laughter and something heavier in her chest. "You'd better." She teased, but her voice wavered just slightly.

Charles smiled, the corners of his mouth soft. He reached out, not quite touching, just letting his fingers trail close to the sand between them—as if the smallest movement could bridge the gap. "It's a promise." He said simply.

Neither of them knew he wouldn't make it.

But under the stars, with the ocean whispering nearby, the promise felt real enough. And for Amara, in that moment, it was everything.

Chapter Text

Bahrain, April 2018

FOR AMARA, IT WASN'T JUST ANOTHER RACE DAY. It was her first in Formula 2. One of the moments she had been waiting for since she was a kid with posters of Senna and Schumacher pinned above her bed.

Amara's hands trembled beneath her helmet, but Prema's garage already felt like a second skin, organized chaos, radios buzzing, engineers hunched over data sheets.

Nyck de Vries, her new teammate, noticed and leaned against the pit wall with a grin.

"Don't tell me you're nervous, rookie. You've been flying in testing all week."

Amara rolled her eyes, but her lips curved. "Testing isn't racing, Nyck. Today counts."

He nudged her shoulder. "Then make it count. Just... don't beat me too badly, yeah?"

Before she could fire back, a familiar voice called her name.

"Amara!"

She turned and saw George jogging over, cap tilted back, tall as ever. He was backed by Alex and Lando, who were laughing about something Amara couldn't catch.

George threw an arm around her shoulders. "So this is it. Debut day. You ready to show us all up?"

"Don't tempt me." Amara shot back, but her smile softened when Lando gave her a small wave.

"Finally," Lando said. "Someone my age in this championship. Thought I'd be stuck with grandpas forever."

Amara laughed, the nerves loosening their grip. "Guess we'll just have to team up against them then."

Alex grinned. "Dangerous alliance. I'm warning you now."

Their chatter washed over her like balm. For a moment, she forgot her heart was pounding.

But when she slipped her phone from her pocket, reality crept back in. No unread messages. She quickly typed, Where are you? I'm heading to the grid soon.

Charles replied almost instantly: On my way, had a quick meeting with my trainer.

Her chest eased. He promised. He said he'd be there.

A voice behind her startled her.

"Still checking your phone?"

Amara turned and her face lit up. "Anthoine!"

He grinned wide, arms out. "Did you think I'd miss your first F2 race? Not a chance."

She hugged him, her shoulders dropping in relief.

"Don't worry," Anthoine whispered as he pulled back. "Charles will be here. Focus on your race. Win it for yourself first."

He instantly knew her worries.

But Pierre, who'd appeared beside him, wasn't so easily convinced. His brows knitted as he scanned the crowd.
"Strange he's not here yet..."

Amara forced a smile, though her throat tightened. "He'll come. He promised."

But in the back of her mind, the memory surfaced unbidden, Charles beneath the Palawan stars, swearing softly that no matter how high they climbed, he'd always be there. Always.

On the other side of the paddock, Charles adjusted his race suit as he hurried toward Prema's garage. The Bahrain sun was merciless, sweat gathering at his collar, but his mind was sharper than ever.

His phone buzzed. His manager's name lit up the screen.

"Charles, stop where you are. You need to get to the Sauber garage. Now."

Charles frowned. "Can't it wait? Amara's debut starts soon—"

"No." His manager cut in firmly. "It's about your first F1 race. Strategy briefing. They need you there immediately."

That stopped him cold. His debut. His future. He raked a hand through his hair, torn. "Just... it won't take long, right?"

"Depends how much the engineers want to drill into you."

Charles exhaled, shoulders tense. He hated this. He hated choosing. But he also knew F1 wasn't forgiving. He had to show commitment, reliability. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and missing it wasn't an option.

"Alright," He said tightly. "I'm on my way."

He told himself it would only be a few minutes. He'd still make it in time.

The call ended before he could convince himself otherwise. He shoved the phone into his pocket, telling himself it would only be a few minutes. He'd still make it in time. He had to.

But minutes had a cruel way of slipping through fingers.

Out on track, the world was already moving without him.

The formation lap was a blur of adrenaline. Engines roared, hearts hammered, Bahrain's night sky lit up with the glow of floodlights.

From her position, Amara forced every stray thought away. No more waiting. No more hoping. Just racing.

The lights went out.

She launched off the line, wheel-to-wheel with Lando into Turn 1. He squeezed her, but Amara didn't flinch. She dived deeper, braked later, and stole the inside line. By Turn 2, she was ahead.

"P1, Amara! Brilliant move!" Her engineer shouted.

Nyck whooped over the radio. "That's my teammate!"

The Prema garage erupted, Anthoine and Pierre shouting loudest. Even George and Alex clapped.

But every time Amara swept past the pit wall, her eyes darted. Searching. Hoping. Waiting for Charles's familiar silhouette, for the comfort of his smile.

He never came.

When the chequered flag fell, Amara screamed in disbelief. She had done it. Won her debut. She laughed, she cried, hugging her engineers, Nyck, Anthoine, Pierre. George ruffled her hair, Alex gave her a high five, Lando joked, "Fine, maybe you're not that bad."

It should've been perfect.

But the hollow ache in her chest wouldn't leave.

The meeting dragged longer than Charles had expected, strategy sheets spilling across tables, engineers dissecting every scenario. By the time Charles stepped outside, the air was thick and the circuit echoed with celebration.

He froze. The race.

He ran, weaving through mechanics and fans until he nearly collided with Anthoine and Pierre.

They looked at him—Anthoine's disappointment sharp, Pierre's jaw tight.

"You're late, Charles." Anthoine said. "She's in her driver's room."

Charles swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest. He didn't need to be told twice.

The small room hummed with a cooling fan. Amara sat on the bench, still in her race suit, hair damp, a trophy gleaming at her side. Her joy had dulled into something heavier.

The door creaked. "Amie?"

She didn't look up.

Charles stepped inside, his voice soft. "I'm sorry."

Silence stretched. Then she turned, eyes cool, voice flat. "You promised."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I know. I didn't want to miss it Amie, but they called me in for a strategy meeting. It's my first F1 race. I had no choice—"

Her laugh was soft, but it carried an ache that twisted in his chest. "Charles... I know your career matters. I know meetings, contracts, all of it—this is your dream. But you promised me. You looked me in the eye and told me you'd be there, cheering the loudest. That wasn't something I asked of you. That was something you chose to give me. And then you weren't there."

"I thought it would be quick," He said helplessly. "I thought I'd still make it. Please, believe me."

Amara's gaze softened just slightly, but her voice remained steady. "I do believe you. But I also hate broken promises."

Charles stepped closer. "Tomorrow, Amie, I'll be there. I swear it."

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once. But inside, the doubt rooted itself deep.

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‎THE NEXT MORNING, AMARA STRAPPED INTO HER CAR AGAIN. Determined. She wouldn't let anyone steal her focus.

The lights went out, and once again, she flew. Aggressive, calculated, unstoppable. She claimed victory a second time, two for two in her debut weekend.

And once again, when she glanced to the pit wall—there was no Charles.

Meanwhile, outside the paddock, Charles's phone buzzed again. He slowed his steps, exhaustion from the weekend creeping in, when his manager's voice cut sharp through the line.

"Charles, Ferrari wants you at the hospitality suite. Sauber too. Now."

Charles stiffened. "Another meeting? Can't we do this tomorrow?"

"They're waiting now, but—"

He didn't let him finish. Charles hung up, already striding toward the suite with his jaw set. It won't take long, he told himself. I'll be back before the lights go out. She'll understand.

But when he arrived, the "urgent" meeting was nothing more than polite small talk and handshakes. The executives praised his junior career, spoke of "long-term potential", and hinted at doors opening for the future—but nothing concrete, nothing that couldn't have waited. Charles smiled, nodded, did everything expected of him, all the while restless in his chair.

He told himself it was worth it. That these conversations mattered. That Amara would forgive him.

What he didn't know was that, if he had stayed on the line just a second longer, he would have heard his manager's next words: But we can reschedule if you'd rather watch the sprint.

Finally, one of the Ferrari execs chuckled. "We could've done this tomorrow, really. But we appreciate that you dropped everything. Shows you're serious."

The words hit him like ice water. Tomorrow. It could've waited.

Amara's race was already over.

The podium celebrations shimmered under the floodlights, confetti spraying as Amara lifted her second trophy high. Her smile was radiant for the cameras, but her chest was hollow. Each time the crowd roared, her eyes flicked instinctively to the paddock, to the fences, to the VIP stands. Searching.

Always searching.

Hoping.

But no Charles.

Anthoine caught her glance, frowning slightly. "Still nothing?"

She shook her head. No message. No call. No glimpse of him anywhere around the track. Not before the sprint, not after. Not even a hurried text.

Pierre tried to make light of it, though his tone faltered. "Phones die. Meetings drag. You know how it goes."

But the longer silence stretched, the harder it was to convince herself of that. Amara wasn't angry, not really. She understood what this weekend meant for him—his own debut was looming, with pressures she could only imagine. She didn't want to take that from him.

Yet the not knowing gnawed at her. It wasn't just that he'd missed her race. It was the broken silence, the unanswered absence, the promise left hanging in the air.

She forced her smile back on, stepping down from the podium with grace, because the cameras didn't need to see her doubt. Still, inside, a quiet ache settled deep.

Because she would've been there for him. And she had believed he'd be there for her.

Hours later, back in the hotel, the adrenaline of the race had long since faded, replaced by the heavy hum of exhaustion. Amara curled onto the edge of the bed, phone in hand, her thumb swiping through feeds she wasn't sure she wanted to see.

And then she found them. Photos splashed across social media—Charles in the Ferrari suite, champagne glass lifted, surrounded by red uniforms and wide smiles. He looked alive there, every bit the rising star they'd always known he'd become.

Her chest tightened. Maybe it was just a strategy dinner. Maybe it was part of the job. But the image burned all the same: him celebrating in the one place she had searched for him all day, while she had stood on the podium scanning the crowd, waiting.

Under the Palawan stars, he had sworn he'd be there. Sworn he'd be loudest in her corner. She had believed him, because believing was easier than imagining otherwise. But promises, she realized, were fragile things. They shattered in silence, and they cut deepest when you reached for them and found nothing there.

Her vision blurred as she stared at his name on her screen. She wanted to call. To demand why. To ask if she had imagined all of it. But more than anything, she wanted to stop hurting.

Because every unanswered ring, every hollow excuse she might hear, would only carve the wound deeper.

So she didn't wait for explanations. She didn't beg for a reason.

Her finger hovered once, trembling, then pressed. Block.

Not out of anger. Not out of spite. But because sometimes silence was the only shield she had left.

Chapter Text

Shanghai, April 2018

THE DAYS AFTER SAKHIR, CHARLES SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS HOTEL BED, PHONE IN HAND. His thumb hovered uncertainly before he finally dialed the number he knew better than his own.

Straight to voicemail.

He tried again. And again. Until the cold monotone of the recording made his stomach tighten.

Blocked.

Not just ignored. Not just unanswered. Blocked.

Every single platform, Amara Velasquez had erased him.

No explanations. No room for him to fix it.

He exhaled, dragging his hand down his face. His chest ached with the weight of realization. For the first time in years, there was no way through to her.

Desperate, he scrolled down to a contact he had never thought he'd need: Alma Velasquez. Amara's mother. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the call button. But before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed.

The phone rang once, twice, three times—then connected.

"Charles?" Alma's voice was warm but cautious, tinged with surprise.

"Tita.. Good morning. I... I hope I'm not disturbing you." His words tripped over themselves, unsteady.

"Not at all, anak. But it must be important if you're calling me."

Charles swallowed, his throat dry. "It's about Amara. She... she blocked me. Everywhere. I don't know what to do. I thought maybe—" He stopped himself, guilt rushing in. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be dragging you into this."

There was a pause on the other end, Alma sighing softly.

"I know my daughter, Charles," She said gently. "If she blocked you, it wasn't out of impulse. She doesn't play games. When Amara closes a door, it means she's hurt deeply."

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Charles whispered. "I promised her I would be there. I wanted to be there. But Ferrari, Sauber, all these meetings—they pulled me away. I thought she would understand—"

"She understands more than you think," Alma interrupted, though her tone wasn't unkind. "But you also know how she feels about broken promises. Since she was a child, she has hated them. Not because of stubbornness, but because she builds her trust carefully, brick by brick. And once it cracks..." Alma's voice trailed off.

Charles pressed a hand over his eyes. "So what should I do?"

"For now?" Alma replied softly. "Give her space. Respect her silence. If she doesn't want to hear from you, you can't force it. There's nothing I can do either, but..." She hesitated, then added, "I'll try to reach her, gently. Just know it may take time. A lot of time."

Her words settled in his chest like lead.

"I understand," Charles murmured. "Thank you, Tita."

"Charles," Alma said kindly, "You're a good boy. I know you care. But sometimes caring means waiting."

The line clicked off, leaving Charles staring at his reflection in the dark screen of his phone.

Waiting. He hated waiting.

By the next race weekend, Charles' attempts had grown frantic. Each night after debriefs, he scrolled through every app, checking if maybe—just maybe—she had unblocked him. Instagram. WhatsApp. Twitter. Nothing.

When he tried to send an email, it bounced back.

When he typed out a long message on Messenger, the blue circle refused to appear.

It wasn't just silence. It was exile.

At Barcelona, Charles lingered by the paddock gate longer than usual, hoping maybe she would glance his way. Amara brushed past with her team, sunglasses on, jaw set. She didn't even flinch.

Later, Anthoine found him leaning against a garage wall.

"Merde, you're torturing yourself." Anthoine said, folding his arms.

"I just want to talk." Charles replied.

"Then respect that she doesn't," Anthoine replied firmly. "Look, I'm your best friend. But I'm hers too. If she wanted you in her ear right now, you would be. She doesn't. Accept it."

Charles clenched his fists. "And I'm just supposed to... do nothing?"

"Yes," Anthoine said. "For now, yes. Do nothing."

The season rolled forward. Monaco. France. Austria. Each circuit blurred into the next, but the silence never faded.

For Charles, everything outside the cockpit was fractured. Every free moment he wasn't in the car or in meetings, he was staring at his phone, hoping for something that never came.

On calls, on texts, even on social media. Every attempt hit the same silent wall.

Anthoine was the first to finally say it, blunt as ever, late one night in a hotel lobby as they waited for Pierre to finish a debrief.

"You've got to stop, Charles. She's made her choice."

Charles's jaw tightened. "She hasn't even told me why."

"You know why." Anthoine leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "You missed her debut. You missed both races. You didn't even explain."

Charles's voice dropped, quiet but raw. "I wanted to. God, Anthoine, I tried. But they kept dragging me from one meeting to the next. Ferrari, Sauber... what was I supposed to do, walk out and risk throwing away everything I've been working for?"

"That's the thing," Anthoine said, softer now. "You didn't walk out. She noticed that. And for her, that's the whole point."

Charles raked a hand through his hair, frustration seeping through. "I thought she'd understand. We both want this—racing, the career, the dream. She knows what it means to sacrifice."

"She does," Anthoine agreed. "But she also knows what it feels like to be sacrificed."

The words hit him hard, enough that Charles fell silent.

When Pierre joined them, he took one look at Charles's expression and sighed. "Still blocked?"

"Everywhere." Charles fixes his hair.

Pierre hesitated before pulling out his own phone. "Well I can try, maybe—"

Anthoine cut him off. "No... Don't. She doesn't want to talk, and if you force it, you'll just push her further away."

Charles's head snapped up. "So what, I just sit here? Act like it's fine?"

"No." Anthoine said evenly. "You respect her decision like I said. That's all you can do."

Pierre shifted uneasily, caught in the middle. "She's not heartless, Charles. She cares. You don't just erase years of friendship overnight. But right now... she's drawing her line."

Charles pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning. "And I can't even explain. One word, one chance, and maybe she'd—"

"No." Anthoine repeated again, firmer this time. "You don't get to bargain her pain away. You broke a promise. Maybe you didn't mean to, maybe it wasn't even your choice, but for her? That was enough."

Silence lingered, heavy, until Charles finally exhaled shakily. "I can't lose her, Anthoine."

Pierre's expression softened. "Then don't. But give her time. If she comes back, it'll be because she wants to—not because you chased her down."

By Hungary, the tension reached breaking point. Charles sat in the motorhome, fists clenched on the table while Anthoine tried to calm him.

"Fuck, I can't take it anymore," Charles groaned. "She walks past me like I'm invisible. Do you know what that feels like?"

"I know." Anthoine said simply. "Because I've been on the other side of her walls before. It's not personal, it's survival. She protects herself that way."

"But I'm not the enemy," Charles said bitterly. "I never was."

Anthoine leaned forward, eyes steady. "Then prove it. Not by forcing her to talk. By showing you'll be there... even if she never turns back."

Charles' lips parted, but the words caught. He realized then: patience wasn't just an option.

It was the only way.

By September, at Monza, the air shifted. Whispers filled the paddock, spreading like wildfire through the motorhomes and hospitality lounges.

Amara Velasquez, the rookie who had stormed through her first F2 season, had been offered the Mercedes reserve driver position for 2019.

Charles heard it not from her, not from Anthoine, not from Pierre. He overheard it in the Ferrari hospitality suite, when two engineers exchanged knowing glances over their espresso.

"Mercedes really knows how to spot them young."

"They've secured her early. Wolff must see something in her. A prodigy, they're saying."

Charles froze mid-step, the words digging into his chest. He already knew she was extraordinary, he'd seen it from the very first laps she drove, but hearing it spoken so casually, like her future had already outpaced him, stung in a way he couldn't put into words.

When he stepped outside, Anthoine found him leaning against a railing, staring out at the circuit with his jaw tight.

"You heard, huh?" Anthoine said softly.

Charles nodded, his throat dry. "Yeah."

Anthoine clapped him on the back, his voice warm. "See? She's unstoppable. Toto Wolff doesn't just hand out offers like candy. She's earned every bit of this."

Charles forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. She is."

But inside, he ached. She was soaring higher, step by step, while he was standing on the outside of her world, unable to even text her congratulations.

Pierre joined them a moment later, holding his phone. "It's everywhere already. They'll announce it officially tonight." He looked at Charles carefully. "You okay Calamar?"

Charles let out a breath, shaking his head. "I should be happy for her. I am happy for her. But..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Anthoine's tone was stern without being harsh. "Then just be happy for her, Charles. From a distance, if that's all she'll allow right now. Respect what she wants. That's the only thing you can do."

Charles looked down, shoulders heavy. "She doesn't even know I know. I can't even say 'congratulations.' How did it get to this?"

Neither Anthoine nor Pierre had an answer.

The year raced on. Russia, then the final stretch of the F2 championship blurred in a haze of travel, practice sessions, and podiums. Charles continued his rookie season in Formula 1, learning the rhythms of Sauber and adapting to the unforgiving spotlight. But through every weekend, no matter how far he tried to bury himself in the demands of F1, there was always that silent ache lingering at the back of his thoughts whenever he spotted Amara across the paddock.

By Abu Dhabi, the tension snapped into clarity. George clinched the championship, Amara securing runner-up after a season that had turned her into the paddock's brightest rising star.

The Yas Marina floodlights bathed the podium in dazzling white. Cameras flashed, confetti rained, and history was written in real time. Amara lifted the runner-up trophy, her face radiant beneath the falling gold.

Charles stood in the shadows near the pit wall, unnoticed, unseen. His hands itched to clap, to shout her name, to run up and tell her how proud he was.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

Because this wasn't just distance anymore.

It was a wall. One he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to climb again.

Chapter Text

Bahrain, March 2019

AMARA ADJUSTED THE STRAP OF HER HELMET BAG AS SHE SQUINTED AGAINST THE GLARE OF THE SUN. A new season, her second in Formula 2, stretched ahead of her. On the surface, she looked calm, steady, collected—the perfect Prema driver. But inside, her pulse ran sharp, nerves and determination tangling into one.

It wasn't the same anymore. George, Lando, Alex—her closest rivals and friends—had all graduated to Formula 1. Their names filled headlines, their faces plastered across interviews, their races watched by millions. The F2 paddock felt emptier without them, almost like she had been left behind.

But their absence also meant eyes were turning toward her. And she knew she couldn't afford to falter.

At her side walked her new teammate, Mick Schumacher.

Quiet, soft-spoken, but carrying the gravity of a name that seemed to echo in every corner of the motorsport world. He wasn't boastful, not like some rookies who walked in eager to prove themselves. Instead, he radiated a calm that almost felt unshakable—though Amara, ever perceptive, had already noticed the tiny cracks beneath it.

"You're awfully calm for your first weekend in Formula 2 with Prema," Amara teased, side-eyeing him as they crossed into the team hospitality. "Most rookies are either bouncing off the walls or throwing up in the bathroom."

Mick chuckled, glancing down. "Maybe I did both before you arrived. You just missed it."

"Mmh," She said, smirking. "I'll ask your engineer later."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would."

His laugh was soft, a little shy. "Guess I don't hide it as well as I thought."

Amara tilted her head, her gaze flicking down to where his fingers nervously picked at the seam of his bag strap. "You don't. But don't worry—I notice too much. Occupational hazard."

"Not a chance." Her grin widened. "You're stuck with me, Schumacher. Consider it my personal mission to annoy you into success."

For the first time that morning, his eyes softened. "I don't mind that."

They weren't alone for long as they were interrupted when a familiar voice called out.

"Amara!"

Anthoine strode toward her in BWT Arden overalls, his grin so wide it nearly split his face. She barely had a second to respond before he pulled her into a hug, lifting her slightly off the ground.

"There she is," Anthoine laughed. "The star of Prema. Bahrain hasn't been the same without you."

"You're one to talk, Ton," Amara said, hugging him back just as tightly. "Finally here in F2. Took you long enough."

"Better late than never," he said cheekily, before turning to Mick. "Mick Schumacher. Welcome to the madhouse."

Mick's handshake was firm, his smile polite. "Thanks. Glad to be here."

Anthoine gestured to the woman beside him. Her ponytail was sleek, her eyes sharp, her gloves already tugged snug. "And this is Tatiana Calderón, my teammate."

Amara reached out her hand. "Finally. Another woman in the paddock."

Tatiana's grip was solid, her smile genuine. "Finally someone who understands how to survive this circus."

Amara chuckled. "Survive is the right word. Get used to the bad coffee, the long briefings, and the fact that the engineers think they're comedians."

"Don't tell me the horror stories are true." Tatiana said with mock dread.

"They're worse," Amara replied, leaning in as if sharing a secret. "Half the time, they talk in circles just to see who's still paying attention."

Tatiana laughed, the sound warm, and for a brief moment Amara felt lighter, less alone.

Behind them, Mick folded his arms, watching the exchange with amusement. "You didn't warn me about the briefings when I signed."

"Because I needed you to suffer with me." Amara shot back.

Tatiana smirked at him. "Looks like you've got your hands full, Schumacher."

"I noticed." Mick said dryly, though his grin betrayed him.

Across the paddock, Not far away, Ferrari red gleamed beneath the desert sun.

Charles Leclerc tugged the brim of his cap lower as cameras flashed and microphones shoved closer. His first season with Ferrari had just begun, but already the expectations hung heavily on his shoulders. His answers to the press were quick, automatic, rehearsed, his mind was elsewhere.

Because she was here.

Amara was here.

He caught sight of her across the paddock, laughing with Anthoine, Tatiana, and Mick. The sound drifted across the noise, and for a fleeting second, it felt like music—familiar and devastating.

It had been nearly a year since she'd blocked him. Twelve months of silence, of missed chances, of unanswered questions. He had tried everything—calls, messages, even reaching out to Alma for updates, but Amara had shut him out completely.

And now here she was, standing yards away, smiling as though he no longer existed.

His chest tightened. He had thought he could bury the ache. He had told himself she was happier without him, that he should respect her decision. But seeing her like this... seeing her laugh with others, her joy radiating like sunlight, it was both beautiful and unbearable.

When the interview ended, Charles barely registered it. He muttered a polite thank you and slipped away, trailing after the familiar figure of Anthoine once Amara disappeared with Mick into the Prema garage.

"Anthoine." Charles called, almost hesitant.

Anthoine turned, his expression flickering with surprise. "Charles. Shouldn't you be buried in Ferrari obligations right now?"

"I—" Charles hesitated, lowering his voice. "Can I ask you something? About Amara."

Anthoine's brows furrowed. "Charles..."

"Please," Charles pressed. His words came halting, stripped bare. "She hasn't spoken to me in nearly a year. I just... I need to know if she's alright."

Anthoine crossed his arms, posture protective. "She's more than alright. She's stronger than you've ever seen her. You've seen it, two minutes in her company, she's glowing. She doesn't need you worrying."

"I can't stop," Charles admitted, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. "I miss her, Anthoine. I don't know if she still hates me, but.. I miss her."

Anthoine's voice gentled at last. "She doesn't hate you. But until she's ready to face it, you have to respect her choice and wait."

Charles swallowed, a bitter lump in his throat. "I'll wait forever if I have to. As long as it takes."

"For what it's worth, I hope she lets you back in someday. She misses things she won't admit. But you can't force it, Charles. Not with her."

That night, the races unfolded with all the chaos of Bahrain. Amara started on pole for the Feature race, the desert air thick with tension. The lights went out, and she surged forward.

Rain, rare and sharp, streaked across the track. Cars struggled for grip, chaos erupting in spins and near-collisions. Amara steadied her breathing, adjusting her braking points, tiptoeing the throttle. Every lap felt like balancing on a knife's edge.

"Keep it calm, Amara." Her engineer's voice urged through the radio. "Just bring it home."

Her knuckles whitened on the wheel. "I'm not just bringing it home—I'm winning this."

And she did. Crossing the line first, the chequered flag waving in victory.

And the next day, under clear skies, she did it again. The sprint race fell to her, too. Back-to-back wins.

Headlines buzzed with her name: Velasquez Dominates Opening Weekend. Rising Star in F2.

But pride came with loneliness. On the podium, champagne sprayed and cameras flashed, but when she looked to the pit wall, she didn't see the face she once wanted most. And in the quiet of her hotel room later, after the cheers faded, she admitted it: the victories felt emptier without him.

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‎THE CLUB PULSED WITH MUSIC THAT NIGHT, LIGHTS FLASHING ACROSS CROWDED FACES. Prema's celebration spilled into laughter and clinking glasses. Amara sat with Anthoine, Mick, and Tatiana, her cheeks flushed with pride.

"To Amara," Anthoine toasted, his grin wide. "The next big thing!"

"Don't inflate her ego already," Mick teased, bumping her shoulder.

Amara smirked, raising her glass anyway. "Cheers to making you suffer through team briefings."

Laughter surrounded her, warm and bright.

On the other side of the room, the Ferrari red marked Charles's place. He sat with Pierre, who watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Calamar, you've been staring at her all night," Pierre remarked, arms crossed. "Are you really going to keep torturing yourself?"

Charles's jaw clenched. "She doesn't want to see me."

Pierre's gaze softened, though his voice was steady. "Maybe not now. But that doesn't mean never. Anthoine told me the same thing I'll tell you, let her come to you. Don't chase. Just be there if she ever wants it."

Charles's eyes returned to her, helpless. "I don't know if I can keep waiting, Pierre."

"You can," Pierre said simply. "Because she's worth it."

And then, as if drawn by some invisible string, Amara's gaze lifted. Their eyes locked across the crowded club.

The noise faded, the lights dimmed, the crowd disappeared. Just them.

But Amara was the first to break it, turning away, laughter spilling from her lips as though nothing had happened.

The sting cut deep, but Charles remained frozen, invisible in her world.

Later, as the night wound down, Anthoine leaned toward Amara, voice low enough only for her to hear.

"You can keep pretending it doesn't matter," He whispered to her, "but it still lives in you."

Amara stiffened, forcing a smile as she raised her glass. "I'm not pretending."

But long after the music died down, Anthoine's words echoed in her chest, louder than the applause, sharper than the victory.

Chapter Text

Monaco, May 2019

FOR AMARA, MONACO WAS MORE THAN A RACE, IT WAS A TEST. To survive here meant you had the composure of a champion. To win? That was the kind of glory etched in stone.

But before she could even think of lights-out, there was media day.

She was no stranger to the whispers now. "The first female, the first Filipino, a possible F2 champion." Each headline sharpened the pressure like glass against skin, but she wore it with a smile when the media day began.

Her first questions were routine, the kind that rolled off her tongue with the ease of practiced answers. How do you feel about Baku points? What about your Spain consistency? Do you believe you're a title contender now?

Then came him.

"Miss Velasquez," A man in his forties leaned into the microphone, his eyes glinting with smugness. "Don't you think that Formula 2—Formula racing in general—might be too demanding for a woman? Wouldn't you say your place is... somewhere else? Somewhere more fitting?"

The silence that fell wasn't respectful—it was hungry. Cameras leaned forward.

Amara inhaled slowly, steadying the storm in her chest. She smiled, thin but sharp.

"Funny. I don't see anyone asking the men if they're strong enough to handle pressure. If you want proof, look at the lap times. My results speak for themselves."

A couple of drivers at the panel stifled grins. The reporter flushed.

Mick, sitting beside her, leaned into his mic, voice firmer than usual.
"And if you're still not convinced, maybe you should try driving the car yourself before questioning her place here. Let's see how far you last before you hit the wall."

The room broke into laughter. Even the moderator cracked a smile. The reporter shrank in his chair, shuffling his papers.

When the session ended, Amara slung her bag over her shoulder and exhaled. Mick caught her arm.

"You okay?" His blue eyes were gentle, the way a brother might look at a sister.

"Yeah," she said softly. "Just... tired of hearing the same thing."

"You shouldn't have to fight for space here," He muttered. "But you do it anyway. And you don't just hold your ground, you scare them. That's strength."

Amara tilted her head at him, touched by his conviction. "You didn't have to jump in, you know."

"Course I did," Mick shrugged, as though it were obvious. "We're in this circus together. You've got my back, I've got yours."

Meanwhile, across the paddock, the video clip played again on a flat screen in Ferrari's hospitality lounge. Engineers chuckled, muttering admiration under their breath.

Charles sat at a table with his plate untouched, his gaze locked on the screen.

"She handled that beautifully," Sebastian said, smirking as he sipped his coffee. "If I were Mick, I'd have been harsher. Put him in his place you know? But that's just me."

Charles forced a faint smile. "She's... she's always been good at standing her ground."

Sebastian's sharp eyes flicked toward him. "You know her well?"

Charles hesitated. "...We were close. Once." His voice was clipped, but something raw hid beneath it.

"Hmm," Sebastian hummed, leaning back. "That explains the face."

Charles blinked. "What face?"

"The one you've had since the video started," Sebastian teased, though his tone softened. "Listen. Don't let ghosts ruin your focus. Racing is unforgiving if you're not present. And from the outside, it looks like something's haunting you."

Charles dropped his gaze to his fork. The words stung because they were true.

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THAT EVENING, AMARA WALKED THE CIRCUIT ALONE. The streets of Monte Carlo were quiet now, stripped of the chaos that would flood them tomorrow. Salt clung to the air, champagne residue still lingered in the gutters from the parties earlier, and the sharp tang of engine oil drifted from the garages down by the harbor.

The hairpin looked impossibly tight from this angle. The swimming pool section gleamed in the fading light, the water catching fire with the reflection of the sunset.

She paused at Rascasse, fingertips brushing the metal barrier. She let her hand linger there, tracing the groove in the steel as though it were sacred.

Charles drove here. He won here. He dominated F2 on these very streets. His city. His home.

The thought came unbidden, cutting deeper than she expected. Amara bit her lip hard. This was her race, her fight. And yet, in every corner, in every echo of the walls, his shadow lingered.

"Dreaming already?"

Anthoine's voice cut into her reverie. She turned to see him jogging toward her, his grin cocky, his hair messy as ever. "Don't go soft on me, Velasquez. This isn't a sightseeing tour, you know. Tomorrow these walls won't care how pretty they look in the sunset. They'll just eat you alive if you're sloppy."

Amara arched a brow, crossing her arms. "You really know how to motivate a girl, don't you?"

"I try," Anthoine said with a mock bow. "But you looked like you were five seconds away from writing a love poem to that barrier."

Her cheeks warmed, but she scoffed. "Shut up."

Pierre appeared not far behind, walking instead of jogging, his arms folded, his expression more serious than Anthoine's. "Ignore him. He thinks he's funny."

"I am funny," Anthoine interjected quickly, indignant. "I'm hilarious."

Pierre didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed on Amara. "You're thinking too much. Stop it. The media will twist your words, but the track won't lie. Win tomorrow, and no one can touch you. That's all that matters."

Amara tilted her head at him, a faint smile curling her lips. "You sound like my conscience, Gasly."

"Better me than yours," Pierre shot back dryly, finally cracking the smallest grin.

Anthoine laughed, tossing an arm around Amara's shoulders. "And if you don't listen to either of us, don't worry. I'll be there to laugh at your mistakes."

"Wow, such a supportive best friend," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

"You love me."

"Debatable."

The three of them walked together for a while, the silence filled only by their footsteps echoing against the narrow streets. But even surrounded by them, Amara felt that hollow space in her chest. Winning meant everything, and yet—yet the person she had once dreamed of sharing this with wasn't here. And probably never would be again.

The paddock was a furnace of tension, hotter than the Monaco sun beating down on the streets. Engineers buzzed like bees, mechanics hunched over machines as though their very lives depended on tightening bolts and calibrating wings. Amara sat in Prema's hospitality, suited but helmet resting on her lap, staring at the monitor looping replays of previous Monaco crashes. It should've unnerved her. Instead, it lit something sharper inside.

"Hey," Mick slid into the seat across from her, his face open and easy despite the storm of nerves around them. "You've been staring at that for ten minutes. You trying to manifest your own crash?"

Amara shot him a look, though a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "I'm trying to manifest not being on the highlight reel."

Mick grinned, leaning forward. "Then stop watching it. Think about it—this is Monaco. Everyone dreams about winning here. You're starting on pole. If there's ever a time to shut everyone up about you—"

"—this is it," Amara finished softly. She already knew. She could feel the weight pressing on her chest, heavier than the Nomex and fireproofs. The whispers of her being reckless, too aggressive, a liability. If she won here, they couldn't dismiss her as just raw speed. They'd have to acknowledge her as dangerous—in the way champions were.

Before she could respond, Prema's media officer leaned in. "Amara? You've got a few minutes before briefing. Someone wants to see you."

Amara's brow furrowed, but when she stepped outside, the breath caught in her lungs.

"Pascale?"

Charles' mother smiled warmly, her hands already outstretched. "Amara, ma chérie."

It had been months since they last spoke. Months since everything with Charles fractured into silence and cold distance. Yet Pascale looked at her like nothing had changed, pulling her into a gentle embrace. The smell of faint perfume and laundry detergent clung to her, achingly familiar.

"You look well," Pascale said, studying her face like mothers did, eyes tracing for exhaustion and shadows. "A little tired perhaps, but that is racing life, no?"

Amara let out a shaky laugh. "More like... Monaco life."

Pascale's smile softened. "I wanted to see you before the race. I know... things are not easy.. between you and Charles lately." Her voice dipped carefully, like stepping over fragile glass. "But you must know—you are still family to me."

That nearly undid her. Amara bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to crumble under the kindness. "Merci, Pascale. I... I missed this. Missed you."

"Then come by after, hm?" Pascale squeezed her hands. "Whatever happens on track, I am proud of you. You have always had the heart of a fighter. That is what I admire most."

Amara laughed shakily. "You always know exactly what to say."

"I've had practice," Pascale teased, her eyes twinkling. "I raised Charles, didn't I? And believe me, he was far more stubborn than you."

Amara giggled despite herself, shaking her head. "That's hard to imagine."

"Oh, trust me," Pascale said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "When he was little, he once refused to eat dinner because he said he'd rather 'race cars' with the bread rolls. He made little tracks on the table with them."

Amara laughed, the sound breaking past the lump in her throat. "That sounds exactly like him."

Pascale's smile grew wistful. "Yes. And he still hasn't changed. He hides it well, but racing is still everything to him. Just like it is for you." She squeezed Amara's hands. "You're more alike than you think."

Amara exhaled slowly, nodding, even as her chest ached. "Maybe... too alike."

"Alike is not bad," Pascale said gently. "It just means you both understand each other more than you're willing to admit right now."

The lump in Amara's throat stayed as Pascale slipped away, leaving her blinking against the sudden rush of heat in her chest. She wanted to hold onto that warmth, to tuck it away before the world reminded her again of the distance between her and Charles.

"Hey." Anthoine's voice broke through her thoughts, and she turned to find him standing there, arms crossed, helmet dangling loosely from his fingers. His grin was lopsided, cocky, but his eyes flicked with something sharper.

"Pole position, huh?" he said. "Guess I'll be staring at your rear wing all afternoon."

Amara snorted, finally finding her footing. "Don't get too comfortable back there. The last time you got too close, you hit me."

"That was one time!" Anthoine protested, then leaned in. "Seriously though. You ready? Monaco's not forgiving. Even the walls bite."

"I'm ready," Amara said firmly, even if part of her still reeled from Pascale's words.

Anthoine tilted his head, studying her longer. "Good. Because if you win, you know I'm stealing the Sprint. Balance of the universe and all that."

"Deal."

They bumped fists, a quiet promise sealed in the chaos of the paddock.

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THE ENGINES ROARED AGAINST THE NARROW STREETS OF MONTE CARLO, THEIR SOUND BOUNCING OFF THE PASTEL BUILDINGS AND GLITTERING BALCONIES LIKE THUNDER TRAPPED IN A GLASS DOME. Amara sat strapped into her car on the grid, visor down, the world outside her cockpit already shrinking into that razor-sharp tunnel vision she'd been taught to master.

Monaco wasn't just another circuit. It was myth. It was danger dressed in glamour, lined with barriers that gave no forgiveness. One mistake, one millimeter too wide, and the race was gone.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, not out of fear but exhilaration. She lived for this razor's edge.

In the garage, Pierre had managed to squeeze himself into the crowd of support staff, his grin already feral with excitement. And up in the stands, she knew Pascale was watching, Pascale, who had hugged her like a daughter that morning despite everything fractured between her and Charles. The thought of it brought a flicker of warmth beneath her fireproofs.

"Alright, Amara," her engineer's voice crackled in her ear. Calm. Steady. "You know the drill. Lights out and go. Keep it clean into Sainte Dévote."

She nodded, though no one could see. The world narrowed to the five red lights. Her grip tightened, every muscle vibrating with contained energy.

The lights blinked on.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The grid fell into silence.

Then the world exploded into noise.

She launched.

Mick slotted behind her, Anthoine pressing close in third. The first corner blurred past, her car skimming inches from the barrier. Monaco wasn't racing. Monaco was survival dressed as speed.

"Good start, Amara. P1, clear by half a second," Came the voice in her ear.

Half a second. A lifetime here.

Lap after lap, the city wound around her like a serpent. The tunnel swallowed her in darkness, spitting her into blinding light at the chicane. Her wrists ached from snapping the wheel, her jaw clenched every time the barriers kissed too close.

Mick's voice crackled over radio chatter, joking about keeping her in sight. Anthoine wasn't joking—he was relentless, the Arden flashing in her mirrors every chance he got.

But Amara didn't flinch. Didn't falter. Every corner was a brushstroke, painting her defiance onto the track.

And when the checkered flag finally waved, when she crossed first under the roar of Monaco's streets, it was like the city bowed to her.

As she crossed the line, she screamed into the radio. "Yes! Yes! We did it!"

"P1, Amara! You've won Monaco!" her engineer's voice broke with elation. "Brilliant drive, absolutely brilliant!"

This victory was hers.

Yet as champagne sprayed on the podium, her gaze drifted toward Ferrari's side of the paddock, where she knew Charles would be preparing. She wondered, just for a heartbeat, if he had been watching.

And Charles, sitting in the garage, had his answer.

He had.

Chapter Text

Belgium, August 2019

QUALIFYING HAD ENDED JUST HOURS EARLIER. Amara had wrestled her Prema to seventh on the grid, while Mick slotted into sixth. Not perfect, but enough to keep her in striking distance. Enough to keep the championship battle alive.

The media pen was its usual chaos, microphones shoved forward, lights glaring, reporters all but tripping over each other for a soundbite. Amara stood with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, the Prema cap pulled low over her eyes.

"Amara, great effort out there. P7 on the grid. Do you feel confident about tomorrow's race?"

She offered a polite smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes. "It's Spa. Anything can happen here. The race will be long, so I'll just keep my head down and focus."

"Okay. You've been incredibly consistent this season. With today's qualifying, you're still right in the title fight with Nyck de Vries. How does that pressure feel, especially compared to last season when you were teammates?"

Amara forced a practiced smile, tugging at the zipper of her race suit. "Nyck is... Nyck. He's experienced, fast, and one of the most complete drivers in the field. Last year I learned a lot racing alongside him, and this year I'm just trying to apply that. Pressure? It's always there, but that's racing. You either carry it or let it crush you."

The interviewer nodded eagerly, jotting notes. "And what about your current teammate, Mick Schumacher? There's a lot of talk about the two of you being the strongest pairing on the grid."

Amara chuckled softly, though it felt tight in her throat.

"Well Mick's... Mick. He's methodical. Smart. We push each other in the right ways. Honestly, it's good to have someone who can keep me honest in data meetings. Even if I want to throw my laptop at him sometimes."

The reporters laughed. The tension eased for a second—before the next question landed.

"Many people are already calling you the first Filipino and female driver in decades who could realistically break into Formula One. Some say Mercedes has their eye on you. Others think Ferrari. Do you see yourself in F1 next year?"

The cameras leaned closer. She could feel the weight of the words, the way they boxed her in.

Amara's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Inside, her stomach twisted. Ferrari. Mercedes. Words that used to light her chest on fire now felt like someone pressing a blade into her ribs.

She swallowed hard.

"I'm... not thinking about that right now. My focus is here. On Formula 2. On every lap. Anything else is speculation. If I start looking too far ahead, I'll trip over what's right in front of me."

The interviewer tilted his head, sensing her evasion, but before he could press further, the Prema press officer stepped in, thanking everyone and pulling Amara away.

As soon as she ducked back into the quiet of the paddock walkway, her practiced composure cracked. Her jaw clenched, her pulse racing too fast. Everyone saw her as the prodigy, the inevitable. But what if she wasn't ready? What if she didn't want to face the ghost of what she'd lost?

Her thoughts spiraled so heavily that she almost didn't notice the shadow stepping in front of her until she collided with it.

Her foot slipped on the concrete. A hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow before she fell.

"Careful."

The voice. That voice.

Her heart stopped.

Charles Leclerc.

Her stomach lurched as if she'd been thrown into Eau Rouge at full speed. He steadied her gently, his green eyes searching her face, but she avoided his gaze.

"Thanks." She muttered as she wrenched her arm back like his touch burned, already stepping back.

Just one word. Clipped. Emotionless. She didn't even look at him again. Her steps quickened as she slipped past, vanishing down the walkway before he could say another word.

Charles stood there, hand still hanging in the air where she'd been. His chest tightened. It had been already a year since she'd spoken to him—if you could even call that speaking.

Later, as he walked toward the Arden garage, he found Anthoine leaning casually against the wall, helmet under his arm, still grinning despite qualifying P11.

Charles approached, and Anthoine glanced up with a grin. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Charles gave a half-smile. "I just ran into Amara. She nearly tripped, I caught her. She thanked me but..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "She didn't even look at me and ran off like I was contagious."

Anthoine chuckled softly, his expression kind. "Charles, listen. You know that she's stubborn, mate. But don't give up on her. She's got walls for a reason, you know? She's been fighting battles most of us can't even imagine. One day, she'll let you back in."

Charles exhaled, his chest heavy with memories. "It's been months, Anthoine. Sometimes I wonder if I've already lost her completely."

Anthoine tilted his head, his voice warm but firm. "Then stop trying to win her back all at once. Just... be there. Even from a distance. Trust me, she notices more than she lets on. People like Amara—they'll fight the whole world, but deep down? They don't want to fight the ones they love."

Charles's gaze flicked down to the tarmac. Anthoine had a way of saying things that stripped away the noise, leaving only the truth.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I really just have to wait."

Anthoine grinned, nudging him lightly with his helmet. "In the meantime, focus on your qualifying. Tomorrow's going to be tough. We both know Spa doesn't forgive mistakes."

The two shared a look, one racer to another. "Okay. Good luck, Thoine." Charles said.

"And to you," Anthoine replied, shaking his hand firmly. "See you after."

That night, Amara sat on the edge of her hotel bed, staring at the ceiling.

The interview replayed in her head on loop. Do you think you're on Nyck's level? Are you going to F1? Mercedes or Ferrari?

Her chest ached. Every question was a reminder that she wasn't just racing for herself. She was racing for everyone who doubted her, everyone who wanted her to fail, everyone who whispered her name next to Charles'.

Her phone buzzed. Without thinking, she called Mick.

"Velasquezzz!" Mick's voice came warm and teasing, even at this hour. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I.. I can't." She chewed her lip. "Mick, what if I'm not good enough? What if... all of this, the pressure, the talk about F1... what if it crushes me?"

"Amara," Mick said softly, "You've already proven yourself. Points, podiums, Monaco. You're fighting for the championship. That's more than good enough."

She closed her eyes, letting his reassurance sink in. "I just... I don't want to disappoint anyone."

"You won't," Mick promised. "You've got this. Trust me."

For the first time that night, she allowed herself a shaky smile. "Thanks, Mick."

"Now sleep. Tomorrow we race."

The paddock the next day buzzed with an energy that seemed almost alive. Mechanics pushed tire trolleys and spare front wings across the narrow service lanes, their radios crackling with rapid exchanges. Engineers bent over laptops, data streams flashing across screens like lifelines. The scent of burnt rubber already lingered faintly in the cool Belgian air, a reminder of the morning's sessions. Beyond the barriers, fans pressed against the fences, flags waving, voices rising in chants that carried down the pit lane.

It was race day.

Inside the Prema garage, Amara scrolls on her phone while Mick Schumacher leaned lazily against a stack of tires. He gave her a sideways grin, nudging her shoulder with boyish mischief.

"Don't let me beat you today!" Mick teased.

Amara raised a brow, her lips curling into a smirk. "As if I'd let you. You'll be seeing the back of my car the whole race."

"Promises, promises." Mick chuckled, shaking his head.

Their easy banter grounded her, just for a heartbeat, before the nerves of the day could tighten their grip.

Soon, the drivers were shepherded onto the flatbed trucks for the parade lap. The air was cool against Amara's face as the truck circled the historic circuit, the undulating tarmac of Spa stretching endlessly ahead of them. Fans lined every corner, waving flags, calling names, their voices blurring into a single roaring cheer. Cameras flashed relentlessly, microphones thrust forward from reporters eager to capture any scrap of pre-race insight.

A journalist leaned closer, her recorder raised.

"Amara," The voice called over the noise, "You and Anthoine have often been seen together for the past few years. What's your relationship like?"

Amara's heart softened instantly.

"Anthoine is the brother I never had. He's been one of my biggest supporters and closest friends since I moved to Europe for racing. Honestly, I don't know how I would've gotten through some weekends without him."

Before she could say more, Anthoine himself leaned into the frame, his ever-present grin wide and boyish. He slung an arm casually around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "She means I annoy her to death. Always stealing her snacks in the paddock."

Amara laughed, shoving at his chest with mock indignation. "Only sometimes. You eat like you've never seen food before."

The crowd erupted with laughter and cheers, cameras snapping furiously. In that moment, the world felt light, just two friends teasing one another, their connection obvious, their smiles genuine.

It would be a memory Amara would replay in her mind countless times, one she would later cling to like a lifeline.

Back in the garages, the atmosphere shifted. The casual warmth of the parade lap was replaced by a charged intensity. Helmets came on, visors down, radios crackling to life. Mechanics tightened wheel guns with sharp, metallic clatters. The countdown had begun.

Amara crossed paths with Anthoine one final time before they strapped in. He was pulling on his gloves, tugging each finger snug, when their eyes met. Without hesitation, she reached out a hand. He clasped it firmly, the grip steady, sure.

"Good luck out there, Mara." He said, his voice muffled slightly behind the balaclava but unmistakably sincere.

"Don't beat me too badly, Ton." Amara shot back, a crooked half-smile breaking through her nerves.

Anthoine's grin was wide, fearless, unshakable. "No promises."

And then, as though fate were tugging invisible threads, they parted ways.

Engines then roared to life one after another, the sound reverberating through the garages until it rattled in her ribcage. Amara's pulse matched the rhythm of her car, sharp and insistent. The drivers rolled out, weaving through the formation lap, tires screeching as they danced left and right to build heat. Eau Rouge loomed in the distance like a silent sentinel, daring them to be brave.

She inhaled deeply, her helmet filling with the sound of her own breath. Every nerve ending screamed with anticipation.

They lined up on the grid.

One by one, the lights above flickered into existence.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

The silence in that heartbeat before the start was suffocating.

The lights blinked out.

Tires scrambled for traction, engines roared, and twenty cars sprang forward in unison. Adrenaline surged through her veins like fire. Amara launched cleanly, her Prema biting into the tarmac, and immediately angled toward the inside line into La Source. Cars jostled for every inch of space, noses dipping dangerously close, bumpers grazing. She muscled her way through, climbing a position, keeping her front wing intact.

And then Eau Rouge.

The corner that separated bravery from hesitation, courage from fear. She braced as her car climbed the steep incline, suspension shuddering beneath her as she held the throttle steady. Ahead, she spotted Anthoine's bright Arden machine, pink and blue streaking through the corner with bold intent.

Down the Kemmel Straight, engines wailed like thunder. Cars fanned out, each searching for slipstream, hungry for advantage. She caught a flash of contact ahead—two cars tangled violently, one ricocheting into the barriers with a sickening crunch. Shards of carbon fiber sprayed across the straight like deadly confetti.

Her heart lurched.

And then it happened.

Another car struck the wreck. The impact was brutal, unforgiving. The Arden. Anthoine's car.

Her breath vanished.

"Red flag, red flag, red flag!" Her engineer's voice erupted in her ears.

She eased off, hands trembling on the wheel, every movement suddenly foreign.

In her mirrors, marshals sprinted onto the track, flags waving frantically. Sirens began to scream from beyond the barriers, a sound that sliced through the engine noise like a knife.

The radio filled with static, voices talking over one another, none of it making sense. Amara's chest tightened until she thought she might suffocate. Her visor blurred, though she didn't remember crying.

She couldn't see clearly, but she knew.

Amara climbed out of the car with shaking hands, the world spinning too fast and too loud. The Prema garage swallowed her in a blur of red and white uniforms, mechanics murmuring in hushed tones, eyes darting toward her but never quite meeting her gaze. Her helmet was taken from her hands, someone pressed a water bottle into her palm, but all she could do was turn toward her race engineer.

"Tell me about Anthoine," She demanded, her voice cracking more than she wanted it to. "Do you know anything? Please—what's happening?"

The engineer, Lucas, hesitated, a rare falter in the usually steady man. "They've taken him along with Correa to the circuit's medical centre. That's all we know for now."

"That's not enough," Amara said sharply, desperation dripping from her tone. "I... I need to go. I can't just stand here."

There was a pause, and then a small nod. "Go. But be prepared, Amara. It could be a while before anyone says anything."

She didn't wait for further permission. Already, she was fumbling for her phone, hands trembling as she scrolled through contacts until she found Pierre. He would be as frantic as she was. He had to be there.

The line connected quickly. "Pierre—"Her voice wavered. "Come to Prema. Please. We need to go to the medical centre. Anthoine... it's bad."

"On my way," He said without hesitation. His voice was tight, clipped, but steady in a way that grounded her for a fleeting second.

By the time Pierre arrived, Amara had already changed out of her race suit, her hair still damp from sweat, the borrowed Prema jacket hanging too loose on her shoulders. She didn't even wait for him to catch his breath.

"Let's go." She said, and together, without another word, they hurried across the paddock.

The medical centre was a sterile building at the edge of the circuit, white walls and glass windows glaring against the overcast Belgian sky. When they pushed through the doors, the sharp tang of disinfectant burned Amara's nose.

A nurse intercepted them at the reception desk. "We can't let you inside right now. They're stabilizing him."

"Stabilizing?" Amara echoed, latching onto the word. "So—so he's alive?"

The nurse softened her tone. "They're doing everything they can. That's all I can say."

It wasn't enough, but it was something. Amara's knees nearly gave way with the fragile relief.

Pierre placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the waiting area. The room was too bright, too quiet except for the muffled beep of machines behind the walls and the hurried footsteps of medical staff passing through. Every so often, a door opened, and voices drifted out, snatches of technical language she couldn't piece together. Each fragment only deepened the pit in her stomach.

Amara couldn't sit. She paced the length of the waiting room, arms folded tightly across her chest as though she could hold herself together that way. Pierre sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Every now and then, he reached out, catching her hand as she walked past, squeezing it just enough to remind her she wasn't alone.

Minutes bled into an eternity.

The door opened again, and this time it wasn't a nurse—it was Nathalie Hubert, Anthoine's mother, her face pale, her steps hurried. Beside her was Victhor, his jaw clenched, eyes wide with barely contained fear.

Amara moved before she could think. She crossed the waiting room in three strides and threw her arms around Nathalie, hugging her tightly. "He's strong, tata." She whispered against her shoulder, her own voice breaking. "He's strong. He'll fight."

Nathalie clung back with equal desperation. Victhor wrapped his arms around both of them, and for a moment, they stood huddled together in grief and fear.

"We don't know much yet," Pierre said gently, stepping forward. "The doctors told us they're stabilizing him. That's all we've heard."

Nathalie nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "That's all we can ask for, then. That they keep fighting for him."

Time dragged. The waiting room pressed in around them, suffocating in its sterile stillness. Amara finally sank into a chair, her legs too weak to hold her up. Her gaze drifted to the sterile tiles beneath her feet, but her mind was far away.

She thought of the first time she met Anthoine, back in karting. He had beaten her in a race, and she'd been so furious she refused to shake his hand. He had grinned at her, boyish and infuriating, and said, "You'll get over it. You're too serious all the time." And then he'd winked, as though they'd known each other forever.

Her throat tightened.

Pierre shifted beside her, his voice low. "Do you remember when we all went to that café in Nice? You, me, Charles, Anthoine... we thought we were so grown up, ordering coffees we didn't even like." His lips twitched into a faint, sad smile. "Anthoine spilled sugar everywhere. You yelled at him for being messy."

Despite herself, Amara let out a shaky laugh. "He said I sounded like his mother."

The memory warmed her chest for a fleeting moment, before the cold dread seeped back in.

The door opened again, and this time Amara froze. Charles stepped inside, his face pale, eyes shadowed, his movements hesitant.

Amara's heart lurched painfully in her chest. She hadn't expected to see him here.

"I asked him to come," Pierre murmured quietly, before she could say anything.

The tension in the room sharpened. Amara kept her eyes fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet Charles's gaze. But she could feel him, standing there, uncertain, as though he wasn't sure he belonged.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and careful. "He's strong. He'll pull through. Anthoine... he's not the kind to give up."

Amara's throat ached with unsaid words. She only nodded, her arms wrapped tighter around herself. She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

An hour passed like a lifetime. Then the door opened again, and this time, the doctor who stepped in carried something heavier than words in his expression.

Everyone stood.

The doctor hesitated, his eyes soft, voice quiet. "I'm so sorry. Despite our best efforts... Anthoine did not survive his injuries."

The world fell away.

Amara felt as though she'd been plunged underwater. The room warped and blurred; voices muffled as though coming from another world. She saw Pierre's body crumple into the nearest chair, his shoulders shaking with sobs. She saw Nathalie press her hands to her mouth, Victhor pulling her into his arms.

But Amara felt nothing. Nothing but the hollow roar in her ears, the echo of Anthoine's laughter in her memory.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

It only shattered when she saw Pierre, her strong, steady Pierre, break completely. His sobs tore through the air, raw and devastating. That was when her own walls crumbled.

She stumbled out of the waiting room after him, her vision blurred with tears. She found him leaning against the cold hallway wall, his hands pressed over his face.

Amara reached for him. "Pierre..." Her voice cracked, and then she broke, too. Tears streamed down her face, her body wracking with sobs as Pierre pulled her into his arms.

They clung to each other, two halves of the same grief, unable to stand on their own.

Out of the corner of her eye, Amara caught a glimpse of Charles, standing a few feet away. His hand twitched as though he wanted to reach out, to close the distance between them. But he stopped himself, frozen in uncertainty, his own grief carved into his face.

For a heartbeat, Amara hesitated. The fight, the words they'd thrown at each other, the distance they had built—it all burned in the back of her mind. But then she remembered the beginning. How Anthoine had brought them together. How, before everything else, Charles had been her friend.

And Anthoine would have wanted her to remember that.

Because as much as Pierre knew her pain—Charles carried it too. He was the only other person who had lived through every fracture with her: Jules, his father, now Anthoine. They had both lost too much, too young. It was a weight only they could recognize in each other's eyes.

With trembling steps, she let go of Pierre and crossed the short distance to Charles. She didn't say anything. She simply threw her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder. For a second, Charles froze, startled, but then his arms came around her, fierce and desperate, as though he'd been waiting for that moment.

They stood there in silence, three friends bound by the same unbearable loss, clinging to one another as if Anthoine's memory was the only thing keeping them upright.

Racing would never feel the same again.

Chapter Text

Monza, September 2019

IN A DAZE THAT AMARA COULD HARDLY NAME, THE DAYS AFTER SPA FADED TOGETHER. The moment she heard the words "Anthoine did not survive his injuries." she had stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped living properly.

Her body went through the motions, waking up, walking, answering team obligations when she had to, but her soul... her soul had been left somewhere on that track, where his car never crossed the finish line.

She didn't answer texts.

She didn't answer calls.

She avoided mirrors, afraid of what broken version of herself might stare back.

Food had no taste. Sleep was fractured. And when her phone buzzed with condolences, her throat would close and her fingers would turn cold. She'd place it face down on the desk, unable to read another reminder of the void Anthoine had left behind.

It was like Jules all over again.

Grief piled on grief, pressing down until her chest felt like it was splintering apart, the weight of it so heavy she thought one day it might actually crush her.

And yet, racing didn't stop. Racing never stopped.

That was the cruelty of it all. The world kept spinning, the engines kept roaring, the calendar kept ticking forward.

At Monza, Amara forced herself to move. Forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, to zip up her race suit, to meet the cameras.

Her smile was painted on, a mask she wore to keep people from looking too closely. She gave them what they wanted: the strong face, the story of resilience, the image of a young driver who could turn tragedy into fuel.

Every interview blurred together, words she recited like she was reading them from a script.

"Amara, how difficult is it to be here after such a tragic weekend?"

She smiled stiffly. "We all carry him with us. Anthoine would want us to race."

"Do you feel more pressure, with everyone watching how you'll respond?"

She nodded, rehearsed. "Pressure is normal. I'm focusing on doing my best, for him."

The reporters scribbled their notes, satisfied. The cameras clicked. No one noticed how tightly she was curling her fingers behind her back to hide the tremor.

And then the track, the only place where her grief felt controllable. On the grid, strapped into her car, the helmet sealed her off from the world. The roar of the engine drowned out the ache. Her grief turned sharp, liquid fire running through her veins, and she poured it all into her driving.

In the Feature Race, she fought tooth and nail, clawing her way to third. She stood on the podium, lifting her trophy with a brittle smile, the applause crashing against her like distant waves.

And in the Sprint? She drove like a woman possessed. Lap after lap, no mistakes, no hesitation. Every gear shift screamed his name, every overtake burned with his absence. She crossed the line two seconds clear of the field.

On the podium, as champagne sprayed and the tifosi roared, Amara tilted her head skyward. Her eyes shimmered, her finger pointing toward the clouds.

"For you, Ton." She whispered, so quietly no one else could hear.

The crowd saw triumph. Her rivals saw strength.

But inside, she felt nothing. The joy was hollow, an echo that never reached her heart.

The silence was deafening when she returned to her hotel room.

She hadn't even bothered to change, still in her champagne-stained race suit, the gold and black fabric crumpled, the smell of celebration clinging to her. In her arms, the trophy sat like dead weight, a cold reminder of a victory that felt empty.

She sat on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The hollowness stretched on, a void threatening to swallow her whole.

Her phone buzzed again. And again.

PIERRE: Call me, please.
PIERRE: I'm worried. Answer me.
MICK: He'd be proud of you today. I know it.
GEORGE: That was his win too. Don't forget that.

She read them. Re-read them. Her thumb hovered, but she couldn't press reply. Words felt useless, paper-thin against the weight pressing on her chest.

Her phone buzzed again, a voicemail. With trembling fingers, Amara pressed play, holding it just close enough to hear Pierre's voice fill the silence of her hotel room.

"Amara, it's me, Pierre." His tone was low, careful, as though he knew she'd be listening in fragments. "I know you don't want to talk lately but... you don't have to do this alone. Just—" He paused, the sound of his breath crackling through the speaker, "Just let someone in, okay? Don't forget that."

The message ended with a click. Amara stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the replay button. She didn't call back. She couldn't.

Instead, she scrolled higher, into the archives of her chats with Anthoine. The photos lit up the screen: the two of them laughing over coffee, Anthoine pulling a ridiculous face while wearing her sunglasses, his arm thrown casually around her shoulders after a long practice day.

She clicked on an old voice note, his teasing tone filling the room:

"You're too serious, Amara. You need to smile more. Life's not just about lap times, you know."

Her breath stuttered. Her chest ached so violently she thought it might split apart.

She dropped the phone onto the nightstand and curled onto her side, still clutching the trophy like it could shield her from the grief clawing inside.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the paddock, Charles sat alone in his driver's room, his phone heavy in his hand. Her name burned on the screen, but the moment he typed anything, the message failed banner would appear.

Still blocked.

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, the helplessness gnawing at him. He'd lost Jules. He'd lost his father. Now Anthoine. And Amara... Amara was slipping further away with each passing day, and there was nothing he could do.

Later that night, he caught Pierre in the hospitality area, the Frenchman looking wrung out, dark circles under his eyes.

"How's she doing?" Charles asked quietly, careful not to sound desperate.

Pierre paused, his expression tightening. "She's shutting us all out. Won't answer anyone. Won't eat properly. I've tried everything."

Charles swallowed hard, fighting the urge to push. "Just... don't let her fall apart, Pierre."

Pierre gave him a long, tired look, his voice low. "I won't. But you need to understand something, Charles. You still can't force your way back in. Not now. She'll decide when—if she wants to let you close again."

Charles nodded, throat thick. He looked down at his phone once more, wishing he could make the wall she'd built between them disappear.

But some walls, he realized, could only be taken down from the inside.

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THE FUNERAL WAS TWO DAYS LATER.

The car ride from her hotel to Chartres felt like a dream Amara couldn't wake from. She wore a simple black dress, dark sunglasses covering her eyes. No jewelry, no makeup, nothing bright. Just... muted. She stared out the window, watching the French countryside blur past, and felt like the world was playing some cruel trick on her.

How could it look so normal, when she felt like the ground had been torn out from under her?

Her hands tightened in her lap. Anthoine wasn't just a friend. He had been a brother. A compass. Someone who grounded her when everything else spun too fast.

Now he was gone.

When the car stopped, she almost couldn't get out.

Chartres Cathedral loomed ahead, its gothic spires piercing the sky. Bells tolled slowly, solemnly. People in black streamed toward the entrance—drivers, engineers, FIA officials, family.

Her chest locked tight. I can't do this.

But she forced her legs forward.

Inside, the cathedral was heavy with silence. Stone arches stretched overhead, sunlight filtered through stained glass in muted colors. At the front, a photo of Anthoine beamed down at them all—his easy smile, framed by flowers.

Amara hesitated at the doorway. Her gaze scanned the crowd: Pierre, Mick, Tatiana, Esteban, George... Charles. He stood in a black suit, jaw tense, expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes looked tired, wounded.

She turned away quickly, retreating to the very back row, hiding behind her sunglasses.

One by one, people rose to pay their respects. Mick placed his team cap by the altar. George bowed his head for a long time. Pierre lingered the longest, shoulders shaking as he whispered something no one else could hear.

Amara's breath caught when it was her turn. Every step up the aisle felt like dragging herself through quicksand.

She reached the coffin, knees weak, and knelt. Slowly, she slid a thin bracelet from her wrist—the one Anthoine always teased her about. She placed it next to the flowers, along with a single white rose.

Her voice trembled as she whispered, barely audible.

"You weren't just my best friend. You were... my brother. And now you're gone, and I don't know how to keep going without you. I.. I don't know who I am without you guiding me anymore."

Tears slipped beneath her sunglasses. She wiped them quickly, hiding from the crowd, but her shoulders trembled. She pressed her palm against the wood.

"I'll keep racing for you, Ton. I promise."

When she tried to stand after, her body betrayed her. Amara's vision blurred, a wave of dizziness crashing over her as her knees buckled. Her chest tightened—not with sharp pain, but with the hollow ache of exhaustion, of nights spent sleepless and meals left untouched.

Pierre and Charles shot up in unison, instincts overriding everything else. Both caught her before she could hit the floor—Pierre steadying her from one side, Charles' hands firm beneath her arm and across her back.

"Amara!" Pierre's voice is sharp, worried. "Hey, hey, don't push yourself. Sit down, sit down."

"I'm.. fine." Amara rasped, her voice betraying her as it cracked. She tried to straighten, but her body sagged against their support. "It's just.. just the dizziness. It happens sometimes."

"This isn't fine at all," Charles muttered under his breath, his voice low but fierce as he helped ease her toward the chair Pierre hurriedly pulled over. For the first time in months, his words weren't directed to the air around her—they were aimed at her. His tone carried no anger, only fear. "You are not fine. You almost collapsed."

Her eyes flicked toward him, startled by the sound of his voice, before quickly looking away. "I didn't ask for your help." The whisper was brittle, a thin defense against how much her body leaned into their steadiness.

"You don't need to ask," Charles said, quieter this time but still unwavering. "Amie, please... you scared us."

Pierre crouched in front of her, his hand hovering just above her knee, as though afraid to push too far. "Mar, this isn't nothing. You can't just brush it off. You've been running yourself into the ground—anyone can see it."

She shook her head, staring at her trembling hands clenched in her lap. "I can't stop. Not now. Everything I've worked for... it'll slip away if I let it."

Charles slowly crouched beside her too, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. His voice was gentler now, stripped of the frustration that had haunted their silence for months. "There is no championship, no race, worth breaking yourself. You push this far, Amara, and there will be nothing left to fight for."

That made her chest tighten in a different way. She forced herself to look at him—really look at him, for the first time since she'd blocked him out. His expression wasn't angry or betrayed. It was afraid.

Pierre's gaze shifted between them, reading the air, and then he let out a quiet sigh. "I'll get some water. Don't move." He stood, his hand brushing Charles' shoulder briefly, a silent nudge, a warning, maybe both, before slipping away.

The silence that followed wasn't the same wall it had been for a year. It was fragile, brittle, charged with unspoken things.

Amara swallowed hard, her throat dry. Finally, she whispered, "You shouldn't care."

Charles exhaled, a small, pained laugh escaping before he could stop it. His voice cracked with the weight of everything unsaid. "How could you say that? How could I not care?" His words softened, almost breaking. "I know I hurt you. I know I broke something I can't fix with apologies. But seeing you like this—do you really think I could just stand there and watch?"

Her lips pressed together. Anger warred with the rawness of his honesty, and she couldn't summon an answer. Her body trembled faintly, exhaustion dragging her down more than pride could hold her up. Slowly, she closed her eyes, breathing until the dizziness dulled.

Charles didn't move. He stayed crouched beside her, one steadying hand still gripping the chair in case she faltered again. He didn't push, didn't argue, just stayed.

When Pierre returned, he carried a bottle of water, eyes flicking between them with quiet suspicion. He handed it over, but his focus lingered on Amara.

Amara took it with shaking hands. "Thank you." She whispered, her voice soft, uncertain. She didn't specify if it was meant for Pierre, or Charles, or both.

Neither asked.

Charles simply watched her, silent but unrelenting. For the first time in months, their silence wasn't made of walls, it was cracked, fragile, uncertain. Not reconciliation, not even close. But something had shifted.

And Amara felt it, even if she wasn't ready to admit it yet.

Chapter Text

Sochi, September 2019

THE WEEKS AFTER ANTHOINE'S FUNERAL BLURRED INTO A RHYTHM AMARA FORCED HERSELF TO KEEP. Wake. Train. Meetings. Travel. Race. Repeat. Smile for the cameras just enough to look functional, but never enough to be questioned too deeply.

The grief was still there, of course—it lived inside her chest like a shard of glass, sharp whenever she let her guard slip. But she had learned to carry it.

In Sochi, she tapped her helmet twice before climbing into the car, a ritual she never explained to anyone. She scribbled Anthoine's initials on the inside of her gloves, the letters small enough the cameras wouldn't catch. And when she stood on the podium after taking P2, the champagne spray sticking in her hair, she tilted her chin just slightly skyward.

The gesture was quick, almost invisible. But it was hers.

The media loved the story, the grieving protégé turned relentless contender. The girl who kept racing through tragedy. Articles called her stronger for it, resilient, an example. They didn't see the nights she sat in the dark of her hotel room, fingers pressed to her ribs, fighting against the hollow ache in her chest.

On track, Amara looked sharper than ever. Off track, she was untouchable.

But Charles had seen past that. In Russia, he hadn't just watched the race replay on the screens in the Ferrari hospitality, he had watched her.

Every movement. Every detail.

The way her hands trembled as she adjusted her cap on the podium, the way she disappeared quickly afterward instead of basking in attention like others would.

And behind it all, he couldn't stop seeing another image burned into his memory: the funeral. The way her knees had buckled, the sound of her breath shattering, the raw fear that had clawed at his chest as he caught her before she fell.

It had been weeks. She hadn't reached out. Not once.

Why won't she let me in?

That question gnawed at him so relentlessly he finally brought it up to Lorenzo one evening, pacing around the Monaco apartment.

"She won't even look at me, Lorenzo," Charles burst out. "Not on the paddock walks, not in media duties, nowhere. After everything.. why? Why is she still shutting me out?"

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening with the patience only an older brother could muster.

"Charles," He said quietly, "You broke something once. Maybe she doesn't believe it can be fixed."

Charles' jaw clenched. "That was a year ago."

"And she still feels it. Time doesn't mend all wounds. Sometimes it makes the cracks deeper." Lorenzo sighed. "If you push, she'll only run further. You need to give her space—show her you can be steady this time."

But patience had never been Charles' strong suit. Especially not with her.

──── 🏎️ ────

Austin, October 2019

The air was heavy with dust and barbecue smoke, the paddock buzzing louder than usual. News broke that weekend: Bottas would retire at the end of the season. Everyone whispered about replacements, speculation running wild.

Amara was in the Mercedes garage, though F2 wasn't racing. As reserve driver, she had duties—sim sessions, briefings, sponsor appearances. Still, her presence turned heads. The cameras followed her when she walked past, pen scribbles already drafting headlines.

She was heading out of the media center, sunglasses shielding her eyes. She had learned to move quickly, to avoid lingering long enough for familiar voices to catch her.

But Charles was faster.

"Amara!"

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice—firm, insistent, and far too familiar. She didn't slow.

"Amara, wait!"

She almost kept walking. Almost. But something in his tone, more frayed than commanding, made her stop just short of the Mercedes hospitality doors. She exhaled slowly, bracing herself, before turning.

Charles stood a few feet away, hands half-raised like he wasn't sure if he wanted to reach for her or not. There was no smile, no polite mask, just the raw frustration of someone who had been carrying words for far too long.

"You weren't going to talk to me.. Again." He said quietly, accusation laced beneath the softness.

Her jaw tightened. "I'm busy, Charles. Always have been."

"Busy ignoring me?" His words had a bite now, frustration simmering.

Her eyes flicked to him, just once, before looking away. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then make me," He pressed, voice breaking through her defenses like a crack in glass. "Since the funeral, since before that—you don't even look at me unless you have to."

She crossed her arms, every part of her bristling. "You think cornering me here is going to fix that?"

"I don't want to fix it with a corner in the paddock!" His voice cracked louder now, drawing a few heads. He lowered it again, but the hurt was written all over his face. "I just want to understand. Why you never reached out. Why, after everything, you decided I wasn't worth even one message. Was.. was our friendship really that easy for you to throw away?"

The words hit her harder than she expected, but Amara kept her face carefully blank. "You wouldn't get it."

"Then make me get it." His hands spread, helpless and demanding all at once. "Because the last time we spoke, when you almost collapsed at the funeral—I thought..." His voice faltered, softer now. "I thought we were okay again. That I had you back."

She laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Okay? You thought one moment at a funeral erased everything?"

Finally, he asked the question that had been festering since that day, even though deep down he already knew the answer. His voice was tight, almost pleading.

"Was it really because I missed your debut? Because I wasn't there? I know I should have been—I had the meetings, yes, but I should've found a way. I know that. But... was that really enough for you to just shut me out? To act like I didn't matter anymore?"

Amara's chest tightened, her arms crossing like armor. She didn't answer, and that silence cut deeper than anything she could've said.

"But I can't accept that," Charles went on, his tone breaking between anger and disbelief. "One mistake—one absence—and suddenly I'm nothing to you? After everything?" His eyes searched hers, almost begging her to give him another reason, something that didn't make it all feel so unbearably small. "Tell me it was more than that. Tell me it wasn't just because I wasn't there."

Her jaw clenched, but she refused to meet his gaze. The silence stretched until Charles's composure cracked.

"Say something!" He snapped, his voice raw now. "Do you know what it's been like—watching you from a distance, pretending we were strangers? Do you know what that did to me?"

Finally, Amara's control broke. Her eyes snapped to his, blazing with fury and hurt all at once. "And do you know what it did to me, Charles? You weren't there! You were supposed to be the one person who understood, and you weren't there. For two races. So don't stand here acting like it was nothing. Because to me, it was everything."

Charles flinched at her words, as though each one cut deeper than the last. The noise of the paddock around them blurred, but he caught her wrist lightly, pulling her just enough toward a shadowed alcove between the hospitality units, away from the curious glances of team personnel. Hidden there, the world fell quiet—just the two of them, and the storm raging between their hearts.

"Amara..." His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "I know. I know I wasn't there, and I've told myself that a hundred times since. But it wasn't because I didn't care. I had meetings, endless meetings, and I thought—I thought I'd make it up to you later. I thought we'd have time."

"Time?" She echoed bitterly, shoving his hand away. "I didn't need later, Charles. I needed you then. When everything was falling apart, when I was breaking inside, you weren't there. And then you didn't even try after. Not once."

His jaw tightened, guilt flickering in his eyes, but his pride refused to yield. "You think it was easy for me? Do you think I didn't hate myself for missing it? You don't know how much I wanted to be there."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" Amara demanded, her voice trembling with both rage and heartbreak. "Afterwards, you stayed silent. You let me go on thinking I meant nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To realize my best friend—the one person I trusted more than anyone—could just disappear without a word?"

Her words landed with devastating force, and for a long moment, Charles couldn't respond. His throat tightened, but the truth clawed out of him anyway, sharp and defensive. "Because I couldn't face it! I couldn't face you knowing I failed you when it mattered most. I couldn't accept that I failed you like that. I can't. So I stayed away. And maybe that was my mistake, but don't act like I didn't care. I cared too much, Amara."

Amara laughed then—a hollow, broken sound that made his chest ache. "No, Charles. You cared just enough for it to hurt when it was convenient. And when it wasn't, you chose silence."

Her words carved the final line between them, the distance that had been growing since the day of her debut. He tried one last time, softer now, almost pleading. "Amara, we can fix this. We've come back from worse before. Don't throw everything away."

But her eyes told him it was already gone. The guard she had kept up since the funeral, the walls she built to protect herself, they solidified into something unbreakable.

"Because there's nothing left to fix!" Amara's voice cracked, the force of it making him finally look away. "I can't keep pretending we're still the same when we're not. That friendship we had—it's gone, Charles. And I'm done holding on to something that isn't there anymore."

Charles froze, the weight of her words crashing over him. For the first time, he had nothing left to say.

Without another glance, Amara turned away before he could see the tears brimming in her eyes, her steps quick, decisive, each one severing the thread of what they once were. And though Charles reached out, fingers trembling, he let his hand fall back to his side.

Because deep down, he knew, this time, she wasn't coming back.

Their friendship, the bond that had once been unbreakable, was shattered, left behind like debris no one could piece back together.

For the first time, he let her go.

Chapter Text

Austin, October 2019

THAT SAME WEEKEND, TOTO HAD REQUESTED HER PRESENCE IN THE MERCEDES HOSPITALITY's MEETING ROOM.

Amara hesitated outside the door for a heartbeat longer than she should have, her palms damp against the seam of her jeans. The hospitality suite loomed in its pristine white, humming with quiet authority. She told herself she was prepared for a reprimand—maybe something about her reserve duties, or another reminder about the politics of being attached to Mercedes. She braced for it.

When she finally stepped inside, the room smelled faintly of coffee and leather polish, the hum of paddock life muffled beyond the closed door. To her surprise, Lewis was seated at the side of the room, relaxed but watchful, his sharp eyes following her every move.

And beside him, Valtteri Bottas sat with his usual calm poise, hands clasped loosely in his lap. His expression was neutral, but his eyes carried a weight that made her hesitate—like he'd been expecting her.

Toto stood, smiling in that quiet, intimidating way of his. "Amara! Sit, sit."

She obeyed, her palms flat against her knees to hide their tension.

He leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "You've shown remarkable resilience this year. Many would have broken after what you went through. But you? You've become sharper. Stronger. The way you handle pressure, it is... rare."

Her throat tightened, but she forced her voice steady. "I just do my job, Toto."

Lewis tilted his head at that, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips. "That's not just a job. Not everyone can do what you've done. Trust me—I've seen people crumble under less."

Toto nodded, not breaking his gaze on her. "No, you're more than just doing your job. You are a once-in-a-generation driver. And with Valtteri retiring, we need someone like you. We want you in Mercedes next year."

The words detonated inside her. For a moment, she thought she'd misheard him. Her lungs seized, her fingers curling against her knees until her nails bit through the fabric.

"You... want me to.."

Amara froze, her mind scrambling to catch up. Mercedes. A seat. Full-time Formula 1. She felt the weight of it, the enormity pressing down, and then—just like that—the disbelief gave way to fire.

"Yes," She whispered, her voice breaking with emotion she hadn't meant to show. "Yes, I'll do it."

Lewis leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice softened, but his words carried weight. "You belong here, Amara. Don't ever doubt that. Next year will test you in ways you can't imagine, but you're ready. And I'll be right there—pushing you, challenging you, backing you when you need it. Because trust me, this world isn't kind. But you've got what it takes."

Her chest burned. To hear those words from Lewis himself—it felt almost unreal.

Then Valtteri finally spoke, his tone quieter, steadier, but no less sincere. "I've watched you these past two years. You've earned this. I know what it feels like to sit in that car, the responsibility that comes with it. It won't be easy. But I wanted to be here, to see the person who'll take my place. To say—" He paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "—you're ready. Make it yours."

Something in her tightened, a flicker of respect burning deep. "Thank you Valtteri." She managed, her voice soft.

Lewis grinned, extending a fist across the table. "Welcome to the team, champ."

She bumped it weakly, still stunned, still floating.

Toto pushed a folder across the table. "We'll prepare the contract within the week. You'll sign before Abu Dhabi, and the official announcement will come there. Until then, this stays between us."

Later that afternoon, as Amara left the Mercedes hospitality, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was her manager, Mateo.

"They called me," He said without preamble, his tone brisk. "Netflix. Drive to Survive. They want to feature you for next season."

Amara froze in the hallway, mechanics brushing past with data pads, the buzz of the paddock alive around her. "Feature me?"

"Yes. Filming starts when you're formally introduced at Brackley. They want to capture the behind-the-scenes—your seat fitting, first meetings, media training, the works."

Her stomach tightened. Cameras. Narratives. Every move recorded. She had seen what the show had done for other drivers—sometimes heroic, sometimes cruel.

"Do I get a choice?" She asked, voice lower.

"Not really," Mateo admitted. "Mercedes has already approved. They think it's good for the brand. Good for you." He softened, sensing her hesitation. "Look, it's just part of the deal now. You're not just a driver anymore, Amara. You're a story. People are going to want to see it."

Amara exhaled, pressing her hand against the strap of her bag. The contract hadn't even been signed, and already the weight of expectation was pressing in. But she forced a nod, more to herself than to Mateo.

"Fine," She said. "Then let them watch."

The announcement then came on a Friday in Abu Dhabi. The world crowded into the Mercedes press room, cameras flashing, voices buzzing with anticipation. Lewis Hamilton and Toto Wolff sat beside Amara, their presence an unspoken seal of approval.

"This is a new chapter for Mercedes," Toto began, his voice carrying its usual blend of authority and calm. "We are announcing Amara Velasquez as our full-time driver for the 2020 season. She is not only the first Filipino driver, but also the first woman in decades to be on the Formula One grid. Her resilience, talent, and hunger make her the perfect fit for our team. Mercedes believes in talent, and Amara has proven herself time and time again. She will be driving alongside Lewis for the 2020 season."

The words hung in the air, monumental, final. Amara's name etched itself into the history books in that moment—the first Filipina, the first woman in decades, to join the Formula 1 grid. Reporters leaned forward like wolves scenting blood.

"Amara, what do you say to those who call you too young, too inexperienced for Mercedes?" One asked.

She didn't blink. "They said the same about many champions before me. I let the track answer."

Another shot forward: "Do you feel the pressure of being the first female driver in years?"

Her lips curved into a steady, deliberate smile. "It's not pressure, it's opportunity. And I intend to make the most of it."

Lewis leaned toward his mic, his tone softer but weighted with conviction. "I don't say this lightly, but Amara reminds me of myself when I first stepped up—the fire, the hunger. I've seen a lot of young drivers come and go, but Amara has that spark, the kind you can't teach. She's going to be pushed, tested, and challenged, but I have no doubt she'll rise above it. She belongs here. Welcome to the team, Amara."

Her hands trembled under the table, but her voice held steady when she spoke. "Thank you, Toto, thank you, Lewis, and thank you to Mercedes for believing in me. I know this is bigger than just me. It's history, and I don't take that lightly. I promise to give everything I have."

The applause was deafening. Cameras caught every flicker of her expression—the pride, the disbelief, the weight of the moment settling onto her shoulders. Across the paddock, her words were already being clipped into headlines, broadcasted onto phones, whispered between drivers.

And so, as with everything lately, Charles didn't hear it from her but through someone else.

Pierre leaned against the balcony railing of the Yas Marina hotel, scrolling through his phone with his usual half-smirk. "You've seen it yet?" He asked, glancing sideways.

Charles frowned. "Seen what?"

Pierre tossed him his phone. "Mercedes just signed Amara for 2020."

The headline glared at him: Velasquez to Mercedes, Partnering Hamilton.

Charles read it once. Twice. His chest tightened. Pride, sharp and hot, swelled in his ribs, tangled with regret that burned just as fiercely. She had done it. And yet... she had done it without him.

He knew it had been coming—the whispers, the speculation, the way Amara had carried herself with a sharpened edge these past weeks. But seeing it confirmed, right there in black and white, stole the air from his lungs.

"Amara told me earlier that she signed last week," Pierre added casually, though his eyes flicked with caution. "She's making history, you know."

Charles swallowed hard, nodding, but his chest burned.

History. She was making history.

Without him.

He should have been happy for her. He was, in a way that twisted painfully inside. He'd always known she was destined for greatness. But the thought that she hadn't called, hadn't told him herself—cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

Their friendship was gone, fractured beyond repair. And now, as the world celebrated her, Charles stood on the outside, watching from a distance he couldn't close.

Saturday brought the F2 Feature Race. The Yas Marina paddock buzzed, and as Amara strapped into her Prema car knowing it would be her final time in this machine. Win or lose, this was goodbye. Her Formula 2 chapter would end here.

Amara's mother, Alma, had flown in for the finale. It was her second time watching Amara race at this level. When Amara saw her in the paddock, her chest cracked open in a way she hadn't felt in months.

"Mara," Alma whispered, pulling her into a hug. "I'm so proud of you already. And Mercedes... they know what they're getting."

Amara blinked fast, fighting the burn in her eyes. "Stay proud then, mama. I'll make it worth it."

And she did.

When the lights went out, she drove like the track belonged to her, like the desert night bent around her will. Victory on Saturday, and again on Sunday in the Sprint. Two trophies, two flawless statements. The championship—hers, undeniably with nearly 270 points.

On the podium, champagne rained down as she held the trophy high, the roar of the crowd washing over her.

"To Anthoine," She whispered under her breath, skyward glance sharp with meaning. Then, eyes flicking to her mother in the stands, she pressed her hand over her heart. "And to you, mama."

Tears streamed down Alma's cheeks. The crowd roared. Cameras clicked. Her place in history was sealed.

First Female F2 Champion. Mercedes 2020. Once-in-a-generation talent.

But for Amara, it wasn't about the headlines. It was about survival, about proving to herself she could carry the weight and still stand.

That night, the paddock had quieted. The champagne was gone, the cheers had faded. Amara sat alone with her championship trophy resting in her lap, fingers tracing the cool metal. Relief sat heavy in her chest, but so did an ache she couldn't quite name.

She had done it, she had proven them all wrong. She had everything she'd fought for, yet the cost lingered: Anthoine's loss, Charles' estrangement. The ache remained, stubborn and unyielding, no matter how loud the celebrations roared outside her window.

Meanwhile, Charles stood on his balcony in Monaco, phone in his hand, the headlines glowing across the screen.

Amara Velasquez: F2 Champion. Velasquez to Mercedes.

He should have called. He wanted to. But the words stuck in his throat, swallowed by the memory of their fight in Austin.

So he only whispered to himself, "I'm proud of you."

Two souls, two victories, two losses—walking parallel lines that would inevitably collide in the season to come.

2020 would bring them together again. But not as they once were.

Not as friends.

As rivals.

And once the new season came, the world would watch them face each other not as memories, but as fire meeting fire.

Chapter Text

England, December 2019

SNOWFLAKES CLUNG TO THE WINDSHIELD OF AMARA's CAR AS SHE PULLED UP TO THE MERCEDES-AMG PETRONAS FACTORY IN BRACKLEY. When she stepped outside, she pulled her coat tighter as the cold air was stinging her nose. The facility loomed before her, all clean steel and glass, dusted with white. Even after years in Europe, the sight of snow still made her feel like a child again—half awe, half shiver.

The factory roof gleamed faintly white beneath the dusting of snow, the silver Mercedes logo shining above it all like a watchful eye. For a long moment, she stood frozen on the pavement, a camera crew just a step behind her.

This is it. This is real. The start of her life in Formula 1.

A producer's voice cut through her thoughts. "Amara, just walk in naturally, okay? Pretend we're not here."

She gave a short laugh that came out shakier than she intended. "Pretend the cameras aren't here? Easier said than done."

Still, she adjusted her grip on her bag and walked toward the glass doors. Each step echoed with weight, the past year pressing against her ribs—the grief, the fight, the victory. Every sacrifice had led her here.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with quiet professionalism: polished floors, crisp white walls, trophies gleaming in glass cases. Mercedes history surrounded her. She tried not to gawk, but her chest tightened with awe all the same.

"Welcome, Amara!" A woman in a tailored white blazer approached, smiling warmly. "We'll take you straight to the main hall. The team is waiting."

Her stomach flipped. The team. My team.

The main hall opened before her, bright and cavernous. Toto himself was waiting, hands tucked into his pockets, smile sharp but welcoming.

"Amara!" He said, his voice carrying easily. "Welcome to Brackley."

She shook his hand firmly, ignoring the sweat on her palms. "Thank you for having me, Toto. It still doesn't feel real."

"It will," He promised, then gestured to the corridor. "Let's meet the people you'll be spending more time with than your own family."

She followed him down a pristine hallway into a wide room filled with engineers, mechanics, data analysts, and support staff. Conversations hushed as eyes turned to her. For a second her throat locked up, but then Toto nodded toward her as if giving silent permission.

"Everyone, this is Amara Velasquez," He announced. "Formula 2 Champion. Your new Mercedes driver for 2020. She's going to need all of you."

A ripple of applause broke out. Someone whistled, a mechanic grinned wide.

Amara bowed her head slightly. "Hi.. hello, everyone. I, uh... I'm not really great with speeches, but I just want to say thank you. For believing in me. I promise I'll work as hard as I can, every single day. I know I have big shoes to fill, Valtteri's shoes, and I don't take that lightly. So... let's do this together."

There was another wave of clapping, this one warmer. Toto gave her a rare approving smile.

Toto stepped aside, gesturing. "These are the people who will be behind you every step of the way. You've met some already at the races, but this is home. You'll learn quickly that every win, every podium, it begins here."

She nodded, her throat too tight to reply.

One by one, she was introduced. Hands shook, names exchanged. The chief mechanic, Dave, cracked a joke about hoping she wasn't too picky with steering wheel buttons. A data analyst assured her they'd "catch her mistakes before anyone else could".

Her stomach loosened. These weren't untouchable geniuses; they were people who wanted her to succeed.

Later, after the introductions and polite handshakes, she was led to a smaller conference room.

"This will be your personal team," Toto explained, guiding her in. "The people you'll see almost daily."

Around the table sat a handful of faces.

"PR and media," Toto said, indicating two suited figures. "They'll make sure you survive the circus."

The woman introduced herself as Sophie, head of communications, her tone brisk but kind.

"Your life is about to change, Amara. You're not just a driver now, but a public figure." Sophie said crisply, her gaze steady. "You'll be asked questions you don't want to answer. Some will be fair, some will be traps. Our job is to prepare you, but remember—every word you say will be dissected, quoted, tweeted, spun. You'll always be under a sharper lens than your male colleagues. It is unfair, but it's reality. You need to think before you speak. Even a joke can become a headline."

Amara nodded, trying not to squirm. "Right. Less... sarcasm, more.. polished?"

Sophie gave her a thin smile. "Exactly. And remember, you'll be the first female F1 driver in decades. Every camera will want your face, every paper your words. You'll be asked about gender more than you'll be asked about tires."

Amara exhaled, half-exasperated, half-ready. "I'll handle it. Just... make sure I don't say something stupid?"

"That's what we're here for."

Next was her personal trainer, Mark, a broad-shouldered man with the energy of a drill sergeant. He sized her up in one glance and immediately launched into her 2020 program: gym five times a week, neck training, cardio, strict diet adjustments.

"If you thought F2 was hard, forget it," He said. "F1 is brutal. You're fighting G-forces every corner, almost thirty races worth of travel, media stress. I'll push you, and you'll hate me, but it'll keep you alive in that car."

Amara smirked, despite the nerves. "Sounds fun."

"Not fun. Necessary." Mark replied, but his eyes softened at the edge.

Finally, Toto gestured to a man with salt-and-pepper hair and warm eyes. "Riccardo Musconi, your race engineer. He worked with Valtteri for almost a year now."

Riccardo leaned forward, grinning. "Let's hope you don't give me more headaches than he did. Though, knowing young drivers, I'm not optimistic."

Amara laughed despite herself, the knot in her chest loosening a little. "I'll try not to."

Toto took her down to the garage later that afternoon. The hum of machinery vibrated in the walls, and the air smelled of fresh paint and oil.

And there it was.

The W11 sat gleaming under the fluorescent lights, its black-and-silver livery sharp and predatory. Sleek, powerful, intimidating. The car seemed less like a machine and more like a predator.

Toto had saved the most breathtaking moment for last.

Amara stopped dead. Her throat went dry.

That's mine.

Lewis stood beside it, arms folded, watching her reaction. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

"Overwhelming, isn't it?"

She tore her gaze away long enough to nod. "It's... more than I imagined."

"Don't let it scare you." He said gently.

Her eyes returned to the car, drinking in every curve, every angle. "It feels... untouchable. Like if I make one wrong move, I'll break it."

Lewis shook his head, stepping closer. "It's stronger than it looks. Built to take the fight, built to be pushed. The only thing that'll break it is if you hold back."

She glanced at him, startled. "So you're saying it needs me to push it?"

A small grin curved his lips. "Exactly. It wants to be driven on the edge. That's when it comes alive. The car will give you everything—if you have the guts to ask for it."

Toto's voice was steadier. "This is what you've earned, Amara. Treat it with respect, but remember—you belong here."

She stepped closer, hand hovering just above the nose of the car. She didn't touch it, not yet. It felt too sacred.

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TWO DAYS LATER, AMARA SAT IN A DARKLY LIT STUDIO, MIC CLIPPED TO HER COLLAR, FACING WILL BUXTON AND THE NETFLIX CREW.

Will began warmly. "Amara Velasquez. Formula 2 Champion. Mercedes' newest signing. The first woman in Formula 1 in decades. How does it feel to hear all of that in one sentence?"

Amara blinked, smiling faintly. "Surreal. Honestly, it hasn't fully sunk in yet. I still feel like I should be in the Prema garage, joking around with my engineers. But... this is real. And I'm ready."

Will leaned in. "Let's start at the beginning. How did you fall in love with racing?"

She spoke of karting in Manila, of late nights watching races with her mother, of the thrill that never faded. "It wasn't glamorous. It was just me, sweat, and cheap tracks. But I knew that this was my life."

"Who inspired you?"

"My family, first. My mother.. She sacrificed more than I can say. And of course, watching the legends race—Michael, Lewis, Senna. They showed me what was possible."

"Prema has been your team for years," Will said. "You moved up through each category, but you never left them. Why stick with one team all this time?"

"They were family," Amara replied softly. "Every step of the way. They believed in me before anyone else did. Leaving them... it hurt at first. But Mercedes is Mercedes, it's the dream. It's the step Anthoine and I used to talk about all the time."

Will nodded, expression gentling. "Speaking of Anthoine Hubert. He was one of your closest friends. How do you carry him with you into this new chapter?"

Her throat closed for a moment, but she pushed through. "He was... family to me. Every time I get in the car, he's there. Not in a tragic way, more like... a reminder. To love this, to give it everything. Because he would have."

The crew was silent for a beat. Then Will carefully shifted. "You've also been close with Pierre Gasly, George Russell, Lando Norris, Mick Schumacher..."

Amara smiled at the names. "Yes. They're my brothers, in all but blood. They kept me standing when I couldn't on my own. Pierre calls too much, George and Lando tries to give me lectures, Mick tries to drag me to sim sessions. They've kept me sane."

"And Charles Leclerc?"

The question landed like a punch.

Will continued, carefully but directly: "In Austin, the cameras caught what looked like an argument between you two. People have wondered, what happened?"

The air left her lungs.

Her mind scrambled, Austin, the shouting, the break. For a moment, she felt naked under the lights.

But then she straightened, forcing calm into her voice. "Charles and I... we used to be very close. But things change. We had a disagreement, and... we're not friends anymore. That's all there is to it. No drama, no secret. Just life."

Will held her gaze, then nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."

"Alright," He continued, with a faint smile meant to soften the edges. "Let's talk about something lighter. You've chosen your race number 13. That's unusual. Most drivers avoid it. Why did you pick it?"

Amara's lips curved, but it was tinged with something private. "People think it's unlucky. But for me... it's the opposite. Thirteen is the day I was born, and it was the number on my first kart. It reminds me of where I started. And I like the challenge of flipping something negative into my strength. If people think it's cursed, good. I'll prove it's not."

Will chuckled. "So you're owning the so-called bad luck."

"Exactly. If it's on my car, it's mine. I decide what it means."

He nodded, impressed, then leaned in again. "What are your goals for your rookie season? Realistically."

Amara drew a breath, steadying herself. "I'm not here to play tourist. I know people will expect me to struggle. I'm young, I'm a rookie, I'm a woman in a sport that hasn't had one in decades. But I didn't come this far to make up the numbers. I want points. I want podiums. And if the chance comes.. Wins. But most of all, I want to earn respect. From my team, from my competitors. That's the foundation."

Will smiled, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "And what about Lewis Hamilton? You're stepping in as his teammate, replacing Valtteri Bottas. What's it like preparing to go wheel-to-wheel with one of the greatest drivers of all time?"

A flicker of awe crossed her face before she controlled it. "It's... intimidating, if I'm honest. But also a gift. How many people get to learn directly from someone like him? Lewis has already been supportive. He doesn't hand out compliments easily, but when he talks, you listen. I know he'll push me to my limits. That's how I'll grow."

Will tilted his head. "Do you feel pressure carrying that comparison? People will put your name next to his, every single race."

Amara paused. "Of course. The comparison is inevitable. But I'm not here to be 'the next Lewis Hamilton.' I'm here to be the first Amara Velasquez. That's who I owe it to. Myself, my family, everyone who's backed me."

Will let the answer hang for a moment before changing tack. "Speaking of family, you've mentioned your mother often. She was in Abu Dhabi, wasn't she?"

Amara's eyes softened. "Yes. She flew in for the final F2 weekend. She... she's been my anchor. There were times I wanted to quit, when the weight was too much, but she never let me. Seeing her in the stands when I won... I'll never forget that."

"And your father?" Will asked gently.

Her smile faltered, but she kept her voice even. "That's more complicated. He wasn't really in the picture. My mother raised me. That's why I fight so hard—for her. Everything I do, it's ours."

Will nodded, respectful, before moving to another page on his notes. "You've spoken about Anthoine Hubert, your closest friends, your family. But let's touch on something bigger, representation. You're about to become the first woman on the Formula 1 grid in decades. What does that mean to you?"

Amara exhaled slowly, the weight of the question settling. "It's such an honor. But it's also heavy. I know there are girls watching me now, hoping I won't fail. I want them to know I'm human. I'll make mistakes. But I'll also fight, harder than anyone expects. Because I grew up watching a sport where no one looked like me, no one sounded like me. If I can change that, even a little, then it is worth every sleepless night, every scar."

Will smiled softly. "That's very powerful. And if there's one message you'd send to those young girls watching, what would it be?"

She leaned forward, eyes bright, voice steady. "Don't wait for permission. Don't wait for someone to tell you it's possible. Go take it. The world won't hand it to you, but it can't stop you if you refuse to back down."

The room was silent for a beat, the weight of her words hanging between them. Then Will's smile widened. "That's a perfect place to end."

The second the cameras shut off, Amara exhaled shakily, almost sagging in her chair. "We're done?"

"We're done," Will confirmed, unclipping his mic. "Thank you, Amara. That was... incredible."

She smiled faintly, shaking his hand. "Thank you."

He returned it warmly. "You handled that well. Tough questions, but you didn't give them anything to twist."

As she walked out of the studio, the Charles question still echoed in her chest. Saying it aloud, clear and final that they were not friends anymore had felt like sealing a door, one she hadn't realized was still cracked open.

Her PR manager, Sophie, intercepted her in the hallway, offering a small nod. "You did good. But remember, this will happen again. They'll go after your weak spots. Family, friends, anything emotional. You have to be ready. You're not just a racer anymore. You're a public figure."

Amara nodded slowly, letting it sink in. She wasn't just racing anymore. She was carrying an image, a responsibility, a weight that extended far beyond the track.

That evening, long after most had gone home, she wandered the Mercedes factory's silent corridors. Posters and trophies of past victories lined the walls.

Most of the lights were off, corridors humming faintly. She found the design room, where mock-ups of the W11 stood under spotlights.

Her name was printed neatly on one panel. Beside it, the number 13 in silver.

Her chest swelled—and tightened. This is real. No going back.

A voice stirred behind her.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

She turned to see Lewis leaning casually in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

"I wasn't even trying," She admitted. "Just... needed to see it again."

He stepped inside, glancing at the mock-ups. "I heard your interview from earlier. PR team sent me a copy."

Her cheeks warmed. "Oh god. Was it bad?"

Lewis shook his head. "No, no, you answered well. It was... honest. Strong. You didn't give them anything to twist. That's harder than it looks. You did well. Especially the Charles bit. That couldn't have been easy."

She swallowed. "It wasn't."

Lewis studied her for a long moment before speaking again. "You know... your situation with Charles, it reminds me of something. Back in 2016, with Nico. We'd been friends since karting, came up together, teammates who had each other's backs, and by the time we were fighting for a title, everything was... gone. The pressure, the rivalry—it tore that apart. I didn't handle it the right way, not all the time. I let it get personal, let it fester. And once that line's crossed, it's damn near impossible to go back."

Amara listened, her chest tight, because she already knew exactly what he meant.

Lewis' voice softened. "You've got the same storm brewing. The history, the competitiveness, the pride. But you have a chance to do what I couldn't. Handle it better. Maturely. Nicely. You don't have to let the rivalry destroy the friendship underneath."

She exhaled slowly, the weight of his words pressing deep.

Lewis gave a small nod. "Here's the thing, Amara. People will always talk. Friends, rivals, whatever—you can't control it. What you can control is how you carry yourself. And tonight, you carried yourself like a Mercedes driver."

The words settled deep inside her.

For the first time that day, Amara let herself smile.

"Thank you." She whispered.

Lewis smirked faintly, already heading for the door. "Don't thank me yet. Spain's coming. That's where the real work begins."

She turned back to the mock-up, her name gleaming against silver. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass.

2020 was waiting.

Chapter Text

Barcelona, February 2020

HER FIRST REAL DAY AS A FORMULA ONE DRIVER HAD FINALLY ARRIVED AND THE WORLD KNEW IT. The iconic red-and-white curbs of the track peeked through the fences, but she barely caught a glimpse before the swarm arrived.

Flashbulbs burst in her face, journalists shoved their microphones forward, Netflix cameras swiveled toward her like predators catching their first prey.

"There she is, the first female Formula 1 driver in decades!" One voice shouted.

"Amara! Do you really think you can fight at the front?" Another barked, shoving closer.

One tabloid reporter, louder than the rest, yelled, "What about the rumors that Mercedes only signed you for PR?"

The wall of noise pressed in, suffocating. Amara blinked, momentarily frozen under the storm of attention. She wasn't just a driver anymore, she was a headline, a story, a symbol.

A steady presence slid between her and the chaos.

It was Lewis.

"Alright back up, give her some space, yeah?" He said, his tone deceptively calm but laced with authority, that the journalists instinctively recoiled a step.

He stretched an arm out, shielding her from the microphones. Then he glanced sideways at her, lowering his voice so only she could hear, "First test day and already paparazzi. You're breaking records before even touching the car."

Despite her pulse racing, Amara let out a short laugh. "This feels less like F1 and more like a movie premiere."

"Welcome to my world." Lewis's smile was wry, but protective. He adjusted his cap and guided her through the chaos.

Her manager, Mateo, wasn't as patient. He blocked a microphone thrust too close. "That's enough. Give her room."

One tabloid reporter yelled louder: "What do you say to critics who call you a PR stunt?"

Mateo snapped, "I say you should wait for the lap times before you embarrass yourself further."

Amara swallowed hard. This is really my life now.

Inside the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere shifted completely. Engineers moved with quiet precision, tools clinking.

One mechanic grinned when he spotted her. "Don't break our car yet, rookie."

She smirked. "Don't worry, I'll wait until the second lap."

The room broke into laughter. It wasn't much, but it eased the knot in her stomach.

Then her gaze caught something above the garage entry: her name stenciled in clean white letters. VELASQUEZ. Right beside HAMILTON.

She froze. For a second, the world stilled. She discreetly pulled her phone from her pocket, snapping a quick photo before anyone could notice. Proof that this was real.

In the changing room, the nerves returned. She tugged on her race suit, hyper-aware of every zipper pull, every adjustment. Her fingers shook slightly, not from fear but from the weight of history pressing on her shoulders.

The first photoshoot began with Mercedes' team session. Bright lights glared, cameras clicked in a chorus. Lewis stood casually at her side, hands in pockets, as if he'd done this a thousand times—which, of course, he had.

"Relax your shoulders!" Toto called out, orchestrating from the sidelines.

Amara adjusted, but muttered under her breath, "I.. I feel like a freaking mannequin."

Lewis smirked without missing a beat. "You are a mannequin. Just a really fast one."

That cracked a genuine laugh from her, which, of course, the cameras caught.

One by one, the shots rolled out: Lewis and Amara side by side, the pair with Toto, both drivers in front of the new W11. Then, the photographer called for Amara alone.

"Helmet under your arm. That's it. Look right at me."

She lifted her chin, helmet tucked against her side. The weight of the moment sank in. This wasn't just a photo, it was the photo. The first woman in decades, standing in Mercedes black and silver, ready to race alongside Lewis Hamilton.

For a heartbeat, she thought of every girl who had been told F1 wasn't for them. Now here she was.

Somewhere behind the sea of cameras, other drivers and team principals lingered, pretending not to watch. But Amara could feel the eyes: curiosity, skepticism, maybe admiration.

Her gaze swept the edges of the crowd and caught Charles.

He was standing with Ferrari staff, half-hidden, but unmistakable in red. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between awe and (disbelief). Amara's throat tightened, but the photographer shouted another cue, pulling her back.

The historic shot was captured. She exhaled, grounding herself.

An hour later, the entire grid assembled for the official 2020 photoshoot. The atmosphere was more lighter, drivers teasing each other, and Netflix recording every laugh.

"Mara!"

"Velasquez!"

She turned just in time to be engulfed by George, Lando, and Alex. She let out a laugh, squeezed between arms and helmets.

"I thought you'd gone Hollywood on us." Lando teased, poking her arm.

"It's been a month Lando, not a year." She laughed, squeezing George tight.

Alex grinned. "Don't forget us now that you're Lewis' teammate."

"Please. Like I could ever forget you three." She elbowed him lightly. Cameras hovered nearby, drinking in the reunion.

The boys' easy banter wrapped her in familiarity, grounding her again. Then Alex pulled someone forward.

"Amara, meet my teammate, Max."

Max's presence commanded attention without effort, the kind of confidence that came not from arrogance, but certainty. He extended his hand, polite and composed, though his sharp blue eyes carried a glint of mischief.

"Finally," He said, voice smooth and laced with a faint Dutch lilt. "It's about time. I've heard so much about you."

She clasped his hand, surprised by the warmth of his grip. "Likewise. You're impossible not to hear about. Your racecraft is... something else. Fearless overtakes, youngest race winner—" She gave a small shrug, lips curving. "Impossible not to admire."

A slow grin spread across his face, sly and knowing. "Careful, keep talking like that and people will think you're a fan, Amara."

Her composure faltered. She blinked, then laughed, a little flustered at how easily he'd turned the compliment back on her. "Maybe I am. At least when you're not trying to run people off the track, Max."

Max tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, I only do that to people I don't like." His gaze lingered a beat too long, his tone dipped into something playful, magnetic. "Something tells me I won't have to worry with you."

The words sent heat rushing to her cheeks, an involuntary flutter catching her off guard. She hadn't expected him to be charming. Or worse, flirty.

"That remains to be seen,"She managed, forcing herself to match his energy, arching a brow with mock challenge.

Max chuckled softly, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine. "I like your confidence. No wonder everyone's talking about you." He leaned just slightly closer, enough that she caught the faintest trace of cologne, something sharp, clean, like citrus cut with spice.

"You've got presence. Not many rookies have that before they even step in the car."

Her chest tightened in an odd mixture of pride and nerves. She wasn't used to this kind of attention, not from someone like him. "Well," She said, trying to steady herself with a teasing edge, "Guess you'll find out what else I have when the lights go out."

He laughed, shaking his head as though she'd amused him more than he expected. "Looking forward to it."

Their conversation slipped easily into rhythm, Max drawing her in with surprising charm, gentle, respectful, nothing like the cutthroat image the media had painted of him.

He spoke of racing with a kind of passion that felt familiar, almost comforting. And though she told herself it was just friendly, there was a spark to the way he watched her, to the way he seemed to study her reactions like a puzzle he wanted to solve.

At the edge of the track, Charles leaned against the barrier beside Pierre, pretending to scroll his phone. His eyes flicked toward Amara and Max, catching the way she smiled, unguarded, bright, the way Max leaned in just slightly closer than necessary, how her laughter carried across the tarmac.

To anyone else it might've looked like harmless conversation. But to Charles, it was something else entirely.

His eyes flicked to them again and again, the laughter, the subtle touches. His jaw clenched.

Why does this even bother me? He thought bitterly. She's not my concern anymore.

Pierre followed his gaze and nudged him. "Relax calamar, Alex is just introducing his teammate. Don't make it something it's not."

Charles didn't answer. He simply looked away.

The grid photoshoot was chaos: drivers corralled into formation, cameras barking orders, endless flashes.

She obeyed, but each request made her hyper-aware of her singularity. The only woman in the shot. Surrounded by nineteen men. A rookie among veterans. Pride burned through her chest, but so did isolation.

This is bigger than me, she thought. But it's also only me.

She stood tall anyway, letting the weight settle without bowing under it.

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎
FINALLY, IT WAS TIME FOR TESTING.

Sliding into the W11 cockpit, Amara's heart hammered against her ribs. She whispered to herself, "It's still just a car. Just a car."

But it wasn't. Compared to her F2 machine, the W11 felt alive, sleeker, hungrier. The wheel in her hands was heavier with expectation.

"Alright, Amara," Riccardo's voice crackled in her earpiece, calm but charged. "Out lap when you're ready."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see it. Fingers tightened on the wheel. She pressed the throttle.

The roar of the Mercedes engine vibrated through her bones.

Out on track, nerves melted into muscle memory. Every corner tested her, but the aggression that had carried her through F2 rose sharp and fearless. Her lines grew cleaner with each lap, her sector times narrowing closer to Lewis'. On one run, she even clocked the fastest Sector 3 of the day.

In the garage, engineers exchanged impressed glances.

"She's pushing already."

"Her cornering is actually aggressive, Verstappen-level aggressive."

Arms folded, Toto watched, lips twitching toward a smile he didn't allow.

In the media pen, whispers spread. "She might actually be the real deal."

When Amara finally pulled back into the garage, sweat plastered her hair under the helmet, her face flushed but glowing. She yanked the visor up, chest heaving.

Lewis leaned in, smirk tugging at his lips. "Not bad for a rookie."

She laughed breathlessly. "I'll take that as high praise, Lewis."

Toto stepped forward, voice quieter, deliberate. "You've just made a lot of people very nervous."

Her smile spread, equal parts nerves and fire.

"Good."

That night, Mercedes hosted a team dinner. The atmosphere was lighter, celebratory. But Amara's phone buzzed nonstop, articles flooding in, headlines spinning from Barcelona testing.

Mercedes Prodigy?

PR Stunt?

The Rookie Who Might Rewrite History.

Her Netflix interview with Will Buxton had dropped as well. Clips were everywhere, her words dissected online.

Scrolling through, she found both venom and support.

"Women do not belong in Formula 1."

"She doesn't even deserve to be a Formula 1 driver."

"She'll definitely crash by Australia."

"She's only there because she's marketable."

She swallowed hard. Then another comment caught her eye, buried in the thread:

She's not here for show. Watch her drive from previous categories. She belongs more than half of this grid.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud. But it was steady, certain. Different from all the noise.

Amara stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering. She didn't know why, but it stood out. The cruel words faded, replaced by that one line.

For the first time all day, the knot in her chest eased.

She let the screen go dark.

Tomorrow, she would drive again.

Chapter Text

Melbourne, March 2020

AMARA ADJUSTED THE ZIPPER OF HER MERCEDES JACKET, THE BLACK-AND-SILVER FABRIC A LITTLE TOO WARM UNDER THE EARLY AUTUMN SUN. The paddock was alive with voices, cameras, and that particular electricity of a season opener, anticipation wound tight enough to snap.

Only this time, there was a shadow over it all.

She and Lewis walked side by side through the paddock, Cameras and journalists trailing them, capturing every step. She could feel the lens pressing at her back like a constant reminder: you're no longer just Amara Velasquez. You're Mercedes' rookie. You're history.

But history suddenly seemed fragile.

"Feels wrong, doesn't it?" Lewis' voice was low, pitched for her ears only.

She glanced at him. "What... The cameras?"

He shook his head. "No.. No. Us being here. Look around, half the world's shutting down. NBA's suspended, football leagues cancelled. The WHO just called it a pandemic yesterday. And yet, here we are... pretending like we're immune."

Amara bit her lip. Weeks ago, the pandemic had seemed distant, headlines scrolling across her phone while she focused on winter training. But then borders closed. Flights were cancelled. Her mother had called her three times in one day, her voice tight with worry.

And now? She stood on the brink of her debut, and all she could think about was whether shaking someone's hand could ruin everything.

"I keep thinking about the fans honestly," She admitted. "Tens of thousands of people in one place. If even one person is sick..."

Lewis gave a humorless chuckle. "Exactly. I've said it before, but I'll say it again. Money talks louder than safety in this business. If you asked me? I'd rather this weekend didn't happen. Even if it's your debut, M."

Her chest tightened. It was her debut. The moment she'd dreamed of since she was a kid on a cracked karting track in Manila. She wanted it so badly it ached. But she wanted to live to race, too.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, L. Me too."

A boom mic dipped toward them. A cameraman leaned in, hoping to catch the hushed exchange. Lewis shot the lens a sharp look, and the mic retreated.

"First day and already paparazzi again," Lewis whispered, rolling his eyes. She laughed softly, though it was humorless, the tension still there between them.

A few hours later, she found herself under blinding white lights in the press room. A long table, five microphones, placards with their names. The panel: Sebastian Vettel, Daniel Ricciardo, Lewis Hamilton, Nicholas Latifi, and Amara Velasquez.

The seats were filled with journalists, voices overlapping in a restless hum. She sat between Nicholas and Lewis, her heart hammering harder than it ever had in a car.

The moderator tapped his mic. "Alright, let's begin."

First question went to Sebastian. A reporter in the front row asked, "How safe do you feel racing this weekend, given what's happening worldwide?"

Seb folded his hands. His tone was calm, but there was steel underneath. "Not very safe, to be honest. We've seen other sports take this seriously, postponing, cancelling. We shouldn't be blind to what's happening around us. Health has to come first, not racing."

The room was filled with mumbling.

Daniel leaned toward his mic with his trademark grin, trying to diffuse the heaviness. "Well, if we do end up quarantined, at least I'm stuck at home." He shrugged, and a ripple of laughter moved through the journalists. But the joke didn't land all the way, the unease still hung thick.

Then came the question that would make headlines.

"Lewis, do you feel the decision to go ahead with the race is the right one?"

Lewis leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice was clipped, sharp. "I am very, very surprised we're all here. It seems like the rest of the world is reacting, and Formula 1 continues... like nothing's happening. Cash is king."

The words dropped like a stone. The room buzzed instantly, journalists scribbling furiously, cameras flashing. Amara's eyes widened. She knew Lewis was outspoken, but the bluntness left her breathless. Brave. Honest.

She caught his eye briefly, and he gave her a small shrug, as if to say: It needed to be said.

The focus shifted to Nicholas. "Nicholas, this is your first race weekend as a full-time driver. What's it like to debut under these circumstances?"

Nicholas adjusted his mic, his calm Canadian tone steady. "It's definitely not the debut I imagined. But right now, all I can do is stay focused. If the race goes ahead, I'll give it my all. If it doesn't, then so be it. Safety comes first."

Then the inevitable: "Amara, you're not only a rookie, but you're also the first woman in decades to line up on the grid. How do you balance that historic weight with what's happening globally?"

Her throat tightened. Cameras zeroed in on her, the lens practically breathing down her neck.

"I..." She steadied herself. "Honestly, it's overwhelming. I've dreamt of this moment my entire life. But it's hard to celebrate when the world feels like it's shutting down. Of course I want to race, I want to prove myself. But more than anything, I want us all to be safe. That has to come first."

The room went quiet for a beat, her words hanging there. Then the hands shot up again, questions flying faster than the moderator could sort them.

A journalist at the back called, "Amara, do you worry the circumstances of your debut will overshadow your racing? That history might remember the pandemic before it remembers your first start?"

Her lips parted, a flash of panic catching her. She forced herself to breathe before answering. "If that's the case, then so be it. I don't get to control the headlines, only how I show up when I'm finally in the car. History... it'll have to wait."

A few chuckles rippled in the crowd at her honesty. Nicholas shot her a sideways smile, like he approved.

Another hand shot up. "Lewis, does your stance mean you'd refuse to race?"

Lewis tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "It means I value lives over points. That's all I'll say for now."

Daniel leaned into his mic again. "You're all making me sound like the guy who doesn't care," He teased, earning a wave of laughter. "For the record, I care! I just... cope with bad news with bad jokes."

Seb smirked at him. "We've noticed."

The room lightened for a moment, though tension lingered beneath it.

Finally, one more question came Amara's way: "Do you feel extra pressure being in the same team as Lewis, especially with everything else happening?"

Her pulse jumped. She glanced briefly at Lewis, who arched a brow like he dared her to answer carefully.

"Yes," She said simply, and the room chuckled. Then she added, "But pressure isn't always bad. If you want to race at this level, you can't run from it. Sharing a garage with one of the greatest of all time.. yeah, it's intimidating. But it's also.. the best education I could ever ask for."

Lewis let out a soft laugh and shook his head, amusement flickering across his features. "She's learning," He whispered, enough to be picked up by the microphones.

The moderator finally raised his hand. "That'll be all for today. Thank you, drivers."

The panel began to shuffle their notes, water bottles half-empty, microphones pushed aside. Journalists still called after them, but the session was over.

Amara exhaled as she rose, her hands trembling slightly under the table. Nicholas gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. Daniel winked. Seb offered a quick nod of approval.

And Lewis, Lewis leaned just close enough to whisper, "You took that nicely."

Her chest loosened. For a moment, the storm outside the room couldn't touch her.

Back in the paddock, she longed for a quiet corner, just a moment to breathe. Instead, her steps faltered. Ahead, near the AlphaTauri garage, Pierre stood talking animatedly, beside him, unmistakable even from a distance, was Charles.

For a second, she couldn't move. His profile was a blade of memory, familiar lines, the tilt of his jaw, the posture that once meant comfort. Only now, it was rigid, closed off.

Pierre spotted her first. His face lit up, but the brightness didn't reach Charles. His eyes flicked to her, cool and fleeting, before he muttered something under his breath. Without pause, he turned on his heel and walked away, shoulders taut.

"Amara!" Pierre called warmly, striding over to pull her into a quick hug, grounding her.

She kept her gaze on him, not on the retreating figure. The tightness in her chest stayed, but Pierre, bless him, didn't so much as glance after Charles. He launched straight into chatter, deliberately easy, as though the other man had never been there at all.

And Amara was grateful. He understood, without words, that Charles was a wound best left untouched.

"You made it," Pierre said, grin spreading wide as he pulled back from the hug. "How does it feel? First weekend, all the cameras, Mercedes kit... C'est surréaliste de te voir ici." It's surreal seeing you here.

Her lips quirked despite the heaviness in her chest. "Surreal is one word for it. Terrifying is another. It feels like every step I take, someone's shoving a microphone in my face."

Pierre chuckled. "Welcome to Formula 1. They smell fear. Just don't let them see it."

"Easy for you to say," She teased lightly. "You've had years of practice."

Pierre raised a brow, switching to their familiar tongue. "Peut-être... mais même moi, j'ai encore le trac." Maybe... but even I still get stage fright

Amara snorted, the sound breaking through the weight in her chest. "Tu caches bien ton jeu, alors." You hide it well, then.

He winked. "Toujours." Always.

"Maybe," Pierre conceded with a shrug in English again, "But I still get nervous. Difference is, I'm not the headline anymore. You are." His tone softened, more sincere. "And you're doing fine. Better than fine. You handled yourself up there."

Amara let out a quiet breath. "Thanks. It helps hearing that. Feels like... everyone's waiting for me to slip."

"They always will," Pierre said firmly, no hesitation in his voice. "Doesn't mean you owe them anything. You race, you prove yourself on track, that's all that matters."

She smiled faintly. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple," Pierre grinned. "Complicated, exhausting, frustrating, unfair, but simple at the core. You and the car. C'est tout." That's it.

The words settled something in her chest. He always had a way of grounding her, of peeling back the chaos to something she could hold onto.

"I missed this," Amara admitted, her voice softer now. "Missed... talking to you like this. Normal. Not cameras, not questions. Just, this."

Pierre's grin softened into something gentler. "Then we'll make sure you still have this. Cameras or not." He tilted his head toward the garage bustle. "And hey, you've got a whole season ahead. More coffee breaks with me, more bad jokes from George, more unsolicited life advice from Alex. You're not alone here."

Amara's throat tightened, but in the best way. "Merci, Pierre... vraiment. I needed to hear that." Thank you, Pierre... truly.

Pierre bumped his shoulder against hers. "De rien. Good. Because I meant it." It's nothing.

For the first time since she'd spotted Charles, the knot in her chest loosened. She let herself laugh, just a little, clinging to the comfort Pierre offered without question.

Hours later, the paddock was in chaos. Whispers darted down the corridors, engineers clutching their phones, PR reps with pale faces. McLaren had withdrawn, one team member tested positive. Rumors swirled faster than truth could catch up.

Amara sat in the Mercedes hospitality lounge, untouched water bottle in her hands. Her leg bounced uncontrollably. Around her, voices overlapped, half the team insisting the race would go on, half certain it was doomed.

Then Toto walked in. His face was composed, but his eyes told the truth.

He gathered them close. "The FIA and organizers have decided. The Australian Grand Prix is cancelled."

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Her first race. Gone.

Around her, comments erupted, some frustrated, some relieved. Amara couldn't move. She just stared down at the water bottle in her hands, the condensation slipping through her fingers.

She escaped before anyone could stop her, weaving through corridors until she reached the garage.

The W11 sat silent in the half-light, sleek and perfect, waiting for a race that wouldn't come. Her chest ached just looking at it.

She sank onto a nearby stool, pressing her forehead into her hands. The world had waited decades for this moment, for her moment, and now it was stolen by something invisible, untouchable.

Footsteps echoed.

"You hiding from everyone?"

She looked up. Lewis leaned against the wall, arms folded. His eyes softened when he saw her expression.

"I just needed to be here," She admitted, voice cracking. "With the car. To... remind myself it's real. That I still got this far."

He nodded slowly, stepping closer. "I know it hurts M. Trust me, I've had races cancelled before, but never like this. And your debut? That stings even more."

Her throat closed. "What if this was my only chance? What if—"

"Stop." His voice was firm, but not unkind. "One cancelled race doesn't define you, Amara. You don't get to this level by accident. Your time will come. And when it does, you'll be ready. Don't let this make you doubt that."

She blinked back tears. His conviction steadied her in a way nothing else could.

"Thanks L." She whispered.

He offered a small smile. "Besides, maybe it's the universe's way of saying, breathe. The storm is coming, but not today."

Two days later, she and Lewis boarded a near-empty flight back to Monaco. The airport felt like a ghost town, terminals deserted, silence echoing louder than the engines.

She slid into her seat by the window, the mask over her face hot against her skin. Her reflection stared back in the oval glass, eyes tired, hope bruised.

This was supposed to be the beginning. Instead, it was limbo.

As the plane rumbled down the runway, she pressed her forehead to the glass and whispered to herself, "My time will come."

And she believed it.

Chapter Text

Monte Carlo, March 2020

THE SILENCE WAS THE LOUDEST THING SHE HAD EVER HEARD.

Monte Carlo, usually a blur of engines, tourists, and the endless clink of champagne glasses, stood still. The harbor was stripped bare of sound, yachts idling like sleeping giants. Storefronts shuttered, cafés locked, restaurant chairs stacked like skeletons behind glass. The usual perfume of the city, money and movement, had thinned into something eerie, hollow.

From her balcony, Amara watched the streets. No footsteps. No voices. No engines. Just emptiness.

Her apartment was all she had now and she forced herself into routine:

Amara shoved the couch against the wall until the legs scraped on marble. She unrolled her yoga mat with a loud snap, dropping two dumbbells beside it.

Music thumped through the speakers, Dua Lipa this time, pulsing enough to make the glass of water on the counter ripple. She lifted the weights, arms trembling by the fifteenth rep.

"I got new rules, I count 'em," She sang along under her breath, voice breaking between gritted teeth. Sweat rolled down her temple. "Just keep going."

By the time the song ended, her lungs burned. She let the dumbbells clatter to the floor and collapsed onto the mat, hair sticking damply to her forehead.

"Round one: Amara, zero," She whispered, staring at the ceiling with a crooked smile.

Later, she tried her hand at cooking. Rice bubbled on the stove, and she flipped a piece of fish in the pan. The oil hissed, smoke curling faster than it should. The fire alarm shrieked a second later.

She coughed, frantically fanning the smoke with a dish towel. "Oh my god, Chef Velasquez, disaster edition!"

The fish was half-burned, the rice overcooked. She plated it anyway, muttering, "Five-star dining, right here. Gordon Ramsay would weep."

Silence answered her. It always did.

Some mornings, she felt relief. No cameras. No microphones shoved in her face. No more endless "first woman in decades" soundbite. For the first time in years, the pressure paused.

But more often, frustration clawed at her. All those years of climbing, clawing for a seat, and now the debut itself, stolen. Headlines already shifted: rookie debut delayed, Velasquez sidelined before lights out. She worried about fading before she even began.

Mercedes tried to keep her anchored.

Toto's voice filled her laptop once a week. "Amara, listen to me, this doesn't erase what you've achieved. The car will be ready. You will be ready. Do not waste energy fearing irrelevance."

She nodded, swallowing hard, even though his square on the screen couldn't catch the doubt in her eyes.

Lewis checked in too, but in his own way. Face popping up unexpectedly on video calls, hair tied back, expression both amused and brotherly.

"So, have you actually eaten a vegetable this week? Don't think lockdown means chips and Coke."

"Lewis, I had broccoli yesterday."

"Yesterday doesn't count, M. That's not a lifestyle. That's survival."

She rolled her eyes, grinning. "You calling me unhealthy while you're sipping some green sludge on camera?"

"It's kale juice, thank you very much. Cleanses the soul."

"Looks like it murdered the soul."

His laughter filled the silence better than her playlists ever could.

Still, when the calls ended, the quiet returned. Heavy. Suffocating.

And then there was Charles.

He lived one street over. That fact used to comfort her. Now, it was a weight.

Since Austin, since that fight that had split them apart entirely, they hadn't spoken. Not one word.

Sometimes, faint piano music drifted across the night air into her open window, fingers brushing keys she used to lean against, listening. Sometimes, she saw him from her balcony, waving down at masked fans who still gathered below his building. Once, his profile turned her way, sunlight on his cheek. Her chest stuttered. She stepped back before he could see.

She told herself she didn't care. But he was everywhere, on Twitch streams she stumbled across, in clips of his laugh scrolling through her feed, and she couldn't decide which was worse, hearing him, or pretending not to. In every reminder that they once shared a closeness now shattered.

He was near, yet impossibly far.

Weeks passed like this. Then, one night, something shifted.

It started with Lando.

She found his Twitch stream while scrolling mindlessly at 1 a.m., volume low. His room glowed neon blue, headset crooked, grin wide.

"GEORGE, YOU FRAUD! Don't crash into me, mate!"

The chat scrolled like wildfire, spamming emojis, memes, and inside jokes. Amara laughed for the first time that day, muttering, "Idiot," under her breath. But she kept watching.

For a few nights, she lurked anonymously, username hidden, letting his chaotic energy fill the silence.

Then her phone buzzed.

Incoming call: Lando Norris.

She froze. Answering meant noise, attention, eyes. Ignoring meant loneliness.

She swiped. "Hello?"

"Oi, Velasquez!" Lando's voice was grinning, even through the phone. "Stop ghosting. Join us on stream. Don't act like I don't see your username lurking in chat."

Her stomach dropped. "You... saw that?"

"Yes! You're terrible at hiding. Now get your headset. People will lose their minds."

"Lando, I'm not—"

"Don't care. I've decided. You're content now."

And just like that, she was dragged in.

Her camera clicked on. The little square of her face filled the stream.

The chat exploded instantly.

WAIT?? IS THAT—??
AMARA VELASQUEZ???
FIRST FEMALE F1 DRIVER STREAMING LEGEND!!!
MERCEDES QUEEN 👑 LET'S GO!!!

Amara laughed nervously, hand over her mouth. "Oh no. What did you do, Lando?"

"I made the stream legendary, that's what," He said smugly. "Welcome to chaos."

Within minutes, George had joined, voice dripping with mock-seriousness.

"Careful, Amara, don't let Lando carry you. His ego's already out of control."

"Hey!" Lando shouted.

Then Alex's voice chimed in, dry as dust, "She'll find out soon enough. Honestly, she'll probably carry you all."

The laughter came easier this time. She leaned back in her chair, cheeks aching. For the first time in weeks, she felt like herself again.

A few nights later, a new voice slipped into the call.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. A new username popped up.

Verstappen33 has joined.

Her heart gave a jolt.

She hadn't seen Max since Barcelona, when Alex had casually introduced them in the paddock during testing. Their conversation had been brief, nothing more. She hadn't expected to see him here, slipping so seamlessly into the banter.

She blinked. "Max?"

"Evening," He greeted, voice low, casual, like it wasn't a surprise at all.

"You.. what are you doing here?" She asked, half-laughing.

"I play games, believe it or not." He deadpanned.

The chat went wild.

MAX + AMARA?? HISTORY IN THE MAKING
MERCEDES VS RED BULL LET'S GOOO
OMG MAX + AMARA IN SAME STREAM??
RIVALS?? COLLAB??
THIS IS HISTORY!!!

Amara rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling. "I just didn't think you... played with these clowns."

"Clowns?" Lando protested. "Excuse me?"

"Clowns is accurate," Max deadpanned, making Alex snort.

His humor caught her off guard, dry, understated, perfectly timed. And before long, she was laughing harder than she expected, caught off guard by the way he slipped sarcastic one-liners into the chaos.

"Don't laugh at him," Lando whined. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"She's on the winning side," Max shot back.

Amara leaned closer to the mic, grinning. "We'll see about that."

They played for hours. Races blurred, jokes layered, the chat a storm of chaos. Every sarcastic jab from Max pulled another laugh out of her, unexpected but easy.

When they finally logged off, Amara sat in the glow of her screen, smiling faintly at the quiet.

It wasn't the same silence anymore.

It was warmer.

Like maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.

And somewhere deep down, it reminded her of late nights long ago, when she and Charles used to race sims together until the sun rose.

But she pushed the thought away before it could hurt.

Chapter Text

Monte Carlo, April 2020

EACH DAY BLENDED INTO THE NEXT. The streets of Monaco were silent, only the occasional motorbike cutting through the stillness. Amara's world shrank to her apartment: the view of the harbor, her weights lined against the wall, the hum of her laptop.

When night came, the silence broke.

Lando's voice boomed through her headset.

"NOOO! are you serious?! Who spun me?"

George deadpanned without missing a beat. "You spun yourself, mate. Don't embarrass us."

Alex's laugh crackled in the background, muffled by static.

Amara was clutching her sides. "You literally turned in on your own shadow."

Chat spammed across her second screen:

QUEEN AMARA

CARRYING THE GRID

PROTECT THIS WOMAN FROM LANDOOOO

Max's calm voice slid in. "You lot couldn't win against a lobby of grandmas."

That finished her off. Amara choked on laughter, wiping at her eyes. The tension of the day slipped out of her shoulders, piece by piece, until she was just another voice in the chaos.

Later, after the others signed off one by one, the chat fell silent. The screen felt almost too still without Lando's constant shrieks or George's sarcastic commentary. Amara stretched her arms over her head, ready to log off too, until she noticed one username still lit green.

Max.

"Still here?" She asked, clicking her mic back on.

"Yeah," His voice came through low, casual. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd hang around more."

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Or maybe you were waiting for me to leave first."

A pause, then a chuckle, quick and quiet. "Maybe." He hesitated, then added, "Want to play something else? Just us?"

Her curiosity spiked. "What'd you have in mind?"

"CS:GO." There was a beat, as though he wasn't sure how she'd take it. "Been a while since I played properly. You?"

Amara grinned despite herself. "Not well. But I can try not to embarrass myself."

"Good," Max replied dryly. "I'll carry."

The game loaded, the screen shifting into harsh maps and rapid gunfire. Amara fumbled immediately, her crosshair skittering wildly. She got headshotted within the first twenty seconds.

"Nice strategy," Max's voice teased, light with amusement. "Dying instantly. Keeps them guessing."

"Oh shut up," She said, chuckling to herself. "It was a tactical sacrifice."

"Tactical comedy," He corrected, his laughter genuine this time.

The match rolled on. She threw a smoke grenade the wrong way, completely blinding herself.

"Oh my god—" She coughed, half-choking on her own laughter.

"Professional," Max deadpanned. "Mercedes must be so so proud."

"Don't tell Toto," She warned, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt.

But in between respawns and loading screens, their words shifted.

"They always said I was reckless," Max said quietly after one round, his tone different now. "Aggressive, dangerous. Even when I cleaned up, drove smarter, it didn't matter. They'd already decided who I was."

With her mouse still, Amara hesitated. The vulnerability in his tone caught her off guard. "Same. Except I don't get called reckless. I get called a PR stunt. 'Token woman'. A marketing move. Like I'm not even here to race—just to smile for their cameras."

There was a hum in her ear, thoughtful, not dismissive. "People are predictable."

She snorted softly. "Annoying, you mean?"

"Both," Max agreed, and she could hear the faint smile in his voice.

The match started again, but the edge was gone. Their banter returned, easier now, the kind that smoothed over the heavier truths.

When she rushed down a corridor too fast and got picked off instantly, Max laughed. "Impatient. Thought you'd be better at waiting."

"Waiting's so overrated," Amara shot back. "Besides, you followed me, Max."

"Because I thought you had a plan, Amara!"

"I did," She said, grinning. "Dying was the plan. Distraction technique."

He chuckled again, that low, warm sound that slipped past her defenses far too easily.

They played round after round. Sometimes in silence, sometimes trading sharp jokes, sometimes falling into conversations that felt too honest for two people hiding behind screens.

At one point, Amara leaned back in her chair, staring at the faint glow of Monaco's skyline outside her window. Max's laughter still hum faintly in her headset, and for the briefest second, it transported her back.

A different night. A different voice. Charles, years ago, trying to teach her how to shoot straight in the same game. His accent thickening with frustration when she sprayed bullets at the floor instead of her target.

"You're so hopeless, Amie." He'd teased, the words softened by laughter.

And she had laughed with him, cheeks aching, until their throats were hoarse and dawn bled through the blinds.

The memory hit like a sucker punch.

She blinked hard, dragging herself back to the present, back to Max saying, "Feels weird, doesn't it? No racing. No tracks. Just... this."

"Yeah," Amara said quietly. "Weird."

"Everything's stopped," Max went on. "But at least we've got this. Something."

Something. The word stuck with her.

When he finally said, "Alright. Night, Amara," There was no drag in it, no drawn-out goodbye. Just a simple, steady closing.

But when the lobby disappeared and her screen dimmed, it didn't feel like the end. It felt like something had been threaded between them, thin, quiet, unspoken.

And the rhythm of it was familiar. Too familiar.

A memory pulled at her:

2016, a rainy night in a tiny hotel room somewhere between junior races. She and Charles hunched over his beat-up laptop, the Wi-Fi barely holding as they loaded into CS:GO. The mattress springs creaked under their weight as they sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing a single headset, arguing over who got to use the mouse.

"Don't peek! Don't.. Amara, what are you doing?" Charles half-yelled, laughter breaking his voice when she charged down a corridor and immediately got shot.

She shoved his shoulder. "It's called strategy."

"It's called stupidity," He shot back, grinning wide, his accent thicker in frustration.

But when she actually managed to clutch a round, he'd whooped so loud the neighbor banged on the wall. "Velasquez wins! Unbelievable!"

They'd laughed until the screen faded, until their sides ached, until she forgot the pressure of the next race.

The echo hurt now.

THEN NEWS BROKE SOME DAY LATER: Formula 1 Virtual Grand Prix Series Announced.

Mercedes called her the next morning. Toto's face filled her laptop screen.

"It's good for visibility," He said. "Important that you're there."

"I don't know if I'm ready," She admitted.

"You are. Every lap is a chance to show them you belong, even virtually."

Later, Lewis rang.

"Don't stress it. Just have fun. Oh, and eat your greens. I'm watching you, M."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dad."

"Excuse me?" His laugh rumbled through the line. "Big brother at best."

The night of the first Virtual GP, her hands trembled over the keyboard.

"Relax," Lando grinned through her headset. "If I can do it, anyone can."

"Well that's not reassuring," George groaned.

Amara's mic crackled. "If I bin it turn one, I'm blaming you, Norris."

The chat exploded the second her camera went live:

MERCEDES ROOKIE OMG

HISTORY MAKING AGAIN!!

SHE'S GONNA DESTROY LANDO

On track, nerves gave way to instinct. She lunged at corners, elbows out, no hesitation. The commentators shouted when she overtook Lando with a daring dive.

"Velasquez showing some aggression!"

Lando's voice was pure outrage. "WHAT WAS THAT?"

"That," She said calmly, "was me being in your way."

Fans clipped it instantly. By morning, her name trended with highlights of the move.

Netflix had also checked in with her days later. A producer asked, "How do you deal with trolls?"

She shrugged on camera, scrolling through hate tweets: PR stunt, waste of a seat, won't last a season.

"By not reading too many." She said flatly, closing the tab.

They also filmed her mentions flooded with support: #VelasquezOnTop, fans making memes, edits of her overtake.

Although the contrast was striking, she chose not to focus on it. She returned to her streams and training.

Max never showed up in the official Virtual GPs. When fans asked, he just shrugged it off.

"Not my thing." He said simply, leaving it at that.

But on Discord, he was always there. Not in front of thousands of viewers, just in the quiet corners of private calls. Sometimes Alex would drop in for a few rounds, but mostly it was the two of them, hopping from game to game like kids sneaking past curfew.

"You're brake-checking me!" She accused one night after he forced her wide in F1 2019.

"It's called defending, rookie."

"That's not what they call it on Sky Sports."

He snorted through his mic. "You watch too much TV."

"Better than watching you crash."

"Touché, princess."

She froze for half a second, then rolled her eyes. "Don't call me that."

"Too late. Fits you." His grin was audible.

On another night, they ditched racing entirely. Valorant this time. Amara fumbled the keys, cursing under her breath as she accidentally flashed her own team.

"Velasquez, remind me never to let you cover me again," Max groaned.

She laughed, wheezing into her mic. "Okay, okay, but I'm still top frag—"

A sniper shot dropped her instantly.

"Correction," Max said, smug, "You were top frag."

She groaned, but her smile didn't fade. "Hate you."

"Sure you do, princess."

Then came Roblox, of all things. Alex had joined them that night, dragging them into an obstacle course map.

"I swear this is harder than quali laps," Amara muttered after her blocky avatar fell into lava for the fourth time.

Alex cackled through his mic. "Imagine telling Toto you rage-quit Roblox."

"Don't you dare," She warned.

Even Max's low chuckle slipped out. "Don't worry, princess, I'll clip it."

"Say that again and I'm logging off."

He didn't. But she could tell he was smiling.

And then, like an unspoken agreement, they moved on to Minecraft. What began as Max absentmindedly punching trees turned into a shared world. Amara built a crooked little house on a cliffside, proud despite its lopsided roof.

"Looks like it'll collapse in a week," Max teased.

"Jealous because it has more style than your dirt hut, hothead." She shot back.

"Sure, princess. Whatever helps you sleep."

George and Lando wandered in their server one night, immediately causing chaos, setting off TNT and filling Max's hut with chickens.

"This is why we can't have nice things," Amara groaned, chasing Lando's pixelated avatar with a sword.

"You love it," Lando shouted, cackling.

But when the noise faded and the others logged off, she always found herself back in that quiet world with Max. Just the two of them, building, talking, sometimes sitting in silence as their characters stared at the blocky sunset.

Her laughter, unguarded, spilled into the dark of her apartment, filling the hollow spaces quarantine had carved out. And every so often, he'd let the nickname slip again, soft as if testing how far he could push.

"Goodnight, princess."

She never corrected him.

For a while, it felt easy, just games, late-night calls, and the quiet comfort of someone on the other side of the screen.

Until about a week later.

She logged again into the Virtual GP lobby, headset snug over her ears, and froze. Her eyes snagged on one name in the list: CL16.

Her throat went dry.

George whistled into the mic. "Ah, the Ferrari prince has arrived."

"Prince of what?" Lando teased. "Drama? Monaco balconies?"

Amara's hand tightened around the wheel. She didn't bite. Didn't even glance at the chat scrolling with fire. Silence was her only answer, but the pit in her stomach pulled heavier.

Then came the voice. Calm, even. Detached.

"Hey."

That was all.

Her pulse stuttered. His French accent was the same as it had always been, polished, smooth. Only this time there was no warmth under it.

"Evening, Charles," George replied cheerily, as though the weight pressing down on the call wasn't there.

Amara still didn't say a word.

Nobody asked why. Nobody needed to. Their friends had long learned the unspoken rule: don't mention Charles when with her, don't mention her when with him. Pretend the silence wasn't jagged.

The lobby ticked down to the grid. Amara's Mercedes slotted on the third row. Beside her, the red Ferrari gleamed with his number.

The live chat exploded instantly:

CHARLES VS AMARA??

EX-FRIENDS ON TRACK??

THE DRAMAA.

Commentators leaned straight into it, voices bright with mischief. George tried to laugh it off: "Careful, everyone, this is about to look like Drive to Survive in real time."

Lando joined in, too loud. "Just don't crash into each other, yeah? Headlines write themselves."

Amara kept her eyes forward. No reply. Not from her. Not from him.

The lights blinked red. Once, twice, three times.

Out.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, shutting out everything except the track. The rush in her ears wasn't the crowd, it was her pulse, hammering faster with every corner he filled her mirrors.

Every overtake, every defense, every shadow of red in her periphery carried weight she refused to name. When she fought him through Turn 1, when she tucked into his slipstream, she felt it all, but she didn't give it voice.

Not once. Not even a mutter.

By the final laps, she forced her breathing into rhythm, treating him like anyone else. The silence stayed between them, heavier than any banter could've been.

Checkered flag. Session done.

She left first, quick and clean. No waiting for results. No post-race chatter. Just exit. Window gone.

Her screen faded to black, leaving a ghostly glow across her desk like an afterimage she couldn't shake.

Outside, Monaco's streets lay quiet. Inside, the past pressed close enough she swore she could feel it breathing.

Chapter Text

Monte Carlo, May 2020

THE CALENDAR FLIPPED INTO MAY, BUT NOTHING CHANGED. The same white walls, the same quiet streets outside her window, the same cycle of training, streaming, eating, sleeping. Days stacked one on top of the other until she lost track of what day of the week it was.

Morning began with messages from Mercedes. Fitness schedules, diet reminders, simulator assignments. She followed them religiously—weights shoved against her living room wall, sim rig set up where her dining table should have been—but once she closed her laptop, the silence pressed in.

Sometimes she scrolled through social media just to fill the time. It was a gamble every time: glowing praise, venomous hate, endless debates. She skimmed most of it until one anonymous comment stopped her thumb.

She's proving herself every day. Just wait until she gets a real track.

It wasn't the loudest voice, but it lingered. A stranger who didn't know her had managed to cut through the noise better than anyone in her own orbit.

Max filled more of that orbit than she'd expected.

At first, it was little things, links, clips, inside jokes. A Dutch rap song captioned "you'll hate this". A video of some sim driver binning it at Eau Rouge with "better than you at Monaco". A meme about supermarket bread shortages.

The small interruptions carved space in the quiet. Before long, their Discord calls became routine. They'd hop into a lobby together, sometimes joined by Alex or George, but usually it was just them.

"You're actually running softs again?" Amara said one night, narrowing her eyes at her screen.

"You wouldn't understand strategy if Toto tattooed it on your forehead," Max shot back.

Her laughter burst out so suddenly her headset slipped sideways. "Oh my god, you sound like a budget engineer."

"Budget? Please. I'd out-think your entire strategy team before breakfast."

"Sure," She said, wheezing between laughs. "If the strategy was crash and complain."

"Low blow, princess."

"Accurate blow."

"Keep talking," He warned, tone shifting into mock-threat. "I'll build a wall in Minecraft with your name on it."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me. I'll trap you with lava and everything."

Her grin widened despite herself. "Then I'll just blow it up with TNT."

"Not if I ban you from the server first."

She gasped, feigning outrage. "That's abuse of power."

"Life isn't fair," Max said smugly, and she could practically hear his smirk through the mic.

It was easy, the way their banter slid from sharp to ridiculous. Sometimes they'd argue about virtual pit stops like it was a world championship, other times they'd end up trading music recommendations or clips of stupid cats.

And without meaning to, the laughter pulled her backward.

A memory rose up uninvited.

Summer 2017. She and Charles wedged in the back of a van after karting, helmets rolling on the floor. They were still arguing about gearing ratios, voices loud enough that Anthoine threatened to kick them both out onto the roadside.

"You're impossible," Charles had said, trying not to smile.

"You're wrong." She'd shot back, not trying at all.

They had laughed so hard Anthoine launched a water bottle at their heads.

The van had been cramped and sticky, but the moment had felt boundless. She'd carried that rhythm with her for years.

Now, hearing her own laughter in her empty apartment with Max on the other side of the call, the echo was unmistakable, and it hurt.

The Virtual GPs twisted the knife further.

Mercedes wanted her visible, so every weekend she logged in, headset snug, and scanned the list of drivers. She didn't even need to look hard anymore. CL16 always sat somewhere near the top.

Charles never ignored the group, he was polite, professional, his Hey crisp as ever. But it never touched her. She made sure hers never touched him either.

The fans noticed immediately.

CHARLES VS AMARA ROUND 2??

They don't even LOOK at each other on streams lol.

They really hate each other that much??

Austin 2019 beef lives rent-free.

I miss their friendship so much

THEY'RE LITERALLY GIVING DIVORCE PARENT ENERGY RN??!!

Charles be blinking twice if he wants to reconcile.

The lore is literally better than the racing

NO WAY MERCEDES AND FERRARI ARE LETTING THIS STORYLINE GO TO WASTE

Clips circulated within hours, slowed down and replayed until even a simple side-by-side corner entry looked like a grudge match. YouTube compilations stacked up: Amara vs Charles: Quarantine Edition. Edits on TikTok layered dramatic music over their on-track battles. Memes flooded Twitter, some vicious, some just plain ridiculous.

Commentators had also leaned into it, hyping every wheel-to-wheel scrap. And every scrap was a fight. Neither gave more than they had to. Neither yielded. Neither spoke after.

When the chequered flag fell, she logged out before the outro screens even finished, headset ripped away, chest tight. The silence after those lobbies was louder than the streams themselves.

Max never joined the official virtual races.

"Not my thing," He said once, when she asked why. His tone was simple, final, like there was no need to explain.

But he was always around otherwise. On Lando's chaotic streams, in George's driest commentary sessions, even occasionally in Alex's late-night messes. And somehow, always ending up in the same Discord call as her.

It didn't take long for people to notice that either.

Headlines started trickling out:

Velasquez and Verstappen bonding online?

Cold War with Leclerc reignites in esports arena.

Mercedes rookie spending quarantine with rival star.

Mercedes PR tightened their leash. Be careful what you say. Don't fuel speculation.

She closed the email one afternoon and buried her face in her hands, resisting the urge to throw her laptop off the balcony.

That night, she didn't bother dropping a message in the group chat. Didn't even hover over George's or Lando's icons. She went straight to Max.

He picked up before the first ring had fully echoed.

"You hiding from the world too?" His voice was low, rough with fatigue but amused all the same.

"Something like that," She muttered, curling her knees to her chest on the desk chair. "Mercedes PR think I'm in a soap opera."

Max's laugh crackled through her headphones, the sound warm and mocking at once. "Well, you kind of are, princess."

Her groan was sharp. "Not funny." She tipped her head back, staring at the faint cracks in her ceiling. "Apparently every time I so much as breathe on Discord, it's a headline."

"Well," Max said, his grin audible even without video, "you don't laugh that often."

She sat up just to glare at the screen, even though his camera wasn't on. "Asshole."

He chuckled, unbothered. "You can call me that, but I'm still right."

"You're insufferable."

"I'm Dutch," He replied flatly, as if that explained everything.

She laughed despite herself, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.

"There it is," Max said softly, catching it. "Told you—it's rare. That's why they notice."

She rolled her eyes, but her chest tightened at the truth in his tone. The way people latched onto every little thing she did. A laugh, a frown, a moment of silence, spun into stories she never meant to tell.

"It's exhausting," She admitted. "Like I'm not even allowed to exist without it being some kind of... narrative."

"They'll always write one," Max said, quieter now. "Didn't matter what I did, they already decided. Angry kid. Reckless. Dangerous. I could win, lose, crash, save someone, it didn't matter."

Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Yeah. Feels like they're just waiting to turn something into a headline. And..." She hesitated, words dragging out of her like they'd been waiting for months, "Austin wasn't a headline. It was—"

The rest snagged in her chest, unspoken.

And suddenly she was back there. Austin. October 2019. The garage doors slamming shut. Raised voices sharp enough to cut through steel. Charles's face, pale with fury, eyes she couldn't meet anymore. The break she hadn't thought possible until it split wide open right in front of her. The words that still echoed, sharp enough to burn.

Max didn't push. He never did. He let the silence stretch, let her choose if she wanted to fill it or not.

Her nails dug into the fabric of her sweatpants. Finally, she exhaled. "Point is, I'm not their headline."

"You're not, princess." His agreement came so easily, like it wasn't even up for debate. A beat passed, and then his voice tilted lighter, teasing again. "Though you are terrible at Valorant."

Her groan was loud enough he laughed again. "You really had to ruin the moment, didn't you?"

"That's what I'm here for."

"I wasn't that bad," She defended.

"You shot me, Amara. Twice. And we were on the same team."

"That was an accident."

"Sure." He laughed. "What about when you fell off the map?"

"That—" She flailed, heat rushing to her cheeks though he couldn't see it, "—was lag."

"Lag?" He repeated, unconvinced. "Right. Right. So was the part where you tried to knife Lando and missed completely?"

She groaned louder. "Okay, you're officially the worst."

"You love it."

"Do not."

"Do too."

Her silence stretched, and she could almost hear his grin through the line. He was impossible. Impossible and infuriating.

And then, quiet, almost like he wasn't sure if she'd allow it, "Good night, princess."

The nickname slipped out again, casual, unforced. Princess. Like it belonged there. Like he knew she wouldn't stop him.

And she didn't. Not this time. Not at all.

Chapter Text

Monte Carlo, May 2020

WITHOUT A FINISH LINE IN SIGHT, THE QUARANTINE CONTINUED AS THE DAYS FADED INTO ONE ANOTHER. For Amara, routine included the small comfort of voices crackling in her headphones, her sim equipment shining at odd hours, and Discord pings interrupting the silence.

Max had also become part of that rhythm. He never pushed too far, never demanded more than she offered, but somehow always ended up there, sharing a lobby, trading sarcasm, sending her memes at two in the morning.

It wasn't just him. Sometimes Alex dropped in, sometimes George or Lando too, the conversations spilling between games like overfilled glasses. They bickered in Valorant, trolled each other in Minecraft, and once spent a full hour in Roblox building an obstacle course none of them could finish.

Every so often, Pierre or Mick would call her directly, not to join the chaos, but just to check in. Pierre's calls always came with the background noise of frying pans or clinking glasses, like he couldn't sit still without cooking something.

"You're eating, right?" He'd ask, voice warm with concern. "Not just coffee and adrenaline?"

"Rice, Pierre. Relax," She'd tease. "I know how to use a stove."

"Barely," He'd reply, but the smile in his tone always softened the jab.

Mick was different, quieter but steady, slipping into her evenings with soft reassurances. "Don't let the trolls get to you, Amara. You're doing fine. Better than fine."

The conversations never lasted long, but they grounded her in ways she hadn't realized she needed. With them, she didn't feel like the only rookie balancing on a tightrope.

But the silence around one subject hung over everything.

It cracked one night when George slipped.

"You're driving like Charles," He said after she overshot a corner, his voice casual, unthinking.

The channel went dead quiet.

Amara's hands froze on her wheel. She forced a laugh, brittle at the edges. "Better than driving like you, Russell."

Alex snorted. "True, he bins it more than you do."

"Oi, excuse me," George protested. "At least I don't rage-quit like Lando."

"Oi, what?!" Lando's voice shot back. "That was one time—"

"Three times," Alex corrected.

"Four," Max added dryly.

"Alright, shut up, all of you," Lando groaned, but the others laughed.

Amara tried to join in, but the sound caught in her throat. Her smile slipped the second her mic went silent, fingers tightening on the wheel. Too sharp, too fast, her reaction had given her away.

Max didn't mention it. Not then. But later, in a private call, he did.

"So," He drawled, voice low in her headphones, "What's the deal with you and Charles?"

Her stomach twisted. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting, I'm just asking," He said, teasing but with an edge that told her he was half-serious. "Every time his name comes up, you sound like you want to throw your headset at the wall."

"Because I do," She snapped before she could stop herself. The bite in her voice startled even her. Silence lingered on the line.

Max hummed. "Touchy subject, huh?"

"Max.... Drop it."

"Fine," He said, but the word carried weight, not dismissal. "Just curious. You know, since Russell nearly swallowed his mic when he said it."

She exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "George doesn't think before he talks."

"True," Max said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "But you.. you flinched. Like something hit you."

"Drop it," She repeated, firmer this time.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of his mic. Then, softer, "You know I don't care what happened, right?"

Her chest tightened. "...You should."

"Why? It's none of my business. If you don't want to talk about it, I won't push." His tone gentled, steady in a way that made her throat ache. "But if you do? I'm here. No judgment. Just me."

She stared at the dark screen in front of her, headset pressing into her ears. She wanted to shut him out, bury it all over again.

Amara leaned back in her chair, eyes tracing the ceiling. The words clawed their way out, one by one, because maybe saying them out loud would stop them from eating her alive.

"I met him in 2014. Formula Renault 2.0 Alps. We crashed at Imola, a stupid rookie mistake. Anthoine introduced us after, thought we'd get along even after that crash. And we did. That's how I met Charles. He was... different. Sharp, but kind."

She gave a hollow laugh. "We clicked too easily. Best friends for years. Almost like he was the other half of my grid."

Max didn't interrupt, just a soft hum to show he was listening.

She swallowed. "We had years like that. In 2017, he came with me to the Philippines. Met my family, spent Christmas there. TThen we went to Palawan a day after Christmas, it was the best week of my life. We swam until we were sunburnt, ate too much food. He promised me that when I debuted in Formula 2, he'd be there. Said he'd cheer me on no matter what."

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.

"But when April 2018 came? He wasn't there. He never showed up. Not the feature, not even the sprint. Not even a text. I looked for him, and he wasn't there."

Max's voice was low. "Ouch."

"I was furious. Upset. Hurt. We stopped talking and I blocked him in everything, and by the time Anthoine..." Her throat closed around the name. The image of his smile, his laugh, the way he'd bridged them so easily when she and Charles clashed.

"By the time we lost Anthoine.. It was too late to fix anything. I hugged Charles that day because I knew Anthoine would have wanted us that, for us to be finally okay."

"But grief..." She shook her head, even if Max couldn't see it. "It hit me hard. I pushed everyone away, I stopped eating a lot, I also lost focus. By the time Austin came around last year, Charles had had enough. He cornered me in the paddock. And it... it was bad. Said things we can't take back. That was it. End of us. We haven't spoken to each other since."

The silence this time was careful. Not awkward, not heavy. Just steady, like Max was giving her space to breathe.

Then he said, simply, "Sounds like he broke your trust. Twice."

She let out a sharp laugh, half an exhale. "I broke his too. Don't make me sound like the victim."

"I'm not." He paused. "I'm saying, you don't need to carry all of it. If he let you down, that's on him."

Amara blinked hard, staring at her hands. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because it is," Max said bluntly. "He's not here. I am. And I'm not planning on disappearing mid-race."

Her lips curved despite herself. "Cocky much?"

"Confident," He corrected, smug. "Besides, you need someone to keep you from turning into a full hermit. I'm doing community service."

She laughed, quiet but real this time. "You're so insufferable sometimes."

"Goodnight, princess."

She didn't correct him again. "Goodnight, hothead."

Elsewhere, the same story twisted in a different voice.

Charles sat hunched over his rig in his Monaco apartment, headphones looped around his neck. The glow of the monitor painted his face pale, the flicker of a loading screen reflected in his tired eyes. Pierre's laughter echoed faintly through Discord, followed by the soft shuffle of cards on his end of the call.

"Mate, you're distracted," Pierre said after Charles misclicked for the third time.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. You're driving like..." Pierre cut himself short, exchanging a glance with the webcam as if someone else might be listening. Then he smirked anyway. "You're driving like you used to when—well. You know."

Charles's jaw tightened. "Don't."

Pierre raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. "Sensitive topic, I see."

"Pierre." The warning in his voice was sharp enough to cut.

"Relax," Pierre said, hands lifted in mock surrender. "I'm just saying she's still around. She's not going anywhere, mate. Everyone notices."

"There is nothing to notice." His voice was clipped, final. He went back to clicking through menus with unnecessary force.

Pierre wasn't convinced. "That's not what the whole world thinks. Every race, they're dissecting you two. Feels like everyone can see it except you."

Charles exhaled slowly, frustration lining every breath. "She made her choice."

"And you made yours," Pierre countered. "Doesn't mean it's done."

"Pierre—" Charles rubbed at his temple. His voice was low now, tired. "You don't understand. I can't fix something she doesn't want fixed."

"Or maybe she's just waiting for you to try."

The words landed heavy between them. Charles's fingers hovered over his keyboard, frozen. For a moment, he almost said something. Almost. But the silence stretched on instead.

Finally, Charles muttered, "It's easier this way."

Pierre leaned forward, his tone softer now. "Easier doesn't mean better, calamar."

Charles shut down the topic, as always. But when the call finally ended, the glow of his monitor only made the empty apartment feel darker.

By June, the world shifted.

"F1 confirms it, Austria, July 5th." George's voice carried the news into their Discord call, the sound of typing in the background as if he'd pulled the headline straight off Twitter.

For a moment, the channel was quiet, like they all needed a second to believe it.

"No way," Lando gasped. Then came the whoop, so loud Amara had to rip her headset halfway off. "Finally! I thought I'd die on Twitch!"

"Speak for yourself," Alex groaned. "I was thriving. Chat loves me. Now I'll probably be back to last place."

"You were last in Minecraft too," Max deadpanned.

"Harsh," Alex said, laughing. "At least I have charisma."

"Tell that to your qualifying laps," George quipped.

"Oi!"

The boys' laughter overlapped, easy and familiar. Amara stayed quiet, her grip tight around her mouse. Relief and dread tangled so tightly in her chest she could hardly separate them.

Max's voice cut through, calm as always. "You'll be fine, princess. Just drive."

The silence after that was sharp.

Lando gasped, then dragged it out, theatrical. "Princess?! Wait, wait, back up. Did he just—"

"Ohhh, Verstappen, you simp," George piled on immediately. "Caught in 4K."

"Shut it," Max blurted out, but his smirk was audible.

"Mate, you've got to clip that," Alex cackled. "Media and fans will go crazy. Maxy calls Amara his princess live on call."

Amara groaned, cheeks burning even though no one could see her. "All of you shut up."

"Ohhh, she didn't deny it," Lando sing-songed.

"Lando, I swear I'll block you."

"You've tried before. Didn't work," He shot back smugly.

The boys erupted again, laughter bouncing through her headphones, loud and obnoxious and safe.

Amara let the sound wash over her, her smile lingering even when her mic was off.

Later, when the laughter was gone and her apartment was silent again, she stood in front of the display where her Mercedes suit and helmet gleamed under the light.

Untouched.

Waiting.

Her reflection stared back at her from the visor.

"Finally." She whispered.

But the question pressed heavier than the relief.

Am I ready?

Chapter Text

July 2020

WITH A HALF-FOLDED HANGING OVER THE EDGE AS IF UNSURE OF ITS PLACE, AMARA GAZED AT THE OPEN SUITCASE ON HER BED. Packing used to be routine, jerseys, trainers, team gear, her notebook of scribbles. But now every item she placed inside felt heavier than it should, as though each hoodie and set of overalls was another reminder that this wasn't just a video call, wasn't just a simulator lobby with her friends.

This was it.

Her first real race week in months.

Austria.

She zipped the bag halfway, sat on the edge of the bed, and let herself breathe. For months, she had been nothing more than a username in Discord calls, a blurry face on late-night video games with Max, George, Alex, and Lando. They had filled the silence of lockdown with Valorant chaos, Roblox meme-building, and a Minecraft world so chaotic it had a rollercoaster looping through George's blocky recreation of the Williams garage.

But now, reality was calling. And reality meant walking into the paddock, masked and tested, facing rivals again. Facing him.

Nice Airport was nearly unrecognizable. Where chaos usually reigned, tourists crowding duty-free shops, paparazzi lurking, fans clutching notebooks for autographs, there was only silence. The terminal echoed with footsteps and the occasional announcement. Everyone moved like ghosts in masks, eyes darting but never lingering.

Amara adjusted her Mercedes-issued mask, gripping her boarding pass tighter than necessary. Her stomach knotted, the nerves colliding with the strangeness of it all.

"Velasquez!" A familiar voice called from behind.

She turned to find George, mask tugged under his chin as he walked over with that easy grin. "Thought you'd bail last second. Afraid to get back in a real car?"

Amara rolled her eyes. "Please. I've carried your sorry ass in every sim race for the last three months. You should be scared."

George laughed, falling into step beside her. "Carried me? You do realize I literally lapped you on Spa, right?"

"Because you sent me into the wall on lap one!"

"Details, details," George said breezily.

They reached check-in, where Alex was already waiting, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was scrolling through his phone, mask neatly in place, posture relaxed. When he looked up, his eyes softened immediately.

"Morning," Alex greeted, eyes soft with the kind of calmness Amara envied. He held up a pack of sour gummies. "For the nerves. You look like you might hurl."

"I don't get nervous," Amara lied, snatching the pack and tearing it open.

"Sure you don't." Another voice cut in, low and amused.

It was Max.

He approached with that lazy stride of his, mask covering most of his face but not the sharp glint in his eyes. For a beat, Amara just stared. Three months of nothing but Discord pings and static-filled laughter, and here he was, real, solid, close enough to bump into her if she wasn't careful.

"Window seat, of course," Max said, glancing at her boarding pass and arching a brow. "Princess treatment."

Amara narrowed her eyes. "It's called strategy. I don't have to get up every time you need to pee."

George barked a laugh, nearly doubling over. "God, I missed this already."

"Strategy?" Max repeated, ignoring George. "I seem to remember you rage-quitting Minecraft when your little 'strategy' of building a house on sand didn't work out."

Amara gasped. "That creeper was not my fault!"

"Mm-hm." His tone was dry, but his eyes softened just a fraction, and she caught it.

Alex chuckled, adjusting his backpack. "So this is what I get to listen to for the next two hours on the flight?"

"Yep," George said cheerfully. "Better than silence."

"Barely," Max answered.

Amara jabbed him lightly in the arm. "Admit it. You missed me."

Max tilted his head, like he was considering it. Then: "Missed carrying you in every game, maybe."

She shoved him harder this time, but the spark in her chest betrayed her annoyance. It wasn't anger, it was relief. After months of distance, of screens and tinny microphones, it felt good to bicker again. To hear his voice without static, to see him roll his eyes in real time.

George was still chuckling as they walked toward security. "You know, I half expected you two to be awkward, after all those hours stuck in voice calls. But nope. Straight back to murder attempts."

"Awkward?" Amara scoffed. "With him? Please."

Max raised a brow, lips tugging under his mask. "With me?"

"Yeah," She shot back. "You're incapable of awkward. Just permanently annoying."

George and Alex exchanged a look, both smirking as if they'd just tuned into a show they'd seen a dozen times before.

"Glad to see lockdown didn't soften you, Amara," Alex said lightly, eyes flicking between her and Max.

"It did the opposite," Max muttered. "Now she thinks she's good at video games."

"I was good before," Amara snapped. "I carried you through Valorant—"

"You flashed your own team twice!"

"Okay, once. And it worked—"

"It did not work."

Their voices bounced back and forth, too quick for the others to wedge themselves in. By the time they reached security, George was shaking his head. "I'm telling you Alex, we need to record this. Sell it as a podcast. Free content."

"Who'd even listen?" Amara scoffed.

"Everyone," George replied instantly. "Trust me. Internet loves chaos."

The sterile quiet of the airport took over as they shuffled through security, bags thudding on belts, masks briefly tugged down for ID checks. Overhead announcements crackled, reminding them all how strange it felt to be traveling again.

George filled the silence with chatter, retelling the story of how his internet had crashed mid-race and cost him a podium in a Virtual GP. Alex listened with his usual patient smile, throwing in the occasional jab. Max, however, seemed more occupied with side-eying Amara's overstuffed carry-on.

"You planning to move to Austria permanently?" He asked, nodding at her bag.

"It's called being prepared," Amara shot back. "Not all of us can survive on black hoodies and sarcasm, hothead."

"Black hoodies are versatile," Max countered, deadpan. "And sarcasm works everywhere."

"Not on me."

George groaned. "I swear, you two are like an old married couple already."

"Divorced." Amara corrected quickly.

"Definitely divorced," Max agreed, smirking at her reaction.

Onboard, the flight attendants ushered them down the quiet aisle of the charter. Amara dropped into the window seat, tugging at her mask, grateful for the barrier that hid the restless press of her mouth. Max slid into the seat beside her, George and Alex claiming the row behind.

"You really do always grab the window," Max observed, buckling his seatbelt.

"Like I said, strategy," Amara replied, shoving her bag under the seat. "I like seeing where I'm going."

Max leaned back, stretching his legs. "You know it's all clouds for the first hour, right?"

She side-eyed him. "Better than staring at you."

"Liar," He said easily, and she stiffened before rolling her eyes.

Before she could fire back, Max nodded toward the bag of gummies poking out of her carry-on. "Sharing is caring."

"You don't even like sour."

"I like free."

She sighed and dropped one into his palm. He popped it into his mouth with a smug grin, like he'd just won something.

Amara chuckled, tugging her mask down now that they were settled. She noticed Max hadn't put his headphones in yet either. Instead, he angled slightly toward her, his arm brushing the shared armrest, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew she wouldn't shove him off.

"So," He said, voice pitched lower than when the others were listening, "What's the plan for Austria? Spin out of Turn One for dramatic effect?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Very very funny."

"Or maybe you'll rage-quit like in Valorant?"

"Keep talking, Verstappen. I'll dump the rest of these gummies out the window."

He smirked, leaning just slightly closer. "You wouldn't. You like having me annoyed too much."

Her pulse kicked, but she rolled her eyes to cover it. "You're not that entertaining."

"Liar." His tone was light, teasing, but there was something underneath it, something she couldn't quite name.

She shifted, crossing her arms. "You're lucky we're in public."

"Public?" He glanced around the half-empty charter, brows lifting. "Pretty sure George is asleep already, and Alex... well, he's Alex."

As if on cue, George snored softly, head tilted against the window, while Alex scrolled calmly through his phone, entirely unbothered.

"See?" Max said. "Basically private."

She glared, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. "You're so insufferable."

"And you keep sitting next to me," He shot back easily.

"You didn't give me much of a choice," She said.

Max tilted his head, studying her for a moment longer than necessary. "No," He said finally, his voice soft enough she almost missed it. "Guess I didn't."

Amara turned back toward the window, tracing the curve of the clouds with her eyes. "You should try being less smug for once. Might be good for your reputation."

He gave a short laugh. "And deprive you of the entertainment? Not a chance."

"Who says I'm entertained?"

Max leaned his elbow against the shared armrest, voice dropping again. "Your smile gave you away."

She snapped her head toward him, cheeks warming. "I wasn't smiling."

"You were," He corrected, eyes crinkling at the corners, "and I made it happen. That's one point to me."

She shoved his arm lightly. "You're impossible."

"Yet here we are," Max replied smoothly. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Maybe Austria will finally prove who's better behind the wheel."

"Oh you're on," She shot back instantly, the spark in her voice betraying how much she wanted the challenge.

Max's lips curved into a slow grin. "Good. Just don't cry when I win, princess."

She groaned, tugging her mask back up just to hide the smile threatening to break through.

The moment they landed in Vienna, the protocols hit harder. Swabs down throats and noses, clipboards, escorts in visors and gloves. They were loaded onto buses in silence, each seat marked for distance. The usually rowdy banter after landing was muted. Even George seemed subdued, staring out the window at the rolling Austrian hills.

When they reached Spielberg, the hotels felt hollow, no noisy lobbies, no fans pressing for autographs, just sanitizing stations and the occasional muffled laugh from behind masks.

The paddock the next morning was stranger still. No crowds at the barriers. No camera flashes. Just the hum of generators, the squeak of cleaning crews, the distant rumble of engines being tested. Drivers bumped elbows instead of hugging. Conversations felt stilted, voices muffled by fabric.

Amara's chest tightened as she stepped into Mercedes hospitality. The last time she'd been here was Melbourne, where the season had shattered before it even began.

"M!" Lewis greeted her warmly, pulling his mask down just enough to flash a smile. "First weekend nerves?"

Amara exhaled slowly, trying not to let it show. "Maybe a little, L."

He chuckled. "Good. Means you care. Just remember, it's still the same track, the same car, the same you. Nothing's changed except the silence in the stands."

She nodded, grateful for the calm he always carried.

Then Toto appeared, his voice carrying that precise weight that made her stand straighter without thinking. "Welcome back! Focus will be key this weekend. Eyes on performance, nothing else. Media will push. Ignore it. Deliver on track, and everything else follows."

Grounding and intimidating all at once. Classic Toto.

With their words still lingering in her mind, Amara left the garage and made her way toward her next obligation. The world outside hummed with the muted rhythm of a race weekend under restrictions, masks, clipped voices, fewer bodies moving through the paddock.

It was outside FIA testing that it happened. She was heading in, mask tugged under her chin, paperwork clutched in her hand. And there he was, Charles Leclerc, walking out of the opposite door, Ferrari red stark against the sterile white of the building.

For a second, neither moved.

His eyes found hers, unreadable. Not angry, not soft. Just... searching.

Amara's chest squeezed. Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to break the silence.

But Charles just dipped his chin in the faintest nod, then walked past, the distance between them stretching like a chasm.

The silence left behind was louder than any argument they could have had.

Amara carried it with her, tucked somewhere between her ribs, and when she climbed into the car for practice that afternoon it still hadn't loosened its grip.

FP1 was a mess. She overdrove, braking late into Turn 3, clipping curbs like she could force the car into submission. The radio was a string of frustrated breaths.

"Breathe, Amara, Breathe." Her engineer reminded her gently.

"Copy," She replied, though her grip on the wheel only tightened.

FP2 steadied. She began listening, adjusting. Each lap smoothed, the edges less jagged. Lewis's words echoed, same track, same car, same you.

By FP3, she strung together a lap that placed her mid-pack. Not spectacular, but progress. Enough that when she climbed out of the car, Toto gave her the smallest of nods. She'd take it.

The tension in her chest loosened, just slightly, as she pulled off her gloves and unzipped her suit. The paddock noise felt less suffocating now, almost normal again, voices, footsteps, the smell of fuel and rubber clinging to the air.

George leaned against the barrier, smirking. "So you can finish a lap without spinning. Impressive."

"Keep talking," Amara shot back, "I'll lap you on Sunday."

"Promises, promises," George shot back. "I'll wave when I pass you."

Alex offered her a water bottle. "Ignore him. You're settling in. Just block out the noise."

She accepted it with a grateful nod.""Thanks. Didn't realize how much I missed hearing you be the sensible one."

Alex shrugged. "Someone has to be."

Max, ever blunt, added, "You're losing time into Turn 1. Brake earlier. You'll gain it back on exit." His delivery was sharp, but his eyes carried the same grounding familiarity from lockdown nights.

"Noted," Amara said dryly. "Always a critic."

"Always right," Max countered without missing a beat, lips twitching as though he knew exactly how to push her buttons.

Before she could fire back, Lando strolled over with a grin. "Honestly, I missed this. Watching everyone bin it in real life instead of Minecraft."

George groaned. "Don't bring up Minecraft. I still have nightmares about that rollercoaster."

"You built half of it.." Amara pointed out.

"Exactly," George said. "Nightmares."

An hour later, the laughter had faded into the background hum of the paddock. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and rubber, cameras already trained on her as she stepped into the media pen.

The circle tightened, reporters leaning forward like vultures sensing weakness. She adjusted her mask, hands steady even if her stomach wasn't.

The question came, sharp and expected.

"Amara, you and Charles Leclerc had some history last year. How will that affect things on track this season?"

Her smile was thin, practiced. "I'm here to race. That's all that matters."

A second reporter jumped in immediately. "So no tension? No bad blood carried over from Austin?"

Her jaw tightened before she forced her voice calm. "I'm focused on my debut. That's all you'll get from me."

"Are you saying you and Charles aren't on speaking terms?"

Amara's eyes flicked across the sea of cameras, her patience fraying. "I'm saying I am a racing driver, not a tabloid headline." She left it there, stepping back before Toto's voice could echo in her head about being too sharp.

Later, Charles stood in the same pen. He wore his mask perfectly, voice steady, but she could see the flicker in his eyes on the monitors.

"We are professionals," He said evenly. "The focus is on Ferrari and the season ahead."

"Any comment on Amara Velasquez?" Another journalist pressed.

His pause was half a second too long. "No," He said simply. Then he added, "She's a competitor like anyone else. That's all."

But the restraint only fueled the headlines. The tension wasn't hidden, it was written between the lines, louder than anything either of them had said.

Back in the garage, Amara dropped her phone face-down on the counter. Max was leaning in the doorway, mask pulled under his chin.

"Handled it well," He said, tone dry but eyes sharper.

She gave him a look. "That was a circus."

"Welcome back to Formula 1," He shrugged, before a smirk tugged at his mouth. "Don't worry, princess. Let them talk. You'll do the answering on track."

Chapter Text

Spielberg, July 2020

AMARA LAY AWAKE LONG BEFORE HER ALARM, STARING AT THE CEILING. Her body felt wired, restless, too heavy and too light all at once. She tried breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit lined neatly on the plate—but her fork just scraped the food, appetite lost to the knot in her stomach.

She pushed the plate away.

A voice cut in, calm and warm. "Not that hungry, huh?"

Lewis leaned against the table, hands in the pockets of his team hoodie. His presence was strangely grounding, like gravity itself had walked into the room.

Amara tried for a smile. "Guess I'm saving weight for the car."

Lewis chuckled softly and sat opposite her. "You know... nerves are normal. First race, front row, your body's just catching up to what your mind already knows." He tilted his head, eyes steady on her. "It's not weakness. It's proof you care."

Amara's throat tightened. "You ever... feel like you'll mess it up before it even starts?"

"All the time, M. All the time." He said simply. "Every driver has. Even me. Especially me. But you trust yourself, trust the car. One corner at a time."

She nodded, breathing a little easier.

Later, in the paddock, Toto intercepted her outside the garage, mask covering half his face but his eyes sharp as ever. He rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Amara. Control what you can. The rest will come." His tone was steel wrapped in reassurance, leaving no room for doubt.

She carried those words like armor as the grid built around her.

Engines then roared in the distance, mechanics swarmed around cars, headsets crackled with final checks. Amara stood by the Mercedes W11, helmet in hand, her fireproofs clinging tight against the summer heat.

The Austrian anthem played, and she finally felt the weight settle on her chest: first woman in decades, first Filipino on the grid. Cameras flashed, flags rippled in the breeze. History was pressing down, but so was possibility.

She strapped in, visor down. Heart hammering.

A flash of red caught her eye. Charles, three rows back, adjusting his gloves. Their gazes collided across the grid, tense, unreadable. Neither spoke. Both looked away.

The memory slammed into her with the roar of the engines warming up.

Q3. Spielberg had glowed golden in the evening sun.

Lewis got pole, effortless.

Then Amara, crossing the line with a lap she didn't know she had in her. P2.

The Mercedes garage erupted. Claps on her back, shouts through headsets. Riccardo, her engineer's voice was hoarse with pride: "P2, Amara! P2 on debut!"

George had been the first to find her afterward, grinning like an idiot. "Look at you, already making the rest of us look bad. Not fair."

Alex slipped her a bottle of water, voice gentler. "Breathe. Enjoy it. Don't think too far ahead."

And Max, leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, smirk sharp. "Don't get used to it, princess. Tomorrow, I'll put you in your place."

She'd rolled her eyes, but her chest had burned with something she refused to name.

Headlines had flooded overnight:

VELASQUEZ ON THE FRONT ROW, HISTORY MADE.

UNREAL DEBUT: ROOKIE LINES UP BESIDE HAMILTON.

Now, race day.

The lights blinked above her.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

The world held its breath.

Green.

Her launch was clean, tires gripping perfectly. She slotted behind Lewis into Turn 1, holding P2. Her adrenaline spiked so sharp it was dizzying. This is real. This is happening.

Max lunged behind her, Lando right on his tail. The first laps were chaos, cars weaving, brakes screaming, engines deafening.

"Good job, Amara," Riccardo's voice came steady in her ear. "Keep it clean. Focus on exits."

She did more than that. She defended against Max with elbows out, slammed the door on Lando's move into Turn 3, even pulled a daring pass on George a few laps later.

Commentators screamed through the feed: "Velasquez showing no fear on her debut! Look at that move! Unbelievable!"

Her blood sang with every lap.

Mid-race. Lap 32.

Red car in her mirrors.

Charles.

Her grip tightened.

"Car behind is Leclerc, push now, defend if you can," Riccardo warned.

"I see him," Amara bit out.

He closed the gap like it was nothing. He dove close at Turn 4, nose nearly kissing her gearbox. She didn't yield. Side by side, sparks flying. Neither gave an inch, trading lines like it was war.

"There's history here, you can feel it!" The commentators erupted. "Leclerc and Velasquez, no love lost, listen to the way they're fighting!"

On her radio, Riccardo's tone sharpened. "Watch him at Turn 3, he's desperate."

"I'm not letting him through," Amara shot back.

Charles edged alongside on the straight, DRS wide open. She covered the inside. Into Turn 3, their wheels nearly touched. Her jaw clenched.

"Give me space!" she shouted instinctively, as if he could hear her.

But Charles wasn't backing off either. His radio crackled to Ferrari: "She's moving too late—" cut off as he wrestled the wheel.

Every corner felt personal. Every braking zone was a flash of memory clawing back, the promise he'd broken, the hug in Spa, the screaming fight in Austin.

Lap 38. Still locked together.

"Bloody hell, they're going to kill each other," One commentator said over the live feed.

Then all of a sudden in Lap 43, Charles lunged too late into Turn 3.

Metal kissed metal.

Her car jolted sideways, tires screeching. The Mercedes fishtailed violently, then spun. Barriers blurred. The impact rattled her bones, her arm scraping against the cockpit as the car slammed to a stop.

Silence.

Her head lolled back, vision tunneling, sound cutting to a muffled hum. For a few endless seconds, she couldn't move, couldn't even think, just static in her ears and the acrid taste of adrenaline in her throat.

"Amara! status? Amara?" Riccardo's voice crackled through the radio, sharp with panic.

No answer.

"Amara! Give me something." Riccardo tried again, voice louder, cracking on the last word.

Amara blinked hard, lungs burning until the first ragged inhale tore out of her. Air rushed back. Pain followed.

Then a faint rustle over comms. A cough.

Her voice, raw and broken, pushed through the radio. "I'm..." She choked, coughed hard, swallowing the metallic tang of fear before forcing the words out again. "I'm fine.. Car's.. not."

Her suit sleeve was torn, skin on her forearm scraped raw and stinging. Pain burned, but all she felt was rage.

Red flag. Race paused.

Her debut was over.

History, ruined.

She ripped her belts off, shoved the steering wheel aside, and climbed out. Helmet fogging with her furious breaths.

Across the gravel, Charles was already running. He pulled his helmet off, eyes wide with worry. "Amara! Are you hurt? Show.. Show me your arm—"

She yanked her helmet free and shoved his hand away. "Don't you dare touch me!"

"Amara—"

"You ruined my race, Charles!" Her voice cracked through the roar of silence. "My debut race!"

The cameras zoomed in. Huge screens replayed every second.

Charles raised his hands, desperate. "It was a mistake—"

"Bullshit! Don't you dare call it that!" She spat, voice raw. "You always call it a mistake when it's me! Always!"

His face fell. "I didn't mean—"

"You never fucking mean it! You didn't mean it in 2018 either, right? When you promised you'd be there, when you swore you'd watch my Formula 2 debut—and you didn't even show up!"

Charles froze, the accusation slicing deeper than the gravel burn on her arm. His lips parted, but no words came.

"You think I forgot?" She shouted, chest heaving. "Feature race, sprint race, I looked for you every fucking lap! And you weren't there!"

"I couldn't..." Charles began, voice breaking, "Things were complicated, I—"

"No!" She cut him off, shoving his chest with both hands. He stumbled back, sand flying from his boots. "Don't you dare give me excuses again now!"

"I wanted to be there! I really did!" His voice rose, strangled with desperation. "You don't know what was happening then, Amara—"

"I don't care!" She screamed, tears hot under her helmet padding. "All I know is that you broke your word. You always break your word when it comes to me."

Charles's hands shook as he reached for her again, pleading. "Please, listen.. this isn't about 2018, it's not about then, this was... this was racing.."

"Racing?" She laughed, bitter and sharp. "No, this was you. Always you. Taking something from me. First my trust, then my friendship, now my debut!"

Charles's eyes burned, voice trembling. "I never wanted to take anything from you.. I wanted to give everything! I thought I was protecting you back then—"

"Protecting me?" She snapped, her breath ragged. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to decide what I needed. You left me alone, Charles. Over and over again."

"Amara, stop.." He stepped closer, voice cracking, "I never stopped caring, you don't understand—"

"You never cared! Never truly cared!" She screamed, and before she realized it, she shoved him again. Hard.

He hit the gravel, stunned.

Marshals finally rushed in, pulling her back, but she still thrashed against their arms, voice ragged and breaking. "You never cared about me! Not then, not now, not ever!"

The world watched live, horrified.

Charles stayed on the ground, breathing hard, dust clinging to his suit. His helmet dangled from his fingers, knuckles white, eyes glassy as he tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Amara wrenched free from the marshals just enough to spit one final line, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

"You were supposed to be my best friend. And now you are nothing."

Her words echoed across the gravel, carried straight into every camera, every headset, every living room watching. She kept fighting against the marshals' grip, still shouting, voice fraying into sobs.

"You hear me, Charles? Nothing!"

Her last words tore through the circuit, echoing even as marshals dragged her back, her voice still breaking, still shouting Charles's name like it was both a curse and a plea.

Silence fell heavier than the red flag.

The garages were just as quiet, mechanics, engineers, and staff frozen mid-motion, screens replaying the collision in merciless slow motion. In Mercedes' garage, Toto stood rigid, jaw locked tight, while engineers traded helpless glances over headsets. Nobody knew what to say.

Max and George, both out of the race earlier, stood in the paddock like statues.

George swallowed hard, whispering, "Bloody hell..." His voice was thin, the kind that came when disbelief left no air in your lungs.

Max's jaw clenched, fury sparking in his eyes as he ripped his headset off. "I'm going down there."

"Max—" George started, but Max was already moving, strides long, deliberate, unstoppable. George cursed under his breath and followed, panic simmering beneath the surface.

On the big screens, Amara was still thrashing against the marshals, still shouting as they forced her toward the medical car, tears streaking hot down her face beneath the dirt and sweat.

Later, when the marshals pulled Amara away, he still hadn't moved, frozen where she'd left him. His helmet hung useless at his side, shoulders slumped, and the look in his eyes was less hollow than shattered, as if every word she'd thrown at him had landed deeper than the crash itself.

Even when the marshals hauled Amara toward the medical car, he hadn't moved. Dust streaked his overalls, his helmet hanging limp in his grip, and his stare followed her like she'd ripped his chest open in front of the entire world, leaving him hollow in the wreckage.

Hamilton then took the win when the race continued again after. Lando Norris, wildly, P2. Carlos Sainz P3.

But no one cared.

Headlines lit up before champagne even sprayed.

Velasquez vs Leclerc explodes in Austria.

Debut dream turns nightmare after crash and public meltdown.

History made... for the wrong reasons?

The Storm of Mercedes vs The Monégasque Meltdown.

The Mercedes motorhome door slammed shut behind them. Amara sat hunched on the sofa, arm freshly bandaged, her phone buzzing endlessly on the table. Max paced like a caged animal, back and forth, fists clenched. George sat beside her, steady, grounding.

"Are you okay?" George asked first, voice low but steady, eyes scanning her face for more than she was giving.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, a shiver running down her spine. "I don't know.." She admitted finally.

Max stopped pacing, turning sharply. "She's not okay," He said, tone clipped, as if daring anyone to argue.

Amara swallowed hard, her voice ragged. "They're going to crucify me alive."

George shook his head. "You don't know that yet."

"My phone literally hasn't stopped—" She gestured to where it buzzed again, another notification lighting up the screen. "It's already out there. I shoved him. On camera. In front of everyone."

Max spun on his heel, snapping, "Honestly he deserved worse."

Amara blinked up at him, startled. "Max—"

"No, I mean it." His voice was low, sharp, but his eyes softened when they landed on her. "He cut across you like an amateur. And then what? Stands there like you're the problem? Screw him."

George frowned. "That's not helping."

Max threw his hands out. "She's not the villain here."

"I know that," George said evenly. "But shouting about it won't change the headlines."

Before Amara could answer, the door creaked open again. Lando slipped in first, pulling his mask down under his chin, followed by Alex, who carried two water bottles.

"We heard the yelling," Lando said cautiously, eyes darting between Max and Amara. "Thought we'd... you know, check you hadn't murdered each other."

"Not yet," Amara huffed out, though it wasn't quite a laugh.

Alex crossed the room and set the bottles on the table. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asked, eyes flicking to her arm. His tone was quiet, careful.

"I'm fine," She said quickly, too quickly. Then softer, "Just... not in here." She tapped her chest.

Alex gave a small nod, his gaze steady and kind as he sank into the armchair opposite. "Don't let the noise eat you alive, Amara. Half of them don't even know what really happened. And the ones that do? They'll forget by the next race."

"Easy for you to say," She replied, rubbing at her temples.

"Not really," Alex said softly. "I've been there." His eyes flicked down for a moment, shadowed with memories he didn't share.

Lando, in typical fashion, tried to lighten the mood. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "If it helps, Twitter's already making memes out of it. You went viral. Like, full WWE smackdown vibes."

Amara groaned into her hands. "That does not help."

George shot Lando a look. "Read the room, mate."

"I'm just saying!" Lando defended, though his grin faltered when he caught Amara's expression. "Okay, okay. Not the time."

Max crouched down in front of her again, blocking her from the others' line of sight. His voice softened. "You reacted like a human being. Anyone else would've lost it too. You've carried the weight of the world on your shoulders for months, and now you're supposed to smile when someone wrecks your debut?"

Her throat tightened. "It wasn't just the race. It was him."

That admission cracked the silence. George's hand stilled on her shoulder. Alex's expression flickered with sympathy. Even Lando didn't have a joke ready.

Max's jaw flexed. He didn't push, but his hand hovered near hers on the sofa cushion, not quite touching. "Then he's not worth your tears, princess."

Amara laughed weakly, bitter. "You always know how to make it sound simple."

"Because it is simple." His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. "You're here. You're fast. You're in a Mercedes. That's the story. Not him."

George finally spoke, his tone firm but calm. "Look, media's already in a frenzy. Toto will handle it. You just need to breathe, okay? We'll get through the fallout."

Her phone buzzed again. She flinched at the sound.

Max reached over and flipped it face-down, the screen going dark. "Forget it. You don't need their noise right now."

"Here," Alex added, nudging the water bottle closer. "Drink. Small things first. Everything else can wait."

Lando gave a lopsided smile, softer now. "Hey. First race weekends are meant to be disasters. Ask George."

George groaned. "Really?"

"Just saying," Lando shrugged. "You'll laugh about this someday."

Amara sat back, exhausted, pulse still racing. Max didn't move away from his crouch in front of her, George kept his hand steady on her shoulder, Alex's quiet support filled the room, and even Lando's awkward humor hovered like a lifeline.

Outside, the chaos raged. Inside, the storm narrowed to five voices, four friends holding the line against everything waiting for her beyond the door.

And in the middle of it all, Amara's heart pounded with one brutal truth.

Her debut had ended exactly how her story with Charles had begun.

In the wreckage of a crash.

Chapter Text

Spielberg, July 2020

THE FALLOUT HIT FASTER THAN THE CRASH ITSELF.

Clips of the collision looped endlessly, on TV, on Twitter, on Instagram edits set to dramatic music. Headlines blared:

Velasquez vs. Leclerc: Civil War in Spielberg

Rookie's Fury: Shove Seen All Over the World

The shove was everywhere, replayed from every angle, slowed down, captioned, turned into memes. Someone had already cut it together with WWE theme music. Another with soap opera strings. The internet was feasting.

And Charles was suffocating.

He paced the hotel room, restless energy eating him alive. His phone was already face down on the desk, screen buzzing with notifications he refused to check. The muted TV rolled highlights of the crash, Amara storming toward him, his own stunned expression, the moment her hands shoved him back.

Charles dragged his hand through his hair again, fingers curling at the roots. "I've ruined everything," He said, voice cracking. "The race, her debut... and she'll never forgive me."

On the bed, Pierre lounged against the headboard like a man watching a storm from a distance. Calm, measured, maddeningly unshaken. He picked up Charles' phone, scrolled, then snorted. "They've already made a Smackdown edit. My god, they don't waste time."

He held it out for Charles to see. Charles didn't even glance.

"You were supposed to laugh." Pierre tried.

"I don't find it funny." Charles' voice was low, heavy with the weight of it all.

Pierre arched a brow. "Then stop staring at the floor like a ghost and tell me what you do find funny. Because right now, it looks like you've buried yourself alive."

Charles shot him a glare, but it lacked any bite.

He turned his back to the screen, but the soundless images clawed at him anyway. Her glare. Her words.

You were supposed to be my best friend. And now you are nothing.

His chest tightened. He'd heard those words before in whispers of regret in his head, but never so sharp, so public.

He dropped onto the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees. "Mattia told me the punishment already. FIA agreed with Mercedes, we'll do two days of public service work together. Filmed PSAs. Road safety, COVID awareness, diversity. Pretend everything's fine for the cameras."

"And they've given me a three-place grid penalty for the next race. Fair, maybe. But it feels like another nail in the coffin."

Pierre's groan was almost comical. He dragged a hand down his face. "That's the worst thing they could've picked actually."

Charles barked out a bitter laugh. "Of course it is. They'll put us side by side like nothing happened—like the past years never even existed. Like she didn't scream at me in front of the entire world."

"She doesn't even want me near her. And now I'm supposed to stand beside her on camera like nothing happened?"

Pierre leaned forward. "Maybe that's what you need. You can't keep hiding behind silence."

Charles' jaw clenched. He hated that word—silence. It carried years of history. "I never meant to break my word. Not in 2018, not ever. She was my—" He cut himself off, unable to say it. "But she chose you. She chose Anthoine. Not me."

Pierre's voice sharpened. "No, Charles. She didn't choose us. She settled for us because you weren't there. There's a difference."

Charles' lips parted, but no words came out.

"Do you even know how broken she was that night? Checking her phone every five minutes, waiting for you to show up, waiting for a text. Anthoine had to convince her to get in the car the next day. She carried that hurt into every paddock after. And the cruel part? You didn't even notice."

The words hit like a punch to the ribs. Charles' breath caught. "Pierre..."

"And Anthoine..." Pierre's tone softened, dropping the blade for something gentler. "He would've hated seeing you two like this."

Charles pressed a palm to his face, voice muffled. "I don't even know how to fix it. Every word I say makes it worse."

Pierre sighed, tilting his head. "Then stop talking like a driver giving an interview. Start talking like the boy she trusted once. That's the only version of you she'll believe."

Silence settled between them, heavier than the headlines outside.

Charles stared at the floor, replaying her words in his head until they hollowed him out completely.

He whispered, broken. "She was right. I am nothing to her now."

Pierre sat forward, voice firm, cutting through the haze. "Not if you don't let it end like this."

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THE MERCEDES MEETING ROOM WAS COLD IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD.

Amara sat at the far end of the table, bandaged arm stiff at her side. Her half-eaten sandwich sat abandoned in front of her. The TV on the wall had been muted, but her shove replayed anyway. She forced herself not to look.

Toto towered near the window, arms folded. Lewis sat at her right, calm but watchful. Sophie, her PR manager, scrolled headlines on her laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Mateo flipped through notes, lips pursed. Riccardo, her race engineer, leaned back in his chair, quiet as ever but his eyes steady on her.

"Let's get this over with," Toto began, voice clipped. "Points lost are points we don't get back. Drama costs us focus. I don't care what Ferrari's boy did, you cannot hand the media a scandal like that again."

Amara's spine stiffened. She kept her face neutral, but the sting was there.

Lewis interjected smoothly. "She's a rookie. Mistakes happen. But let's be honest, Charles cut across her line. The shove shouldn't have happened, but the crash wasn't one-sided."

Toto didn't argue, but his scowl deepened.

Sophie clicked to another tab, angling the laptop so Amara could see. "Trending narratives: fiery rookie, reckless debutante, too emotional for F1. We need to reframe it, passion, determination, no backing down. That plays better."

Mateo nodded. "And FIA won't let it slide. They've already confirmed both teams need to release statements within twenty-four hours."

Toto's gaze cut across the room to her. "I spoke with Mattia. You and Charles will serve two days of public service together. Filmed PSAs. Road safety. COVID awareness. Diversity. All the things that look good for sponsors."

Amara's stomach dropped. "No. No." Her voice was flat. "I'm sorry but I'm not doing it."

"You don't have a choice, Amara." Toto's tone left no room for argument. "You'll show up. You'll smile. And you'll survive it. That's racing politics."

Her jaw ached from how tightly she clenched it.

After the meeting, Lewis lingered, waiting until Toto stepped away. He leaned close, voice low enough for only her to hear. "Ignore the noise, M. Don't let one man rewrite your whole story."

Her hotel room looked like the crash site itself. Half-unpacked gear spilled across the floor. A cold dinner tray sat untouched. An ice pack, now lukewarm, rested on the nightstand. The muted TV flickered replays of the accident on loop.

The knock at the door broke the spell.

When she opened it, George, Lando, Alex, and Max shuffled in with snacks and bottles of water. George carried crisps, Lando a pack of cookies, Alex with a six-pack of sparkling water. While Max had nothing, except his gaze fixed on her immediately, scanning her arm, her face, every sign of strain.

"Blimey," Lando said, surveying the room. "Looks like you lost a fight in here too."

Amara hurled a pillow at him. He yelped dramatically, laughter spilling into the space.

Some of the heaviness cracked.

George perched on the arm of a chair, sharp eyes narrowing at the melted ice pack. "You should be icing that properly, not letting it melt on the table."

Amara rolled her eyes. "Yes, mother."

Eventually, after the teasing died down, Amara finally told them about the meeting. She shifted the half-melted ice pack in her hands, eyes fixed on it rather than their faces.

"Mercedes pulled me in earlier," She began, her tone flat but edged. "Lewis was there too. They laid it all out—the FIA's decision. Two days of community service. Filmed PSAs." She let out a dry laugh, no humor in it. "Road safety, diversity campaigns, even bloody COVID awareness. And guess who I have to do it with?" Her gaze lifted, sharp with sarcasm. "I get to do it all with Charles. Side by side. Smiling for the cameras like nothing ever happened."

Reactions were immediate.

"At least it's not a full race ban," George said, ever rational.

"Oh God, a PSA?" Lando groaned. "That's worse. Public humiliation on camera."

Alex leaned forward, voice calm. "It'll pass. Headlines always do."

Max was the sharpest. "You shouldn't have to stand next to him. Not after yesterday." His tone was hard, protective. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Amara smirked faintly, teasing to soften him. "What, you going to write the FIA a strongly worded letter for me?"

"If that's what it takes," Max shrugged, dead serious.

The others exchanged glances. None of them dared poke fun.

She exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to her hands. "I don't know how to face him. Not after what I shouted. Not after years of silence exploding in front of everyone."

Her voice faltered. "I don't want to see him look at me like that again. Like I'm the one who tore us apart."

Max leaned in, his voice softer now. "He did that, not you. Don't carry his guilt."

George leaned forward, steady as ever. "The team will handle the narrative, don't worry. You don't need to fight that battle too."

Alex raised a hand, grinning lazily. "If it gets too tense, I'll 'accidentally' leak the bloopers. Imagine Charles forgetting his lines? Internet gold."

"And I'll make memes of it immediately," Lando added. "#CivilWarPSA. Might as well own the chaos."

That drew a weak laugh from Amara, but Max didn't join in. He just watched her. Every time she shifted, he noticed the wince. Without a word, he took the melted ice pack, replaced it with a fresh one, and pressed it gently to her arm. His touch was steady, careful.

"You don't have to laugh it off, you know," Max said, low enough only she could hear. "You don't always have to be strong."

Later, the room sprawled into chaos, Lando on the floor with chips, George scrolling at the desk, Alex half-asleep in the armchair.

Amara slumped against the headboard, exhaustion dragging her down. Max leaned beside her, their shoulders brushing.

She didn't mean to, but her head leaned against his shoulder.

Max didn't move. Didn't breathe too loud. He just stayed there. Every so often, he checked her arm, adjusted so her head wouldn't fall. Quiet, firm, and unshaken.

The others kept arguing about some pointless stat.

"I'm telling you, Norris, that's not how DRS works—" George started, exasperated.

"Mate, I literally drive the car, I know." Lando shot back.

Alex cracked one eye open. "Both of you shut up, I'm trying to sleep."

George ignored him. "You don't even understand the physics, Lando. It's not just pressing a button—"

"It is pressing a button," Lando cut in smugly. "Button go brrr, car go fast."

That made Amara let out a tired laugh against Max's shoulder. He felt it more than heard it, the small vibration warming through him.

"Don't encourage him," George remarked, glaring.

"I'm not.." Amara mumbled, already half-asleep. "I just... like it when he's dumb."

Lando gasped. "Betrayal! You're supposed to be on my side."

"She's on the side of common sense," George countered, arms folded.

"Which you clearly don't have," Alex threw in, smirking from his chair.

Max glanced down at Amara, her eyelids heavy, voice fading with every word. "Ignore them," He whispered softly, only for her. "Sleep. I've got you."

She made a faint sound, not quite a reply, but she didn't move away either.

Her hair had fallen across her face, strands sticking to her cheek from the long day. Max reached up carefully, brushing them back with slow fingers, then tucking the loose pieces behind her ears so nothing would bother her as she drifted. His touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to, gentle in a way few ever saw from him.

George eventually noticed, his teasing dying down. "She's out," He said quietly, softer than before.

Lando peeked up from the floor. "On Max? Wow. Didn't see that one coming."

Max's glare snapped sharp. "Say one more word and I'll make you regret it."

Alex chuckled under his breath, hands raised. "Relax, Verstappen. We're not blind, but we're not idiots either."

George shot them all a warning look. "Enough. Let her sleep."

But even with the quiet settling back in, Max could feel their eyes on him. He didn't look up, didn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, he glanced down at Amara again, her head resting steady against him. He tucked her hair back once more, softer than before, like he couldn't help himself.

For a while, the room was nothing but the rustle of chip bags and the muted hum of the TV.

Then Lando, never able to leave silence alone, whispered, "Mate... you've really got it bad."

Max's eyes cut over, sharp as glass. "Shut it."

Alex smirked, lowering his voice even more. "Don't worry. She has no idea."

George shifted in his chair, folding his arms as his gaze lingered on Amara, then Max. "Funny. I remember meeting Amara in 2017, back in GP3. She and Charles were inseparable then, practically glued together. Thought nothing could break them. And yet..." He trailed off, letting the weight of it hang in the air before adding, "Just... don't be the reason she gets hurt again, Max. She deserves much better than that."

Max didn't flinch, didn't look away. His hand hovered near Amara's shoulder, steady as her breathing evened against him. "I know," He said quietly, conviction threading through every word. "And I won't be."

George studied him for a long moment, measuring the weight behind his words. Finally, he gave a small nod, the edge in his voice easing. "Alright. Just don't forget it, she's been through enough already."

Max's jaw tightened, though he didn't rise to it. Instead, he shifted just enough so her head stayed comfortable, brushing her hair back again, slower this time. His silence after only proved how much the others had struck a chord.

Lando, practically buzzing, leaned forward on his elbows. "This is literally unreal. Verstappen, quiet, careful, gentle. Who'd have thought?"

Max's glare snapped toward him, lethal. "If you wake her up, Norris, you won't survive the night."

That shut Lando up, though the grin stayed plastered on his face.

Alex lifted his hands, mock surrender, but his eyes stayed curious. "Hey, no judgment. Just never thought I'd see you like this."

George leaned forward, his voice lower, almost thoughtful. "He's not wrong. I've never seen you sit still this long for anyone."

Max finally responded, steady but edged, "Not everyone deserves it. She does."

Once more, the room was enveloped in a gentler silence. The muted glow of the TV flickered across the walls, but Max barely noticed it. His attention was fixed on her.

Amara shifted slightly, rubbing her fingers across his arm before falling still again. The smallest touch, but it set something sharp and unsteady moving in his chest. He adjusted quickly, making sure her injured arm was cushioned against the pillow, careful not to wake her.

George's warning replayed in his mind, inseparable, broken apart, careful, but the words didn't stick the way they should have. Not when she was here, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Max brushed her hair back again when it slipped across her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His hand lingered for a beat too long. He told himself it was instinct, nothing more, but deep down, he knew better.

He wasn't entirely used to this. He wasn't used to wanting to stay still, to stay close, to hold something so fragile and not let it go. But with her breathing evenly against him, trusting him without even realizing it, he couldn't imagine moving.

Every few minutes, he checked her arm, replaced the ice, adjusted so her head stayed comfortable. Small things. Quiet things. But each one felt heavier than anything he'd done on track.

For the first time, Max Verstappen realized he wasn't just protecting her. He was falling for her, harder and faster than he ever meant to.

And Amara Velasquez, asleep against his shoulder, had no idea.

Chapter Text

Spielberg, July 2020

THE HOTEL LOBBY WAS QUIET THAT LATE MORNING, EMPTIED OF ITS USUAL BUSTLE. No fans, no journalists, just the faint echo of rolling suitcases and the occasional murmur of masked guests checking out. Amara clutched her purse in one hand, phone in the other, and moved quickly toward the doors, trying to navigate the space with as little attention as possible.

"Amara!"

She stopped. Pierre stood a few steps away, leaning casually against a column as if he'd been waiting for her. His familiar half-smile softened when he caught sight of her.

"Le bras ça va ?" He asked, nodding toward the place where the brace still pressed beneath her sleeve. Is your arm okay?

Amara flexed it slightly, enough to prove the worst was past. "Still sore. But manageable."

Pierre's eyes lingered on her longer than just polite concern. "I was going to text you, but figured you've had enough people in your phone this week."

"C'est une façon de voir les choses." Her tone was dry, but not sharp. That's one way of looking at things.

Pierre chuckled lightly. "Tu remontes ton mur, hein ?, You always do when you're tired or stressed. Don't think I don't notice." You've got that wall up again, huh?

Amara raised a brow, hiding a small smile. "And you're planning to dismantle it, are you?"

"Peut-être," He said lightly. "Or at least check that you're not going to collapse from holding it all in." Maybe

For a moment, the air felt almost like old times—her, Pierre, Charles, and Anthoine, teasing each other in paddock corners, sharing late-night conversations, passing notes. The memory brought a pang, quickly replaced by the tension sitting heavy in her chest.

Pierre's voice softened. "He's... not handling it well, you know. Charles. Whatever you think, he's—"

"Pas mon problème," She cut in smoothly, though her chest tightened. Her voice carried just enough steel to end the topic, but not so much that she pushed him away. Not my problem.

Pierre studied her carefully, knowing her too well to miss the edge in her tone or the bitterness simmering beneath it. For years, he'd seen her and Charles move as one—inseparable, untouchable. Now, watching her walls snap shut, he could only wonder how deep the fracture really ran.

"Right," He said after a moment, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Not your problem. But you're not supposed to carry the weight of everyone, Amara. Même pas Charles." Even Charles.

Amara's shoulders eased slightly. "I know. But some things... you can't fix with words or smiles."

Pierre nodded, understanding without pressing further. "Fair. Just... don't let him off too easy, either."

Before the silence stretched too long, another voice broke in.

"Well, isn't this cozy," Max drawled, striding toward them. His gaze flicked over Amara's crisp white polo and neatly pinned hair. "Didn't realize public service had a dress code. You going to film a PSA or audition for a commercial?"

Amara rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth threatened a smile. "Better than looking like I just raided lost and found."

Max grinned. "Harsh. You love me really."

Pierre raised a brow, amused, but didn't comment, letting the tension ease naturally.

Max stepped closer, brushing her shoulder lightly. Amara's posture softened instantly, the rigid line of her jaw loosening as if the stress from Charles melted slightly in Max's presence.

And Pierre caught it, the subtle shift in her body, the way Amara leaned slightly toward Max, the way her gaze lingered on him just a fraction longer than usual. She hadn't smiled once during their conversation, but now her defenses slipped, if only by inches. He said nothing, but the observation stayed with him.

"You two look cozy," Pierre teased lightly, nudging her shoulder.

Amara glanced at him, playful but guarded. "We're not cozy. Just... talking."

Max arched a brow, smirking. "You make it sound like it's scandalous, Princess."

Amara rolled her eyes, tugging her bag strap tighter. "It's not scandalous. Literally just... conversation."

Pierre chuckled softly. "Not scandalous, no. But definitely worth noticing."

Amara shot him a mock glare. "Careful, Gasly. Don't start thinking you know everything."

Pierre raised his hands in surrender, still smiling. "I know enough." He glanced between the two of them, a thoughtful look lingering in his eyes. In his mind, he couldn't help but remember how Charles and Amara used to move like that—effortless, comfortable with each other, protective without words. But he said nothing aloud.

Max leaned casually against the column, watching her with a quiet ease. "Chaos seems to follow you anyway."

Amara smirked. "Not me. Just good at navigating it."

Pierre shook his head, still amused. "Always the diplomat, even when you're tired."

Max chuckled, still leaning back. "Exactly. She's impressive. Doesn't fold, even when everything's on fire."

Amara gave him a sideways glance, lips twitching into a faint smile. "Stop, Verstappen. You're making me sound like a hero."

Pierre's grin softened as he glanced toward the upcoming PSA shoot. "Enjoy the small victories today, Amara. You're going to need them."

Amara simply nodded, letting the reassurance settle. Pierre caught the subtle moment and allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. Nothing romantic—just trust, just friendship, but it reminded him of the effortless ease Charles and Amara had shared years ago. He didn't say a word, tucking the observation away. Not to stir trouble, but because Charles deserved to understand what he was at risk of losing if he didn't confront the fractures between them.

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THE TRACK FELT ALIEN WITHOUT THE ROAR OF ENGINES. Empty grandstands loomed against the sky, their silence pressing down harder than any crowd. Where race weekends usually meant chaos—fans waving flags, journalists darting for quotes, mechanics shouting over the noise, today it was stripped bare. No spectators, no media frenzy, just the muted shuffle of camera crews and masked staff moving with careful efficiency.

Hand sanitizer stations dotted the pit lane, crew members kept a cautious distance, and every exchange began or ended with the tug of a mask. It wasn't just the lack of engines that made the place feel hollow, it was the reminder that the world outside the circuit was still fractured, still holding its breath.

Amara walked in with Toto at her side and Sophie, her PR manager, a step behind. Across the pit lane, Charles appeared with Mattia Binotto and Ferrari's handlers.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Amara looked away instantly, spine stiffening. Charles' face shifted, guilt, longing, something unspoken flickering before he forced it down.

"Perfect," The director said brightly when they approached. "Both in white. Coordinated already!"

Amara's stomach turned. Charles' jaw ticked, but neither replied.

They were ushered into makeup chairs side by side. Amara sat rigid, hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the mirror. Charles kept his head bowed, silent as the makeup artist dabbed powder across his skin.

"Don't worry," The artist teased, breaking the tension. "We'll make you look like best friends again."

Neither moved.

Amara's lips twitched, but she said nothing. Charles's reflection in the mirror stayed carefully blank.

From the corner of the room, Toto caught Amara's gaze, giving her the faintest nod. Just get through it.

On the other side, Mattia did the same for Charles. Endure.

The Road Safety PSA came first. A helmet passed between them, lines about buckles and seatbelts delivered with professional ease.

Their hands brushed. Just a second of contact.

Amara recoiled, pulling back as though the plastic had scorched her. Charles' jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"Smile at each other," The director urged, clapping his hands. "Encouraging! Like teammates."

Charles forced a grin, turning toward her. "Like this?" He asked lightly.

Amara flicked her eyes toward him, her voice flat. "Don't hurt yourself."

The crew chuckled, but it didn't reach Charles.

Charles forced a grin, turning toward her. Amara returned a razor-thin smile that vanished the instant the camera cut.

"Amara, pat him on the shoulder. Show camaraderie."

She obeyed, fingers grazing his suit for barely a second before falling away. It was stiff, clinical—an echo of something that used to be natural.

Charles muttered low, only for her, "Used to be easier, no?"

Her eyes cut to him, sharp as glass. "Don't."

The COVID PSA followed. Scripted gags about social distancing. Standing too close, then stepping back two meters. The crew laughed.

Amara rolled her eyes but hit her mark.

Charles attempted a joke, his tone light: "Even rivals can agree on safety."

It should have landed, should have eased the tension. Instead, Amara's glare froze it midair, killing the laughter instantly.

They bumped elbows stiffly, the gesture mechanical.

"This is ridiculous," She mumbled, too low for the cameras but not low enough for him to miss.

Charles's chuckle came, but it was hollow, weighed down. "Better than being stuck in a room with me for quarantine, non?"

Her eyes flicked to him, flat. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd rather take my chances with COVID."

Charles's jaw twitched slightly, a flicker of frustration he didn't bother hiding from himself. He murmured softly, almost to himself, "Toujours la même...", A quiet acknowledgment of how distant she had grown. Always the same...

Amara's eyes narrowed just a fraction, her lips pressing into a thin line rather than a smile. "Tu crois me connaître?" Her tone wasn't loud, but it carried enough edge that it settled between them like a warning. You think you know me?

Charles felt it in his chest, the sharp reminder that he once had known her better than anyone—her quirks, her laughs, the way she thought through every decision. He had been her best friend, her confidant, and now even that familiarity felt like a memory he could barely touch.

The cameras captured the two of them mid-pose, smiles in place for the PSA, but it was brittle, a thin veneer stretched over the tension they couldn't shake.

A pause stretched.

Charles tried again, softer this time, almost pleading. "Amara... we don't have to—"

"Don't," She cut him off, still smiling for the director. "Not here. Not now."

He swallowed, nodding once, the words dying in his throat.

To the crew, they looked like professionals, two teammates playing along. But beneath the surface, every exchanged line felt like a negotiation, every glance another reminder of the fracture that hadn't healed.

The Diversity PSA was last. And it cut the deepest.

"I'm proud to share the grid with Amara Velasquez, paving the way for future generations."

The director insisted, "Charles, look at her when you say it. Amara, smile back."

He did. Sincere, eyes locked on her.

She smiled just enough for the camera, never meeting his gaze.

Her turn came. Arms folded, she delivered her line, "Representation matters. We fight for a future where everyone belongs in motorsport."

Her voice didn't waver, but her hands shook at her sides. Charles noticed. So did the camera crew.

His next line carried conviction, "Amara has shown everyone that the future of motorsport is bright, she inspires me and so many others every day."

Before the director could call cut, Amara whispered, "Don't say things you don't mean. I know you, Charles."

Charles flinched, swallowing hard. "I... I do mean it." He whispered back, almost inaudible.

Amara's gaze stayed forward, steady. "Then prove it," She said softly, almost to herself, and turned away.

By the final "Cut!", she was done. The mic was torn from her suit, shoved into the nearest crew member's hand.

"Thanks," She told Toto and Sophie briskly, already walking. "I'll see you later," She added without looking back.

He watched her walk away, every step a reminder of the distance between them. His hand twitched, aching to reach out, but Mattia's firm grip on his shoulder held him back.

The hotel room was quiet, the air still carrying faint traces of detergent. Amara pushed the door open, heavy from the day, and dropped her bag with a thud.

Silence. Blissful, at least for a second.

Then she noticed him.

Max Verstappen sprawled across her couch, legs stretched, a half-empty can of soda balanced on the armrest. He looked perfectly at ease, as though he'd been there all along.

Amara blinked. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Max's grin was unapologetic. "Your manager likes me more than he likes you. Let me in."

Of course. She groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I'm going to kill him."

She collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in a pillow.

Max tilted his head, studying her. "So. How bad was it?"

Her voice was muffled. "Nightmare. Matching outfits. Fake smiles. Elbow bumps. I should've won an Oscar."

A low chuckle escaped him, warm and unhurried. "Saw the clips already. You looked like you wanted to kill him."

She peeked out from the pillow, her eyes dry. "I did."

Max leaned back, smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice softened. "And yet, you still did it."

"Didn't have a choice."

"Maybe not." His gaze lingered on her, unreadable for a beat before his smirk returned. "But honestly, princess, you made it look effortless. Even Charles couldn't have pulled that off."

Amara shot him a sideways glance, lips twitching into a small smirk. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Max leaned closer, so their knees brushed, pretending to whisper. "Or maybe I just like seeing you survive chaos in style."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Flattery will get you everywhere, won't it?"

He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes. "Not everywhere. But close. Maybe a sofa in your hotel room counts."

Amara rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth twitched into a genuine grin. "Careful, Verstappen. You're getting bold."

Max laughed softly. "Bold enough to check your arm?" He reached over, gently brushing the sleeve back to inspect the brace, careful not to touch too much. "Still sore?"

"Somewhat," She admitted, her voice softer. "But not as much as my pride after today."

He smirked, leaning in just a little more than necessary, so close she could feel the warmth from his shoulder. "Pride's overrated. But you? You handled it like a pro. Even if it killed your soul a little."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "You're so ridiculous."

"Maybe," He said, his face now only inches from hers, just close enough for her to notice how much he towers over her on the bed. "But you love me anyway."

Amara froze for a second, a flutter in her chest, then shoved the pillow in front of her face. "Shut up, you're too close!"

Max leaned back instantly, hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Retreating before I get kicked off my own couch, princess."

Amara peeked out from behind the pillow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Princess again? You really like that one, don't you?"

Max's grin widened, leaning just a fraction closer, careful not to invade her space. "What can I say? Some titles are hard to resist. And you... you wear it well, princess."

Amara rolled her eyes, though her smile grew. "Just don't expect me to start bowing or anything."

"Noted," He said, chuckling. "But you do make it dangerously tempting to keep calling you that."

Amara shifted slightly on the bed, letting the pillow rest against her side. "You're impossible, you know that?" She said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

Max leaned back just enough to watch her, his grin softening. "Only for you, princess."

Chapter Text

Spielberg, July 2020

RAIN FELL IN SHEETS OVER THE STYRIAN MOUNTAINS, SLICKING THE RED BULL RING WITH SILVER. By the time qualifying came around, the track was half-hidden in spray, cameras capturing nothing but haze and streaks of water. For Amara Velasquez, though, it was clarity. Rain didn't frighten her—it sharpened her. It meant instinct over calculation, bravery over fear.

Her visor blurred every second, wipers of her gloves brushing the droplets away. Lewis was ahead, carving impossible lines like he had been born for days like this. Max trailed close behind him, pushing the car to its limits. Amara, in third, had to thread the needle between control and chaos.

Every corner felt like ice, every acceleration a gamble. She gritted her teeth, jaw aching as she caught the car when the rear twitched at Turn 3. Don't lose it. Keep it planted. Keep it steady.

When she crossed the line, her engineer's voice cut through the static:

"P3. Fantastic job, Amara! Lewis on pole, Max P2. You're right behind."

Her pulse thudded against her neck. Relief surged, but she kept it cool. Podium territory. Hold it tomorrow, and it's yours.

Race day dawned brighter, but tension sat heavier. Engines snarled at the grid, exhaust heat shimmering. Amara's grip tightened around the wheel as the lights above blinked red, one by one, until..

Lights out.

Her launch was clean, just behind Max, but Charles's Ferrari loomed in her mirrors instantly. By Turn 1, his front wing edged dangerously alongside her rear tire, daring her to twitch, to flinch, to make the mistake he was banking on.

She didn't.

Amara squeezed him to the absolute edge of the track, her heart hammering against her ribs as their wheels came so close she swore she felt the air ripple between them. Sparks sprayed as someone behind clipped a curb. Her jaw set.

Not today.

Turn 3. Charles lunged late, his braking audacious. But she mirrored him, elbows wide, planting her Mercedes firmly in his path. The cars brushed—a brief, violent shudder rattled through her bones. No quarter. Not here.

Two laps. That was all it became. Two laps of pure knife-edge combat, her instincts locked against his, aggression threaded with control, two wills refusing to bow. Each corner was a coin toss, yield or collide. Neither yielded.

And then fate intervened.

By Lap 4, Charles tangled with Sebastian Vettel into Turn 3. Carbon fiber scattered like confetti, the Ferrari limping, hobbled beyond repair. Charles's radio crackled with curses as the red car crawled to retirement.

Amara's chest rose and fell sharply, her breath fogging her visor. Relief didn't taste like triumph. It tasted like survival. Not like last time. Not me. This time, she was still standing.

The race stretched on. Lap after lap, her world shrank to a tunnel of apexes, throttle points, and the delicate balance between daring and disaster. Rain from the morning still slicked parts of the track, the surface treacherous, hydroplaning a constant threat. Yet under her touch, the car danced, wild, but never out of control.

Max pushed her. Of course he did. Every chance, every gap, he nosed forward, his Red Bull lunging like a predator. But each time she shut the door, her precision absolute. No space, no opening.

Her engineer's voice buzzed in her ear, but it blurred into background noise. "Gap to Lewis two-point-three... Max closing half a tenth... recharge on straight." Words, but meaningless. All that mattered was the track.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

The checkered flag waved. Lewis's silver arrow crossed first. Amara's car streaked across in second. Max behind, third.

Her first podium.

"YES! P2, Amara! What a drive! Fantastic drive!" Riccardo, her engineer's voice cracked with elation. She could barely breathe, her chest heaving, helmet damp with sweat.

Her own voice broke through, high with disbelief. "Oh my God—P2? P2?! Tell me I heard that right Ric!"

"Confirmed, confirmed! You did it!"

Amara laughed, half-sobbing, the sound crackling through the radio. "No way. No way. First podium, oh my God... thank you, thank you, guys, thank you so much. The car was amazing."

The radio erupted in cheers from her crew back at the garage. She bit down on a sob, overwhelmed. "Mama's watching. I... I hope she's proud."

"Everyone's proud, Amara. You earned this."

As she coasted down the cool-down lap, the emptiness of the grandstands hit her. No roar of fans, no chants of her name. Just silence, broken only by her own ragged breaths.

She pulled into parc fermé, engine finally dying beneath her. Her hands trembled as she unclipped the steering wheel, dragging herself out of the cockpit. The world blurred for a moment, masks, cameras, officials, then sharpened again as she stood, legs unsteady but unbroken.

Lewis was there first, already out of his car. He reached for her, but instead of the instinctive hug drivers often shared, he offered his elbow. It was awkward, ridiculous even, this new gesture of celebration under COVID rules, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.

She bumped her elbow against his, the motion clumsy, her laughter breaking out through exhaustion. Max approached next, peeling off his gloves, eyes lingering on her. He didn't say much, just nudged his elbow against hers, firmer than necessary, like words would've betrayed too much.

Her laughter softened, something in her chest loosening for the first time all day.

Podium. P2.

She had done it.

She belonged.

The press conference room felt different, colder than the podium, sterile under fluorescent lights. Cameras glared, microphones lined in front of her. The chosen lineup sat shoulder to shoulder: Lewis, Amara, Max, Charles, and Alex.

At first, the questions were harmless.

"Amara, how does it feel to achieve your first podium in F1?"

She smiled, answered truthfully. "It feels... overwhelming, in the best way. I've dreamed of this since I was a kid."

Then, the shift.

"Do you think you only managed third in qualifying because of the rain?"

Amara's fingers tapped lightly on the mic, but her voice stayed steady. "Rain doesn't make the car drive itself. You still need control, precision, and confidence. I earned that third place."

The next journalist leaned forward, eyes flicking toward Charles. "Some say your wheel-to-wheel with Amara today shows you still haven't learned from your incident with her in the first race. Charles, how do you respond?"

Charles's expression flickered before he leaned into the mic, his tone clipped. "I think it's unfair to say I haven't learned. But yes, I made a mistake today. That doesn't mean others shouldn't also reflect on how they race."

Amara's spine stiffened. Her hands gripped the mic tighter. "I drove hard, but fair. If anyone thinks that makes me reckless, they're not paying attention."

Charles turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "It's not just about today, Amara. It's about the pattern. You take risks others wouldn't."

Her head whipped toward him. "You retired today because of your own move, Charles, not mine."

Gasps rippled through the room. Max's gaze darted between them, tension pulling at his jaw. Lewis shifted, placing a steadying hand against the table, like he'd expected the sparks.

Charles's jaw flexed. "There's a difference between fighting hard and fighting smart. You don't always see it."

"And maybe that's why I'm here on this podium," Amara snapped back, "Because I'm not afraid to take the fights you call too risky."

His voice dropped, still sharp but quieter, more dangerous. "One day, that kind of mindset won't just cost you points. It'll cost you everything."

Her eyes burned into him, defiant. "And hiding behind caution won't get you anywhere but invisible. Today's crash wasn't on me, Charles. And you know it."

Lewis leaned forward, voice steady but warning. "Alright, let's not turn this into another race replay. We all saw what happened."

Max shifted in his chair, his voice softer but firm. "Hey, take it easy. This isn't the place for that." His eyes lingered on Amara, a quiet reassurance there before flicking back to Charles.

The journalists weren't done. They pivoted, questions slicing deeper.

"Amara, do you feel pressure being the only woman on the grid? Do you think the boys treat you differently?"

Another reporter cut in, sharper than the last. "Do you think the stewards judge you differently because you're the only woman here? Some people believe you're under a different standard than the rest of the grid."

"What about your personal life, rumors are already linking you romantically to other drivers. Any comment?"

Another reporter leaned forward, ignoring the growing tension. "And do you think distractions like that affect your focus on track? Wouldn't it be smarter to avoid them altogether?"

Her throat closed. She blinked rapidly, searching for a way out, but words tangled in her chest.

Before she could stumble, Lewis leaned in. "This line of questioning isn't even about racing anymore. Next."

Max added bluntly, "If you want drama, watch Netflix. We're here to talk about the race."

Even Charles, surprisingly, interjected, "She deserves the same respect as anyone else up here."

Alex nodded. "We all get grilled, but this? This feels targeted."

One reporter pushed back, unrelenting. "It's not targeted, it's relevant. The public wants to know if she can handle both the pressure of racing and the spotlight outside of it."

"Seriously," Lewis pressed, his tone sharper now. "We just finished a full race in brutal conditions, and the best you've got is gossip? Come on."

Max leaned closer to his mic, his jaw tight. "Ask her about the overtakes. Ask her about defending against me and Alex. That's what matters."

Charles' voice was low but unyielding. "And for the record, being the only woman doesn't make her any less of a driver. She's proven that today."

Alex glanced toward Amara, then back at the press. "You want headlines, fine. But don't twist it into something it's not. She earned P2 the same way Lewis earned P1, by driving her heart out."

A different journalist tried again, tone deceptively polite. "Amara, you've shown speed, yes. But do you think you'd be getting this much attention if you weren't breaking barriers as the first Filipino and the only woman here? Is it talent, or timing?"

Amara's lips parted, the question landing like a blow. She struggled for an answer, breath catching.

But Lewis cut in once again, sharp. "That's a disrespectful way to frame it. Nobody's asking me if it's 'timing' that I'm still here after seven titles. Why's she different?"

Max's voice followed, steady but edged. "She's not a headline. She's a driver. And you're going to have to get used to that."

Charles leaned into his mic again. "If you think she's here just because of timing, you haven't been watching the same race we all just drove."

The room faltered. For a moment, the questions lost their sting. But Amara's mask had already cracked.

The second the conference had ended, she pushed her mic aside and stood, ignoring the shuffle of chairs around her. Her steps were quick, heavy. By the time she reached her driver's room, she slammed the door shut and locked it.

The silence hit hard. She dropped onto the floor, back against the door. At first, the tears slipped out quietly, traitorous little things. Then they came harder, heaving sobs she couldn't stop.

Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the laces of her shoes, pulling too hard, not enough. The adrenaline that had carried her all day was gone, leaving her hollow.

It's never enough. Even when I get a podium, it's never enough.

Her fingers found her phone almost by instinct. She dialed one number.

"Amara?" Her mother's voice came through, warm, grounding.

"Mama.." She choked out, words dissolving into tears.

"Oh, anak, breathe. Tell me. What happened?" Alma's tone was gentle, the way only a mother could soothe.

"They.. they kept asking. Not about the race. About everything else. About Charles, about me being... different. I don't know how to keep doing this."

There was a pause, the soft rustle of fabric as if Alma had pressed the phone closer. "Did they even ask how you overtook Max? Or how you fought Lewis to the end?"

Amara shook her head, even though her mother couldn't see. "No.. No.. None of that mattered to them."

"Listen to me," Alma said firmly, though her voice carried love. "You don't need to prove to anyone what you already know. You are strong, you are capable, and you belong there. Let them talk. Their words don't decide your worth."

Amara pressed her palm against her eyes, sobs quieting but still raw. "It's just so heavy sometimes."

"I know, anak. Storms come and go, but you? You've always known how to carve your way through the rain and find the finish line."

Her laugh broke through the tears, shaky but real. "Mama..."

"That's my brave girl," Alma said. "Let it out if you need to... but when you're ready, lift your head again. The circuit isn't going anywhere, it's waiting for you."

Outside the door, Charles stood with his hand half-raised, knuckles hovering just shy of the wood. He hadn't worked out what he would say—apology, explanation, something, but his chest ached with the need to try.

Footsteps approached. Max. His brows furrowed the second he saw Charles, arms folding tight across his chest.

"You too?" Max asked flatly, keeping his voice low.

Charles's jaw flexed. "I wanted to... apologize. Earlier. And check if she's alright."

"Sure," Max scoffed. "Or maybe you just wanted to justify yourself."

Charles's eyes narrowed. "You think you're the only one who cares about her?"

"No," Max shot back, sharper than he intended. "But at least I don't keep hurting her and calling it concern."

"Coming from you?" Charles bit back. "You push her just as hard. Always testing her, always needling, like you want her to break."

Max's jaw tightened. "I push her because I know she can take it. You push her because you're selfish. Because you can't stand it when she doesn't choose you."

Charles opened his mouth, ready to snap something cutting, but froze when the muffled sound of Amara still crying reached them.

Both men froze.

Her words, pleas to her mother, Alma's soft reassurances, bled through the thin door. The weight of it silenced their bickering, left them both standing there, struck by the rawness of what they weren't meant to hear.

Max's arms dropped, his posture loosening. He exhaled slowly, glancing at the closed door. Charles's expression faltered, his eyes dark with guilt, lips parting but no words forming.

Neither knocked. Neither moved to enter. Neither dared interrupt.

For once, silence bound them together, both of them rooted in the same helpless place—listening, realizing just how much Amara carried, and how little the world really saw.

Chapter Text

Hungary, July 2020

QUALIFYING HAD GONE ALMOST FLAWLESSLY. LEWIS HAD BEEN UNTOUCHABLE ONCE AGAIN, BUT AMARA'S FLYING LAP HAD SLOTTED HER COMFORTABLY INTO P2. Right behind her teammate. Right where Mercedes expected her to be.

While Max, slumped on the pit wall after Q3, had shot her a look when she jogged past, something between annoyance and admiration. He was only P7. And Charles, meanwhile, had ended up P6, his Ferrari still an unpredictable beast.

The press conference after quali was supposed to be routine. Instead, Charles made sure it wasn't.

"Mercedes are fast everywhere," One journalist asked, glancing between Hamilton and Amara. "Do you think you'll be able to convert this into another one-two finish?"

Lewis gave his polished, diplomatic answer, smiling. "We've put ourselves in a strong position, but races are never won on Saturday. Tomorrow's about keeping it clean, managing tyres, and making the right calls."

When the mic passed to Amara, Charles cut in before she could speak.

"Sunday is always different," He said flatly. "Qualifying speed doesn't always translate into race pace."

Amara's lips curved, her tone light but edged. "True. Though from where I'll be, you'll be in my rearview the whole time."

The room laughed. Charles didn't. His jaw tightened, voice clipped. "Confidence is one thing. Overconfidence is another. You should know the difference."

Her brows rose. "Funny. I thought you'd be happy I'm aiming high. Isn't that what a competitor's supposed to do?"

A reporter leaned in eagerly. "So, Amara, are you saying you expect to beat Charles tomorrow?"

Amara didn't hesitate. "I expect to beat anyone who's in front of me. That includes him."

The next day, the race finally takes place.

Engines snarled to life on the grid, vibrations rattling through Amara's chest. Her pulse drummed in her throat as she fixed her eyes on the five lights. This was it, a chance to chase Lewis, maybe even try to fight for her first win.

Her steering wheel flashed. Reflex kicked in. She twitched forward a fraction before the lights went out.

"Shit."

By the time the grid launched properly, her hesitation had cost her. She bogged down, swallowed up by Racing Points and a Ferrari. Four cars surged past before she could recover.

"Bad launch," Her race engineer, Riccardo, said in her ear. "Reset. Long race ahead."

"Copy," Amara replied, jaw tight. I just threw it away.

Up front, Lewis built his gap with surgical precision. Behind him, Amara clawed for space, wrestling her car back into rhythm.

By lap 9, Charles was just ahead. His Ferrari was already starting to lose grip, rear twitching on every exit. Amara saw it immediately. She smelled blood.

"She's quicker," Charles grumbled on the Ferrari radio. "And she moved under braking earlier, that's dangerous."

"Keep it calm, Charles," His engineer replied. "Defend as you can. Manage your tyres."

Amara's voice cut through her own radio. "He's struggling. I'm going for it."

"Copy, but be smart. Don't overcook it."

She lunged at Turn 1, wheels nearly brushing his. Charles shoved back, elbows out, forcing her toward the curb. The crowd gasped as the two cars weaved violently down into Turn 2.

"Careful, Amara," Riccardo warned.

But she was already committed. She braked later, forced her Mercedes alongside, and muscled ahead. Charles locked up slightly, sliding wide.

"Got him," Amara said through gritted teeth.

Charles' voice crackled on Ferrari radio: "She's too aggressive. This isn't karting!"

"She left you room," His engineer reassured quickly. "Focus forward. We need clean laps."

By mid-race, Amara had clawed back to the top five, slicing past the Racing Points with measured aggression. Every overtake was a reclamation, a reminder that even a false start couldn't hold her down.

"Nice work," Riccardo encouraged. "You're P3, gap to Verstappen ahead 3.2 seconds. Push when ready."

"On it." Amara replied, eyes narrowing.

By the final laps, she was chasing Verstappen for P2. The Red Bull held firm, Max defensive but clean.

Lap after lap, she reeled Max in. His Red Bull was sturdy, twitching but refusing to break.

"Amara's gaining," Max muttered on his radio.

"Copy, Max. Keep using your battery smart. We'll cover her."

"She's too aggressive on corner entry. She'll cook her tyres," Max added, voice flat.

Amara's engineer cut in, "Gap 0.9. DRS next lap."

"Let's get him," Amara breathed, flexing her grip on the wheel.

Last lap. DRS down the main straight, the silver Mercedes roared, closing to half a second. She feinted left, then dived right, trying to hang it around the outside. Max shut the door, late but fair.

"Defend, defend!" His engineer barked.

Max whispered, "Not today."

Amara tried again into the final sector, nose darting toward the inside line, but Max covered it, forcing her wide.

"Close, Amara," Riccardo urged. "Bring it home."

She crossed the line in P3, less than a second behind Max. Lewis, untouchable, claimed yet another victory.

"P3. Well done, Amara! Hell of a recovery."

Amara leaned back against her seat, finally allowing herself a grin. "Could've been P2 if I'd nailed the launch."

"Yeah, but you kept it clean with Max. Great job today."

The podium stage gleamed under the sun, the Hungarian flag rippling behind them. No packed grandstands close by, just distant cheers muffled by empty sections and banners draped across seats. COVID rules meant it wasn't the chaotic mob she'd grown up watching, but the moment still sent a thrill through her.

Lewis stepped onto the center spot with a champion's ease, raising a hand to the cameras. Max claimed P2 with a sharp grin, and Amara climbed onto the third step, her smile hidden behind her mask.

When the champagne bottles were handed over, the three of them tugged their masks down. Lewis popped his cork first, spraying the air in wide arcs. Max turned his bottle straight on him, a precise jet that drenched Lewis' overalls.

Amara hesitated, then cracked hers open, laughter bubbling up as the fizz exploded. She aimed first at Max, who tried to block with his arm.

"Really?!" Max barked, trying to shield himself with his elbow. He retaliated immediately, a champagne jet soaking race suit.

She shrieked, laughing, twisting hers back at him. "Consider that payback!"

Then Lewis shifted, aiming his spray directly at Bono.

Bono tried to duck behind his mask, raising his hands. "No, no—come on, not me! I didn't sign up for this!"

Too late. Amara joined in, her champagne stream catching Bono square in the chest.

The celebration ended quickly—no hugs, no close photos, just a few elbow bumps before everyone tugged their masks back on. The stage was cleared, and within minutes, Amara found herself funneled toward the media pen.

Instead of the usual crush, microphones on long poles extended across a taped line, reporters standing spaced apart in masks. Lights still glared, cameras still rolled.

"Amara, take us through that start."

She blew out a breath. "Yeah, I twitched at the lights on my wheel. My mistake. It cost me, but the sensors didn't pick it up, so no penalty. I just had to reset and push from there."

Another mic leaned in. "Some say you did jump the start but got away with it. What's your response?"

Her spine straightened. "I reacted. The stewards cleared it. That's the end of it."

"Max, do you think she was too aggressive in her overtake attempts?" Another asked, swiveling the mic pole toward him.

Max shrugged, his eyes flicking sideways at her. "She pushed hard, sure, but that's her style. I don't mind. Better than someone just sitting there."

Before Amara could answer, Charles cut in sharply. "It wasn't just 'pushing hard'. She moved under braking. Twice. That's dangerous."

Amara's head turned. "Dangerous? Charles, you nearly parked your Ferrari in front of me defending. Don't cry foul because it didn't work."

Charles' jaw tightened under his mask. "It's about respect. There's a line."

She smiled thinly. "Funny. From where I was sitting, the line was about a car length behind me."

Reporters perked up immediately, voices overlapping as they fired off follow-ups, feeding on the tension.

"Charles, do you think Mercedes should have been penalized for that move?"

"Amara, are you suggesting Charles over-defended?"

"Max, do you agree with either of them?"

Max exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly amused. "All I'll say is... if that's aggressive, then maybe some people need to toughen up a bit."

Charles glared at him, Amara smirked, and the tension practically hummed in the restricted pen. FIA stewards were already making notes in the background, this was definitely going to get reviewed.

By the time they sat down for the official FIA press conference, tension was thick enough to slice. Hamilton gave diplomatic answers. Max cracked jokes about tyre strategy.

Then the inevitable question landed.

"Amara, Charles, the two of you had quite the on-track battle today, and some words afterward. Is this rivalry starting to boil over?"

Amara leaned forward. "There's no rivalry. I race hard, fair, and within the rules. If some people can't handle that, that's on them."

Charles' lips curled into a thin smile. "You mistake recklessness for skill. That's the problem."

Her laugh was sharp. "Funny, coming from someone who's been spinning more than scoring lately."

The room gasped again.

Max actually chuckled. "Spicy."

Charles turned to him, bristling. "You think that's funny?"

Max shrugged, his grin widening. "Hey, at least her fights are for podiums. Better view up there, you know?"

"Better view than P6, that's for sure," Amara added sweetly, not even glancing at Charles.

The Ferrari driver's jaw flexed, but Amara cut back in before he could retort. "Look, if I'd driven recklessly, I wouldn't be sitting here on the podium. I'd be in the gravel. Maybe some of us need to stop blaming others for our own car's problems."

Charles leaned toward his mic, voice tight. "Keep talking like that, and one day you will end up in the gravel—and it won't be on me."

Amara tilted her head, her smile thin. "Is that a threat, Charles? Because I'd be careful saying that on record."

Hamilton raised a hand slightly, his tone even, measured. "We don't need to go there. Look, we're all competitors, and emotions run high. But at the end of the day, we're professionals. We have to show respect—for each other, and for the sport."

"Exactly." Amara said quickly, still looking at Charles. "Some of us just push harder and cleaner."

"Cleaner?" Charles scoffed. "You nearly took my front wing off."

"If I wanted to take your wing, Charles, you wouldn't have finished sixth," She shot back, her tone like ice.

The moderator quickly cut in. "Alright, let's move on—"

But the damage was already sealed. By the time Amara and Lewis walked out of the press room, Toto's jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone. Mattia Binotto muttered something sharp in Italian under his breath, his expression a mask of weary exasperation. FIA representatives lingered in the hallway, their hushed whispers carrying the weight of decisions yet to be announced.

Lewis slowed his stride beside Amara, his voice low, meant only for her. "You've got the pace. Don't let him pull you into these games. Headlines fade. Points don't."

Amara nodded, but the fire in her chest was still burning, her pulse still quick. She could already feel the narrative spiraling beyond her control.

By evening, the fallout had begun. Headlines blared across every motorsport outlet, screenshots and soundbites spreading like wildfire:

Velasquez vs. Leclerc, Rivalry Explodes in Hungary

Amara Accused of Reckless Driving, Fires Back at Ferrari

FIA Expected to Intervene After Heated Exchange

Her phone buzzed nonstop with notifications—mentions, clips, fan edits already picking sides. Supporters cheered her defiance. Critics tore her apart.

And as Amara sat alone in her hotel room, champagne from the podium still drying on her race suit, the truth settled heavy in her gut. Hungary had given her a trophy, but Silverstone was already promising something else entirely.

Not just racing.

Consequences.

Chapter Text

England, Late July 2020

THE AIR INSIDE THE FIA OFFICE WAS STIFLING, THICKER THAN ANY COCKPIT HEAT AMARA HAD ENDURDED. A long mahogany table stretched across the room, lined with stern faces. FIA officials in suits, notebooks open. On one side, Toto sat composed, hands folded. Beside him, Amara straight-backed but coiled, her PR manager hovering with a practiced mask of neutrality. Across from them, Mattia adjusted his glasses, Charles sitting to his right, posture taut.

The official in the center wasted no time.

"This is not a kindergarten," He started flatly. "This is Formula 1."

The words cracked the room. Amara's jaw locked. Charles blinked, but neither spoke.

The official leaned forward. "We are fed up. In Spielberg, the press conference nearly devolved into a shouting match. And now in Hungary, another official had to separate you in the paddock before things escalated further. This behavior is unacceptable."

Amara shifted in her chair, biting her tongue.

"You are not just drivers," The official continued, eyes sweeping over them both. "You are role models. You represent this sport to millions of fans and aspiring drivers around the world. And what message are you sending when you take every opportunity to undermine one another in public?"

Toto exhaled slowly, about to speak, but the official raised a hand. "No. We've heard enough excuses."

Charles straightened, voice carefully controlled. "With respect, the media provokes us. They want soundbites. They corner us into—"

Amara cut in, sharp. "And I'm not supposed to defend myself when he takes the bait?"

Charles snapped his head toward her. "Defend yourself? You start half the fights!"

"Half?" Amara scoffed. "Try seventy percent, if you're being dramatic."

Charles leaned back, a humorless laugh escaping. "Funny, considering you thrive on drama."

Amara's nails dug into her palm under the table. "Better drama than playing the saint every weekend."

"Enough." The official's voice slammed down like a gavel. "This is exactly the problem. Excuses. Pointing fingers. Neither of you accepts responsibility."

Mattia cleared his throat. "Charles is young, he's—"

"Well Amara is younger—"

"Stop!" The official snapped. "Both drivers are equally at fault. Mr. Wolff, Mr. Binotto, your defenses are noted. But the FIA sees no innocent party here."

Toto leaned forward, tone measured. "Amara has worked hard to earn her place here. It's natural she pushes back when provoked."

Mattia adjusted his glasses, firing back. "And Charles has carried the weight of Ferrari's expectations since day one. If he bites back, it's because the pressure is relentless."

The official's expression hardened. "We are not interested in justifications. What the world sees is two professionals unable to conduct themselves professionally."

Silence. The kind that pressed against skin.

The verdict came swift, "You will both serve another penalty. Three days of joint media training. Role-playing difficult questions. Practicing positive body language. Presenting as a pair."

Amara's eyes went wide. "Joint workshop? Might as well chain us together at this point." The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Charles turned, incredulous. "Oh, brilliant. That'll make it easier for you to whisper insults under your breath."

Amara rolled her eyes. "Better than listening to you drone about 'balance' like you're everyone's driving instructor."

Charles's lip curled. "At least people listen when I speak, not tune out because they're tired of your theatrics."

"Keep talking," Amara hissed. "Maybe one day you'll convince yourself you're perfect."

Charles leaned forward, voice sharp. "At least I don't turn every question into a pity story."

Amara shot back instantly. "And at least I don't pretend I've never made a mistake in my life."

The official slammed the table. Both drivers jumped.

"You two are embarrassing this sport."

The room stilled. Even Toto's composure faltered.

"So you want me to just smile and nod while he undermines me?" Amara shot back, defensive, her voice tight.

"And you want me to let her insult me without responding?" Charles countered, the sharp edge of his accent cutting through.

"Exactly," The official barked. "Exactly why you two will spend three days together. Perhaps then you'll learn restraint."

Amara muttered, low but audible, "Restraint isn't exactly his specialty."

Charles's head snapped toward her. "And patience isn't yours."

The official's glare shut them both down before another word could be exchanged.

The meeting ended with clipped goodbyes. Amara shoved back her chair, storming out before anyone else could move. Charles followed moments later, his own frustration simmering. Toto and Mattia exchanged stiff nods, the attempt at civility paper-thin before the FIA's watchful eyes.

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AMARA's HOTEL ROOM SMELLED FAINTLY OF BUTTERED POPCORN AND THE CHEAP FABRIC SOFTENER FROM LAUNDRY DONE ON THE ROAD. The curtains were half-drawn, casting the room in dusky light as the TV screen flickered with a muted action movie.

George and Alex sprawled across the bed, a bag of crisps between them. Lando lounged on the opposite couch, one leg tucked under him, smirking whenever a dramatic stunt exploded on-screen. Amara lay stretched on the main couch, head resting against the armrest, legs casually draped across Max's lap. He didn't move them. Didn't complain. Just sat there, half-focused on the film, half-focused on her.

The quiet comfort lasted until Amara reached for the remote. She paused the movie with a sigh.

"Three days," She blurted. "Three whole days stuck with him. Role-playing, body language training, joint answers. I'd rather crash into a wall than fake smiling at Charles for three days straight."

George cracked up immediately. "Maybe they're just trying to turn you two into the next PR power duo."

Alex sat up, putting on a mock announcer voice. "Coming soon: The PR Team vs. The Frenemies. Limited series, only on Netflix."

Lando grinned, eyes glinting. "Or better—How to Fall in Love with Your Enemy in Three Days. Fans would eat that up."

Amara groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at him. "Oh no absolutely not."

Lando ducked, laughing. George wheezed into the crisp bag.

Max didn't laugh at first. His hand shifted slightly on her shin, grounding. "They shouldn't force you into this crap," He said, voice low. "You've done nothing wrong. Charles just can't handle being called out."

George smirked. "Careful, Max, you're gonna make the rest of us look bad with that knight-in-shining-armor routine."

Alex added, teasing, "Yeah, mate, you're one heartfelt speech away from proposing on her behalf."

Amara rolled her eyes. "God you're all idiots."

Max's jaw ticked. "I'm serious. He crosses the line, and she always gets blamed for reacting."

The others caught the edge in his voice, exchanging quick looks.

Lando raised his brows. "Relax, Max. You sound like her lawyer. Or boyfriend."

Amara rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."

Alex leaned over with a grin. "Imagine Max in a suit though, following you around. 'Objection! My client did not roll her eyes at Leclerc, she was simply... stretching.'"

But George and Alex exchanged a look over the bag of crisps, silently filing away the moment.

George cleared his throat, dropping into a fake-serious voice. "Amara, can you tell us how it feels to be the FIA's newest kindergarten student?"

Amara glared at him. "Careful, Georgie. I still have energy to smother you with a pillow."

"Violence!" Lando said, shaking his head. "She's definitely learning from Charles."

Amara whipped the cushion at him again. "Say that name in my room one more time, Norris."

Lando leaned forward, grinning. "No, seriously, we should make flashcards for you. Like—'smile politely', 'look supportive', 'don't kill Charles'."

Alex smirked. "And a safe word when you're about to snap in front of the cameras. We'll know to drag you out."

George nodded eagerly. "Make it something ridiculous. Like 'pineapple.' Or 'Fernando Alonso.'"

Amara peeked at him from under the pillow. "Fine. If I ever yell 'Fernando,' you all better riot on my behalf."

"Deal," George said solemnly, shaking Alex's hand as though they'd just signed a contract.

Amara groaned, burying her face under a cushion. "You're all really impossible."

Max's voice came softer, dry but protective. "Don't worry. If they push you too far, you can always practice your positive body language by elbowing Charles again."

Lando snorted. "Positive body language? That's attempted murder, mate."

Amara peeked out from behind the cushion. "Not if I smile while doing it."

Alex pointed at her like a commentator. "Ah, yes. The Amara Velasquez Method: smile, strike, and watch PR scramble."

George laughed so hard he nearly dropped the crisps. "Ten out of ten, would subscribe."

The room broke into laughter, even Amara peeking out from behind the cushion with a reluctant smile.

For a moment, the weight of the FIA meeting lifted, replaced by the warmth of popcorn, teasing voices, and the steady comfort of friends who saw her not as a headline, but as Amara.

Chapter Text

England, August 2020

HEAT RIPPLED OFF THE ASPHALT IN WAVES AS THE SILVERSTONE PADDOCK SURGED UNDER THE AUGUST SUN. Despite the COVID regulations, which included masks, empty grandstands, and less people roaming about, nothing could lessen the intensity of Lewis' home race, which is the lifeblood of Formula One.

Amara arrived early. Her Mercedes cap shielded her from the morning sun, but nothing dulled the weight in her chest: the workshop. Toto had made it non-negotiable. Three sessions, just her and Charles, locked into a room with a communication coach.

Max caught her near the motorhome. Sunglasses perched on his nose, he leaned against a wall with the ease of someone who lived for chaos.

"Three days in a cage with Leclerc," He said, grin sharp. "Want me to smuggle you in snacks? Or bail money?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's a workshop, Max. Not prison."

"Same thing if Charles is in there." He winked. "Text me if he makes you cry. I'll buy dinner if you survive today."

"You volunteering as my therapist now?" she shot back.

"Only if therapy includes champagne," Max said easily.

She snorted and kept walking, but when her phone buzzed five minutes before the session, she didn't need to check who it was.

MAX: Try not to kill him. If you do, make it look like an accident. Dinner offer still stands.

She laughed, quickly hiding her smile as she pushed open the door.

The instructor was a tall woman with sharp eyes and an easy smile, her posture straight but approachable. She set down a folder on the desk and clapped her hands once, drawing both drivers' attention.

"Good morning. I'm Dr. Helena Strauss—most people just call me Helena. I specialize in sports psychology and media communication. For the next three days, I'll be working with the two of you. Don't worry, you'll survive." Her tone was light, but her eyes flicked between them knowingly.

Charles crossed his arms. "Wonderful."

Amara raised a brow, already sensing how much she was going to hate this.

Helena's smile widened. "Let's start simple. Introduce yourselves. Not as drivers, not with your stats, but as people. I want to hear how you would describe yourselves. Charles, why don't you start?"

Charles hesitated for a moment, clearly unamused. "Charles Leclerc. I... I drive cars fast. I like music, piano mostly. I suppose that's all."

"Concise," Helena said, jotting something down. "We'll work on depth later." She turned to Amara. "Your turn."

Amara gave a small shrug. "Amara Velasquez. I also drive cars fast. And I do play piano—though not as well as him. I usually just mess around with chords when I can't sleep or when I am nervous. Oh, and I make a mean coffee."

Charles tilted his head, clearly caught off guard by that small overlap. "Didn't know you played."

"You don't know a lot of things about me anymore," She shot back, tone clipped but not entirely unfriendly.

"Okay. Excellent," Helena said smoothly, ignoring the tension. "Now. First exercise. Ice-breaker: one positive thing you admire about each other."

Both Charles and Amara froze.

"You're joking." Amara said flatly.

Helena arched a brow. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Charles sat across the table, arms crossed. His voice was clipped. "She has determination."

Amara arched a brow. "That's generous, coming from you."

Charles muttered, just loud enough: "Don't get used to it."

"And you?" The instructor pressed.

Amara leaned back in her chair. "Charles is... very good at keeping Ferrari's lawyers employed."

Helena chuckled. Charles did not.

"Very original," Charles said flatly. "Do you rehearse these at night?"

"Only when I'm bored," She shot back. "Which, lucky me, happens a lot when you're around."

The instructor, Helena, raised her brows. "This is supposed to be positive reinforcement."

Amara gestured at Charles. "That was positive. I didn't say Ferrari fired him—yet."

Charles exhaled slowly, his knuckles tapping the table. "You really can't resist the last word, can you?"

"Not when you keep setting them up so perfectly." She countered.

Next came role-play interviews. Amara had to impersonate Charles. She smoothed her expression into practiced calm, lowering her voice.

"We try our best, the team did a good job, the points are important."

Helena laughed outright. Charles scowled. "That's not how I sound."

"Oh, it's exactly how you sound." She fired back.

Then Charles' turn. He crossed his arms, voice laced with mock fire. "If you touch my car, I'll put you in the wall. Don't question me."

Amara pressed her lips together, refusing to laugh, though the instructor nearly doubled over.

"Good," The woman said when she caught her breath. "You see the caricatures you've made of each other? Humor breaks tension. Remember that."

"Or maybe we just bring out the worst in each other," Amara said under her breath.

Charles' reply was immediate. "You've already proved that."

"Look, if I wanted to take you out, you wouldn't be here," She shot back, sharp enough to cut.

"And if I wanted to ignore you," Charles said, "I wouldn't waste the effort."

The last exercise forced them into mirrored postures: arms, legs, even the tilt of their heads. It was absurd. Amara tried not to fidget, but Charles caught her eye and, for one second, she thought he almost smiled. She looked away first.

During the break, Amara checked her phone and laughed softly at another message from Max:

MAX: Day one and you're still alive? Miracles happen.

The instructor caught her grin. "Starting to warm up to Charles?"

Amara's laugh cut too sharp. "Oh no. Absolutely not."

Unbeknownst to her, Charles had overheard. His eyes flicked up from his water bottle, unreadable.

"Don't worry," He said dryly. "The feeling is mutual."

Amara raised her bottle in mock cheers. "Then at least we agree on one thing."

Charles scoffed softly, eyes narrowing. "A miracle. We should frame the moment."

She smirked back, sharp-edged. "Don't worry, I'm sure Ferrari will make a commemorative poster about it."

Helena cleared her throat before it spiraled. "Alright, save some of that fire for the track. We're done for today."

Amara grabbed her bag, not sparing Charles a glance as she left. Her pulse was steady now, but tension hummed beneath her skin. There was no point wasting more words, Silverstone itself would settle what neither of them could.

Hours later, as afternoon shadows stretched across the paddock, the build-up began. Mechanics rushed, tyres stacked, engines warming. The air sharpened, anticipation heavy.

The grid roared alive beneath a sky streaked with summer haze. Engines snarled, tyres smoked, and the flag snapped above the grandstands. Even without fans in the seats, Silverstone thrummed with something electric.

Hamilton launched cleanly off pole, silver arrow slicing into Turn 1. Amara tucked in tight behind him, Mercedes to Mercedes, every movement sharp, calculated.

"Good start." Riccardo's voice crackled in her ear.

For the opening laps she shadowed Lewis, relentless but measured, her front wing hovering like a shadow in his mirrors. Behind, the pack jostled, Max pressing, Ferrari hanging on, Charles steady in fourth.

By Lap 45. A crackle of static, then her voice over radio.

"Guys, I'm feeling vibrations. Car's shaking."

"Copy," Riccardo said calmly. "Back off. P2 is safe."

Her jaw clenched. Safe wasn't in her vocabulary. "I can hold it. Just give me margins."

"Negative. No risks, Amara. Eyes on the finish."

She obeyed, barely. But the steering trembled, grip fading lap by lap. Lewis drifted out of reach.

Then Max pounced. On fresher tyres, he surged past. Amara fought, but the car wasn't there. She slipped to P3, tyres crying.

"Damn it!" She hissed into the radio.

"Keep your head down. P3 still strong."

But it wasn't. Not for long. On Lap 52, Charles' scarlet nose loomed in her mirrors. He pressed once, twice. She blocked, teeth gritted. Then the vibration worsened, forcing her wide.

He slipped through into third.

"Car's done," She whispered.

"Bring it home. That's all we need."

And she did, P4. Lewis claimed victory at home, Max second, Charles third.

Lewis stood on the podium, the national flag draped across his shoulders. Champagne arced, fizzing against hot air. Max aimed a spray into Lewis' face, then leaned over the barrier, pointing cheekily toward Amara below.

"Dinner?" He mouthed, grinning.

She shook her head, half amused. Cameras flashed, catching it. Headlines would feast.

Later, in the paddock's narrow corridor, Ferrari red blocked her path. Charles' voice came low, sharp as a blade.

"Maybe patience would've saved your tyres."

Amara didn't slow. "Maybe talent would've gotten you P2, or a win."

His jaw flexed. Before it could escalate, Lewis appeared, calm as stone.

"You both drove well," He said, tone steady but final. "Don't waste it on arguing."

Chapter Text

England, August 2020

THE LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT SPILLED ACROSS SILVERSTONE, PAINTING THE CIRCUIT IN GOLD AS Q3 REACHED ITS PEAK. Engines roared, each car a streak of color and noise as they hurtled around the track. Amara sat low in her seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel, visor locked forward.

"Alright, Amara, this is the final push," Riccardo's voice came calm and steady through her radio. "Track evolution is strong. Give it everything. You're P2 right now, two-tenths off Max."

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. "Copy. Let's go."

The Mercedes bolted out of the final corner, the car shuddering with unleashed power as she crossed the line to begin her lap.

"Turn One, flat, flat, flat." Riccardo urged.

She threw the car in, heart hammering. The tyres gripped, the silver nose carving through the high-speed corner without a flinch. Her eyes flicked to the delta bar flashing green.

"Nice. Keep it smooth. Gain on entry, Turn Six."

Amara braked late, almost too late, her stomach flipping as the car twitched. But it held. The Mercedes danced on the edge, snapping straight just as she fed the throttle back in.

"Purple sector one," Riccardo's voice cut in. "You're flying."

She couldn't reply. She didn't dare. All she did was push harder, fingertips tingling as she threaded through Maggotts and Becketts, body pressed by the G-forces, lungs burning with the effort to hold steady. The car sang beneath her, an extension of thought, of instinct.

Final corner. She stamped the throttle, engine screaming. The finish line blurred past.

"Across the line... and that's P1! P1! You've done it, Amara! Wonderful drive! Pole position at Silverstone!" Riccardo's voice finally cracked with excitement.

For a heartbeat she couldn't process it. The radio erupted with cheers from her engineers, clapping and shouting through the static. She let out a laugh, half disbelieving, half exhale of all the pressure she'd carried.

"What?! Really?! I... we actually did it?"

"You did it," Riccardo said. "Hell of a lap! Enjoy this."

Her breath shuddered out, hands trembling as she brought the car back to parc fermé. The boards were already being set up: P1, P2, P3. And there it was, her name on top.

Silverstone carried the weight of history in its asphalt, but on Saturday, it carried something more. Amara stepped out of the car after qualifying, chest heaving, heart still racing, and stared at the glowing 'P1' on the timing screens.

Her first pole.

Mercedes mechanics erupted around her, clapping, cheering, helmets bouncing against shoulders. The sound wrapped around her, a rush of voices and pride that almost didn't feel real.

Lewis was already walking over, his smile visible even with a mask on. "Pole on your first Silverstone race? That's special, M. Soak it in."

Amara shook her head, still dazed. "L! I don't even... I thought I left something in Turn Six. I thought it was gone."

He chuckled, pulling her into a quick, congratulatory hug. "It wasn't. That was pure pace. You earned this."

Reporters surged as she made her way toward the interviews. Cameras captured her every step, eyes shining above the black mask. She answered question after question, what it meant to her, how it felt to out-qualify Hamilton, whether this was the beginning of a new order.

"It means a lot, of course," She said steadily, though adrenaline still threaded through her voice. "The car felt strong, the team gave me everything, and I just tried to put it together. But tomorrow is where the real points are. That's what matters."

"But you beat a six-time world champion today," One journalist pressed. "Does this feel like a statement? That you're here to not just fill a seat, but to lead?"

Amara exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of her mask. "I don't think about it that way. Lewis is.. he's Lewis. He's set the standard in this sport for so long. I'm just trying to learn, to grow, and to deliver for Mercedes. If today showed anything, it's how good this car is when everything clicks. I'm grateful I was the one to put it on pole, but I'd never call it a statement against him. It's a statement for the team."

Another microphone pushed closer. "Amara, you've been criticized heavily since signing with Mercedes. Some said it was too soon, that you wouldn't cope under pressure. Do you think today silences those doubts?"

Her eyes didn't waver, even if her pulse did. "Doubts will always be there. People will always say things. The only answer is on track, and I think today was one of those answers. Tomorrow's another chance to give one."

Then another voice cut through the noise, sharper than the rest. "Amara, you're also the first woman to take pole in Formula 1. Do you feel the weight of representing something bigger than yourself? Do you see this as breaking barriers for women in motorsport?"

A pause. Cameras tilted closer, lenses clicking in rapid bursts.

She took a breath. "Of course I'm aware of it. I grew up watching this sport knowing there weren't women out here competing at the top. So if today means a young girl somewhere sees this and thinks, 'I can do that too', then that makes it even more special. But when I'm in the car, I'm not thinking about being a woman, I'm thinking about being a driver. And drivers don't get handed poles, they earn them. That's what today was about."

The questioner nodded, and another volley of hands shot up, but the moment lingered, carried away by the shutters snapping her expression into permanence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Charles further down the lane, helmet still under his arm, answering his own set of questions after managing only eighth. His glance flicked toward her once, unreadable, before turning away again.

Max, however, had no trouble showing his thoughts. He strolled by, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Careful, Amara. Once you taste pole, you'll start demanding it every week."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I'll save some for you."

"Generous," He quipped, before drifting off with Red Bull staff.

The afternoon brought the workshop. Helena was waiting for them in the same room as before, her sharp eyes brighter than ever.

"Congratulations on pole, Amara!" She said warmly. "And Charles, P8 doesn't reflect your effort. Sometimes the car makes the choice for you."

Charles gave a short nod. His gaze flicked to Amara, who met it without flinching.

Helena clapped her hands once. "Today we raise the stakes. No one-word answers, no sniping. We're working on flow. You'll answer questions as if you're in a press conference, but one starts, the other finishes. No overlaps, no undercutting. If you stumble, the other has to cover."

Amara groaned under her breath. "So, like a three-legged race, but verbal."

"Exactly," Helena said. "And just as awkward. Let's begin."

She threw out questions, about rivalries, teamwork, the stress of racing. Amara started the first.

"Of course we're competitive. That's the job." She said, measured.

Charles picked up immediately. "But we respect each other as drivers, even when it doesn't look like it."

Amara's head turned toward him, slow, deliberate. She'd been ready for a jab. Instead, she got... restraint. It unsettled her more than a fight would have. Folding her arms, she forced herself forward. "There's tension, yes, but at the end of the day, we both want to push Formula One forward."

Helena smiled. "That was smooth. See? Not so hard when you don't bite."

Neither of them looked at her.

The exercise continued. Sometimes Charles paused too long, like he was overthinking every word. Sometimes Amara cut too sharp, her tone daring him to push back. But he didn't, not fully. He kept adding instead of tearing down, and that in itself was strange. She adjusted, unwillingly, filling in his gaps, trying not to notice how much it felt like... cooperation.

"So if I mess something up, you swoop in and fix it?" She asked during one of the practice runs, arching a brow.

"Not fix," Charles said, his tone clipped but measured. "Add. Support."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's rich, coming from you. You don't usually do support."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Maybe I don't because you never leave room for it."

Her lips pressed into a line. "Or maybe you don't because you think you're always right."

The silence that followed was tight enough to snap. Then Helena jumped in quickly, clapping once. "Good. That's tension, but contained tension. You're bouncing, not breaking. Use it."

Amara leaned back in her chair. "So we're improv actors now, basically?"

"Better than gladiators," Charles muttered, avoiding her eyes.

Her head tilted sharply. "Careful, Leclerc. I'd win in that arena."

For the first time, he risked glancing at her, his expression unreadable. "I don't doubt it."

It wasn't a compliment. It wasn't an insult either. Just... something else. And it landed wrong in her chest.

Helena's gaze flicked between them, almost amused. "Progress. Messy, but progress. Keep going."

The second exercise came harsher. Helena dimmed the lights and pulled up a screen. Footage from Hungary filled the screen, the press conference where they'd snapped and snarled like enemies. Amara's jaw tightened as she saw herself spat back at Charles with venom; Charles's own glare looked almost feral frozen on-screen. Watching it back made Amara's jaw clench.

Helena crossed her arms. "Now, watch yourselves from this footage. Would you believe these two are supposed to be some of the brightest of your generation?"

Charles exhaled slowly. "Do we really sound that childish?"

Amara didn't miss the opening. "That's generous. We sounded worse."

For once, he didn't snap back. His lips twitched, almost against his will.

Helena caught it. "There. That tiny reaction? That's acknowledgment. You don't have to agree, but you do have to see each other."

Amara leaned forward, arms folded. "Fine. I see a guy who thinks he's the moral compass of the grid, lecturing me like it's his job."

Charles turned his head toward her, dry. "And I see someone who'd rather die than admit when she's wrong."

Her laugh was short, edged. "Good thing I'm rarely wrong."

"Good thing I know when you are." His voice dipped low, and for a moment, it wasn't for Helena. It was just for her.

Helena raised her eyebrows, letting the tension hang just long enough. "Exactly. This, believe it or not, is better. Banter is human. Silent walls aren't. Keep the banter, lose the poison."

Amara nodded at the frozen frame on screen, Charles mid-glare, her own mouth caught sharp mid-retort. "Poison's kind of our brand, isn't it?"

Charles let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Then maybe it's a brand that needs killing."

Her brows rose. "Wow. Did Ferrari approve that statement, or is this just you freelancing diplomacy?"

His mouth tugged into the faintest smirk. "Don't get used to it."

"Okay good," Helena cut in, voice firm, slicing through the thin thread of ease between them. "Awareness is the first step. Now, last task. A memory. Something from before Formula One. Each of you must recall one moment you remember about the other."

Amara stiffened, but Helena's expression brooked no refusal.

Charles spoke first, after a pause. "We raced in karts once, in Lonato. I thought I'd covered the inside, but somehow she—" His gaze flicked toward Amara, "—found a gap so small I didn't even know it existed. I still remember how angry I was, sitting there thinking, 'how did she even fit the kart through?'"

Amara tilted her head, arms folding. "You were blocking. I had to make it interesting."

His mouth curved, faint but genuine. "You did. More than I'd admit at the time."

Her chest tightened. She didn't like that look on his face. Didn't like how familiar it was, too familiar.

Helena's eyes gleamed as she shifted. "And you, Amara?"

She almost said no. Almost refused. Instead, she exhaled. "We used to run laps at that private karting track in Monaco. You remember?"

Charles nodded, almost despite himself.

Amara continued, voice careful. "I hated it at first, you were always quicker. But then one evening, I finally kept up. Just one session. You didn't say anything, but I saw the look on your face when you realized I was still behind you after five laps. That's the first time I thought... maybe I could actually belong."

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. "...I do remember. You did more than keep up. You pushed me." His voice dropped. "Harder than anyone else."

Amara looked away, jaw tight. "Don't make it sound like a compliment."

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth. "It is one."

Her pulse stuttered at the quiet conviction in his tone. She covered it with a scoff.

Helena clasped her hands, clearly pleased. "See? You've always been in each other's orbit. Not enemies. Not strangers. There's ground here, if you want to build on it."

Neither answered.

When the session ended, the silence between them wasn't razor-sharp anymore. It was something heavier, harder to name.

At the doorway, Charles finally spoke, voice low, "You really thought you didn't belong?"

Amara's eyes flicked toward him, guarded. "Did you ever make it easy to think otherwise?"

He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead. "...Fair."

She gave a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Fair."

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RACE DAY CAME, HOT ENOUGH TO FRY THE TRACK. AMARA STARTED ON POLE, LEWIS BESIDE HER, HULKENBERG'S SURPRISE RETURN SLOTTING HIM IN THIRD, MAX JUST BEHIND. Charles sat buried in eighth, but Silverstone had a way of rewriting grids.

The lights went out. Amara launched cleanly, defending the inside into Turn One. For lap after lap, she commanded the circuit, Hamilton locked in behind her, Verstappen pressuring from fourth. The high of pole flowed into rhythm, her Mercedes carving lines like silk.

But by lap thirteen, her radio crackled. "We're seeing high tyre wear. Box this lap."

She cursed but obeyed, diving in for fresh rubber. Hamilton followed next lap, but the damage was done. Max, on an alternate strategy, had clean air and hungry pace.

By lap twenty-six, Max came roaring back out on mediums, tucking right behind Amara. He didn't wait long.

"Verstappen behind, closing," Riccardo warned.

"I see him." Amara bit out, tightening her grip.

Max slipped past two corners later, his voice smug over Red Bull's radio, though she couldn't hear it.

She tried to fight, but the tyres melted beneath her. Each lap was a battle against physics. Lewis managed to cling to second, Charles clawed his way up to third, and Amara limped across the line in P3. Her first pole, but not her first win.

On the podium, the air was fizzing with champagne. Lewis soaked Max, Max retaliated, and then the Dutchman turned his spray directly toward Amara, grinning.

"Told you I'd get you one day!" He shouted over the roar.

She narrowed her eyes, spraying him back full force. "Don't get used to it, hothead!"

The cameras loved it. The tabloids would feast.

Later, in the parc fermé, Max slung an arm over her shoulder briefly before she could duck away. "P3 looks good on you."

She punched his arm lightly. "You're so insufferable."

"And yet you like me." He winked and sauntered off.

She snorted. "I'd rather let them think I crashed on purpose."

Max laughed, completely unbothered, and sauntered off like the world belonged to him.

Charles passed them without slowing, helmet dangling at his side. His expression was unreadable, but the tightness around his mouth gave him away.

That evening, the hotel bar buzzed with muffled conversation. Lewis had retired early, leaving Amara with a drink in hand when Max appeared, riding high on his win.

He leaned in across the table, grin lazy. "You know, I like you better when you're not fighting Charles."

She arched a brow. "Then you must barely like me at all."

"Not true," He said easily. "I like you plenty. Enough to say you'd have had me if not for tyres."

Amara chuckled, swirling her glass. "Generous of you."

"Realistic," Max corrected, flashing teeth. "You were quick today. Scared me for a second."

She smirked. "Only a second?"

"That's longer than most get."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Save it, Verstappen. You're unbearable when you win."

"And charming when I don't. Can't lose either way."

For a moment, their laughter faded into something quieter. Max leaned back, nursing his drink, eyes flicking toward her in the dim light. "Can I ask you something?"

"Dangerous words," She teased, but nodded.

He hesitated, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "What would you do if... someone liked you? Not just as a driver, not just as a rival. Like, really really liked you?"

Amara blinked, caught off guard. "You? Max Verstappen? You're really asking me relationship advice? After spraying champagne in my face?"

Max chuckled. "I'm serious."

She set her drink down, fingers tracing the rim. The alcohol loosened her tongue, but not enough to strip away her honesty. "Uh.. I think... it depends. Right now, racing is everything. It takes up every corner of my life. So if someone liked me, I'd probably be scared I couldn't give them what they deserved."

"Scared?" Max echoed, brows raised.

She gave a half-smile, a little rueful. "Yeah. Scared I'd mess it up. Or that they'd become a distraction I couldn't afford. But scared doesn't mean I'd run from it. Just... I'd want to be sure it was worth the risk. That they were worth the risk."

Max leaned an elbow on the table, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "So if someone was... let's say persistent, you wouldn't shut them down immediately?"

Amara tilted her head, studying him. "Depends. If they were persistent but also annoying? Definitely."

That earned a laugh out of him, low and genuine. "And if they weren't annoying?"

She smirked, lifting her glass again. "Then maybe I'd let them try. Doesn't mean they'd succeed."

"Cold." Max said, though his grin softened the word.

"Honest." She corrected. "I don't play games. I don't have time for them."

He watched her a moment longer, then asked, more carefully, "And what if the person was someone you already know? Someone who's... around?"

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Why are you suddenly asking me this like it's a job interview?"

"Just curious," Max said quickly, holding up both hands. "You fascinate me, Velasquez. You're like, how do I put this?—you say you don't want distractions, but sometimes I think you're the one who distracts everyone else."

Amara chuckled, shaking her head. "That's on them, not me. I'm just doing my job."

"Maybe," He allowed, though his tone carried more weight than his grin suggested. After a beat, he lifted his glass in salute, masking it with that trademark swagger. "Fair answer. Brutally fair."

Amara tapped her glass against his. "I don't know how to be anything else."

"Yeah," Max said quietly, almost to himself. "I know."

The glasses met with a soft chime, sharp against the low hum of conversation around them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Max caught Charles passing by on his way out. His gaze lingered on Amara a moment too long before slipping away into the night. Max noticed, of course he did, but when he glanced back, Amara was too busy sipping her drink, her thoughts somewhere far away, to catch it.

Chapter Text

England, August 2020

A day after the 70th Anniversary GP

BY MIDMORNING, THE HOTEL BREAKFAST SPREAD WAS ALIVE WITH CHATTER. Plates clattered, coffee machines hissed, and the faint smell of bacon lingered in the air. Amara slid into a table with George, Lando, and Alex, their voices already bouncing around in lazy laughter.

"Early riser, huh?" George nudged her with his elbow. "Saw you haunting the piano before the rest of us even blinked awake."

"Yeah, keeping secrets from us?" Lando added, smearing jam on his toast. "What's next—secret album drop?"

Amara rolled her eyes, pouring herself some juice. "Relax. It's not like I'm auditioning for Britain's Got Talent."

"Could've fooled us," Alex said with a grin. "The lounge sounded like a concert hall when I walked past."

Max arrived halfway through, dropping into the empty chair beside her with a grin that made Lando groan.

"Secretly an artist," Max announced. "Explains the dramatics on track."

"Dramatics?" She repeated flatly.

"Exactly!" Lando jumped in. "The hand gestures, the radio rants, the way you make pole laps sound like Shakespeare. It's all connected."

Amara shook her head, suppressing a laugh. "Shut up Lando, you're ridiculous."

Max leaned closer. "Ever think about doing something else if racing didn't work out?"

She hesitated, fork hovering. "...Not really. Piano just... kept me sane when I was younger. That's all.v

"Not 'just,'" Max said, his grin softening. "You play like it means something."

George raised his brows. "Max Verstappen, philosopher. Didn't have that on my bingo card."

Lando snorted. "Don't encourage him. He's already impossible."

Amara smirked, shaking her head. "Means I need better hobbies, that's all."

"Or maybe you're just multitalented," Alex offered, ever the peacemaker. "Podiums and piano? Show-off."

"Podiums, yeah," Lando cut in with a teasing grin, "But wait until Charles beats her to one. Then maybe he'll start singing instead."

The table erupted in laughter, except Amara, who just rolled her eyes and stabbed at her eggs.

Across the room, Charles sat at a different table with Pierre, his plate mostly untouched. He didn't realize how often his eyes flicked toward their table until Pierre cleared his throat.

"You're staring again." Pierre said under his breath.

Charles straightened, forcing his gaze down. "...No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Pierre replied, not bothering to lower his voice. "You've been staring holes in her head for five minutes. If she turns, you'll get caught."

Charles's jaw tightened. "I'm just... listening. They're loud."

Pierre raised a brow, unimpressed. "Loud enough to distract you from breakfast?"

Charles stabbed at his eggs without appetite. "It doesn't matter."

"It clearly does," Pierre pressed, leaning in. "You're glaring every time Max opens his mouth."

"I am not glaring," Charles replied, though his grip on the fork said otherwise.

Pierre tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you look jealous."

Charles froze, then scoffed, too sharp. "Ridiculous."

"Is it?" Pierre asked lightly. "Because if it's not jealousy, then what? You hate toast theft?"

Charles shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor louder than he intended. "I need coffee."

Pierre leaned back, watching him stalk toward the machine. "Uh-huh. Coffee," He murmured, grinning.

Back at the other table, Amara didn't notice. She was too busy swatting Max's hand away from her plate.

"Seriously?" She said, mock scolding. "Get your own."

Max grinned, toast between his teeth. "But yours tastes better."

"Because I made the effort to put jam on it, you thief," Amara shot back, though she was laughing despite herself.

"Sharing is caring," Lando chimed, snatching a piece of fruit from George's plate in solidarity.

"Hey!" George glared, though he was smiling. "Keep your sticky fingers on your own side, Norris."

Their table burst into another round of laughter, the sound carrying across the room—louder to Charles than it really was.

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‎THE WORKSHOP ROOM BUZZED WITH LOW GRUMBLING WHEN HELENA STRODE IN, CLIPBOARD UNDER HER ARM.

"Today isn't about words," She announced, sharp enough to cut through the noise. "It's about whether you can convince people you're not at war."

Charles and Amara groaned in unison.

"Complain all you like," Helena continued, unbothered. "The FIA is paying attention. Fail here, and you'll have bigger problems than a few hours of discomfort."

The first exercise was rapid-fire Q&A, answers needing to align.

"Favorite track?" Helena barked.

"Monaco." Charles said.

"Suzuka." Amara countered at the same time.

"Wrong." Helena smacked her clipboard. "Again. Answer together."

They reset, fumbling at first—her cutting in too quickly, him second-guessing. By the tenth question, something shifted.

"Most overrated driver?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Lance." They said in perfect sync.

Helena's brow lifted, the faintest smirk on her face. "Finally. Try to keep that up."

Charles shot Amara a look that was almost smug. She rolled her eyes, muttering, "Don't get used to it."

The crisis simulation came next.

"Charles, you crash into Amara mid-race. Press conference is waiting. What do you say?"

Charles hesitated. "That it was a racing incident—"

"Too formal," Helena interrupted. "They won't buy it. Amara?"

"I'd say Charles has the spatial awareness of a traffic cone."

"Really mature." Charles said under his breath.

Helena's lips twitched. "Better. At least it sounds real."

They tried again, this time with Charles defending her. "Amara pushed hard, like always, but I know she'd never deliberately put me in danger. She's too good for that."

Something in his voice lingered. Amara blinked but didn't comment, tension humming beneath the joke.

"You almost made that sound believable," She said lightly, but her tone betrayed a flicker of discomfort.

"Almost?" His jaw tightened. "You think I don't mean it?"

"Do you?" She shot back.

Helena clapped her hands, cutting off the charged silence. "Okay! Better. Let's move on before one of you throws something."

Role reversal brought chaos.

"Be Amara." Helena ordered Charles.

He straightened, raising his chin. "I drive aggressive because perfection's boring."

"Please," Amara scoffed. "If I actually sounded that pretentious, someone would've slapped me years ago."

Charles smirked. "I'm only quoting you."

Her mouth opened, then shut, irritation flickering across her face. "You really never get tired of hearing yourself, do you?"

"Your turn." Helena said.

Amara crossed her arms. "I am Charles. I am polite, calculated, and very serious about pasta."

Charles exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "That's not fair. Pasta is serious."

For the first time, the tension cracked, a ripple of reluctant laughter slipping between them.

Then, the blind trust test left no room for jokes.

Amara was blindfolded, Charles guiding her through cones and chairs scattered across the floor.

"Left. Two steps. Careful."

She bristled. "You sound like a GPS."

"Would you rather crash?" His hand hovered near her elbow, steady but not touching. "Forward. Stop."

She misjudged, toe catching on the edge of a chair leg. Before she could stumble, his hand shot out, catching her firmly.

Her breath caught, the blindfold suddenly suffocating. With a sharp tug, she pulled it off, blinking against the light, only to find him already watching her, his hand still wrapped around her arm.

For a beat, neither of them moved. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but close enough that she felt the weight of it press against her skin.

"Let go." She mumbled, heat crawling up her neck.

"You're welcome," He said evenly, though his grip had been unshakable.

She tugged her arm free, forcing distance. "I had it under control."

"Of course you did," He replied, low, his tone balanced on the edge of disbelief and something softer.

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. I'm..." He hesitated, words catching. "Just making sure you don't fall."

For the first time all day, she didn't immediately have an answer. Her chest tightened, but she looked away first.

Helena scribbled something on her clipboard. "Well. At least I know the FIA won't be bored with you two."

The final test was brutal, a mock interview in front of FIA reps.

"Some say your rivalry is toxic. How do you respond?"

Charles started, voice measured. "We push each other hard, but that's racing."

Amara added quickly, "If it was toxic, we wouldn't survive sharing the same track, let alone a room."

The reps pressed harder, probing about loyalty, rumors, egos. They faltered once or twice, answers jagged, until, almost by instinct, they began picking up where the other left off.

"He's competitive—"

"—But so am I. That's why it works."

"She knows exactly how to—"

"—Get under my skin, yes. And I do the same back."

For the first time, Helena's smile was genuine. But the FIA reps weren't smiling. One leaned forward.

"Would you trust each other with your careers? With your safety?"

Silence stretched.

Charles answered first. "Yes." His tone was steady, but his jaw was tight.

Amara hesitated a half-second too long. "...Of course."

The reps exchanged glances, scribbling something down. The moment passed, but it left a crack in the air neither could patch.

When it was finally over, Helena dismissed them with a clipped, "Better. But don't get comfortable. The FIA will expect consistency, not luck."

Charles turned toward her as if to say something, but Amara was already out of her chair, jacket slung carelessly over her arm. She didn't look back, didn't wait. Her pulse was still racing, part nerves, part frustration, part... something she didn't want to name.

Of course, his footsteps followed.

"Amara!" He called. She ignored him, pushing faster down the hall.

"Amara." Sharper this time. She stopped, whirling around, eyes bright with leftover fire.

"You think I still hate you?" She demanded, the words slipping out before she could choke them back.

Charles froze, caught off guard. "...What?"

Her voice shook, though her stance didn't. "You really think that's all this is? Hate?"

His jaw worked, searching for control he didn't have. "If I hated you, I wouldn't care. I wouldn't lose sleep over every mistake you make, or every time you beat me."

Her breath hitched, but she refused to let it show. "...And you think I enjoy wasting energy fighting you? You make me insane."

"Good," He shot back, stepping closer. "Because you do the same to me."

For once, silence didn't mean avoidance. The air between them was thick, charged. Neither backed down.

Amara shook her head, forcing a bitter laugh. "This is pathetic. We're supposed to be teammates in this, and all we do is—"

"—burn each other alive?" Charles finished, his tone lower now, almost resigned.

Her throat tightened, words faltering. "Yeah. Something like that."

His gaze lingered a second too long before he dropped it, exhaling hard. "Maybe that's why we're good. Because neither of us knows how to stop."

Helena's voice called after them as she left the room, "You two could almost pass as allies now."

Neither denied it.

Charles replayed every word later in his hotel room. You make me insane.

It looped in his head, refusing to settle. He told himself she was impossible, that her friendship with Max also meant nothing—but he couldn't forget the way Max always looked at her. And worse, the way she hadn't noticed.

His mind slipped further back. Monaco, the private karting track where they'd raced until midnight as teenagers, Jules sometimes watching from the side, teasing them both. Afterward, Jules would buy them ice cream, insisting losers deserved extra scoops. Charles remembered the sticky hands, the laughter, the way Amara had looked at Jules like he hung the moon.

Then Germany, years later, when she won the European Formula 3 championship. He had been the first to reach her after the podium, grinning like an idiot as he handed her a small, snow-white Samoyed puppy. Ulap, she'd named him 'cloud' in her language. The memory twisted now; Ulap had died just last year. He'd seen her post nothing about it, not a word, but he knew. He always knew.

And then 2017. The Philippines. Christmas under lanterns strung across palm trees, ocean salt clinging to their skin. He remembered her laughter echoing across the beach when he tried, and failed, to paddle a kayak straight. For once, there'd been no rivalry yet. Just the two of them, warm and young, as though the world had paused to let them breathe.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere along the line, they had burned all that away.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over her name. Still blocked, as always. He dropped it back on the nightstand, pressing his palms hard over his eyes.

You make me insane.

The worst part was knowing she wasn't wrong.

Later that night, restless, Charles headed down for air. The corridor smelled faintly of hotel polish and old carpet, his thoughts louder than his footsteps. He pressed the elevator button just as it opened, and there she was.

Amara, returning, jacket slung over her arm, hair windswept like she'd been outside too long. Her expression was unreadable.

They stepped inside together. The doors slid shut with a heavy click, trapping them in silence.

Charles shifted, the words out before he could stop them. "Where did you go?"

Her brow arched. "You don't need to know." Then, after a beat, softer but no less guarded. "Out with friends."

"Friends?"

She glanced at him. "Max, George, Lando, Alex. They left early for Spain."

Something in his chest pulled taut. His next question slipped out sharper than he meant. "Anything going on between you and Max?"

Her answer was immediate, steady. "No. He's just a close friend."

The quiet that followed was heavier than before, filled with all the things neither dared to say. Charles glanced at the numbers ticking up on the panel, then back at her.

"Amara..." His voice caught, unsteady in a way he hated. "Will you, at least unblock me?"

She blinked, thrown. "You think that fixes anything?"

"No," He admitted, jaw tightening. "But it's a start. I'm tired of... this wall. You pretend I don't exist unless we're forced into the same room."

Her arms folded, a shield. "Maybe that's easier. For both of us."

The elevator dinged, breaking the moment. They stepped out into the hallway, her footsteps quick against the carpet.

Behind her, Charles' voice dropped low, almost accidental, like it slipped past his defenses. "You make it impossible not to care."

Amara froze for the briefest second, but when she turned, he was already walking away, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he hadn't said anything at all.

In her room, she tossed her jacket onto the chair and collapsed onto the bed, phone in hand. The screen glowed, Charles' name still grayed out in her contacts. For a long while, she just stared at it, thumb hovering, jaw clenched.

Unblocking him wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't trust.

But maybe it was... something.

With a sharp exhale, she swiped once, and the gray vanished.

Charles Leclerc was no longer blocked.

She set the phone face down on the nightstand and turned off the light, ignoring the restless thrum in her chest as she closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

Barcelona, August 2020

THE HEAT IN BARCELONA WAS MERCILESS. By Friday practice, the paddock already shimmered under the weight of it, mechanics glistening with sweat as they bent over cars, engineers fanning themselves with printed strategy sheets. Even Lewis Hamilton, stoic as ever, pulled at the collar of his fireproofs when the cameras weren't looking.

For Amara Velasquez, the heat was just another layer of pressure.

The media had decided on their storyline of the week: cracks in her armor. Her FP2 long runs were messy, tire management slipping on the abrasive tarmac. By Saturday morning, the headlines were merciless.

Mercedes Rookie Showing Strain.

Prodigy or Flash in the Pan?

Amara ignored most of it, burying herself in telemetry with her engineers. But she felt the eyes, the whispers, the questions sharp as knives.

From the front row, Amara had the perfect view of Lewis' launch. She matched it as best she could, but by Turn 1, Max had nosed alongside. The three of them darted into the opening lap like wolves in a pack, teeth bared.

By Lap 20, the heat was already chewing through the medium tires. Mercedes called her in, switching her onto hards. The undercut worked, she rejoined right behind Charles, who was on a different strategy.

Lap after lap, she stalked him.

"Push, Amara," Riccardo urged in her ear. "You're quicker. Wait for the straight, then take him clean."

She exhaled sharply. "I see him. I see him..."

But patience was never her strength.

In Lap 35. She went for it, diving down the inside at Turn 4. Charles closed the door at the last second. Their wheels touched, the vibration rattling her teeth.

"Contact, contact!"

Her car snapped sideways, gravel spitting. Charles skidded in tandem, his Ferrari half-buried as marshals waved double yellows.

"Fuck!" Amara's voice tore through the radio. "He shut the door—"

"Both cars out, both cars out," Riccardo cut in, calm but clipped. "Engine off, Amara. Reset and breathe. We'll deal with it after."

"He didn't leave space," She snapped, before forcing herself to cut the mic. The last thing she needed was another soundbite for the press.

"What was she doing?" His voice was sharp, ragged with frustration. "There was never room—"

His engineer answered evenly, "Focus, Charles. Car's done. Just keep calm for now."

Race over for both.

Some time had passed since the podium celebration, the champagne spraying and cameras flashing now a fading memory. Back in the garage, the tension had eased slightly, but the air still hummed with adrenaline and unspoken words. Amara had already changed since the DNF; no trembling hands, no clenched jaw—she had learned to channel the frustration, the heat of the moment, into calm composure.

She leaned against the pit wall, letting the silence of the garage fill the spaces the chaos had left.

"Rough one," Max said quietly, stepping closer. His voice was low, careful, like he didn't want to startle her. "You okay, princess?"

Amara blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching. "I... yeah. A bit rattled, but okay."

He gave her a small, relieved smile. "That was close. Too close. I mean... you took that spin like a pro, but—" He paused, scratching the back of his neck. "It looked rough from the screens."

"I saw," She admitted, her lips twitching into a small grin. "You nearly took me out yourself on the first lap."

He laughed softly, the tension easing a fraction. "Touché. At least I didn't add a second spin to your day."

"You're saying that like you weren't inches from my gearbox earlier," She shot back, raising a brow.

"What can I say? You brake late, I brake later," He smirked. "Keeps things interesting."

She shook her head, but the laugh slipped out anyway. "One of these days that 'later' is going to put us both in the wall."

Max leaned just a little closer, voice dropping so only she could hear. "Then at least I'd have good company while marshals dig us out."

Her lips parted at the cheeky remark, a half-grin betraying her annoyance. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah," He admitted easily, eyes glinting. "But admit it—you'd miss me if I stopped annoying you."

She rolled her eyes, though the warmth in them gave her away. "Don't test that theory."

Max chuckled, stepping back just enough to give her space again, though his grin lingered.

Across the pit wall, Charles, leaning against the far wall with a towel draped over his shoulders, watched her and Max, his expression unreadable. When the moment stretched long enough, he stepped forward, voice clipped but careful, betraying just a flicker of concern.

"You... you alright?" He asked. The crash was still fresh in both their minds, the memory of metal scraping and tires locking lingering.

Amara straightened, taking a slow breath. "I am."

After giving a single, barely noticeable nod, Charles turned to return to Ferari's garage.

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‎THE PRESS CONFERENCE ROOM WAS BOILING UNDER THE LIGHTS. QUESTIONS FLEW SHARP AND FAST.

"Amara, was that a reckless move on Leclerc?"

Her jaw tightened, but she kept her tone even. "We were both fighting hard. I saw an opportunity, maybe I misjudged the space. But racing incidents happen. Charles and I respect each other enough to move on."

"It looked dangerous," Another journalist pressed. "Do you think safety was compromised?"

"I'm confident all precautions were in place," Amara said. "We were racing at the limit, yes. But that's racing. That's what we signed up for."

It wasn't perfect, but it was calm. Sophie, her PR manager behind her exhaled like she'd just been handed a lifeline.

When Charles' turn came, the journalists pounced.

"Do you blame Amara for the collision?"

He held the mic, gaze sweeping the room. "No. We're racing at the limit. I defended, she attacked. These things happen. We'll both learn from it."

Helena's voice rang in both their heads: You'll always be dissected more than your male colleagues. Control the narrative before it controls you.

For once, they did.

It was only afterward, when the media circus thinned and the paddock began to quiet, that a knock sounded on the door of Mercedes' hospitality. Amara sat slouched on the couch of her driver room, hair still damp from a rushed shower, scrolling mindlessly through her phone to avoid the weight of her thoughts.

When she opened the door, Charles was there. He didn't look surprised to see her—if anything, he looked determined.

"Charles," She said cautiously, stepping aside. "You're brave, walking into enemy territory."

He ignored the attempt at humor and slipped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The room shrank with his presence, silence pressing in.

"You nearly put us both in the wall," He said finally, voice low but sharp, carrying more restraint than he felt.

Amara's chin lifted, eyes sparking. "If you'd left me space, we'd still be racing."

"Space?" He gave a humorless laugh. "I gave you as much as I could. You still forced it."

She stood, arms crossing over her chest, mirroring his stance. "Because I had to. I'm not here to sit behind you and wait."

His eyes darkened. "No. You're here to gamble. And today, you dragged me out with you."

The silence crackled, charged and heavy, like the echo of the crash still rattled inside both of them.

Charles took a step closer, close enough that she caught the faint scent of fuel still clinging to him. His voice dropped, colder now. "Funny. You seemed fine when Max asked if you were okay."

The words hit sharper than she expected. Amara's eyes narrowed. "Oh, so that's what this is about?"

His jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "He wasn't the one you tangled wheels with."

Her chest rose and fell, irritation mixing with something she refused to name. "Max was just being a decent human being."

Charles' laugh was short, bitter. "Decent? He didn't waste a second getting to you after the race. Almost like he knew it was his place. Like he wanted everyone to see him play the hero."

Amara's eyes narrowed. "Max was checking if I was okay. He's literally my friend! That's it. Don't twist it into something it isn't."

His shoulders tensed, voice clipped. "He wasn't even in the crash. I was. Yet somehow he got to you first."

Her arms folded across her chest, irritation spiking. "Because you were too busy being angry. You could've walked over, Charles. Nothing stopped you."

Amara stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. "Why does it matter to you who asked? You've spent the whole season proving you don't care what happens to me."

Something flickered across his face, a mix of anger and exhaustion. "Because I was the one in the gravel with you," He snapped. "I was the one you hit. It should've been me asking if you were okay, not him."

The room fell heavy, silence pressing in like a weight.

Amara's jaw tightened, her voice steady but cold. "Then maybe you should've asked. Instead of standing here acting like I owe you something."

Charles dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly, frustration spilling through every movement. "You think I don't care? I do. But the second I come near you after that crash, it's headlines, it's blame, it's people twisting it into something it isn't. I can't give them more ammunition."

Her expression hardened, though her voice was quieter now. "So you let someone else step in, and now you're mad about it? That someone else gave a damn? That's on you, Charles. Not me."

For a moment, he didn't move. His jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, like he was holding back another sharp retort. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner and the muted voices outside in the corridor.

Amara's arms crossed tighter, nails digging into her sleeves. "You want me to apologize for that too? For letting someone ask me if I was okay?"

Charles' eyes flickered, anger flaring again, but the words stalled in his throat. He shifted his weight, pressing his palms against the edge of her table, like grounding himself. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't sharp anymore—it was low, pulled down by something heavier.

"Do you remember Monaco? The private track Jules used to take us to?" His gaze dropped briefly, then found hers again, stripped of the earlier venom. "You always lunged too late. He said one day it would either win you everything or cost you everything."

Amara's breath hitched, but she forced her face still. "And you hated that sometimes it worked."

"Because it scared me," Charles admitted quietly. His eyes met hers, stripped of anger now, raw and open. "Because you never thought about the risk. I always did."

Her arms fell to her sides, her defenses slipping. "I think about it now. More than you know."

The air between them crackled, the room still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, the echo of the race refusing to fade. Charles took a step closer, closing some of the space between them, not to intimidate, but because he didn't know any other way to bridge the gap.

Amara didn't move back. Her shoulders squared, her gaze steady. The tension in the room shifted, electric and charged, each second stretching longer than it should.

Charles' gaze lingered, softer now. "Anthoine would have also laughed at us today."

Amara's mouth curved faintly, though her eyes glistened. "He would've bought us and Pierre pizza. Told us to stop being idiots."

At that moment, something changed—not resolution, not forgiveness, but acknowledgment. Between them, a delicate thread strained.

Charles swallowed, his voice almost a whisper. "Just... don't shut me out. Not on track, not off it."

Her heart stumbled, but she steadied herself, answering evenly. "Same goes for you."

The moment stretched, suspended in that quiet, until a sharp, familiar voice cut through. "Amara? Debrief. Now."

Lewis appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "Toto wants you in the debrief, M. Don't make me drag you there."

Amara blinked, letting the tension with Charles fall away as she stepped back. "Coming, L!" She said, her voice calm despite the storm still lingering in the room.

She moved toward the hall first, the cool air rushing against her skin. Charles lingered a moment longer, eyes on her, before finally turning toward his own space. For the first time in a long while, leaving him behind didn't feel like running.

Chapter Text

Monaco, August 2020

IN HER MONACO APARTMENT, AMARA RECLINED IN A WIDE CHAIR AS SUNLIGHT POURED ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOOR AND THROUGH THE SHEER DRAPES. A sudden knock on the door cut short her peaceful afternoon, which she had planned to spend with a book, a glass of wine, and perhaps some peace and quiet.

"Hey, stranger!" Lily greeted, breezing into the apartment like she owned the place. Alex's girlfriend had an energy that didn't just fill a room; it practically spun it around. "You look like you've been training for a full GP weekend just by existing here, Mars."

Amara raised an eyebrow. "I've done exactly that."

Lily tilted her head, smirking. "Exactly that, huh? You mean surviving the chaos of paddocks, tires, press conferences, and Lewis Hamilton's somehow intimidating calm? Sounds exhausting."

Amara shrugged, a hint of a grin tugging at her lips. "It's all in a day's work. Someone has to keep the bar high."

"Ah, so modest too," Lily said, feigning shock. "I thought you were going to tell me you also bench-pressed your way to podiums"

Amara laughed softly, shaking her head. "If only it were that simple. Mostly just nerves and caffeine."

Lily plopped onto the couch opposite her, legs folded beneath her. "Relax for once. You need a break, Amara. We're in Monaco. If you don't take advantage of this, I swear I'll drag you out by your ankles."

Amara smirked despite herself. "Dragging sounds violent."

"Only if you resist," Lily said with a grin. "And I promise, this isn't about tequila shots or waking up with regrets. I mean a proper night out. Music, lights, dancing... maybe even Alex singing off-key somewhere."

Amara hesitated. The last time she'd gone clubbing, it had ended with her sitting alone in a corner, nursing a soda and feeling acutely out of place. "I don't know, Lils. I've... never been good at these things."

"Never is boring," Lily replied. "Fine. I'll tell Alex to also come with us. That way we won't be alone."

Amara raised a hand, considering. After a moment, she exhaled. "Okay. Fine. But if this goes horribly, you're taking the blame."

"You mean the blame for fun?" Lily countered. "Deal. And if anyone tries to steal your spotlight on the dance floor, I've got your back."

Her phone buzzed almost immediately. Alex's name flashed on the screen. "Heyy! I'll bring Max and George with us too," He said cheerfully, almost like this was the most normal plan in the world.

"Wait," Amara said, her tone incredulous. "You're bringing those two idiots?"

"Yes," Alex replied without missing a beat. "I mean, if we're going out, we might as well make it a proper mission. Don't worry, Amara, I'll keep Max from embarrassing himself too badly. And George will make sure you're not drowned in chaos alone."

Amara groaned into her hand, but Lily laughed so hard it made her forget the protest. "See? This'll be fine. Sort of. Besides, if Max tries to hit on anyone, I'll personally set him straight. You're welcome."

Amara rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

Lily smirked. "Just professionally protective. You'll get used to it."

Amara shook her head. "I highly doubt that."

"Oh, you'll survive," Lily said, nudging her shoulder. "And who knows? Maybe tonight you'll find a side of Monaco that doesn't involve race strategies and tire temps."

Amara tilted her head. "That's a dangerous promise."

"Danger is part of the fun," Lily said, eyes glinting. "Trust me."

"Fine," Amara mumbled, though her lips twitched. "But only if you promise not to make me look ridiculous."

Lily clapped her hands. "Deal. Now, let's see what we can do with you."

The two headed toward Amara's bedroom, where Lily immediately started rifling through the wardrobe with practiced efficiency. "Okay, so first rule of nightlife: comfort meets style. You need to be able to move, dance, and maybe fend off unwanted attention, all while looking incredible. Lucky for you, I've got just the thing."

She pulled out a crisp white halter-neck top. "Boom. Chic, summery, but elegant. And it'll show off your shoulders without going overboard."

Amara raised an eyebrow. "You really think I can pull that off?"

"Trust me, Velasquez, you can pull off anything," Lily said with a grin. "Now, onto bottoms."

From a neatly stacked pile, she grabbed a denim mini skirt. "This is casual enough that you won't feel like you're on a runway, but short enough that you won't disappear in the crowd."

Amara held it up to herself. "I don't know if I've ever worn anything this short in public."

"Then it's perfect. Tonight is all about trying something new," Lily said, helping her step into the skirt. "You'll thank me later."

Next, Lily pulled out a pair of black ankle boots with chunky heels. "These are your dancing boots. Sturdy enough to survive the club, stylish enough that people notice."

Amara slipped them on, flexing her feet. "Okay... these aren't terrible."

"Not terrible?" Lily feigned offense. "Mars, you look fantastic. But wait, the accessories!"

Gold jewelry appeared next, thin layered necklaces, hoop earrings, and delicate bangles. Lily fastened them one by one, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "See? Effortless sparkle. You're officially ready to conquer Monaco tonight."

Amara turned toward the mirror, examining herself. "Well... I can't lie. This doesn't feel half bad."

"Half bad? Mars, you're lethal," Lily said, bumping her shoulder playfully. "Now grab your clutch and your attitude. We're leaving in ten."

Amara let out a short laugh, feeling the mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in her chest. "Alright, alright... lead the way, style guru."

"Oh, I will," Lily said with a wicked grin. "And tonight, everyone else can deal with your presence."

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WHEN THEY GOT THERE, THE BASS WAS POUNDING THROUGHOUT THE CLUB. Neon lights slashed through the dim interior, catching the glittering edges of glass and sequins. The crowd moved like water, hips swaying, drinks clutched in hands, voices rising above the music in chaotic harmony.

Alex immediately started scanning for a booth, gesturing at George and Max to follow. Max grinned like a shark spotting prey; George simply rolled his eyes but followed, muttering something about avoiding spilled drinks.

"See?" Lily whispered, tugging Amara toward the bar. "This is already better than your apartment. Less white walls, more people watching their phones pretending to be cool."

Amara allowed herself a small smile, letting the music sink into her shoulders. "Half of them look like they practiced that pose in the mirror before coming here."

"Oh, absolutely," Lily said, leaning against the bar. "Give them two more songs and they'll all be dancing like Max, shameless."

They both turned just in time to see Max dragging George toward the dance floor, arms waving in wild rhythm. George protested, his expression deadpan, though his feet unwillingly followed.

"I'm not drunk enough for this." George grumbled.

"That's the spirit!" Max shouted back, already moving like the bass line had taken over his body.

George threw a glance over his shoulder at Amara and Lily. "One of you better film this so I can prove later that I was forced into dancing."

Lily raised her glass in salute. "Oh, don't worry. I'm archiving this for future blackmail."

Alex leaned against their booth, watching with an amused grin. "Give him ten minutes, George will cave. He always does."

"Never," George insisted, half turning toward Alex as Max spun him around. "I have dignity."

"You had dignity," Max corrected, wagging his finger dramatically before shaking his hips like he was in a music video. "Now you have rhythm."

"Doubtful," Amara mumbled, sipping her drink, though her shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

Lily cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled over the music, "Loser buys the next round!"

George shot her a look but didn't back out, which only made Lily laugh harder. Amara shook her head, warmth creeping into her chest at the chaos.

"I swear, this is the only time George willingly participates in cardio," Amara quipped, sipping her drink.

"Cardio?" George called back. "This is survival."

Max twirled dramatically, almost smacking someone with his arm. "Admit it, mate, you're having fun."

"Fun is not the word I'd use." George deadpanned, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Alex leaned over toward Amara, lowering his voice just enough to cut through the noise. "You realize Max is never letting him live this down, right?"

Amara grinned into her glass. "Oh, I'm counting on it. This is better than Netflix."

Minutes passed with laughter, teasing, and more than one spilled drink. Max had cornered George into a dancing contest that looked suspiciously like two grown men flailing to electronic beats, while Alex and Lily egged them on. Amara had settled into a rhythm with Lily, a mix of gentle teasing and rolling her eyes at the boys' antics.

Her glass had been refilled twice without her really noticing. The warmth in her chest spread to her cheeks, softening the sharp edges of her usual restraint. The music thumped in her ribs, and every time she laughed, it bubbled out easier, freer, like she'd forgotten to keep it controlled.

Then it happened.

Amara turned to grab a drink and collided with someone solid. Her glass rattled but didn't spill, and she froze, looking up to find green eyes staring back at her.

"Charles?" Her voice was a mix of surprise and resignation, just slurred enough to betray the drinks.

"Amara." His voice dipped low, uncertain, before settling. "Of course. Monaco isn't exactly that big."

She huffed a small laugh, a little louder than intended. "That's one way of putting it. I thought you'd be hiding in some rooftop bar, not here in the middle of neon chaos."

"I could say the same for you," He replied, lips tugging into a faint smile. "You don't strike me as the nightclub type."

"I'm not," She admitted, lifting her drink slightly as proof. "This is Lily's fault. She dragged me out. She said I needed—" She wobbled her hand in the air, searching for the word before landing on, "—fun."

Charles's eyes flicked past her, landing briefly on Lily, who caught it and raised her brows knowingly, before inevitably drifting back to Amara. His gaze didn't stop at her face; it slipped, just for a moment, down the clean lines of her white halter top, the edge of the gold chain at her collarbone, the way her boots made her legs look longer. When his eyes returned to hers, there was a flicker of guilt in how quickly he masked it.

"She did well then," He said, voice measured. "You look..." He paused, his jaw tightening like he was weighing whether to admit what he really thought. "...different."

Amara tilted her head, squinting at him playfully. "Different's vague. You'll have to do better than that."

His lips twitched. "Not in the garage. Not behind a wheel." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "You look... normal."

Her smirk softened into something quieter, though the alcohol made her honesty spill freer than usual. "Normal might be the nicest thing you've ever called me so far."

Charles's mouth curved slightly. "I'll try harder next time."

They stood close enough now that the edge of his sleeve brushed her arm whenever someone jostled past. Neither moved away.

Amara leaned in slightly, the bass forcing her closer, though her words were tinged with mischief. "And what about you? I half-expected you to be in a corner, avoiding eye contact with strangers."

His laugh came low, almost reluctant, his eyes never leaving hers. "Maybe I was. Until you ran into me."

Her smile crooked, loose from the drinks. "Convenient timing," She teased, her gaze lingering on his mouth before flicking back up.

He lifted his glass, thumb grazing the rim as if buying time. "Or inconvenient. Depends how you see it."

Amara's head tipped to the side, swaying just slightly. The alcohol nudged her into speaking before she could second-guess herself. "I missed this, you know."

Charles blinked, tension flashing in his expression. "Missed...?"

"You. Us. Talking. Not..." She waved her glass vaguely, her bracelet jingling, "...Not fighting all the damn time." A laugh slipped out, softer this time, almost self-conscious. "Don't get used to me saying that. It's probably the gin talking."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking down before finding hers again. "Maybe it's not just the gin."

Amara snorted, then without warning reached out and poked his cheek with her finger. "See? That. That's you being nice. Very suspicious, Leclerc."

Charles startled slightly, eyes widening, before he caught himself and smirked. "You're drunk."

She ignored him, dragging her hand lightly down the line of his jaw, then letting it fall away like it had never happened. "Careful, Leclerc. You almost sound like you want to be my friend again."

Charles's laugh came short, almost under his breath. "Maybe I do."

Her brows rose, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "Did you just admit that? Wow. Write it down, history's being made."

"Don't push your luck," He murmured, though his grin betrayed him.

Amara leaned in, chin propped in her hand like she was studying him. Her voice came quieter, the music muffling the edges. "You look different too. Less... serious. Or maybe I'm too drunk to see your usual scowl."

Before he could reply, she suddenly reached out again, brushing her fingertips over his hair, mussing it slightly. "And softer. Your hair's still stupidly soft. Ugh, annoying." She giggled and pulled back like it was the funniest discovery.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You're not drunk enough to start imagining things."

"I might be," She admitted, eyes dropping to his shirt, the way the collar brushed his collarbone. She lifted her gaze again, bold with the alcohol in her system. "But even drunk, I know when you're lying."

Charles froze for half a second before recovering, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And what lie did I supposedly tell now?"

"That you don't miss it too." Her voice was light, teasing, but the weight in her eyes made it land heavier.

For a moment, his expression cracked, something raw flickered there, quickly hidden. He sipped his drink to cover it. "You always did have a way of putting words in my mouth."

"And you," She shot back, pointing at him with her glass, "Always had a way of not saying what you really mean."

Charles's lips curved, though his eyes softened, betraying something deeper. "And yet, somehow, you still understand me."

Amara blinked, the words hitting harder than she expected. Her smirk faltered into a small, unguarded smile. "Yeah. Maybe I do."

His eyes swept over the crowded floor, the groups of friends, the flashing lights, before settling back on her. There was tension there, a reminder of the gravel, the wheels, the crash, but also something unspoken: they weren't exactly strangers, but neither were they close.

But the moment didn't last.

A man behind them, drunk, loud, and oblivious, started catcalling, words slurred but sharp, cutting over the music.

"Hey, beautiful..." He dragged the word out, his eyes raking over Amara with a shameless grin. "Didn't know Monaco let angels walk into clubs like this."

Amara stiffened, her eyes narrowing. The alcohol buzzing through her veins made her bolder, sharper. "Original," She grumbled under her breath, sarcasm dripping. She turned slightly to see him leaning too close, his breath sour with alcohol.

"Why don't you come over here?" He added, his tone oily, hand already twitching like he might reach for her arm.

"Smile for me, sweetheart," He slurred. "Bet you look even prettier up close."

Her hand instinctively went up, half a mind to shove him already, but before she could step back, Charles shifted beside her, solid and immovable. His shoulders squared, his body cutting a sharp line between her and the man.

"Step back," Charles said, voice low and steady.

The drunk blinked, then laughed, ugly and mocking. "What's this? Your boyfriend? Thought you were too good for little boys." He leaned in, sneering. "Move it, mate. I wasn't talking to you."

Charles didn't flinch, his jaw tightening. "You are now."

The man barked a laugh, leaning closer. "Or what? You gonna make me?"

Max appeared instantly, his grin sharp, predatory. "He doesn't have to repeat himself. Walk away."

The man puffed his chest, his tone louder now. "You think you're tough? All of you think you're tough?" He shoved Charles's shoulder.

Charles didn't react, just clamped his hand over the man's wrist and twisted, enough to make him hiss. "This is your only warning."

The man jerked free with a curse and, before anyone could stop him, swung a wild fist. His knuckles cracked against Charles's jaw, snapping his head to the side.

"Charles!" Amara gasped, stumbling forward and grabbing his arm without thinking. "Hey—" Her voice came slurred but sharp. Her face pinched in concern as her thumb brushed over the side of his jaw before she realized what she was doing. "You're bleeding."

"You like that, pretty boy?" The drunk jeered, staggering closer. "Bet you're nothing without your fancy car."

Max's smile vanished. He shoved the man hard, nearly knocking him off balance. "You just made the worst mistake of your night."

The drunk spat on the floor, glaring between them. "Two against one? Cowards."

George surged forward, palms out. "Hey! Hey, enough! Don't—"

"Stay out of this, mate," The drunk snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "You look like the kind who hides behind rules."

The man lunged again, this time reaching for Amara's wrist. She ripped it free with surprising force and shoved him square in the chest. "Stay away from me!" She snapped, voice wobbling but loud enough to cut through the bass.

Charles, jaw tight and face flushed from the punch, shoved the man back with his forearm. "Touch her again, and I'll end it right here."

The man sneered, defiant. "You think I'm scared of you? You're nothing—"

"Then try me," Charles cut in, voice ice-cold.

The drunk suddenly reached for Amara's arm again, fingers brushing her. That was it. Charles finally snapped. His fist flew in a clean, brutal arc, cracking against the man's cheek with a force that sent him stumbling back into a barstool. The thud echoed even over the bass-heavy music.

"Fucking hell," Max muttered, grinning darkly. "That's more like it."

Charles stood over the staggering man, his voice low and lethal. "You fucking touch her again and you won't get back up."

Gasps rippled through the circle of onlookers, a few cheers breaking out from strangers who clearly lived for nightclub drama. Someone even shouted, "Oh my god, that's Leclerc!" but the words were drowned by the music kicking back in.

The drunk sneered, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, but his words sharp enough to cut. "What's the big deal? She's just a girl! Not even a real driver, just some pretty face they put in a car."

"Shut up," Max cut in, stepping so close their noses nearly touched. His voice was low, venomous. "One more word and you won't walk out of here."

The drunk tried to shove Max, but George intercepted, grabbing his arm. "That's it. Security!"

Two bouncers were already pushing through the crowd. Charles still had his shoulders squared, blocking Amara, while Max hovered at the drunk's side like he was waiting for permission to finish what had started.

Charles's chest was heaving now, the vein in his temple standing out. His hand lingered at Amara's back, firm, grounding her as though he refused to let her be within arm's reach of the guy again.

The bouncers grabbed the man, who was still thrashing and shouting obscenities. Charles's hand twitched like he wasn't done, but he forced himself still, jaw clenched as he finally let the bouncers drag him away. Max shoved him toward them for good measure.

The crowd around them buzzed with whispers, laughter, phones half-raised but not daring to record.

Amara exhaled slowly, brushing her hair back with shaky fingers. "Well," She said dryly, though her words slurred just slightly, "That escalated faster than a first-lap restart."

Lily appeared at her side, wide-eyed. "You okay, Mars? He actually—" She stopped, glancing at Charles's jaw, red where the punch had landed. "And you! Are you alright?"

Charles touched the side of his face, grimacing faintly but nodding. "I've had worse."

Lily huffed, crossing her arms. "That's not the point. You shouldn't have to take a punch at all."

Amara's eyes flicked to him, soft for just a moment, her honesty loosened by the drink. "You didn't have to do that. Not for me."

He met her gaze steadily. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him think he could lay a hand on you."

"You could've let security handle it," She pressed, her voice quieter now, words wobbling with emotion.

Charles shook his head once. "Not fast enough. Not when he already tried twice."

"You're stupid, you know that? Brave. But stupid."

His lips quirked, the faintest of smiles. "I've been called worse."

For a moment, the noise of the club dimmed around them, but then Max cut in with a grin that carried no real humor. "Well, at least he got what was coming. Charles dropped him clean. I just made sure the idiot stayed down."

George let out a sharp breath, giving both of them a look. "Yeah, and in the middle of a club, with half the place watching. You're lucky security got here when they did. Otherwise, tomorrow's headlines would write themselves."

"Oh, come on," Max shot back. "What should we have done? Smile and let him paw at her? No thanks."

George's tone stayed dry. "You think throwing fists makes you a hero? You're one phone video away from a suspension."

"Let them record," Max snapped. His eyes flicked toward Amara, softening just a fraction. "Then the world sees what happens when someone tries to touch her."

Charles's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

"And if you'd both lost your temper one second earlier," George shot back, "We'd be sitting in a police station right now instead of a club."

Before Max could snap back, Alex finally shoved his way through the circle of people, wide-eyed as he followed after Lily. "What the hell did I just miss? We were gone two minutes."

"Minor incident."

"Minor?" Lily shot back, pointing at Charles. "He literally got punched in the face!"

Max snorted. "And gave one back. Trust me, that guy will think twice before running his mouth again."

Charles waved it off, his expression cool, though his eyes lingered on Amara like he was still making sure she was safe.

"You reacted fast," Amara said under her breath, her eyes searching his face. Her balance wavered just enough that she steadied herself on his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric. She wasn't sure if she meant her words as a question or a criticism.

Charles tilted his head, voice low. "I wasn't just about to stand there and watch."

Her lips parted, her expression flickering somewhere between a laugh and something too raw. "You always do that," She murmured, tipsy honesty spilling out. "Jump in. Even when you shouldn't."

It was then she noticed the smear on her top, dark and sticky. Not hers, but the drunk's blood from when Charles's punch had landed. The realization made her chest tighten, suddenly aware of how close things had gotten.

Charles noticed too. His brow furrowed, and without a word he shrugged off his jacket, holding it out. "Here. Put this on."

"Charles, you don't have to—"

"I do," He cut in, gently draping it over her shoulders before she could protest again. His voice dropped, just for her. "You shouldn't have to wear that as a reminder of him."

Amara swallowed, fingers brushing the fabric as she whispered, "You're... too much sometimes." The jacket was warm from his skin, smelling faintly of cologne and something sharper, adrenaline still clinging to it.

Max slid in then, an arm brushing hers as he leaned closer with his usual smirk. "Or maybe just enough. Depends who you ask." His eyes glinted as he looked at her, then flicked briefly at Charles, unbothered. "Don't tell me you're letting this kill the mood, princess. We still owe George another round."

George groaned. "I didn't agree to that."

Amara laughed, the sound unsteady, her balance tipping just enough that Max's hand brushed her elbow to steady her. "Don't pout, Georgie," She teased, eyes glassy from the alcohol. "You're always the fun police."

As the group tried to settle back into their night, Amara glanced toward the bar where Charles had drifted, standing apart, jaw still taut. His eyes found hers again, and the music, the lights, the noise, it all blurred into something else.

Monaco seemed to have shrunk to the two of them for a brief period, trapped in an indescribable tension that was thicker than the smoke rising over the dance floor.

Chapter Text

Monaco, August 2020

THE GYM IN THE LECLERC HOUSE SMELLED FAINTLY OF DISINFECTANT AND CHALK, THE AIR HEAVY WITH THE DULL THUMP OF FISTS AGAINST LEATHER. Charles kept his hands wrapped and his headphones in, the bass in his ears louder than the hum of the treadmill belt beneath his feet. He had been running for nearly half an hour, but his body refused to give him the release he wanted.

Every stride brought back the fragments he couldn't shake: neon lights slicing through the haze, Amara laughing at something Max said, the sour reek of alcohol as the drunk shoved too close, the sting of knuckles against his jaw. His cheek still ached when the sweat stung it. Not enough to matter, but enough to remind him.

He told himself it wasn't about her. He would have stepped in for anyone. That was the story he wanted to believe. But the memory of Amara's startled voice, cut through his mind with every impact of his foot.

The treadmill slowed on its cool-down cycle. He ripped the headphones out, running his hand over damp hair as the morning light pressed through the wide windows. Monaco outside gleamed, indifferent to the hangover of the night before.

The door creaked open. Arthur strolled in with his usual unbothered air, tossing a towel over his shoulder. He spotted the faint bruise along Charles's cheek and smirked.

"Well," Arthur said, leaning against the wall with exaggerated interest. "Who decided to take a swing at you this time?"

Charles shot him a flat look, reaching for the water bottle at his feet. "It was nothing."

Arthur grinned wider. "Doesn't look like nothing. You actually let someone land a punch?"

"Not exactly let," Charles muttered, uncapping the bottle.

"Then explain." Arthur crossed his arms, waiting.

Charles exhaled, reluctant, but finally said, "Some drunk idiot at the club. He was... bothering someone."

Arthur's brow lifted. "Someone?"

Charles didn't answer immediately, rolling his shoulders before turning back toward the punching bag. His knuckles pressed into the leather, but he didn't strike yet.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "It wasn't just anyone. Who was it?"

Silence stretched.

Then Charles mumbled, too quickly, "Amara."

Arthur blinked. "Amara? Since when do you two even—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Wait, aren't you supposed to hate each other? Or at least avoid each other at all costs?"

Charles's jaw clenched. "We don't hate each other."

"That's news to me." Arthur smirked, circling closer. "So you jumped into a fight... for her?"

Charles's knuckles hit the bag with a sharp thud, a little harder than necessary. "I wasn't going to let him touch her."

Arthur raised his brows, interested now. "What exactly happened?"

Charles rubbed his jaw, exhaling. "He cornered her at the bar, wouldn't back off even when she told him to. He grabbed her wrist. I told him to leave her alone, he swung first. I just... finished it."

Arthur's grin faded, replaced with something steadier. "Good... Good. That's exactly what you should've done." He tilted his head, considering. "Honestly? If I'd been there, I'd have probably broken his nose myself. Nobody gets to put their hands on her like that."

For the first time, Charles let himself meet Arthur's gaze, surprised. "You really think so?"

"Of course. She used to feel like part of this family. Protecting her isn't wrong, Charles. If anything, it makes sense."

Arthur leaned against the wall, watching his brother a moment longer. "You know... it's strange hearing you two in the same sentence again."

Charles's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

Arthur shrugged. "Amara. You and her were inseparable back then. She was always around—racing, at the house, even tagging along when I was forced to watch you both." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Then one day, nothing. No visits, no calls. It was like someone had just cut the cord."

Charles's hands stilled against the bag, knuckles resting on the leather.

Arthur tilted his head, voice softer now. "You know, Mum used to joke that she had another kid because of how often Amara was here. Remember? She'd raid our fridge and pretend she lived with us."

Charles let out a faint huff, almost a laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes. "She practically did. For a while, she actually did live here, what was it, three months?"

Arthur snapped his fingers. "Four. Not because of some big drama, either. Mum just hated the idea of her sitting alone in that empty apartment all the time. She wouldn't hear of it—kept insisting Amara stay here instead. By the end of the first week she had her own drawer in the dresser."

"And she kept stealing my hoodies and yours," Charles added, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite himself. "You complained every day."

"Because she never gave them back. Half of my stuff mysteriously went missing thanks to her. Honestly, it was like having an annoying older sister." Arthur's expression softened, the smirk fading into something more thoughtful.

"Which is why it was so strange when she stopped coming around."

Arthur hesitated, then asked, "Do you ever wonder if she missed us too? Not just you, us. The dinners, the late-night Mario Kart battles... it was like she vanished from all of it."

Charles's throat worked, but he didn't answer.

He continued. "So when I hear you got into some mess at a nightclub and she's in the middle of it... I can't help but ask. Is this you two actually trying to fix whatever broke?"

Charles let out a quiet breath, pulling the gloves from his hands. "Maybe. We're... figuring things out. The workshops helped. I don't know if it'll ever be like before though, but at least we're talking again."

Arthur gave a short laugh. "Not simple because she's the one who shut the door, right? You didn't go to her F2 debut, and she never forgave you for it."

"I know."

Arthur softened, though his tone stayed blunt. "She waited for you, Charles. I remember how much that race meant to her, Pierre told us. And when you didn't show, she took it as proof you didn't care anymore. That's why she cut you off."

Charles's throat tightened as he glanced away, wiping sweat from his brow. "I cared.. I always cared. I just... I just made the wrong choices that day."

Arthur's voice carried a knowing lilt. "Before you screwed it all up?"

Charles gave him a pointed glare. Arthur only lifted his hands in surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. "Fine, fine. But if you're going to keep denying it, at least learn to hide the way you look when you say her name."

Charles landed another series of punches, sharper this time, as if he could beat down the echo of Amara's laugh in his head.

Arthur studied him, quieter now. "Then if you've got the chance to make it right, don't waste it. She was like family once. If you can bring that back, it's worth it."

Charles only nodded, jaw tightening, because the truth was harder to admit.

He didn't just want his best friend back.

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AMARA GROANED AS SUNLIGHT STABBED THROUGH THE CURTAINS. Her head throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat, every movement too loud, too sharp. She dragged herself upright against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut until the room steadied.

Fragments of the night trickled back: strobe lights flashing across the dance floor, Lily's hand pulling her toward the bar, Max's voice somewhere near her ear, Charles standing too close with that unreadable look, the drunk shouting, the crash of a fist connecting with bone.

She swallowed hard.

Her gaze drifted across the room and snagged on the sight of Charles's jacket draped neatly over the back of a chair. The sight made something twist in her chest she refused to name. She pressed her palms into her eyes, forcing herself to focus on her phone instead.

Twenty-three unread messages.

The first one was from Max.

MAX: Morning, princess. Hope the headache is worth it. Next time, don't get that drunk. Not letting you out of my sight again.

She sighed, leaning her head back. Protective and scolding, wrapped up in the same words. Typical Max.

Scrolling further down, she found George's contribution to the group chat—a meme. Someone had photoshopped a blurry shot of Max spinning George on the dance floor onto a Renaissance ballroom painting. The caption read: The real Monaco GP.

Amara snorted despite herself, typing back a halfhearted 10/10 form, George. The chat lit up with laughing emojis.

Her eyes drifted again to the chair, to the jacket. The ache in her head didn't explain the tug in her chest.

The faint clatter of movement came from the kitchen. She froze, then remembered, Lily.

Sure enough, Lily appeared a moment later balancing a steaming mug and a bowl in her hands. Her hair was pulled back messily, her voice annoyingly chipper.

"Morning, disaster," Lily said, setting the bowl down. "I bring you my official hangover cure. Don't ask what's in it."

Amara grimaced but accepted the spoon, eyeing the bowl suspiciously. "If I die from this, I'm haunting you."

"You won't die. Worst case, you'll just burp aggressively for the next two hours." Lily plopped onto the couch, cross-legged. "Worth it."

Amara tried a spoonful and winced. "You stayed over?"

"Obviously. Alex dropped us off and you nearly fell asleep standing. Someone had to make sure you didn't drown in your own bathtub." Lily sat cross-legged on the couch, watching her with a sly look. "You owe me."

Amara ate a spoonful, wincing at the taste. "I'll pay you back with takeout."

"Not good enough." Lily's grin widened. "I want gossip."

Amara blinked. "What gossip?"

"Don't play dumb. I saw you and Charles last night."

Her stomach flipped. "What do you mean?"

"You two were... close," Lily said, stretching the word. "Closer than I've seen you in years. The way he looked at you? That wasn't nothing."

Amara buried her face in her hands. "Please tell me no one else noticed."

"Relax," Lily softened. "Everyone was busy with their own mess until the fight. I doubt anyone saw more than me."

Amara peeked through her fingers, groaning. "I don't even remember half of what I said and did last night."

"That's what happens when you let me drag you out," Lily teased, bumping her shoulder playfully.

Amara squinted at her. "So what exactly did you see?"

"Oh, not much," Lily said innocently, though her grin betrayed her. "Just Charles hovering like he was your bodyguard, you laughing at whatever Max was whispering in your ear, and then Charles looking like he wanted to strangle him."

Amara dropped her head against the back of the couch. "Kill me now."

"Sorry, no mercy." Lily tilted her head, her grin annoyingly knowing. "You sure there's really nothing there? Because I swear, Charles's face when you leaned on him—"

Amara's head snapped up, horrified. "I leaned on him?"

"Relax," Lily said, laughing. "Barely. You were swaying and he caught your arm. It wasn't dramatic. More like... instinct. But the way he steadied you? Yeah, that was definitely a moment."

Amara groaned, dragging the pillow into her lap. "Great. Just what I needed—another blurry memory to haunt me."

Lily raised her brows. "Could be worse. At least you didn't puke in his shoes."

Amara gave her a flat look. "Not funny."

"It's a little funny," Lily said, unbothered. "Besides, it wasn't bad! If anything, it was almost... familiar. Like muscle memory. You two used to move around each other like that all the time. Last night just felt like—" She shrugged, "—A glimpse of the old days."

Amara hugged the pillow tighter, her voice muffled. "The old days are over."

"Maybe," Lily allowed, watching her carefully. "But you can't deny he still looks at you like he remembers them."

Amara peeked at her through narrowed eyes. "You've been hanging around Alex too long. You're starting to sound like him when he gets nosy."

"Guilty." Lily smirked, then leaned back against the couch, folding her arms. "Still... if it helps, it wasn't embarrassing. Nobody else seemed to notice. Just me being my observant self."

"Observant, huh?" Amara said, tossing the pillow at her. "More like annoying."

Lily caught it, laughing. "Annoying and right. Don't shoot the messenger."

Amara rolled her eyes and tried to focus on the bowl in her hands, but Lily wasn't letting her off the hook.

"Come on, Mars," Lily pressed. "You can't tell me that wasn't... something. You don't look at just anyone like that. And he—" She jabbed her finger toward Amara's chest, "—Definitely doesn't look at just anyone like that."

Amara shifted uncomfortably, her voice low. "We used to be best friends, Lil. That's all it is. That's all it ever was."

"Best friends don't stare at each other like the world's about to end," Lily said matter-of-factly. "Trust me, I know the difference."

Amara let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You don't get it... I cut him off. I was the one who ended things. Because he.. he couldn't even bother to show up when it mattered. My F2 debut. After being best friends for years, after knowing how much that race meant to me. He didn't come."

Her voice cracked slightly, and she shook her head. "So no, it's not some secret love story waiting to happen. He made his choice. And I made mine."

She leaned back against the couch, bitterness flashing in her eyes. "And since then? It's been nothing but fights. Austria, Hungary, Spain—hell, we've been at each other's throats almost every time we're on track. We don't talk, we just... push until one of us cracks. That's what we are now."

Amara let out a humorless laugh. "We've gotten penalties for it too, you know. First, they made us film those awkward PSAs, like slapping on a band-aid would fix anything. Then the FIA shipped us off to that stupid three-day workshop. And, fine, maybe it's... starting to help. At least we don't immediately try to kill each other the second we're in the same room anymore."

Lily tilted her head, unimpressed. "Funny. Because last night didn't look like two people who hate each other."

Amara rolled her eyes, stabbing the spoon into the bowl. "Yeah, well. A workshop can't undo years of damage."

"Maybe not," Lily said lightly, picking at a loose thread on her sweatshirt. "But it's funny—you talk about Charles like he's the only one circling your orbit."

Amara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, come on," Lily grinned. "Max. Don't think I didn't notice. The way he was glued to you last night? The pet names? 'Princess' this, 'princess' that—"

Amara groaned, dragging the pillow back into her lap. "He's just... Max. He calls everyone names."

"Not like that," Lily countered quickly. "Not with that tone. He watches you like a hawk. Honestly, it's kind of hilarious—two of the grid's biggest headaches circling you like moths to a flame."

Amara buried her face in the pillow. "Please stop talking."

Lily laughed, tossing the pillow back at her. "Alright, I'll drop it. But seriously—you can't tell me you didn't notice how Max hovered all night. The man practically turned into your personal security detail."

Amara lifted her head just enough to glare. "You're exaggerating."

"Am I?" Lily arched a brow. "Because from where I was sitting, every time you moved, his eyes followed. That's not just friendly."

Amara's mouth opened, then closed again. Heat crept up her neck. "...He's Max. He looks out for people."

"Not like that," Lily said knowingly, leaning back with a smug little smile.

Amara groaned into the pillow, muffling her voice. "He's complicated."

"Complicated," Lily echoed, amused. "That's one way to put it."

Before Amara could defend herself further, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a name that made her stomach flip.

Max.

Lily's eyes went wide, then immediately narrowed into a grin. "Oh, that is too perfect."

Amara snatched the phone before Lily could grab it. "Don't."

"I'm not doing anything," Lily said, all innocence, though her smirk gave her away. "But you have to answer now. If you ignore him after that whole speech about him just being a friend, it'll look suspicious."

Amara hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Her head still ached, her mouth tasted like the mystery soup Lily had forced on her, and she was in no mood for whatever Max was about to say.

But then again—ignoring him wasn't an option.

With a reluctant sigh, she swiped to accept. "Hey."

"Finally," Max's voice came through, low but teasing. "Thought you'd died over there or something. How's the hangover?"

Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. "Manageable. Barely. Thanks for asking."

In the background, Lily whispered dramatically, 'Thanks for asking', before pretending to faint onto the couch. Amara swatted at her with the pillow again.

"You sound alive enough," Max went on, a chuckle in his voice. "Better than last night at least. You had me worried for a second."

Amara rolled her eyes, though a tiny smile tugged at her mouth. "You worry too much."

"I call it being responsible," Max countered. "Someone had to make sure you didn't disappear off into trouble."

"I didn't disappear. I was fine."

"Fine?" Max repeated, skeptical. "You nearly fell asleep standing at the bar."

Her cheeks heated, though she tried to keep her tone casual. "I made it home, didn't I?"

"That's because we made sure you did," Max said easily, and for a moment there was no teasing in his voice—just simple truth.

Amara froze, not knowing what to say.

"Good," He went on, his tone sharpening slightly. "Maybe you'll remember not to drink that much again. Don't scare me like that, Amara. I meant it."

She exhaled, pressing her forehead into her hand. "I'm fine. Really."

"You better be." A pause, his voice softer now. "Charles check in on you?"

Her eyes flicked toward the chair again, pulse quickening. "No," She said quickly.

Max hummed low, clearly unconvinced. "Alright. Just remember I'm around, okay?"

"Yeah," She said softly. "Thanks, Max."

"Anytime, princess," The endearment landed heavy this time before the line clicked dead.

Amara set the phone down slowly, ignoring how warm her ears felt.

The silence stretched heavy until Lily leaned over, plucking the phone from her hand. "You know this is messy, right?"

Amara groaned, burying her face in the pillow again. "Why do I even let you stay over?"

"Because I'm the best friend you'll ever have," Lily sang, hugging the other pillow triumphantly.

By mid-afternoon, the internet had finally caught up. Blurry videos from the club began circulating—Charles stepping in first, Max shoving the drunk, Amara's figure barely visible behind them.

The captions exploded.

Was this about her??

Leclerc and Verstappen throwing hands in Monaco???

Velasquez of Mercedes already stirring drama again

Social media speculates fight over Velasquez, what really happened?

Headlines cropped up fast: F1 Stars in Club Fight.

Lily sat on the arm of the couch, scrolling through Twitter with an unimpressed look. "You're trending. Again."

Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fantastic."

"You might want to get ahead of it before the rumors snowball," Lily suggested.

"I don't want to feed it."

"You might not have a choice." Lily tapped the screen, scrolling through the posts. "Look at this one—'Verstappen steps in after Leclerc protects Velasquez from a harasser.'" She raised her eyebrows. "So, at least people are piecing together that it wasn't just random violence."

Amara groaned, sinking back. "Yeah, but everyone is missing the part where that drunk guy was harassing me. It shouldn't even be a question."

Lily leaned closer, voice low. "Honestly, if anything, you're lucky they got there when they did. I saw him practically drooling over you before Charles shoved him off."

Amara exhaled sharply, staring at the jacket draped over the chair. "I hate that it even matters how it looks. I didn't ask for any of this attention."

As if on cue, Amara's phone buzzed again, this time with an email from Sophie, her PR manager.

Minutes later she was on a call, Sophie's clipped voice sharp through the speaker.

"You need to understand, Amara, your rookie season is not the time to be plastered across tabloids for nightclub fights."

"I wasn't the one who started it," Amara said quietly.

"It doesn't matter who started it. What matters is how it looks. You're supposed to set an example, and you cannot afford to look reckless. Do you understand?"

Guilt pricked sharp, but irritation followed just as quickly. "So Charles and Max get a free pass?"

"This isn't about them. It's about you." Sophie's voice softened slightly, but the warning remained. "You have too much potential to risk it on headlines like these. Be careful."

Amara leaned back, muttering under her breath, "Easy for them to say. They weren't the ones being groped by some drunk idiot."

The call ended, leaving Amara staring at the silent screen.

The jacket still sat draped over the chair, silent and heavy, a reminder of the night she wasn't sure how to untangle.

Lily nudged her shoulder. "Well, mars, looks like your life just got a little more complicated. And social media isn't exactly forgiving."

Amara groaned again. "Tell me about it. I just want a quiet day without my entire life being dissected online."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Lily said, scrolling through more posts. "At least Charles and Max look like heroes in some of these."

Amara's fingers brushed the jacket. "Heroes, sure... but I still have to deal with all the fallout."

Lily smirked. "You always do. But hey, at least you've got backup. And a very protective Max."

Amara huffed, eyes narrowing. "Yeah... protective to the point of texting nonstop. I can't keep up."

The quiet tension of the room lingered, punctuated only by the distant buzz of notifications.

Chapter Text

Belgium, Late August 2020

THE SCREEN'S GLOW PAINTED AMARA'S FACE PALE IN THE SILENCE OF THE MERCEDES MOTORHOME. It was early, media day, yet her phone was still flooded with headlines.

Monaco Chaos: Ferrari's Charles Leclerc defends Mercedes' Amara Velasquez in nightclub altercation

Grainy footage shows Ferrari's Charles Leclerc throwing punch, Red Bull's Max Verstappen involved

Amara Velasquez in Charles Leclerc's jacket: What Really Happened?

She scrolled slower the more she read, thumb hesitating on the shaky images that captured the worst moments, Charles's fist mid-swing, Max pushing the drunk back, her own figure caught in the middle, shoulders hunched beneath Charles's jacket. The comments beneath were worse. Some praised them for standing up. Others asked why she was 'always in the middle of trouble.'

The familiar ache crept in. No matter what the context was, she knew being the only woman on the grid magnified everything.

A knock on the motorhome door pulled her out of her thoughts. Before she could answer, Toto leaned in, holding two coffees. His sharp eyes softened when he saw her screen.

"Turn that off for now," He said, setting one cup in front of her. "The statement goes out in ten minutes. Let the teams do their job."

Amara locked her phone reluctantly, pushing it face-down on the table. "They're making it sound like I was some... damsel needing rescuing."

Toto sat opposite her, his tall frame almost too large for the small lounge. "Listen carefully, Amara. None of this is your fault. But because you're the only woman here, the narrative will always spin differently. That's unfair, but it's reality." His tone sharpened, but there was warmth underneath. "That's why we handle it together. Let me deal with the politics. You focus on the racing. That's your job."

She met his gaze. "And if they call me drama again?"

Toto's expression hardened, protective in a way that reminded her why Mercedes felt like family. "Then they'll answer to me. We don't let our own stand alone. Not here."

Amara let out a dry laugh. "You make it sound so easy."

"It is easy," Toto replied without missing a beat. "You race. We protect. That's how this works."

Her expression softened, something almost teasing in her eyes. "You know, sometimes it feels like you're half team principal, half dad."

"Careful," He deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. "If Susie hears that, I'll never live it down."

Her shoulders eased, just a fraction. "Danke, Toto." Thank you

"Anytime, kid." He stood, adjusting his mask. "Finish your coffee. Then get ready for the circus."

By afternoon, the socially distanced press room buzzed with tension. Reporters' chairs were spaced apart, microphones sanitized between questions, masks covering sharp eyes that looked for cracks. The first few questions touched on Spa, the weather, strategy, but it didn't take long before the subject shifted.

A reporter leaned forward, voice amplified. "Amara, can you clarify the situation in Monaco a week ago? Some say Charles was defending you. Others argue you were... rescued. Which is it?"

Amara sat straighter, her Mercedes jacket zipped to her chin. Her voice was calm, measured. "Charles was protecting a fellow driver from harassment. That's the important part. I may be the only woman on this grid, but I am not fragile. We stand up for each other because we know how hard this world can be."

Another reporter raised his hand. "But doesn't this highlight the risks of being a woman in such a male-dominated environment? Do you feel more... vulnerable compared to your colleagues?"

Amara's jaw set. "I feel like a racing driver. We all face risks, on track and off. What happened in Monaco wasn't about gender, it was about respect. And disrespect doesn't get a free pass."

A woman from the French press jumped in. "So you're saying you didn't need rescuing at all?"

Amara's lips curved, cool but sharp. "I'm saying no one should need rescuing in the first place. The focus should be on why someone thought it was acceptable to harass a driver. That's the problem, not the fact Charles stepped in."

There was a pause, pens scratching as her words sank in. Another voice called out: "Charles, do you regret your actions that night?"

Charles didn't hesitate. He leaned toward his mic, tone steady but firm. "No one should be treated the way she was. I stepped in because a line was crossed. I'd do the same for any driver."

A murmur rippled through the room. Someone pressed, "Even if it meant risking your image? Your career? Some sponsors don't take kindly to bar fights."

Charles's eyes didn't waver. "Some things matter more than headlines. And I'd rather lose an image than lose my integrity."

Another question flew his way. "Charles, what if the situation had been reversed? If it had been Amara stepping in for you?"

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth. "Then I suppose I'd be the one explaining myself here. But I'd like to think she'd have done the same for me."

Amara glanced at him from the corner of her eye and answered before the room could. "I would have."

The whispers that followed wasn't about the incident anymore, it was about the bond threaded between their words.

Then, deliberately, a veteran journalist spoke up. "But forgive me—aren't we seeing a different story now? Not long ago, both of you were at odds. Austin 2019, Austria, Hungary, you two weren't exactly defending each other. What's changed?"

Amara's lips pressed together before she replied evenly. "We've both grown. Rivalries don't erase respect, and respect doesn't vanish just because we've had tough moments."

Charles added, his gaze forward but voice calm, "We've learned from those races. The past doesn't disappear, but it doesn't define how we act today. If anything, it shows we can fight each other hard on track and still stand together off it."

Another reporter leaned forward. "So, are you saying your relationship has improved?"

Amara let out a soft, almost reluctant laugh. "You could say that. We... still get under each other's skin sometimes."

Charles's lips curved into a teasing smirk, eyes flicking to her. "Some things never change."

A ripple of quiet amusement ran through the room, easing the tension just enough.

But the press wasn't done. A hand shot up near the back. "Max, you were also seen in those clips. What's your side of the story?"

Max leaned into his mic, shrugging casually. "Pretty simple. Guy was drunk, disrespectful. Charles stepped in first, I stepped in after. End of story."

"End of story?" A reporter echoed skeptically.

Max's mouth curved into a flat line. "I don't see the need to dramatize someone defending their friend. Anyone would've done the same."

Amara glanced at him, grateful for the way he framed it, though she said nothing.

The spotlight shifted. "George, Alex—you two were also there. Did you see what happened?"

George adjusted the mic, his tone careful but clear. "Yeah, I saw enough. The man crossed a line, and Charles and Max reacted. Was it the best setting? No. But in the moment, protecting Amara was the priority."

Alex added, his voice softer but firm, "People forget it was messy and fast. From the outside it looks like a fight, but it wasn't about egos. It was about keeping someone safe."

Another journalist leaned in, seizing the thread. "So the four of you stood together that night? No lingering tension between you?"

Max cut in first, his tone edged with warning. "There was never tension. Don't spin it into something it wasn't."

George smirked faintly. "Honestly, the only tension was between that drunk guy and Charles's fist"

The room broke into laughter, the heaviness finally lifting.

The interviews wrapped with a blur of camera shutters and clipped questions, the noise still echoing in Amara's ears. She tugged off her mask the moment the door shut behind her, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Max was leaning against the wall in the corner, scrolling idly through his phone. He glanced up the second she stepped out, lips twitching into that familiar smirk.

"You survived," He said, voice low, teasing but carrying a note of relief.

"Barely," Amara grumbled, resting back against the wall opposite him. "Felt like they were circling for blood."

Max tilted his head, blue eyes flicking over her in quiet assessment. "They'll keep trying. Just don't let them eat you alive, princess."

The nickname slipped out so naturally she almost forgot to glare. Almost. "Don't call me that."

His smirk deepened. "You're the only one who gets that title. You should be honored."

She rolled her eyes, though her lips threatened a smile. "You're impossible."

"Mm, sure, maybe," He said, pocketing his phone and pushing off the wall to close the distance between them a little. "But you like me this way."

Her brows arched. "Confident much?"

"Not confident," He corrected, the grin edging into something softer. "Just right."

That pulled a laugh from her before she could stop it, and he grinned wider like he'd won a battle.

"See? Still works," He teased. "I disappear for a week and you're still laughing at my jokes. Good to know you missed me."

"I didn't say that," She shot back quickly, though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her.

"You didn't have to." His tone dipped lower, playful but laced with something more sincere. "I know."

For a moment, she had no comeback. Just the steady thrum of her heart and the awareness of how close he was standing.

Max eased back half a step, letting the tension stretch before shrugging lightly. "Anyway, you did good in there. Better than they deserved."

Her chest tightened at that, words catching in her throat. All she managed was a quiet, "Thanks."

He nodded once, as if that settled it. "Just... don't forget I'm around, okay?"

She swallowed, giving him the smallest nod. "Okay."

Max's words lingered even after he pulled away with a lazy wave, heading down toward the Red Bull side of the paddock. Amara exhaled, tugging her mask back up as she pushed open the press room doors.

She was hardly aware of the bustling world outside until she felt someone fall into step beside her.

Charles.

Ferrari red caught at the corner of her vision, and when she glanced sideways, he was already watching her, that infuriatingly calm expression in place.

"By the way," He started, voice casual, almost too casual, "You still owe me my jacket."

Amara blinked, caught off guard, before a laugh slipped out. "You'll get it back in Monaco. I had to wash out someone else's blood, remember?"

He tilted his head, grin softening into something warmer. "Careful, Velasquez. At this rate, you'll have a whole Ferrari wardrobe."

"Please. Red clashes with everything I own." She fired back.

"Bold words for someone who looked pretty good in it," He teased, stepping just a little closer.

She groaned. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," He drawled, smile tugging wider, "You still wore it."

Amara rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Flattery?" He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Never. I just state the facts."

"Facts according to you," She replied, raising a brow, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

"Exactly. And according to my facts, you owe me a coffee next time," Charles added, playful but firm, as if keeping score mattered.

"Oh, so now my wardrobe choices come with a bill," She asked, laughing despite herself.

"With you, everything comes with a bill," He said, shrugging in mock innocence.

She scoffed. "That's rich coming from you. If anyone's expensive, it's you, Mr. Ferrari Golden Boy."

"Expensive?" His brows arched, tone mock-offended. "I'll have you know I'm worth every cent."

Amara snorted, shaking her head. "Yeah, tell that to your sponsors."

"Or to you," He countered smoothly, smirk returning.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out—half amused, half annoyed at how easily he twisted her words. She rolled her eyes, choosing silence instead, though the corner of her lips betrayed her with a twitch.

"See?" Charles said softly, a little too triumphant. "You missed this. Don't deny it."

"Missed what? Your ego?" Amara shot back, but her tone lacked bite.

"My company," He said simply, not teasing this time.

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. "That's... new. You don't usually say things like that before."

Charles's mouth curved, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Doesn't mean I don't think them."

Amara's steps slowed, the warmth in his tone tugging at something she'd tried to bury. For a second, neither of them spoke, the buzz of the paddock distant, almost muted.

"You know..." Her voice dropped, hesitant. "Back then. After 2018, Austria, everything I said—I really thought you probably hated me. Maybe that's why I made it easy by cutting you off."

Charles stopped walking. His expression shifted, the playful grin gone in an instant, replaced with something rawer. Hurt, almost.

"You really think that?" His voice was quiet, but it carried.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the ground. "You had every reason to."

"Amara," He said, and when she finally looked up, his eyes were burning into hers. "We fought. We hurt each other."

"But hate? No. I could never hate you."

"If anything..." His voice faltered for a moment, softer now. "I thought you hated me. Especially after 2018. When I didn't show up for your debut. You don't know how many times I told myself you had every right to hate me for it."

"You disappeared, Charles." She whispered. "One moment we were inseparable, and the next... it felt like you wanted nothing to do with me."

His jaw tightened, his voice low and rough. "I didn't want distance, I just didn't know how to face you. And when I finally tried..." His throat bobbed. "You'd blocked me. Everywhere. I couldn't call, I couldn't message. I thought that was your answer. That you didn't want me in your life anymore."

Her gaze softened, though her words pressed like glass. "I was upset, Charles. Furious, even. But hate you? No. Never. You should remember something about me. I hate broken promises. They cut deeper than anything else. That's why it hurt. That's why I walked away."

His throat tightened, guilt flickering across his face. "I wanted to be there. I swear I did. Things just—" He faltered, shaking his head. "I made the wrong choice that day. But I never thought you didn't matter. Not once."

She searched his face, her voice quieter now. "Then why didn't you keep trying? Why let me believe I was the only one bleeding from it?"

His gaze dropped, raw with regret. "Because I thought I'd already lost you. That if I pushed, I'd only drive you further away. So I stayed silent, even if it killed me. Anthoine told me back then to give you space. Pierre too. They both said you needed time, and if I tried to force it, I'd only make it worse."

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders tense. "So I listened. Even when every part of me wanted to fight for you, I didn't. Because I thought it's what you wanted, that silence meant I should stay away."

Her chest tightened, the ache of hearing Anthoine's name cutting deeper than she expected. It was like a ghost brushing through the space between them. She swallowed, her voice gentler than before. "They.. they were only trying to protect me. Protect us, maybe. I can't be angry at them for that."

She paused, her expression softening, though her words pressed like glass. "But Charles... you should have trusted me enough to ask. Even if I would've pushed you away. Even if I would've yelled. At least then you would have known."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked younger, almost boyish in his hesitation. He drew in a slow breath. "I was afraid," He admitted, voice low. "Afraid you'd tell me what I already feared, that you didn't want me in your life anymore. And if you said it out loud... I don't think I could have borne it."

His gaze flickered, the next word slipping out before he could stop it. "Amie..." His voice caught on the old nickname, softer, almost breaking. "I didn't know how to reach you without making it worse. So I let silence be safer. Even if it meant losing you anyway."

Amara froze, the old name striking deeper than the confession itself. It had been years since she'd heard it, years since he'd said it with that tone, unguarded and close. Her lips parted, breath unsteady. "You haven't called me that in a long time.." She said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Charles's mouth curved faintly, bittersweet. "Because it reminded me too much of before. And I didn't think I had the right to say it anymore."

Something in her chest twisted. For a moment she wanted to laugh it off, to deflect like she always did, but the heaviness between them didn't allow it. Instead she shook her head gently, her voice softer than she intended. "You never lost the right. I was just... too hurt to hear it."

The silence stretched, weighted but not sharp. For the first time in years, it wasn't filled with anger or distance, it was filled with everything they hadn't said, everything they'd both buried.

Charles exhaled slowly, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his mouth, as if he needed to break the heaviness before it swallowed them both. "Then maybe I'll take my chances. See if Amie forgives me enough to return my jacket sometime soon."

Her lips curved despite herself, the ache in her chest softening just a little. "In Monaco, Charles." She said firmly, though her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary.

He tilted his head, his grin turning mischievous. "Fine. But don't think I won't notice if you keep it longer just because you like it."

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth between them stayed. A small laugh slipped out. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe." He said, softer now, "But at least we're not at war anymore."

Her chest tightened, but in a gentler way this time. She hesitated, then offered quietly, "So... friends?"

His answer came without pause, steady and certain. "Friends."

They held each other's gaze for a heartbeat longer, something unspoken lingering there, before they finally parted at the next turn, him toward Ferrari, her back toward Mercedes.

But for once, it didn't feel like rivals walking away.

It felt like something lost was quietly, carefully finding its way back.

Chapter Text

Belgium, Late August 2020

THE MORNING AIR AT SPA WAS COOL, TOUCHED WITH MIST, THE SUN JUST BEGINNING TO BURN THROUGH THE CLOUDS. Amara walked the quiet stretch of track with a small bouquet in hand, her steps steady though her chest felt tight. She had spoken to Pierre about this the night before, asking him to come with her—and to bring Charles, too.

Ahead, near Raidillon, she spotted the two of them waiting. Pierre stood with his arms crossed, his own flowers hanging loosely at his side, while Charles lingered just a little behind him, holding his bouquet with quiet reverence.

"You brought flowers too," Pierre said when she reached them, his voice low, not unkind. His gaze flicked briefly between her and Charles, still not fully used to seeing them side by side again. "Didn't expect any less, I guess."

Amara lifted her bouquet slightly, her lips curving faintly. "Of course. He deserved this. Ton will always deserve this."

Charles gave her a small nod, lifting his bouquet slightly as a greeting. "Toujours," He said softly. "We all carry him, in our own way." Always

Pierre's steps slowed as they reached the stretch of asphalt, his gaze lowering to the tarmac. He let out a breath that sounded heavier than it should. "It's strange being here again," He mumbled, his voice rough at the edges. "Part of me wishes we didn't have to. That this place didn't mean what it does now."

Amara's throat tightened, her eyes fixed on the same patch of track. She forced her voice steady, though it came out softer than she intended. "I know. But that's why we came. He deserves this much from us... at least."

The three of them began walking toward the spot, the usual noise of Spa replaced with the hush of morning wind over asphalt. It felt wrong for the circuit to be this still, and yet, right, too. Like it was waiting.

At the edge of the crash site, Amara stopped and knelt, laying her flowers down carefully. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer in Tagalog, voice low and melodic.

"Magpahinga ka nang mapayapa, Anthoine. Salamat sa lahat. Ingatan mo kami sa unahan ng karera. Sana lagi kang kasama namin sa bawat liko, sa bawat bilis. Hindi ka namin makakalimutan." Rest peacefully, Anthoine. Thank you for everything. Watch over us on the track ahead. May you always be with us in every turn, in every speed. We will never forget you.

Pierre and Charles remained standing quietly behind her, watching, letting her words guide the moment. Neither spoke, simply following the rhythm of her movements and letting her lead.

Her words shifted, softening further into French, carried by the cool evening air:

"Merci pour ton courage, Anthoine. Merci pour chaque rire, chaque histoire. Ton souvenir nous guidera sur chaque piste, et dans chaque pas de notre vie." Thank you for your courage, Anthoine. Thank you for every laugh, every story. Your memory will guide us on every track, and in every step of our lives.

Pierre and Charles remained standing quietly behind her, respect etched into their expressions, following her lead without a word.

When she finally opened her eyes, Pierre crouched down beside her then, placing his bouquet next to hers. His jaw tightened. "I... I still can't believe he's gone."

Charles knelt too, lowering his flowers with careful hands. "He'd tell us not to dwell," He said quietly. "He'd tell us to race harder."

Pierre huffed out something like a laugh, but it broke halfway. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Always telling me to stop overthinking, just push the throttle and shut up."

Amara let a small, reflective smile touch her lips. "I know. But remembering doesn't stop us from racing. It... it reminds us why we do this."

Pierre's hand brushed hers lightly as he nodded, silently acknowledging her words. While Charles rested a steadying hand on Pierre's shoulder.

When they all stood again, Amara exhaled slowly, eyes on the track. "It's strange. Being here without him. Like there's a gap we can't ever fill. But somehow... we carry him."

Charles's gaze stayed forward, his voice quiet but firm. "He's still here. In every corner, in every lap."

Amara looked at him briefly, and her voice dropped. "You really believe that?"

Charles nodded, gaze unwavering. "I have to. Otherwise... it feels like he's just gone. And I can't let myself think that."

Pierre glanced between them, his brow lifting slightly. "You two... you're friends again, huh? I can actually see it. After all this time."

Amara blinked at him, a soft laugh escaping. "Careful, Pierre. Don't jinx it."

Charles rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "You make it sound like progress is a crime."

Pierre smirked faintly. "Progress with you? Feels suspicious, not gonna lie."

Amara chuckled, shaking her head. "Some things don't change. He's still dramatic."

Charles shot her a mock glare. "Look who's talking. You've been dramatic since 2014, Amie."

The nickname slipped out unguarded, hanging between them. Amara froze for a second, her lips parting, before looking away with a small, shaky smile.

Pierre snorted under his breath. "I didn't think I'd ever see you two not at each other's throats again. What changed?"

Amara shrugged lightly. "Maybe we just... remembered we were friends.. first. Before everything else."

Charles added, quieter but sincere. "Some things don't really disappear. They just... get buried. Until you dig them back up."

Pierre only shook his head, though his expression softened as he looked down at the flowers. "You know... Anthoine would like this. He'd be proud. Seeing you both... even after everything, still standing, still racing, still looking out for each other. He never got to see this, though. You've grown, both of you. And he'd notice."

Amara swallowed, her voice low. "I wish he had. I wish he could've seen that we're finally okay, that we can laugh again, that we can still be us."

Charles's jaw flexed, but he nodded, steady. "He'd see it anyway. He always will."

For a moment, silence settled over the three of them. Then Pierre smirked faintly. "Normal again... in your own strange way."

Amara let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Strange's not the worst thing we've been called."

Charles huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Speak for yourself. I've been called worse in three languages before breakfast."

Amara arched a brow. "Only three? You're slacking."

Pierre laughed then, tension easing. "Yep. Definitely back to normal. Anthoine would be rolling his eyes at you both right now."

Pierre raised a brow, lips tugging into a grin. "And now you two are back to bickering. Yeah, definitely normal."

Amara nudged Pierre lightly with her elbow. "Don't act so surprised. You're the one who brought him."

Pierre shot her a mock-offended look. "You asked me to. Didn't think you'd both actually... get along again."

Charles's voice softened, not losing its playful edge. "Maybe it was overdue." He glanced at Pierre. "Better late than never, no?"

Amara glanced at Charles, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Better late.. than never," She echoed, softer.

Pierre exhaled through his nose, a half-smile breaking through the weight in his eyes. "Guess so. Anthoine would've wanted that too."

Amara nodded, her tone gentler now. "Yeah. He'd want us together—arguing, laughing, racing. Living. Not carrying ghosts alone."

The three of them stood there a while longer, flowers laid out before them, the track quiet around their voices.

The flowers had been left behind, their colors soft against the gray of the tarmac. For a long time, Amara carried the quiet with her, the weight of memory, the fragile thread of laughter they'd managed to share. Even hours later, the heaviness of Raidillon clung to her chest like mist that refused to burn away.

By the time she returned to the Mercedes hospitality, the paddock had shifted into its usual rhythm. Even in 2020, even with masks and distancing and rules about who could be where, the air buzzed with its familiar tension, mechanics in their face coverings, engineers glued to their laptops, the low thrum of engines echoing through the valley.

Inside the hospitality lounge, it was calmer, almost hushed. Lewis sat by the window, mask lowered, a half-empty cup of tea resting in his hands. Beside him, Roscoe was sprawled lazily across the carpet, chin on his paws, one ear twitching every so often.

The moment Amara stepped in, Roscoe's head lifted immediately. His tail thumped once, then again, before he got up and padded toward her, nails clicking softly on the floor.

Amara blinked in surprise, her lips curving as he stopped by her feet. "Well, hello there," She mumbled, crouching down. Her fingers slipped gently into his fur, warm, soft, grounding. Roscoe leaned into her touch, eyes half-closing, as though they'd known each other far longer than a few seconds.

Lewis's gaze softened over the rim of his cup. "Careful," He said lightly, "He doesn't do that for everyone."

Amara laughed, still petting Roscoe. "Guess I got lucky, then."

"He's a good judge of people," Lewis replied, his tone soft, almost absentminded as he watched them. "Always knows who needs him."

Roscoe gave a small, happy huff, pressing his head against her hand again. Something about it tugged at her chest, so gentle, so trusting.

Lewis tilted his head, watching her closely. "You've had a dog before, haven't you, M?"

Amara hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah... her name was Ulap, it means cloud in my language. A Samoyed. Fluffy, stubborn, always stealing food when I wasn't looking." A small laugh slipped out, though her eyes softened at the memory.

"Charles... was the one who gave her to me back in 2016, after I won the European F3 Championship. The funny thing is, it was actually his birthday that day. I had a gift for him, and instead he showed up with this little ball of fur in his arms."

Her lips curved faintly, the warmth of the memory breaking through before it dimmed again. "It was his way of... reminding me that people believed in me, even when I didn't. Ulap was with me for years, until she passed in 2019. And after that—" Amara exhaled, shoulders sagging a little. "I.. I couldn't bring myself to think about getting another pet since. It broke me in a way I don't really talk about."

Lewis's eyes softened. "That's a good reason to give someone a dog."

"Yeah," She breathed. "She passed last year. And since then... I don't know, I never thought I could go through it again." Her hand stilled for a moment in Roscoe's fur. "It hurts in a way that's hard to explain."

Lewis nodded, gaze distant for a moment. "It does. They take a piece of you with them. But for what it's worth... they give you a lot more while they're here."

Roscoe nudged her hand at that exact moment, as if sensing the heaviness in the air. Amara let out a quiet laugh, fingers automatically finding the soft spot behind his ears.

"See? He gets it," Lewis said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "He always knows when someone needs him."

Amara's voice gentled. "He's a sweetheart."

"The best one I've ever known," Lewis replied softly. There was no boast in his words, only warmth, and something deeply fond that lingered between them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside hummed faintly through the glass, distant and calm. Amara's hand stayed on Roscoe's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her palm, a quiet, living heartbeat of comfort between them.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer. "You were right, you know. About not letting the rivalry burn everything else down."

Lewis leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on Roscoe's leash, watching her with the same patient calm he always carried. "You know... it makes me glad you've let yourself open up a little again," He said softly. "Last year, when you told me about you and Charles, I just didn't want you to carry it like I did with Nico. That weight... it eats at you if you let it."

Amara let out a slow breath, fingers still tangled in Roscoe's fur. "I remember what you said." She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "And... I think maybe we're starting to get there. Charles and I. Not like before, not yet. But... friends again. Or at least something that looks like it."

Lewis raised his brows slightly. "So you actually talked? Properly this time?"

"Yeah," She admitted quietly. "We also visited the spot where Anthoine... you know. It wasn't easy, but... it felt right. And for the first time in years, it didn't feel like we were on opposite sides."

Lewis's eyes softened, a genuine warmth in them. "Good. That's good. You know, I was hoping you'd say that one day." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "At the end of the day, it's never really about beating the other guy, it's about who still stands by you when the helmet comes off. I'm glad it's turning out better for you than it did for me and Nico."

Roscoe gave a happy little huff, pressing his nose into Amara's hand like he agreed. She laughed, shaking her head as she rubbed his ears.

Lewis grinned at the sight. "Even Roscoe knows you've done the right thing. He's got a way of sensing good people."

Amara teased, smirking. "Guess that means I passed the Roscoe test, then."

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, you did. And more than that, you're finding your balance again. Don't lose it, M. Not for racing, not for anyone."

Amara's smile lingered, softer now. "I'll try, L. No promises, though. You know me."

"Yeah," Lewis said with a knowing grin, "I do. Which is why I'm reminding you."

Before she could reply, a knock sounded at the door. A Mercedes staff member peeked in, headset balanced around his neck. "Sorry to interrupt. Qualifying briefing starts in ten. Time to get ready."

Amara gave Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears before straightening. Roscoe made a small disgruntled noise at losing her attention, earning another laugh from her. "I think he wanted me to stay."

Lewis rose as well, clipping the leash back onto Roscoe. "Don't tempt him. He'd happily sneak into the garage with you if I let him."

Amara smirked as she adjusted her jacket. "Maybe he'd bring me better luck on track."

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't need luck, you've got pace. Just remember to keep your head clear." He met her eyes, steady and certain. "And remember what we talked about. Balance. Don't let the noise follow you into the cockpit."

She exhaled, nodding once. "Got it."

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"BOX, BOX. THAT'S IT. ANOTHER P2 START. AMAZING JOB, AMARA!"

Her chest surged with adrenaline, laughter bubbling out of her as she guided the Mercedes back into the pit lane. Another front-row start. Another chance.

Lewis was the first to approach. His eyes crinkled with his smile above the mask, and before either of them thought about it, Amara gave him a quick, tight hug, fast but genuine, just a heartbeat of contact before pulling back. "Congrats on pole, L!" She said, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

He chuckled, a low sound full of ease. "And congrats on making me work for it. As I said, you've got the pace, you're right where you should be."

Before she could reply, Max appeared from Red Bull's side of the lane, tugging off his helmet and mask already dangling from one hand. His grin was wide, cheeks flushed from the run. "P3," He announced, and there was the sharp glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "But you—" tilted his head at her, "Another P2. You're making a habit of this."

Amara laughed, breathless, and without thinking, she threw her arms around him. Just a brief hug, quick and tight before she remembered the eyes and the rules. She stepped back, cheeks warm even behind her mask. "Guess I am."

Max leaned closer, his voice low enough for her alone. "One of these days, I'll take that spot from you. Then what?"

Her lips curved, eyes flicking up to meet his. "Then I'll take it right back."

Something flickered between them, taut and charged, before Alex's voice broke through. "Look at you two getting cozy," He teased, bounding over with his mask slipping crooked on his face. His grin was so wide it nearly split his cheeks. "P5 for me! Not bad for the second Red Bull in line."

Amara laughed again, grateful for the interruption, and pulled Alex into a half-hug with one arm. "That's brilliant, Alex! Well done."

Max smirked. "Still behind me, though."

Alex rolled his eyes, but his grin didn't waver. "Yeah, but I'm the one keeping things interesting for the team."

That jab hung in the air a moment too long, because just a few steps away, Charles was pulling off his gloves, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked toward them. He had finished P13, Pierre just behind in P12, and the sight of Amara's easy laughter with Max seemed to tighten something in his jaw.

Pierre, standing beside him, nudged his arm gently. "You're doing it again," He mumbled under his breath, trying to lighten the weight in the air. But he, too, couldn't help but notice the way Amara and Max seemed to orbit each other, close, sparking, like they hadn't seen each other properly in months and were only just finding their rhythm again.

Charles tore his gaze away, busying himself with his helmet strap, but the flicker in his eyes lingered.

Amara nudged Alex's shoulder with a grin. "At this rate, you both better get used to staring at the back of my car."

Max tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Trust me, I already am. The view's becoming very familiar."

The celebration carried them straight into the interview pen, where cameras flashed and recorders clicked in the damp Spa air. The first wave of questions was routine, lap times, tire strategy, how the cars had felt through qualifying. Lewis, calm and steady as always, stood at the center, giving his answers with practiced confidence. Then the microphone shifted toward Amara.

"Amara, another front-row start for you this season. P2 again, how are you feeling heading into tomorrow?"

Amara tugged her mask down just enough to answer clearly, her smile faint but steady. "Honestly? Happy. We've been consistent, and that's all I can ask for. It's not easy out here, especially with the conditions we've had, but the car felt good today. Starting alongside Lewis again... it's special."

Lewis glanced sideways at her, his eyes crinkling in approval.

Another reporter leaned forward. "You celebrated with Max and Alex just now. Red Bull looking strong behind you, do you see them as the biggest threat tomorrow?"

She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "I see everyone as a threat tomorrow. Spa doesn't forgive mistakes. But yeah. Max in particular has been quick all weekend. If there's one thing I know, it's that he won't make it easy for me."

Max, waiting for his turn with Red Bull PR, smirked faintly at that, clearly catching her words.

Then another reporter raised his hand, shifting the room's energy. "Amara, you, Pierre, and Charles were seen visiting Eau Rouge this morning. You were also there last year when Anthoine Hubert's accident happened in Formula 2. How did that affect you going into today?"

Her hand tightened briefly around the mic, her breath catching before she answered. "It's... impossible not to think about him here. Last year, I was right there when it happened in Formula 2. I can still hear it sometimes, the silence that followed. None of us will ever forget." She paused, her eyes flicking briefly toward Pierre further down the pen, then to Charles. "So when I drive here, I try to honor him the only way I know how, by giving everything I have. By remembering why we loved this sport in the first place."

The air grew noticeably quieter. Even Max, usually so quick with his quips, glanced sideways at her, his smirk subdued.

Another reporter chimed in, softer. "Do you think Anthoine would be proud, seeing you here, fighting at the front?"

A small smile tugged at Amara's mouth, though her voice carried a steady weight. "I hope so. He pushed all of us to be better, not just on track, but as people. That's the part I try to keep with me."

Pierre lowered his gaze, jaw tight. Charles gave the faintest nod, his eyes betraying something gentler even if he stayed silent.

Lewis leaned closer to the mic then, his tone quieter than usual. "I think he'd be proud of all of us, but especially of her," He said, gesturing slightly toward Amara.

Her lips parted, surprise flickering before she managed a grateful smile. "Thank you, Lewis."

From the back, Max's voice carried just enough for her to hear, low and almost begrudging but sincere.

"Yeah. He would."

Chapter Text

Belgium, Late August 2020

"IT'S LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!"

Engines roared like thunder through the Ardennes, twenty cars lunging forward in perfect unison. Amara reacted on instinct, foot heavy, steering sharp, darting to the inside of La Source before anyone could shut the door.

Lewis's Mercedes loomed in her mirrors, his nose edging closer. She braked late, daringly late, sliding her car just ahead as they exited the hairpin.

The commentators erupted.

"Unbelievable! The rookie Velasquez takes P1 from Hamilton into Turn 1!"

"She's leading at Spa! The rookie is leading into Eau Rouge!"

Even without a crowd in the stands, the online live feed exploded, millions watching at home, chatboxes and timelines filling with disbelief.

Riccardo, her engineer's voice cut in, steady but urgent. "Good start, Amara. Very good. Lewis behind, Max close in P3. Focus. Keep it clean."

She tightened her grip, jaw set. "Copy. I've got them."

Eau Rouge loomed, its shadow stretching long. She flicked the car upward, flat through the climb, but Max's Red Bull was suddenly alongside. His helmet flashed in her peripheral, too close for comfort.

"Max is there, left side!" Her engineer warned.

"I see him, I see him!" She shot back, voice sharp. She didn't lift. Not here. Not today.

The cars surged over Raidillon, nearly wheel to wheel. For a terrifying heartbeat, she thought their tires might kiss. Her stomach flipped—but she forced the line, the Mercedes steady as she crested the hill.

"She holds it! Velasquez still ahead out of Raidillon! Verstappen nearly there, but she keeps the lead!"

On the Kemmel Straight, Lewis pounced, Mercedes power unleashed. His DRS light blinked, the gap closing fast. He pulled even, their Silver Arrows slicing through the Belgian air.

"Lewis right! Lewis right!"

Amara's breath hitched. "Not giving it up."

They barreled into Les Combes, side by side. She braked impossibly late, forcing the nose ahead, claiming the inside line. Their front wings nearly touched—metal and carbon balanced on a knife's edge.

"Velasquez keeps it! The rookie forces Hamilton back!"

The next laps blurred into a rhythm of battle. Lewis's silver shadow, Max's orange bull flashing in her mirrors. Her engineer's calls came rapid-fire: tire temps, deltas, gaps. She answered short, clipped, all business.

Still, through every corner, Anthoine's memory lingered. Eau Rouge came again and again, each lap daring her to lift, each lap pulling his laugh into her mind. She clenched the wheel tighter, whispered so low no one could hear.

"For you."

The Mercedes surged upward, tires screaming, and for a terrifying second Max's Red Bull edged alongside, the blur of his helmet a flicker in her peripheral. They nearly kissed wheels, but she didn't lift. Not here. Not today. She crested Raidillon still ahead, the car dancing but steady.

"Velasquez holds it! Wheel to wheel with Verstappen, but she's still in the lead!"

Riccardo's voice was sharp on the radio. "Careful, Amara, don't risk the car—"

"I've got this, Ric." She shot back, the words clipped, determined.

On the Kemmel Straight, Lewis pulled even, DRS open, Mercedes power humming. For a heartbeat the two Silver Arrows were side by side, twin spears cutting through the Belgian air. She clenched the wheel tighter, braking late, taking the inside line into Les Combes. Their front wings nearly touched, but she forced the space, heart hammering in her chest.

The pit wall was going mad. Toto's voice broke in over the radio, unusually sharp. "Good, Amara, but no more risks like that. We need the car home."

Her lips curved despite herself. "Copy, Toto. Car's coming home first."

Lap after lap, the fight raged. Max never let her breathe, Lewis's shadow never vanished. Each corner was a battle, each straight a prayer. Sweat gathered under her helmet, her pulse relentless.

And then, there it was again, Eau Rouge. Anthoine. His voice, his grin, the silence after the crash last year that still haunted her. She blinked hard, the sting in her eyes sharp.

"Focus, Amara," Riccardo urged softly, almost like he could sense it. "You're okay."

"Yeah," She whispered. "Just... thinking."

The laps ticked down. The roar of the engines, the blur of the trees, the weight of history pressing on her shoulders, it all collapsed into one final charge toward the line.

"Amara Velasquez wins in Spa!" The commentators screamed. "A historic first win! Not only for her, but for women and for the Philippines in Formula 1!"

The checkered flag waved. Her breath broke in half.

Riccardo, her engineer's voice cracked. "You did it, Amara! P1! P1 at Spa! Unbelievable drive!"

Toto shouted over the channel, "You've made history today. That was incredible. That was yours."

She bit down on a sob, fumbling for her radio switch. "That was for Anthoine," Her voice fractured, tears spilling before she could stop them. "This one's for him."

"He'd be proud," Riccardo replied quietly. "We all are."

She exhaled, the tremor breaking into a full laugh, wet with tears. "I can't believe it. I really can't."

The car rolled to a stop in parc fermé, her hands trembling as she pulled off her gloves. The garage screens flashed P1 Velasquez, and though the stands stood empty, the energy was electric in the silence. Mechanics clapped behind masks. A few held up fists instead of hugs, pandemic rules, unspoken but heavy.

Lewis parked beside her, giving a sharp rev of his engine before cutting it off. Max's Red Bull slid in seconds later. The three of them climbed out, and for the first time, Amara just stood there—helmet in her hands, the realization finally sinking in.

"Unreal," Max said, walking over, his grin wide even through the mask. He bumped her shoulder lightly. "You were flying out there. I almost forgot to breathe watching you through Eau Rouge."

"You nearly got me on the straight," She shot back, still breathless. "Thought I'd lost it for a second."

He shook his head, stepping a little closer. "Nah. I knew you'd hold it, princess. You always do." The tone was softer, more certain than teasing now, something almost protective threading through it.

Amara met his gaze for half a heartbeat, the noise around them fading. "Didn't think you'd make me work that hard, though," He added, his grin flickering back as he nudged her elbow again.

She laughed, shaky but genuine. "Guess I had to make it interesting."

"You? Interesting? Never doubted it."

Lewis approached then, sweat still streaking his face. He gave her a nod before pulling her in for a brief hug. "You earned that, Amara. Every bit of it."

"Thank you," She whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder.

He squeezed her arm once before stepping back, eyes proud. "You deserve the win."

When Lewis moved away, Max lingered. He glanced at her helmet still clutched in her hands, then at her trembling fingers. "Hey," He murmured, quieter. "Breathe. You did it. You actually did it."

Amara exhaled shakily, eyes darting up at him. "I know, I just—" She laughed softly, half crying. "It doesn't feel real."

"It's real." His voice gentled even more, low enough that only she could hear it. "And you looked incredible out there. Brave. Like... like you belonged in P1 all along."

Her smile faltered for a second, something raw in her chest she couldn't quite name. "Thanks, Max."

He tilted his head, mock serious. "Don't thank me. Just promise not to vanish off the radar again. I nearly crashed thinking you'd parked it."

Amara snorted. "You? Crash because of me? Please."

He grinned. "Keep driving like that, and it's a real possibility."

"Okay, okay. I'll try not to give you a heart attack next time," She said, a laugh slipping through. "No promises, though."

He grinned, eyes glinting. "You saying there's a next time?"

She raised a brow beneath her messy hair. "You planning to stop me?"

"Not a chance." He tilted his head, smirk tugging under his mask. "Wouldn't miss chasing you down again for the world."

Before she could reply, one of the FIA officials motioned them toward the podium area. As they walked up, Max fell into step beside her. "You ready for this part?"

"Standing on a box and trying not to cry on live TV? Yeah." She teased, breath still catching.

He chuckled. "Don't hold back. You've earned the right to cry and to brag a little."

She gave him a look. "Bragging's more your thing."

"Maybe," He said, smirk widening, "But I'll let you borrow it for today, princess."

They reached the top platform, the cool wind sweeping through the empty stands. The Philippine flag shimmered behind her on the digital screen, flanked by the Union Jack and the Dutch tricolor. The world might have been watching through cameras and streams, but right then, it felt intimate, quiet, sacred.

Her breath hitched as she looked up. For the first time in Formula 1 history, her country's flag glowed above them all. She could almost hear her mother and grandmother's voices, proud and trembling.

When the Philippine national anthem began, Amara stood tall. The melody cut through the still air, crisp and pure. No cheering, no confetti, no roars, only the echo of something much heavier, much prouder. She pressed her palm briefly over her chest, eyes lifting, mouthing the words under her breath.

Next came the German anthem for Mercedes. Lewis shifted beside her, posture straight, eyes forward. Even behind the mask, his pride was unmistakable.

As the last note faded, the official stepped forward with three chilled bottles of champagne. A faint buzz filled the pit lane, the sound of laughter through masks, the shuffle of team members lining the barriers to watch.

Max glanced sideways, eyes gleaming. "Ready?"

She smirked under her mask. "You really want to lose another battle today?"

"You think I'll let you win this one too?" He tilted the bottle toward her. "Let's find out."

She popped hers open first, the cork bursting with a satisfying crack. Champagne sprayed upward in a bright, fizzing arc, catching the light. Max retaliated instantly, shaking his bottle hard until it exploded back at her.

"Hey!" She yelped, ducking and laughing as foam drenched her suit.

"Fair game!" He shouted, grin wide, eyes alive in the floodlights.

Lewis joined in, a quick, precise spray that hit both of them. "You two are ridiculous!" He called out over the laughter.

"You started it!" Amara said between laughs, swinging her bottle toward Max again, soaking him as he shielded himself with an arm.

"You've got terrible aim, princess!"

"Still hit you, didn't I?" She shot back.

He blinked through the champagne streaking down his face, his grin softening for a heartbeat. Droplets clung to his curls, his blue eyes bright and alive beneath the floodlights.

"Yeah," He said quietly, voice almost lost beneath the fizzing spray, "Guess you did."

The noise faded just enough for her to hear it, that warmth in his tone pulling at something deep inside her. For a moment, the chaos blurred, the lights, the laughter, the sound of corks popping, until it was just the two of them standing in the middle of it all.

Before she could respond, Lewis raised his bottle high in salute. "To history," He said simply, nodding toward her.

Amara swallowed hard, raising her own bottle. "To everyone who made it possible."

They clinked bottles, champagne running down their bare hands, bubbles dripping off their sleeves. The liquid was cold against her skin, but the moment was burning. And for the first time since she'd crossed the finish line, it truly hit her.

She'd done it.

When the celebrations finally died down, a marshal stepped forward, ushering them toward the edge of the podium for photos. The air still shimmered with champagne mist and flashing lights. Her smile was bright but trembling as she lifted the trophy high, its silver gleam reflecting the Philippine flag glowing on the screen behind her.

From the pit lane walls below, the other drivers and engineers masked, spaced apart, yet clearly energetic. She caught sight of familiar faces: Charles standing with his Ferrari cap tucked in his hands, his expression soft and unreadable; George and Alex clapping enthusiastically; even Lando whistling through his mask.

It almost made her laugh, the idea that she was up here, that they were watching her.

For a split second, she closed her eyes. In the darkness behind them, she saw Anthoine's face, his grin, the sound of his laugh, the way he'd always told her to "make it count."

"This is for you." She whispered under her breath.

Lewis turned slightly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You made history today," He said quietly, the pride clear even behind his mask. "Be proud of that."

"I am, L." She replied, her voice barely holding steady.

When he stepped away, Max lingered beside her. His suit clung to him, darkened by champagne and rain, curls plastered damply to his forehead. The adrenaline in his eyes hadn't faded—blue, sharp, alive. He leaned in just enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the chill air.

"You know," He said, tone somewhere between teasing and awe, "You made us all look slow today."

Amara blinked, caught off guard by how close he was—and by the curve of his smile, the easy confidence that made her pulse stutter. She forced a breathy laugh. "Maybe you were just too busy trying to keep up."

"Maybe," He said, smirk tugging wider as his gaze dipped briefly to hers. "But that move into Eau Rouge... that wasn't luck. That was all you."

For a second, everything stilled. The lights, the cameras, the world. Just the echo of his words, the way he said them, like he meant it more than he should.

"Guess I learned from the best."

He laughed softly, the sound low enough to make her chest tighten. "Careful," He said, voice dropping as he leaned away, "I might start believing that."

Down below, Charles stood beside Pierre, his applause slow, deliberate. His expression was polite for the cameras, but his eyes lingered, just long enough to betray the faintest flicker of something unspoken.

"Come on, champion," Max said finally, nudging her shoulder before stepping back. "You've got the world watching."

"Yeah," She said, voice steadier than she felt. Her gaze found Charles again. "I know."

The flash of cameras greeted her before the words did. A wall of microphones, masked reporters, and lights lined the narrow pen. Sweat still clung to the back of her neck beneath the suit, champagne drying sticky on her sleeves.

"Amara, congratulations!" One of the journalists began immediately, voice echoing slightly through the plexiglass barrier. "First win. First Filipina, first woman in Formula 1 to ever do it. Just—how does it feel?"

She smiled, still catching her breath, eyes darting briefly to the Mercedes crew cheering behind the barriers. "It's... surreal. I don't think it's fully sunk in yet. This is for everyone who believed in me when it didn't seem possible, for my family and friends, for Anthoine, and for the Philippines. We're just getting started."

A wave of flashes followed. Another reporter leaned forward. "You mentioned Anthoine once again, can you tell us what was going through your mind during the race?"

Amara's voice softened. "When I passed Eau Rouge, I thought of him. Last year I was there when it happened. It never leaves you, that kind of silence. So I told myself that if I was ever here again, I'd drive for him. That's what today was."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Pierre in the next pen, who nodded once, expression unreadable but tight. Charles stood farther down, still waiting for Ferrari's turn, watching her with quiet focus.

"Beautifully said," Another journalist said, then added, "But Amara, there's been a lot of talk online about the car, some say you were lucky today because you're in a Mercedes. What do you say to that?"

Her grip on the mic tightened, a fleeting flash of irritation in her chest. She breathed once before answering. "I drive the same car as Lewis, arguably one of the best drivers in the world. But no one questions his wins." She paused, gaze firm, voice steady. "Luck doesn't take you through Eau Rouge flat out. That's not luck, that's trust, work, and a bit of insanity."

The corner of her mouth twitched into a grin as a few reporters chuckled, scribbling faster.

"Last question," Someone called. "What do you think this means for women in motorsport, and for the Philippines?"

Amara's tone softened again. "I hope it means that a little girl watching from home, somewhere in Manila or Cebu or anywhere, knows she can do this too. That she doesn't have to ask for permission to dream. If my win gives even one person the courage to try, then that's bigger than the trophy."

For a moment, even the usual hum of questions died down. Cameras clicked. A few reporters exchanged looks. But Amara's gaze stayed forward, steady. She wasn't just a rookie anymore. She wasn't just filling headlines. She was here.

And she had made history.