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hhaechansmoless · 14 days ago

Text

CHASING THE FRONT PT.1

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]coming on the 30th

glossary taglist

a/n: there we go... longest one yet LOL. writing this was an experience and in tiya's words i have become a classified yapper indeed. i have many people to thank for this and it will go long, but bear with me guys: hershey ( @junplusone ) without her this fic would not have been here so soon and i would not have had the motivation, honestly. rae ( @nerdycheol ) and hershey have sat through me screaming about literally everything about this fic and MORE. ty for being my no.1 hypegirl <3. And to jay ( @ppyopulii) and the others on the server, THANK YOU for the sprints!!! (we actually went for four straight hours one day. it was insane.) this was actually the easiest fic (half lie.) to write in the series :) my two biases and my fav team. hope you guys enjoy this one!!

UNITED KINGDOM, BRACKLEY

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ January 2nd

It rains the whole drive up. Not dramatic—just a constant, steady kind of downpour that blurs the windows and makes everything look a little less saturated than it already is. In the passenger seat, Joshua’s manager, Minghao, mutters that it feels like a bad omen. But Joshua’s lived in the UK long enough to get used to it. The sight of M40 with clouds hanging low, grey and heavy is not something new—he’s made the trip from London a hundred times in his last three years with Williams.

By the time they reach, the rain finally lets up. Joshua isn’t attacked by slow, thick droplets of water, but instead by the fresh, grassy smell from the lawn and the cold chill that hangs around Brackley. He steps out of the car and breathes in the frozen air, hands on his hips as he looks at the building in front of him. His new home from now on.

The factory sits low against the skyline, all muted glass and steel, as if it’s trying not to draw attention to itself. In a way, it still feels a bit unreal to finally make it to one of the top teams and Mercedes at that.

He’s walked into enough team facilities over the years to know that first impressions mean everything, so he straightens his posture and zips his jacket up. Joshua decides—as he makes his way up to the entrance—that he is going to walk in like this isn’t the biggest moment of his career. He doesn’t need to show the entire team his nervousness yet.

The welcome is formal and professional, maybe even a little impersonal. There are a few handshakes, a series of rehearsed greetings. He smiles where appropriate, nods when he’s spoken to and doesn’t try to overdo it. The team principal meets him briefly—warm enough to feel sincere, but not enough to linger. Joshua supposes there’ll be enough time for meetings with him later on.

The building itself almost embodies the cars that Mercedes makes—sleek, bold, classy. It’s impossible to walk these halls and not feel something. The legacy hangs around the building in the form of black-and-white photos that line the walls—Mechanics mid-pit stop, engineers in the zone, podium spray captured in perfect freeze-frame. Trophies behind glass casing, older models of the W-series.

Someone whose name he hasn’t been able to catch yet shows him around the office. He brings Joshua to the simulator room. The wind tunnel. The gym. A conference room that’s already filled with engineers, strategists, and analysts. People who have been here longer than he has. People who will measure him in telemetry and tire degradation, and podium finishes.

Joshua hesitates for half a second at the threshold.

But once he steps in, heads turn. A few greetings ripple through the room, short but welcoming. Joshua’s eyes flit across the room as he realises that these are probably the people he needs to get accustomed to, soon enough.

Doyoung—his new teammate—is seated at one of the chairs around the table, half turned in his seat with a tablet in one hand. His gaze flicks up as Joshua enters, and then, almost immediately, a smile appears. It’s subtle but genuine, as if Doyoung’s been expecting this moment for a while now.

He stands, makes his way over easily.

“Welcome to Brackley,” he says, hand extended. “Took you long enough.”

Joshua grins, shaking it. “You think three years is long?”

“Expected you to get here a bit sooner.” Doyoung tilts his head. “It’s good to have you here. Been saying nice things about you ever since you signed the contract, so trust me when I say everyone already likes you.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “I see you’ve gotten humorous over the winter.”

That earns a soft laugh.

They stand there for another second, a quiet understanding settling in the space between them. Not friends, not yet—but maybe something like that. They’ll be sharing everything this year. The car, the data, the responsibility. It helps that the tension isn’t immediate. Joshua tries to read his teammate’s face. The world champion, the closest and the hardest competition he shall find in the form of a teammate. His face is full of mirth, and for now, that is enough.

Doyoung makes his way back to his seat and waves Joshua off over his shoulder. “Well, this is my meeting. You’ll have yours soon enough. Go away!”

Joshua shoots a thumbs-up, shaking his head slightly, and he turns around, his guide already about to leave the room with him in tow, when it opens again.

Brisk and composed in a dark coat with wet patches on it, you walk in—hair pulled back, eyes sharp. One hand wrapped around a laptop, the other holding a paper takeaway coffee you don't seem to have touched.

Joshua glances sideways—but Doyoung straightens.

“You’re late,” he sighs.

“It started raining again,” you reply with a shrug. You don't elaborate as your eyes sweep across the room once, before landing on Joshua. You nod at him once, slipping on a small smile before turning to Doyoung. “We need to go over the PR schedule. There’s a media request from Japan that I think we should take.”

Doyoung nods. “Give me ten?”

You nod. “I’ll be by the sim.”

Joshua knows who you are—he’s seen you around the paddock before. You’re Doyoung’s manager and his sister. He’s wondered before if that never caused trouble between you, but now he thinks he’ll know in a while, anyway.

He turns back around when his guide clears their throat.

“Let’s keep going,” he says.

Joshua’s guide manages to fill the silence with light conversation, mentioning wind tunnel upgrades, last season’s tire degradation issues, and something about the catering getting better this year. When they pass a room or a corridor with many people, they come to a stop. His guide introduces Joshua to everyone, and in turn, they all welcome him—bright smiles and good-naturedly.

They go full circle around the building before finally coming to a stop near the simulator room. His guide tilts his head towards the door and smiles. “There’s a small set-up change to be done in there, so you and Doyoung can start tomorrow. I’ve been told to take you up to Toto’s room in a while to sign something and maybe click a few photos.”

The door swings open behind them, cutting the conversation short.

“You skipped your comms briefing again,” you're saying as you step through, coffee in one hand, your phone in the other. “I’m not covering for you twice in one week.”

Doyoung follows with a sheepish smile. “You said I didn’t need to be there if it was just sponsor talking points.”

“I said that once, last season. You’ve taken it as gospel ever since.”

You stop when you catch sight of Joshua standing by the door. There’s the faintest flicker of recognition on your face, followed by a polite, practised smile.

“Oh,” you say. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Joshua says, straightening a little as he offers his hand. “Joshua Hong.”

“I know.” You nod, shaking it before stepping aside so Doyoung can greet him properly. “Nice to meet you officially.”

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “Josh, this is my manager-slash-sister.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Right. Knew that.”

“All the best. Be careful,” you say, dryly. “He’s been unmanageable since karting.”

“And she’s been bossy since birth,” Doyoung shoots back, already moving past.

You sigh, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Welcome to Mercedes,” you say to Joshua before you go. “Let me know if he starts being unbearable.”

Joshua smiles. “You’ll be the first call.”

You disappear around the corner with Doyoung, voices dipping as you fall back into conversation. Joshua turns as his guide gestures to the stairs.

“Toto’s office,” he says. “This way.”

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON

The O2 Arena February 18th

The car inches forward in a slow crawl.

They’ve been idling behind a red, first-generation Honda NSX for nearly five minutes now, flashes going off in staggered bursts ahead of them. Even from this distance, Joshua can make out Haechan stepping out with the kind of natural ease that comes from having an entire generation of fans already waiting for him. Jeno is on the other side, waving at someone in the crowd. Camera shutters explode.

Behind the wheel, Minghao taps the steering wheel absently. “Not too late to back out.”

Joshua snorts. “Drive.”

The line creeps forward again. Joshua adjusts the collar of his jacket and thinks that it’s funny it’s going so slow, even though all the cars in the line are sports cars. His hands are warm from the heater. Outside, it's all rain-slick asphalt and white flashbulbs. He rolls his shoulder back once and lets his head tip back against the seat.

“I still can’t believe they’re doing a red carpet for a livery reveal,” Minghao mutters.

Joshua laughs. “It’s F1 and its 75th year. Everything’s going to be dramatic.”

The Red Bull boys move on, and it’s their turn. The Mercedes AMG rolls forward under the canopy of lights. Someone from the event staff opens the passenger door, and Joshua steps out into the cold.

The moment he does, there’s a spike in sound—a flurry of camera shutters, his name being called from the barriers. He lifts a hand in a practised wave, adjusts the sleeve of his coat, and turns slightly as the other team car rolls up behind them.

The Mercedes logo gleams faintly on the hood. The passenger’s side door opens, and Doyoung climbs out.

He’s composed, as always, with the charming tilt of his lips that he throws at the cameras before walking up to where Joshua is. Someone from the PR team is already waving them into position.

“Joshua,” Doyoung greets. He holds out his hand for a brief shake and then nods toward the photographers. “Shall we?”

“Oh, please, yes.” Joshua mutters under his breath, “Hasn’t even started, and I already want to leave.”

His teammate laughs, a grin on his face as they fall into step beside each other, shoulder to shoulder in their matching black outfits and silver jewellery. The flashes go off immediately, and Joshua resists the urge to blink.

Within a minute, an event handler ushers them inside, where the official journalists and photographers are set up. He meets Minghao there again, who introduces him to his PR manager, and then he’s pushed forward and towards the first journalist of the day.

“Hello, Joshua. Good to see you in the Mercedes colours! We’ve been asking all the drivers the same question: What do you think the other drivers would do if they weren’t in Formula 1?”

Joshua laughs, a little taken aback. “Well, that’s a bit of a hard one, no? I was thinking you would be asking about the new team and such—even had my answers prepared!”

It makes the journalist shoot an apologetic smile, in a way that says: My higher-ups gave me this shitty script and I’m truly sorry but I’d appreciate it if you answered!

“I feel like Seungcheol would be… a firefighter, maybe. Something heroic, something loud. Jeonghan would probably be working a corporate job. I can see that happening. Haechan would like to stream for a living or something. He’s got that energy.”

“And Doyoung?”

Joshua pauses. “CEO. Team principal, maybe. He’s already halfway there.”

They both laugh. His PR manager guides him to the next interview. Some ask heavier, newer questions, some with their usual ones for entertainment. Joshua answers all, and by the time he’s finally ushered into the main arena, he’s already exhausted.

There are three tables for Mercedes. One for the TP, the drivers and their dates. One for the sponsors, and one for the PR and social media team. Joshua is ushered towards the one that is in the middle of the seating area, where Doyoung approaches from the opposite entrance.

Their table sits adjacent to Williams’, close enough that Joshua immediately spots Jeonghan and Wonwoo leaning over something on a phone. Jeonghan looks up first, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Hey,” He says, turning slightly in his chair as Joshua approaches. “You clean up well, Mr. Mercedes.”

Joshua scoffs playfully as he twists his chair around to face Jeonghan before sitting down. “You say that like I wasn’t always the best-dressed between the two of us.”

Jeonghan leans back, looking entirely unimpressed. “Is this coming from the person who wore the team kit everywhere except his home races?”

Joshua shrugs, that familiar, easy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he turns as Doyoung arrives and takes the seat next to him, nodding politely at the other drivers in greeting.

Doyoung leans in towards him, his voice weak over the loud music that’s begun to play. “We’re up sixth. They’re going to call the teams up one by one to change and then make us stand with the cars all together at the end.”

“You’d think they’ve made enough of a show over this,” Joshua speaks a little louder, “but now you’re telling me all twenty of us are going up on stage?”

“In order of last year’s constructors as well,” He adds with a small shake of his head before leaning away, noticing you in the crowd. “You’ve made a good choice. Third is better than standing ninth on the grid anyway.”

“Oh, for sure. Letting Jeonghan deal with that.” Joshua huffs out before pointing his chin towards your approaching figure. “Your date for tonight?”

“Well,” Doyoung sighs a bit dramatically, “The dating pool’s been a little shallow on my side. Besides, you’ve come with your manager as well.”

“She doesn’t seem like bad company.” Joshua offers with a small smile, eyes flicking toward you as you move through the crowd. Your dress is simple but appropriate for an event like this, and he’s noticed the quiet confidence with which you carry yourself. It’s enough to make you stand out.

He feels arms on his shoulder, squeezing before he turns to his left to see Minghao sitting down.

“She isn’t.” Doyoung agrees, shooting Minghao a wink in greeting. “Also, she thinks she’s here as my manager and not as a date, anyway.”

Spotting Doyoung and the team seated near the stage, you move toward them, only to realise that the last seat is the one sandwiched between the two drivers. You hesitate, scanning the table for another spot, but no luck.

Sliding into the seat, you can feel the faint scrape of chairs and the warmth radiating from both sides.

Joshua offers a small smile. “The best seat in the house,” he murmurs, nodding toward the stage right in front of you.

You huff out a laugh, “Or the only seat left.”

Doyoung leans back slightly, smirking. “VIP treatment. You’ll get all the action up close. Maybe you can even investigate the cars when they’re unveiled.”

“And do your job for you? No thanks.” You shake your head. “Your suits have been sent up to the changing rooms, by the way.”

—

Backstage is dimmer, but equally loud nonetheless. The anticipation of the crowd bleeds through as changing rooms buzz with movement—team staff guiding drivers to their suits, camera crews setting up final shots, drivers moving in and out. It’s a little awkward, Joshua thinks as he stands outside the door to their room, waiting for Doyoung to finish changing. The rooms are small, and you couldn’t possibly get twenty men to strip naked in the same vicinity as their teammates. The Red Bull changing room is on his left, Aston Martin on his right.

Joshua scrolls through his phone, gauging the reactions to the cars on twitter. Aston made one hell of an entrance, with their movie trailer-like video before Jaemin and Chan arrived in emerald green suits, helmets on their head, hiding their faces.

He has to admit, their car always looks good—courtesy of the Aston Martin green, of course. But at the end of the day, speed is what matters, and he doubts they’ll have a lot of that this year. Not until Adrian Newey makes the team shift, anyway.

A click of the door opening on the inside makes him look up. Doyoung leaves the room, adjusting the neck of his race suit. He pats Joshua on the shoulder as he walks by, making his way over to the group that’s formed down the corridor—Haechan, the Alpines and the McLarens. Joshua exhales as he looks away from the bright, construction worker orange of Mark’s suit and walks in, closing the door behind him.

Inside, the sounds are slightly muted, and Joshua is glad for it. The last two hours have been hectic—coming in to change, going out on stage with their car, the messed up pit-stop that their team showcased, to coming back only to change back into the clothes that they came in and sit at their tables again and watch the hosts make jokes that not half the people find funny.

There’s still the distant thrum of the music that plays while they get ready backstage, but it’s quiet enough for Joshua to hear the metallic rasp of the zipper of his suit. The suit fits.

Of course it does—it should, after custom measurements, days of fittings, and a small army of stylists behind the scenes. But it feels like it fits now, in this moment, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror leaning against the wall.

Black, silver, and that unmistakable turquoise lining running along the seams. The Mercedes logo over his chest, IWC and Petronas stitched in clean symmetry across his chest.

He exhales slowly.

Tonight is the first time the world has seen him in Mercedes’ colours. In about a week and a half, they’ll see him in the car.

He presses the collar down and stretches his arms a little. It’s still slightly stiff, but it’s all like new gear. A little more time in it, and he’ll be fine.

Joshua runs a hand through his hair, forgetting that it’s been gelled before retracting it and staring at his palm with slight disgust. There’s a box of tissues on the small couch that he uses to wipe it off before folding his clothes back up and leaving the room.

The corridor is louder now. Someone laughs a little too brightly. The McLaren drivers are getting team pictures taken with both drivers in their suits. Joshua shuts the door behind him and glances to his left. Doyoung’s already engaged in a conversation with Seungcheol and Jaehyun, a bottle of water in hand.

Someone lets out a low whistle, probably Haechan.

“Look at that,” Seungcheol says with a grin, stepping slightly aside so Joshua can join their loose circle. “The Mercedes colours suit you.”

Joshua shrugs, still adjusting the cuffs at his wrist. “Thanks, although it is hard to make black look bad.”

“Just peeked at the stage and the cars are already out.” Vernon chimes in before turning to Seungcheol. “What is that shade of red, man? What happened to ‘Ferrari Red’?”

The man scoffs, shaking his head. “Don’t ask. They shifted it a few scales down on the colour picker, slapped on the HP logo and called it a day.”

“All that doesn’t really matter if you’re fast enough.” Haechan sighs. “Aiming for the 5th, aren’t you, champ?”

Seungcheol only smiles politely.

Joshua’s eyes shift to the side as he finishes adjusting his cuffs, fingers smoothing over the faint turquoise piping along the sleeve. His gaze drifts toward the stage curtain where the outlines of the cars gleam under the spotlights. He catches the faintest glimpse of the silver W16, sitting just left of the centre, the fourth car on the ramp.

The stage coordinator returns, urgency slipping into her voice. “We will start heading out onto the stage. Can I please have Ferrari and Red Bull ready to go?”

Seungcheol lets out a soft sigh, rolling his shoulders back like he’s preparing to race, not walk a few meters into spotlights. Jaehyun beside him gives a tight nod and adjusts the collar of his suit.

“Try not to blind anyone,” someone mutters to the Mclarens as they line up behind Joshua, the others falling into line behind them. Quiet laughter ripples through the group as Mark turns around with an offended look on his face.

“See y’all out there,” Seungcheol mutters over his shoulder, catching Joshua’s eye. The former looks at him with a sense of respect, or maybe even caution. To him, it’s new. He wasn’t much of a threat back at Williams, but things will change now.

Joshua realises—as he walks out into the spotlight, waving at the crowd before his eyes narrow in on their car—that once the season starts, he may have more rivals than ever before.

BAHRAIN, BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

Pre-season testing, Day 1

You switch on your phone’s torch as you step into the garage, eyes squinting because of the darkness. A scoff bubbles in your throat—a blackout during the middle of testing? Slightly annoyed, you squeeze your way past the mechanics gathered around the car, shining flashlights onto it as they attempt to analyse the flow-vis sprayed over the rear wing.

It's unfortunate that Doyoung’s testing period has been the one affected, but you hope that the floodlights and the power will come back soon enough. You head to the back, thinking that Doyoung's gotten out of his car, but he's nowhere to be found.

Someone tells you that he might be on the other side of the garage, talking to one of the engineers, so you sigh, cursing at the darkness again before twisting around to Joshua's side of the garage.

Joshua. You've spoken to him a few times, and he seems nice enough. Good things have been spreading about him in the paddock ever since his debut, and you won't lie—you were glad when you heard that he was the one they signed as the other driver for this season. Teammate troubles are not something Mercedes can seem to afford, given the way they've been performing recently. Most of the time, it's hard to remember their days of glory, the seasons where they were the team to beat, the season where Doyoung won it all.

You also won't lie about the way you've been looking for newer prospects in terms of teams. Doyoung has stayed, and he has been loyal. But it doesn't seem to be getting him anywhere.

Unless, of course, this season is different.

From what you've heard, the car looks quick. Looks like they can compete for race wins and not just podiums like last year. You're not ready to trust them just yet, though. Not till you hear it from Doyoung, and not till the first race itself.

On the other side, you hold your phone a bit low, trying not to shine it into anybody's face as you look for your brother. The floor is littered with wires and air tubes, and whatnot.

“Hey.” Someone taps on your shoulder. You turn around quickly, only to come face-to-face with Mercedes’ very own Mr. Hong.

“Oh, hello,” you greet. Joshua's eyes are filled with amusement, and you only realise why when you finally pull your flashlight away from your ghoulish-looking face.

Slightly embarrassed, you smile awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, just…” he points at your feet, making your head snap down. “You're stepping on my paddock pass…”

You step back with a small ah before bending down to pick it up. Joshua does the same, and your head only narrowly misses bumping his.

Joshua picks it up with a smile before pretending to dust it. He slips the card into his pocket, letting the lanyard hang out of it. You vaguely register the action as something you did back in school. He's already in a pair of black jeans, team kit on—after all, his session is over for today.

You remember why you were here in the first place. Turning around, you crane your neck, trying to look for a sky-blue helmet or a certain raven-haired man. You see neither and resort to asking:

“Hey, I was told Doyoung was in here.”

Joshua shrugs before turning to his manager, who stands next to him. You make a mental note to introduce yourself and maybe talk to him later.

Minghao sighs at him. “When I tell you to bring your paddock pass, you don't. Instead, you bring it everywhere other than the required places.” He turns to you. “Doyoung just headed towards the pit wall.”

Maybe the annoyance on your face is visible—not that you're trying hard to hide it, really—but the two share glances, half-amused and half wondering if this will blow up into those small sibling quarrels that you have from time to time.

Before they can speak up, the floodlights switch back on outside and shortly enough, so do the lights in the garage. The sigh of relief that everyone lets out would have been funny if not for the fact that it's been a little too long for Doyoung’s liking and you know from the way he walks back into his side of the garage—jaw tight and nose scrunched—that he is going to be unsatisfied with the time and the laps he gets in this session.

It seems as if Red Bull were already waiting for the lights to come back on because within seconds, the sound of an engine being started—the loud, attention-demanding roar of the RB21 is heard from their garage.

You know Doyoung is probably slipping his gloves back on and already getting into the car, so there is no point in you going back to him now. So you stand there in Joshua's garage, watching as screens on the pit wall light up with metrics and data. Behind you, the mechanics lift Joshua’s car again before slipping the wheels off.

“They’ve come up with a new method for tire cooling,” Joshua informs from beside you.

You nod slowly, “That’s what the rims are for?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

“Is it working?” You ask, turning around with raised eyebrows. “How was your session?”

“It’s…” Joshua trails off, looking at the car once before his eyes land back on you. “It seems to be working. It could be more effective, I suppose. They’ll work on it. Besides, Doyoung will probably have feedback once he’s done with his session as well.”

You note that he doesn’t answer your second question—out of absentmindedness or avoidance, you’re not sure. But you don’t know him very well nor you aren’t in any position to push, so you don’t.

“Well, how are you liking it here?”

Joshua raises an eyebrow at you before his lips curve slightly. “It’s nice,” he admits, “After all, I am in a faster car, aren’t I?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “I meant the team, but that’s valid too, I suppose.”

He laughs lightly, and beside him, Minghao smiles slightly, like they’re sharing some sort of a private joke. The sound echoes in your ear. You wonder if they’re mocking the team, you, maybe. But Joshua seems too nice to do something like that, so you sum it up to just you being wary and brush it off.

“The team is great.” Joshua huffs out before turning to his manager. “Go on, tell her!”

“Last week one of the engineering teams sat down and talked shit about some British football team at lunch with me.” Minghao scoffs, pointing at himself. “I think they thought I was someone new to their team… It was a very funny thing to tell them that I am not, in fact, a part of their team. Once it was cleared, they didn’t care either way and continued.”

You shake your head with a small smile, “Well, that’s Merc for you. Everyone’s incredibly friendly once they warm up to you.”

“They are,” Joshua agrees.

Minghao nods beside him. “And a little persistence. It helps that they like results.” He tilts his head at Joshua pointedly. “Which he’s been giving.”

Joshua waves him off. “In the sims only. We’ll see after testing and Australia.”

“Alright.” Minghao deadpans, and you laugh, because the rhythm of their conversation is easy. They’re clearly used to each other, in the way that people become when long hours and long flights force them to be.

The other side of the garage has come alive with noise now, mechanics yelling instructions, the cooling ducts being pulled in and out, Doyoung settling into the car in between it all. Within moments, the roar of the engine fills the garage—louder than the sounds that have risen outside, and a little unexpected on your side. You flinch slightly, your hands flying up to your ears even though the sound is something you’ve become used to.

Joshua notices from beside you and slips off the headphones that had been resting against his neck and hands them over to you. You stare at the black device for a second, his initials HJS engraved in silver on each side. Quickly, you shake your head, palms slowly falling to your sides.

“I’m good. Just surprised.” You nod, gently pushing them back to him. “You’ll need it more anyway, no?”

Joshua nods, adjusting the wire to fall behind his shoulder before slipping one cover onto his ear. He leans towards you, trying to carry his voice over the engine noise. “I did mean to tell Doyoung something. The curb’s been extended on turn 13, and we didn’t get to go on a track walk.”

You see as Minghao’s lips part in a scoff. “Took you by surprise, did it?” He asks, covering his ears as well.

“Definitely.” Joshua shakes his head. “Almost lost the car there. Were you not seeing?”

“I had better things to do.” He says, slapping Joshua’s shoulder before turning to you. “Aren’t you coming back to the hospitality? There’s that sponsorship contract that they’ve asked us to go through.”

You nod immediately, muttering a small goodbye to Joshua before following Minghao out. From the corner of your eye, you see your brother’s car leave the garage with a sharp turn into the pit lane. You try to pretend that you’re not worried for this season, but like every testing session ever, you cross your fingers. This season, finally… Hopefully.

When you turn to close the door to the garage back door, you spare one last glance at the man who is your brother’s new competition. He jogs over lightly to the pit wall, the wind rippling the fabric of the team shirt on his back. There’s a sort of quiet confidence to his posture that wasn’t there on his first day in the team. Like he knows he’s started to belong.

You think of the day the news was announced, how Doyoung told you that he always felt like the guy was supposed to end up here. He’d said it with some sort of caution, a sense of inevitability in his voice—not resentment or frustration.

The door closes with a satisfying click. You turn back around to face Minghao’s retreating back and think that the niceness that these two come with is what’s going to help them fit in soon.

It’s also what Doyoung needs to be wary of.

—

Pre-season testing, Day 2

You find Doyoung slumped in a chair in the hotel’s in-house restaurant well past ten, a black hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out under the table like he’s half-asleep. There's a plate in front of him that he’s barely touched—grilled fish, some rice—and when he glances up to see you approaching, he looks a lot like he does after races. Exhausted, eyelids drooping, and lips set in that oh-so-familiar frustrated curl that lets you know that it hasn’t been a great day.

“Hey,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up.” He stabs his fork into the fish. “Or hungry.”

“I’m neither,” you admit. “But I figured you’d be both.”

Doyoung huffs out a breath and drops his fork. “I was. Think I’m just… full of data sheets now.” You glance around. The place is not quite empty yet. There are people at the bar, none you recognise. Their laughter is low, muted by the hum of ambient jazz and the soft clinking of glasses. No one looks your way. Through the thick windows, you can just make out the stars in the sky. It’s a prettier sight than you usually get, thanks to the clear desert air.

You let the silence stretch a little before saying, “I heard about the rear instability in the second run.”

Doyoung nods slowly, not looking up from his food. “It didn’t get worse. Didn’t get better either. The team’s on it.”

But you know that tone, and in this sport, the middle ground is never good enough.

He picks up his glass and takes a sip before muttering, “He’s doing well.”

“Joshua?”

Another nod. “Consistent. Clean. Still figuring out things, but…” He trails off. “He’s not wasting time.”

You hum. “Maybe that’s good. You have a competent teammate now. Don’t have to be the only one trying to score.”

Doyoung gives you a dry look, and you wonder if you sound too diplomatic. When he’s like this, you can never figure out the right things to say.

Still, he doesn’t press. He never does when he’s tired.

You pick at what’s left on his plate and he doesn’t stop you.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quieter. “This year feels different.”

You look up at him. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “Ask me after Australia.”

You smile faintly. “Everyone keeps saying this. I wish it would come a bit earlier.”

“Yeah,” he replies, tipping his head back against the chair. “Can say the same. Testing is always so annoying. Sure, we’re trying to improve and test ourselves, but it’s so confusing when it comes to the other teams. We’ve set the fastest times on both days, but there’s no way that’s actually true.”

“Why so pessimistic already?” You sigh, scraping the fork against his plate. “The team’s worked hard.”

“They have,” Doyoung admits, sitting up a little straighter when a waiter comes to refill his glass. He offers it to you, to which you shake your head. “But man, no matter how hard we try, if there’s someone faster than us, then there’s not much we can do. The Ferrari guys seemed really confident. I don’t know… Joshua and I spoke to as many drivers as we could during these two days and we came to the conclusion that Ferrari and Red Bull have a shit ton more pace than they’re letting on.”

“So do you guys.” You offer.

He nods slowly. “We’ll see.”

“Mum called me a few hours ago. Said you weren’t picking up.” You eye him as he sighs.

“I was in a meeting, I think. If not, then in the car. I’ll call her tomorrow… It’s too late now anyway.”

“Doyoung…” You trail off.

“No, I know.” He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I know she just gets worried. I don’t mind it. I’ll talk to her, I swear.”

Just then, the bell above the restaurant door gives a soft jingle. You glance over instinctively.

Joshua steps in quietly, hands shoved in the pockets of his black windbreaker, hair slightly ruffled like he’s just pulled his cap off. His gaze sweeps the room, unreadable at first, until he spots the two of you and offers a small nod. He doesn’t look surprised to see you—just a little hesitant, maybe, like someone unsure whether to approach an acquaintance outside of work hours.

Doyoung notices too. He raises an arm lazily. “Hey, man.”

Joshua pauses for a second, then walks over. “Didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, voice still soft with leftover fatigue. “Just needed a drink, God.” He exhales.

“You’re not intruding,” Doyoung says, already signalling to the waiter.

You scoot over slightly, even though the table isn’t crowded, and Joshua pulls up a chair. It screeches faintly against the tile floor. He lets another long breath as he sits, stretching out like he’s trying to keep his body from locking up.

“You look worse than he does,” you say, nodding at your brother.

Joshua laughs, his voice hoarse. “I think my spine forgot how to stand upright after today. Did the debrief run overtime for you, too?”

“An hour late,” Doyoung confirms.

“Classic.”

The waiter arrives, and Joshua orders a beer, something local and light. Then, he leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the plate in front of Doyoung. “You barely touched that.”

“He was full,” you say. “Of data sheets.”

Joshua chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

Doyoung opens his mouth. You know that it’s to say something work-related again so instead, you interrupt.

“Please. Aren’t you two sick of all the Formula 1 talk? You’ve been surrounded by it these two days, and it’s going to take up your entire being in about two weeks.” You sigh. “You’re not allowed to talk about the car anymore tonight.”

That earns you a look from him. “I’m not?”

“No. It’s after hours,” you say. “This is dinner. Be normal.”

Joshua smiles faintly. “What does normal count as these days?”

You shrug. “Anything that doesn’t start with ‘sector times’ or end with ‘tire degradation.’”

Doyoung leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Then what do we talk about?”

There’s a pause, like none of you have had the chance to think about anything else all day. Then Joshua pipes up, “I’ve been trying to figure out if I like the hotel pillows.”

“Oh.” Doyoung groans, throwing his head back against the chair. “Don’t get me started on this.”

You let out a small laugh. “They’re not bad, if I say so myself. But you guys might have different opinions…with your necks and all.”

“I once had this same conversation with Seungcheol and his girlfriend—well, ex, now.” Your brother coughs. “Did you know he carries his own pillow everywhere? Because he just doesn’t like the pillows anywhere else.”

Joshua's eyebrows fly up in amusement. “That’s dedication. Do you think that’s why he has four titles?”

Doyoung leans in, conspiratorially. “Tried it for one of the triple-headers last year and won two out of three races. It might just be the secret to his success. Good sleeping habits.”

You shake your head, lips stretching into a grin. “Well, then, you two better start finding the pillow for yourselves.”

You end up talking about sleep habits—Doyoung’s inability to sleep past nine in the morning, your dependence on blackout curtains, Joshua’s weird habit of falling asleep to ambient aeroplane noise, even when he’s not travelling. You talk about which hotels are the worst, which room service menus you secretly love, and even though the three of you try to stray from the topic—which track has the most tolerable driver briefings.

It makes you realise, somewhere between laughing at Doyoung’s deadpan impression of the FIA Chairman and Joshua quietly offering you a bite of his dessert, that it’s not hard to like this guy. He doesn’t force himself into the room. He just fits in it.

You can only hope for the peace of the team and yourself that the two continue to have the same easy-going nature with each other for the entire season.

CHINA, SHANGHAI INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day March 20th

The paddock is a mess of sounds and movement—media teams shooting content with their drivers, news channels interviewing people and paparazzi and journalists swarming the place. You brush past the VCARB social media team, barely avoiding bumping into the cameraman as he tries to film their drivers. You don’t get to see what it is because you’re late.

Today, it’s no fault of yours. Really. It’s not your fault that the Adidas team always seems to hold everyone up with their ideas for new team kits and photoshoots, and whatnot. Minghao grumbles beside you, complaining about how the livery for Miami is the worst piece of clothing he’s set his eyes on and how he can’t believe they would design something that looks like it belongs in a tampon commercial. You don’t say it out loud, but you agree with him. That meeting was a waste of your time—it wasn’t like you could say no to a team decision anyway, so what was the point?

“Is Doyoung in the driver’s press conference as well?” Minghao asks, mildly cursing at someone who zooms past on an electric scooter. “They should ban those around the paddock. Can’t even hear them coming.”

“Yeah,” You answer, shaking your head. “Why did they choose to put both our drivers together today? I don’t understand.”

“It’s fine, I guess. At least we won’t have to worry about either of them being sent for the next few weeks.”

You nod despite him not seeing it. When you come to a stop in front of the FIA building where all the official press conferences take place, you take out your phone and signal Minghao to stay.

“Doyoung’s PR manager just texted me. Don’t waste your breath going up all those stairs because they’ll apparently be done in five minutes or so.”

He sighs in relief and leans against the railing. “Good. My quads are already screaming.”

You shoot him a look. “From sitting through a brand meeting?”

“It was stressing me out, okay?” he says, perfectly straight-faced. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You almost smile, but the new notification that you see on your lockscreen makes you pause. “Hold on.” You scoff, unlocking your phone. “No way.”

“What?” Minghao asks, pausing mid-air, one earbud in hand and the other in his ear already.

“The 45-minute break they had before the interview with Sky Sports? Gone.” You gape at the message. “The media team’s filled that slot in to film something to show teamwork-slash-bonding and forming new relationships.”

Minghao groans, putting his earbuds back into their case. “That’s what they said?”

“Word for word.” You sigh, already bracing yourself for all the complaining Doyoung’s about to do when you break the news to him.

The two of you fall into a sort of awkward silence after that. You assume he’s thinking of the ways to convince Joshua to do this as well. Distantly, you think that your brother will be pissed if he has to go without lunch for more than one and a half hours from now.

It’s only when you hear commotion from above and the pattering of footsteps down the stairs that you look back up at each other. Minghao exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath. Probably a curse.

Maybe it’s your fault for standing right in front of the entrance because both drivers see your face first and somehow instantly know that something’s wrong. Doyoung comes down, skipping two steps at a time, phone and a water bottle in hand as he flicks something off of his shirt. Joshua trails behind him, cap turned backwards with a tight smile, pressed in place like he’s holding something back.

“Don’t say anything,” Doyoung says immediately, pointing at you the way he does when he knows something’s been messed with.

You say it anyway. “We’ve got a new addition to the schedule.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

You hand him your phone.

He reads the message once. Then again, before giving the phone back like it personally insulted him.

“This is such bullshit.”

“I know.”

“I’m not doing this team bonding crap,” he scoffs, using air quotes. “What does that even mean? They want us to bake a cake together? Build IKEA furniture? Do the stupid shit that the McLaren guys keep doing?”

Joshua exhales loudly beside him, having read it over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really need to eat that godforsaken meal, however depressing it may be. I’d rather do that than this.”

“No offence to you.” He adds, pointing at your brother, who shrugs in a way that says None taken.

“If we do this now,” Minghao finally speaks up, his voice low and diplomatic. “You’ll get to have lunch around 2 p.m. We can ask them to finish it up quickly so that you have at least a fifteen minute break before the Sky Sports interview that Doyoung has.”

“What do I have?” Joshua rolls his eyes as the four of you begin walking.

“An interview as well, but with F1TV.”

Doyoung groans as you hand back his sunglasses, “Great. Good for you.”

The media team is already waiting in the hospitality area when you arrive, cameras slung over shoulders and a ring light half-assembled on the ground. Someone hands Joshua and Doyoung branded caps—new and clean and slips on mics onto their shirts.

One of the account admins walks up to them with a clipboard and begins to explain something that you voluntarily zone out of. Doyoung shoots you a look that is equal parts are you seeing this and please get me out of here. You only shrug before stepping back into the space where a set-up crew stands. You don’t need to be here, but still, you contemplate staying to watch as they get awkward around cameras.

Joshua doesn’t complain, but he rubs the back of his neck like it physically pains him to stand still. He mutters a quiet thanks when someone adjusts the mic pack on his belt, then takes a half-step back and sighs like this is the last thing he wanted to be doing with his day.

“You’d think they’d finally stop assigning an entire day to the media, especially with how much they all hate this.” Minghao pipes up from beside you.

You hum, watching Doyoung flatten the edge of his cap with a bored expression as the camera guy tests framing. He’s been through this enough times to know resistance is pointless.

“The money’s got to come from somewhere other than the sport itself, though.” You sigh, turning to Minghao.

He shakes his head before pointing in the direction of the door. “If I hear the word sponsors one more time, I’m going to crash out. Mind if I leave? Can’t watch them.”

You agree and follow him out the door. “Can we make a stop on the second floor, though? Haven’t had my coffee of the day.”

—

Saturday, Qualifying March 22nd

“Joshua, the first car has crossed the chequered flag. Push now.” His engineer informs him, voice calm and composed.

Joshua doesn't reply and instead steps a little harder on the throttle before shifting gears and braking into turn 10. The Shanghai International Circuit winds ahead of him, grandstands and his surroundings passing by in split seconds. A slight wind passes through sector three, and the rear of his car has been feeling twitchy since the beginning of Q2, but he pushes on anyway.

He's safe, up in 8th position, but he's already begun the flying lap and now he needs to make it count.

He cuts the track limits a bit too close for his liking on the exit of the last turn and hopes that he hasn't exceeded them completely. It would be an absolute waste of tyres and fuel if this lap time got deleted. He's been told that he went fastest in the first sector and set a green in the second. The third doesn't feel too bad, and by the time he sees the chequered flag, he's sure that he's made up a few positions.

“Good lap, Josh. That's P4 and the end of Q2, please come back into the pits.”

Joshua lets the tension bleed out of his neck and shoulders as he slows down, ready to make another lap to get back to the garage. He surprises himself with how quickly he's starting to get used to this—Q2 and Q3 appearances. It's the second race of the season and his second Q3 appearance as well. To the team, it’s not something huge. But coming from the team that Williams was in 2024, with unpredictable DNFs and even Q1 exits, it’s a very pleasant change for him.

He flicks his helmet’s visor up by a little as he pulls into the pit lane, glancing at the marshal who points at where his garage is before he rolls to a stop in front of it. The mechanics move quickly, lifting the car and wheeling it back into the garage until the next session begins, which is in a few minutes.

Joshua doesn’t get out of the car and only pushes his visor all the way up before slipping his gloves off. Someone clips the data screen into the space in front of him, and he tries to speedrun it, checking everyone else’s time. His name sits neatly in P4, just a few tenths off the Ferrari and Redbull in first and second and a sliver behind his teammate in third. Not a perfect lap, but enough for now.

He scans the tire choices and who’s burned what sets already. The gap to P10 isn’t huge. The top of the midfield is stacked tight enough that one slip could throw him out of the top five.

Still, he doesn’t feel rushed. Not the way he used to.

A mechanic leans in to adjust the fan angle pointed into the cockpit. It rattles a little, but he barely notices—eyes still locked on the screen, reading data points he already knows he won’t remember in ten minutes.

From the corner of his eye, he sees his engineer approaching and turns his head towards the man who leans down into the small space between the body of the car and the halo.

“We’re putting you on softs before you go out.” He yells over the fans and the running engine noises from other garages. “Expecting to be a few tenths quicker, but also there might be traffic in the last few minutes because we think both Ferrari and Red Bull will send their drivers out then. We’ll go in with around nine to eight minutes left to avoid that, set a banker and get around two flying laps in.”

Joshua nods—it’s a bit of a struggle with his helmet sitting heavy on his head, but his engineer gets the gesture and pats him on the head affectionately before walking back to the monitors.

His neck feels damp with sweat, and the new cooling fireproofs don’t do much to prevent the engine heat from settling into them, but he doesn’t pay too much mind to it.

Joshua turns his radio back on and clears his throat to gain his engineer’s attention. “When’s Doyoung going out?”

“He’s doing the same run plan as you. Out on softs, aiming for clean air. You two are close on timing, so don’t fight each other on track.”

Joshua hums, not agreeing or disagreeing. “Tow, or no tow?”

“We’re not planning for one,” his engineer replies, “But if it lines up, take it.”

He doesn’t respond to that and shifts a little in his seat, flexing his fingers to keep the blood flowing. His engineer informs him when Q3 begins, and he waits until it’s his time to go.

Nine minutes to go. Then eight and a half.

“Alright, Josh,” his engineer says. “Let’s go. You’re good to leave when ready.”

The tyres are on, mechanics alert with their hands over the covers. The front jack drops, and the mechanic standing outside gives the all-clear by nodding and dropping his hand. The tire covers are yanked off, and Joshua pulls out of the garage and back onto the pit lane.

He sees Doyoung’s car pull out in his mirrors as well before turning back to the lights at the end of the lane, waiting for the green light to go.

Joshua keeps his out-lap tight and quiet, weaving just enough heat into the tyres. The softs are responding well, biting into the track with each corner. By the time he rounds the last curve and hears the call—

“Track clear. You’re good to push.”

—he’s already shifting his focus.

He goes full throttle past the line.

The first three turns pass as quickly as they come, and as short as Sector 1 of the track is, the next sector is long and twisty, every corner feeding into the next like a series of deliberate questions. How late can you brake? How soon can you pick up the speed again? How far are you willing to risk it for just a tenth?

Joshua’s favourite thing about Shanghai is the straights. It also helps that their car is much faster in those sectors than around the low-speed corners that this circuit consists of. Down the straight, he gains more time—DRS open, tyres biting into the asphalt with good grip.

When the braking zone for the hairpin arrives, he catches a glimpse of a car in the distance ahead—slow and probably on an outlap. Not Doyoung. He knows his teammate came out behind him. This one’s a Red Bull, so just to be sure, he switches on his radio.

“Is the Red Bull ahead on a flying lap? Just so that I don’t accidentally end up giving a tow.”

“Uh, negative. That’s Jeno on an outlap.”

Good. Joshua keeps his foot steady on the brake and takes the hairpin clean and tight, exiting without lifting too early. He hears the engine whining in that familiar, high-pitched scream that never fails to spike his focus.

“That’s P2 for now, Josh. 4 minutes left. We can afford another outlap and push lap.”

In the garage, you lean forward with your elbows on one of the tables, headset tucked snugly over your ears, eyes locked on the screens in front of you. Joshua’s just crossed the line—P2 for now—but your attention is already shifting.

“Doyoung’s on his flyer,” someone calls from behind you.

You know. You’ve been watching him since he left the garage. His first sector wasn’t brilliant—just about matched to his last attempt—but the middle part of the lap has always been where he claws time back. Especially here, on a track like Shanghai, where precision through long corners matters more than sheer aggression. And Doyoung is nothing if not precise. Sometimes painfully so.

He’s pushing—less than usual, maybe, but you can tell from the slight understeer correction in turn 11 that he’s not lifting. The rear snaps very slightly on exit, just enough for the car to look alive. He catches it effortlessly. The delta ticks purple in the corner of the screen.

“Purple in sector two,” his engineer confirms over, but you already know. You’ve seen him drive enough to feel when it’s coming together.

Joshua’s time was good. More than good, actually. But you can tell Doyoung’s is going to be right there as well.

You check the timing screen just as he takes the final corner. It’s fast. You can’t tell how fast, not yet, but your fingers curl around the edge of the table like maybe holding on to something will help.

The screen refreshes.

“P1,” someone says. “Just ahead of Joshua.”

You blink, barely realising you’d been holding your breath. There’s less than a tenth between them. And you know—without needing anyone to say it—that neither of them will be satisfied with that.

But that’s the least of your worries right now. What’s more pressing is that there are two Red Bulls and two Ferraris, all on flying laps. With currently only 3 minutes left, they’re all setting the timesheet on fire, purples and greens everywhere.

Joshua’s already on his final flying lap, pushing hard from the moment he crosses the line. The grip is better now, tyres warmer, track evolution finally tipping in their favour. He’s clean through Sector 1, smoother through Sector 2. Fast, but not unbeatable. Doyoung starts his lap thirty seconds later. He’s got the advantage—better timing, clearer track.

Seungcheol sets a purple third sector. Just like that, the Mercs both drop a position down

Joshua is still finishing his lap. He takes the final corners cleaner than before, shaves off a few milliseconds from his earlier time, and slots into P2. Beside you, Minghao sits with his fingers crossed.

Haechan in the Red Bull—fast all weekend and the last—flies through all three sectors with purple times. And when he crosses the line, there’s no doubt. He snatches provisional pole with almost two tenths on the rest.

Joshua’s pushed down. P3.

You barely register it before the screen switches. Both Doyoung and Seungcheol are coming through the last corners, and their sector times are near-identical—greens in the first, purples in the second.

They cross the line within seconds of each other, and their names fly up the list—not good enough to push the man on pole, but good enough for P2 and P3. Doyoung’s off the Ferrari by a very marginally small gap.

Minghao sighs as Joshua drops down to fourth. Sliding his headphones off, he shoots a small smile towards you before he turns around to leave.

You should probably go too. Get his electrolytic drink to the press conference room before he gets there. Maybe congratulate him as well before you head back to the motorhome. There are a few media appearances that are waiting for your approval, and thinking about it, you could’ve gone without watching today’s qualifying.

What’s done is done, you think as you watch the screen switch to parc fermé just as Joshua climbs out of the car, helmet still on and gloves undone. He clips his steering wheel back in before walking over to Doyoung, who stands a little ahead, talking to one of the team members. He spots Joshua and gives him a small nod—barely there—but Joshua still lifts a hand. They meet halfway, a brief pat on the back, muttering and smiling at something.

Then Doyoung is called away. You watch him adjust his cap and walk toward the interview area where the cameras are already rolling.

Joshua lingers for only a second longer, tugging off his gloves completely, before heading in the opposite direction towards the weighing machine.

You leave after your brother’s interview.

—

Joshua hears the ding! of the elevator door opening before he looks up.

You stride in with your jaw tight and your phone clenched in one hand like it’s personally responsible for ruining your evening. He straightens instinctively, eyes following your movement, unsure of whether to greet you.

“Hey,” he says anyway, although quietly.

You glance over, only just seeming to register him. “Hi.”

The door closes with a soft, mechanical thud. There’s a tired sort of silence around you two, like the kind that settles after a long day neither of you wants to talk about.

Joshua watches you for a second before he asks, a little hesitantly, “Everything okay?”

You exhale, like the question was inevitable. “My parents just arrived. One of their suitcases didn’t.”

He winces. “Ah. That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “I’ve been downstairs talking to the hotel staff for the last forty minutes. Either it’s still in the Seoul airport, or someone else is walking around Shanghai with my dad’s prescription meds and a suitcase full of mostly linen.”

Joshua lets out a short laugh before biting his tongue. He looks over to you to see that you don’t seem to mind.

“Well, how was your day?” You sigh, staring up at him.

He shakes his head, looking up to check the floor they’re at before he speaks. “You saw. Not bad, not bad…considering what I’m used to.”

You hear the but in his sentence despite what he says. “There’s more potential?”

“Yes, exactly,” Joshua admits. “Doyoung almost made it to the front row, so the pace was there. Couldn’t work so well with it, I suppose.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Give it time. He’s used to this. Besides, you’re both starting on the second row anyway. That’s good for the team.”

Your gaze flicks to the towel draped around his shoulders, damp at the edges, clinging slightly to the collar of his shirt. “Where are you coming from?” you ask, tilting your chin toward it. “The gym? I thought y’all don’t work out thoroughly right before a race.”

Joshua glances down, like he’d forgotten it was still there. “Physio,” he replies. “There’s been a slight issue with my seat—they’re trying to fix it as soon as possible, but it’s been hurting my back.”

Your face softens. “Ah. That sucks.”

“It’s not horrible, just… uncomfortable over time. And Shanghai isn’t exactly a forgiving circuit,” Joshua says, shrugging his shoulders like he’s already anticipating tomorrow. “Anyway, it’s manageable.”

“Still.” You suck your teeth. “You shouldn’t be racing with any kind of discomfort. It adds up.”

Joshua glances sideways at you, as if he wasn’t expecting you to sound so concerned. “I know,” he says, quieter this time. “I’ll flag it again in the morning if it’s still an issue.”

The elevator dings softly on the nineteenth floor.

“Well, that’s me.” You sigh, turning to him.

“Hope your dad’s suitcase turns up.”

“Me too,” you mutter as you leave before pausing. “And I hope your seat doesn’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

That pulls a small, genuine smile from him. “Thanks. Although it would probably benefit you if it did.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Not true. Good night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he says, watching you walk away before the elevator doors glide shut.

—

Sunday, Race Day March 22nd

The flatbed truck idles near the end of the pit lane, metal railings glinting faintly under the late morning sun. The noise builds slowly—fans in the grandstands waving flags, camera crews calling out names as the drivers climb on board one by one.

Joshua pulls himself up onto the truck, one hand gripping the railing, and doesn’t bother hiding the yawn he exhales into his shoulder. Doyoung’s already standing near the back, sunglasses on, arms crossed like he’s shielding himself from the attention more than the wind. Joshua joins him without a word.

Most of the other drivers scatter across the truck, catching up, laughing, and trading jokes loud enough for the cameras. A few of them wave down into the crowd. Someone—Soonyoung, maybe—starts recording on his phone for social media. Joshua ignores it. He stays beside Doyoung, their shoulders occasionally bumping as the truck starts to move.

“Ready?” Doyoung asks, after a minute or so.

Joshua huffs out a breath, glancing out at the crowd. “As much as I can be.”

Doyoung nods, satisfied. “Cool.”

He’s about to say something else when a familiar voice cuts in.

“Are you two allergic to the rest of us or what?”

Joshua doesn’t even need to turn around. “Hi, Jeonghan.”

“Hey,” Jeonghan replies, already nudging himself between them, an arm loosely slung around Joshua’s shoulder like he belongs there. “Discussing team strategy? Come on, let me know too.”

“He’s not your teammate anymore. Leave him alone.” Seungcheol inserts himself into the conversation, their small circle growing as Wonwoo joins in as well.

“I’m hoping old habits die hard,” Jeonghan argues, shooting the Ferrari driver a dirty look before turning to Joshua. “Come on, the Williams revival is taking a little time. We would truly appreciate finishing ahead of the Mercs for once.”

Joshua snorts. “I’ll think about it.”

Doyoung tilts his head, amused. “That’s generous of you.”

“Generosity is part of my brand,” He quips, shaking Jeonghan’s arm off his shoulder with a small shrug.

Jeonghan grins like he’s won something anyway. He peers out into the crowd, then glances up at the sun. “You’d think they’d let us sit down for once.”

“They’re trying to remind us of the things we signed up for,” Seungcheol replies. “Mild sunburn being one of them.”

Joshua rubs a palm over his face. “And awkward interviews while standing on a moving truck.”

“Speaking of which—” Doyoung hums, “Jaehyun’s almost done with his. So you’re up next.”

“Oh yeah, that…” Joshua pushes himself off the railing before turning to Seungcheol. “What’s with the difference in quali between you guys lately? I thought he was usually better with one-lap pace.”

Seungcheol shrugs. “Ask yourself. He's fifth because the two of you decided to separate us.”

He just shrugs, laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says before lightly jogging to the front of the truck where the interviewer is waiting.

The mic is passed to him, the crowd’s noise bubbling in the background. The interviewer greets him with a smile. “Joshua! Starting P4 today—another strong Saturday. You’ve been settling into this new team quite well, haven’t you?”

He nods. “Yeah, I think so. It’s still early in the season, but I feel like I’m getting more comfortable every weekend. The car’s in a good place and we’re finding our rhythm.”

“What was the feeling in the car yesterday during that final minute? You looked right on the edge of something.”

Joshua smiles a little. “It was a good lap. I was hoping it would be enough for the front row, but it’s really tight this weekend. Still, P4’s a solid place to start from. If we nail the launch, we’re right in the mix.”

The interviewer grins. “And you’ve got your teammate right up there with you—how’s the dynamic been between the two of you this weekend?”

Joshua’s eyes flick briefly to where Doyoung is standing, arms folded loosely as he waits for his turn. “Good. We’ve been pushing each other, I think. It helps, to have that kind of experience and skill in the garage. The whole team’s working well with us.”

“Alright. Well, best of luck this afternoon! We will be looking forward to some action!”

He smiles politely, thanking her before handing his mic to Doyoung, who’s just made his way up to them. Their hands brush as he passes over the mic. His teammate is quick to turn it off before leaning in, trying not to look too conspicuous in front of the cameras.

“Just so you know,” Doyoung says under his breath, “Soonyoung’s been poking around. Complaining about tire choices, pressures…fuel loads. Subtle, but…”

Joshua’s smile doesn’t drop, but something flickers in his eyes. “You think he’s trying to bait us?”

“I think he’s trying to get into your head,” Doyoung replies. “Maybe mine too.”

Joshua pauses for a moment before he lets out a short laugh, “Great. Thanks… I’ll make sure to pass on the wrong info.”

That brings out a soft smile before Doyoung switches the mic back on and turns to the camera with a smile.

—

The garage is fairly empty now, and with ten minutes to go before lights out, all the mechanics and crew are out on track. The noise of the crowd outside fills the otherwise silent space, telemetry flickering across displays that not everyone has begun to watch yet. Outside, you see cameramen filming as the F1TV commentators interview one of the team principals in the pit lane.

You lean against the side counter, half-listening as Doyoung’s trainer runs through the updated electrolyte ratios in his drink.

“Less glucose, more salts,” he confirms, like he’s reading your mind. “He mentioned the aftertaste yesterday?”

“Said it was sickly sweet, but I assume that was just an accident. Hopefully, you’ve put in the right drink packet today?”

His trainer scoffs and shakes his head with a small smile. “I have, don’t worry.”

You grin, eyes flicking briefly toward the screen where the cars idle on the grid. You’re about to say something when the sound of hurried footsteps pulls your attention.

Joshua sweeps past the garage entrance, race suit half-zipped, with an exasperated Minghao trailing behind him with his helmet and gloves.

“You’re cutting it close,” you call out without thinking.

Joshua glances back, slowing down just a bit. “I’m not late,” he says, smiling like he knows he technically is. “Yet.”

“Try not to miss the anthem.”

“It’s all good. I’m multitasking,” he replies over his shoulder. “Pre-race cardio.”

You shake your head as Minghao shoots an apologetic look as they disappear around the corner in a blur of black and silver. Exhaling slowly, you slip your phone back into your pocket before making your way to the engineering desk where the headphones are kept.

Joshua heaves lightly when he finally comes to a stand in his assigned position for the national anthem. The kid in front of him turns to greet him and shoots a small, nervous wave before turning back around just as quickly. He smiles softly at the boy’s antics before turning to the gap in the barriers from where Aston Martin’s Lee Chan runs up, barely on time.

When the anthem ends, there’s a scattered murmur of claps. The drivers peel off one by one to their grid boxes. Joshua doesn’t rush, but his steps are brisk. He smiles and nods at a marshal on the way to the car. His trainer is waiting with his balaclava and gloves. Joshua tugs them on wordlessly, slipping into his helmet and letting Minghao handle the final adjustments to his suit and HANS device.

Everything slows down and tightens around him as he climbs into the car, waiting for one of the engineers to put the seatbelt down so he can fasten it. The cockpit swallows him whole, as it always does. The noise of the world dulls. Engine warm-up sequences crackle over the radio. His engineer mutters instructions, formalities. Stuff he knows but has to hear anyway.

“Radio check,” the man says into the radio.

“All clear,” Joshua replies.

“Copy. There is no chance of the rain that we were expecting earlier. Formation lap will begin in a minute.”

The engines fire up, and the tire covers are pulled off, mechanics backing off and making their way back to the garages.

Joshua closes his eyes momentarily, trying to drown out the roaring of his car, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. He tries to imagine himself coming into turn 1. Teammate might be the one you’re fighting for positions with, but keep it clean. Be quick.

“Thirty seconds,” says his engineer.

He opens his eyes and lets the image go.

Out ahead, the track shimmers faintly under the overhead glare. The grandstands are a blur of flags and colours—it’s a home race for some of the drivers, but the amount of Ferrari flags has taken him by surprise all weekend.

He can’t see it, but somewhere at the back of the grid, a marshal waves the green flag. Joshua knows when he sees the car on pole pulling away, just as his engineer relays the message.

The formation lap gets over in a blur, as it always does. At times, he’s wished that it would be a bit slower, to give him more time to process before he’s thrown into the race itself. But the adrenaline keeps him on his toes, and if there’s anything—he thrives off it.

By the time they re-form at the starting grid, he’s fully locked in.

The red lights blink on.

Joshua’s eyes flit between his teammate a few meters ahead of him and the blooming red Ferrari in his side-view mirror. It’s going to be hard. It’s only his second race keeping up with the front-runners, people he’s never had the chance to race before. But he’s confident. In a weird sort of way, because he doesn’t know where it comes from, but is confident nonetheless.

When the lights go out, Joshua’s start is nearly perfect, but so are the starts of the men beside him.

He squeezes the inside, committing to the racing line as they barrel down into Turn 1—one car, then another, side-by-side. Jaehyun darts late to the outside, trying to make it through. Joshua holds his position, but the gap is narrow. Too narrow.

Turn 2 comes fast.

Jaehyun edges over—just enough to force Joshua inward in a sharp twitch of movement and judgment. He reacts, but there’s nowhere else to go.

Joshua’s tire brushes against Doyoung’s front wing.

It’s a soft thump, probably not enough to damage anything. But Doyoung backs off immediately, his front wing’s end plate hanging awkwardly as he tries to stabilise through the exit. Jaehyun backs off as well and by the time they exit turn three, Joshua finds himself in third place.

He switches on the radio button instantly. “Hey. We had contact.”

His engineer replies with a calm voice. “Yes, we know. Checking for damage on your car. Doyoung’s end plate has been hit but it will not affect him much.”

“That was on me, I’m sorry.” Joshua apologises as he swerves through turn 5. “Jaehyun forced me in.”

“We’ve seen. Race control will handle it. We are not expecting a penalty for you, though, so just focus.”

Your head snaps up in time to see the replay of the contact. Your stomach dips—in slight panic as well as dread—as you slip your headphones back on to hear Doyoung’s clipped voice through the radio.

“Do I have any damage?”

There’s a beat of silence as his race engineer scans the feeds. “Right end plate. It’s hanging a little, but shouldn’t affect balance too much. You’re fine. If required, we can think of changing the front wing when you pit later. We’re still on the same strategy as discussed beforehand.”

Another pause. You can hear the way Doyoung exhales through his nose. Frustrated, maybe, but still measured. “Okay, well Joshua’s ahead of me now.”

You glance at the timing screens before you even register the tension in his voice. It’s not anger—not really. Just tightly contained irritation.

“Understood,” his engineer replies. “We’re keeping an eye on his pace. You’re holding steady in fourth. Keep managing the tyres.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. You know how pissy Doyoung gets when his starts aren’t clean, and you also know how complicated it will be because this was Joshua of all people. Not that he’ll say anything, and besides, this doesn’t even seem to be either of their faults. But he’s lost position and that will hurt. Your gaze shoots to his engineer as you wonder if they’re allowed to race each other yet.

They’re close, within a second and a half of each other. But no order comes. No mention of switching back. Just quiet updates on gaps and tire wear, strategy windows that keep extending by a lap, and the familiar voice of Doyoung’s engineer keeping him on the rails. You can tell he’s not pushing. Not really. Maybe because there’s nothing to gain—or maybe because there’s nothing to say.

By the final stint, the gaps have settled. The field’s stretched itself thin. Jaehyun’s fallen off behind Doyoung, and Joshua stays comfortably ahead of him, holding pace just well enough to keep him at bay. You sit, slightly confused at why your brother isn’t fighting back when he could, but he takes no risks. In the end, it’s just the two of them running clean in third and fourth.

When Joshua crosses the line, the radio crackles with his engineer’s voice. “That’s P3, Joshua. That’s a podium. First one with the team. Well done.”

There’s a second of silence before his voice comes through, slightly breathless. “Nice. Thanks, everyone. Really… thank you.”

Back in the garage, the crew bursts into cheers. A few of them high-five. It’s not a win, but it’s good points for the team, so it’s something, at least. Joshua climbs out of the car with a dazed smile, arms raised briefly before he jumps off the front wing and into the crowd of mechanics that have gathered in parc fermé. He looks almost surprised by the relief on everyone’s faces, and you try to find some happiness in the occasion, but all you can see on your screen is your brother’s onboard as he climbs out of the car, shoulders slightly slumped at the missed opportunity.

You look back at the main screen once, watching as Joshua takes off his helmet after getting weighed, setting it down on the P3 stand and running a hand through his hair as Seungcheol walks up to congratulate him.

You let your gaze fall, fingers tightening briefly around your headphones as you take them off. You should probably meet Doyoung after he’s back from the FIA room. Fourth is still good, but he won’t be feeling that way. You stand, stretching your back as the paddock comes alive again, in a slightly less jittery way, but chaotic nonetheless.

Debriefs will come. Analysis, strategy, repair reports, all the usual post-race rituals. Your brother will be annoyed when the questions about the teammate contact come, and you need to pacify him a bit before it happens. Doyoung will want clarity, maybe comfort, maybe just someone to nod along while he vents. You’ll be there, like always.

There’s still work to be done.

—

You don’t expect Joshua to stay behind at the hospitality today. He sits at one of the tables in the lobby, hunched over an iPad displaying a bunch of data you’re too tired to analyse or understand. Doyoung’s debrief had run late, as usual. But you’ve just given him his car keys to go back to the hotel, eat dinner and fall asleep—hopefully.

You pause at the coffee dispenser, mildly surprised to see him there. The rest of the team has mostly cleared out—either gone back to the hotel or trickled off to their respective group post-race dinners. The paddock has settled into a quiet, tired sort of silence—one that is rewarding and satisfying at the end of a good day but almost cage-like and mocking on a bad one. You’d expected him to be long gone, maybe out with Minghao or celebrating somewhere with his people. But here he is, cross-legged in a team hoodie, nursing a bottle of water instead of the drink you’d imagined.

You watch him for a second. He’s not just skimming the data—he’s poring over it, zoned in, eyes flitting across sectors like he’s still on the track. There’s a faint crease in his brow, the kind you’ve started associating with post-race overanalysis.

You almost turn away. Almost let him have this moment alone. But then he exhales sharply, like something just clicked—or didn’t—and rubs his thumb across his lower lip in an agitated way that makes your stomach twist.

So you cross over.

“You’re still here,” you say softly.

Joshua glances up, a little startled. Then he gives a tired smile. “Yeah. Just… thought I’d look through the stint comparisons.”

You glance at the screen, trying to make sense of it. It’s some telemetry overlay. His laps versus Doyoung’s.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “Celebrate. This was your first podium with us. I know they don’t celebrate the conventional way here—they think only a win is worth heavily celebrating. But this was a really good job on your part.”

He doesn’t answer right away and leans back into his chair slightly, blinking like he’s only now realising how heavy his eyes feel. “Not feeling like it. It’s fine, I think I just want to sleep.”

You nod, arms crossing loosely. “You did well today.”

“Thank you.” He smiles, small but genuine. “I saw Doyoung leave. How come you’re still here?”

“Had some stuff to wrap up.” You sigh into your cup. “There was a media debrief as well. Not sure if you had it, but I was the last one out, and there’s no way I’m making it back without caffeine.”

Joshua hums. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh, for sure,” you reply dryly.

For a moment, there’s a comfortable lull. His gaze drops back to the screen, but he doesn’t focus on it the way he had before—not really. His fingers hover over the tablet.

He looks up again. “Did your day go okay, though?”

You blink, a little surprised he asked. “Yeah. I mean, same as most race days. Stressful, loud, kind of a blur. You get used to it.”

Joshua nods slowly, like he understands even if he doesn’t live it the same way. “Hope it wasn’t bad though.”

“It wasn’t. Just long.” You glance at him, eyes softening at the way his voice has dropped slightly, audibly full of fatigue.

He shifts in his seat, stretching his arms across the table. “You want to sit for a second? You look like you haven’t stopped moving all day.”

You hesitate, then pull out the chair across from him. “Only if you’re not going to ask me to analyse stint deltas.”

“No promises,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes. “You sure your brother won’t get mad at you for fraternising with the rival, though?”

Exhaling loud enough for him to hear, you plop down, stretching your neck before you finally look him in the eyes. “I know he may seem intense, but he doesn’t blame you for anything.”

Joshua leans back, thumb running along the curve of his water bottle. “Yeah?” he says, but it sounds more like a question than a confirmation.

“He knows Jaehyun squeezed you,” you add. “It’s all over the replays. And it’s not like you tried to overtake him. You were reacting. He’s only upset about not being able to catch up. It only means you’ve done well.” It takes a little bit of the pride you hold in your brother for you to admit it, but it’s true anyway.

He doesn’t say anything right away. His gaze drops to the tablet again, screen dimming before it switches off entirely. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “Doesn’t mean it feels good.”

You nod slowly. “No. It never does.”

For a second, it’s quiet again. You’re left in a slightly awkward situation, stuck in between feeling for your brother who just lost out on a podium in a season where the competition seems to be way too tight and for the man in a new team who feels too guilty to celebrate something close to a victory.

He exhales, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry. I guess I’m not great company right now.”

You shake your head. “You’re not so bad. Just a little broody.”

“Broody?” he repeats, mock-offended. “You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to argue.”

You take a sip of your coffee, smiling over the rim. “I suppose I am.”

Joshua shifts in his seat again, one leg drawing up slightly. “Still… thanks. For saying that. About Doyoung.”

You shrug, trying to sound just a little flippant. Your mind tells you it’s a bit too soon to get friendly with him, but you can’t help it. “You’re part of the team now. That doesn’t change because of one turn.”

A few seconds later, you add. “I bet the media was shit, huh?”

Joshua groans, tipping his head back until it hits the chair. “Don’t even get me started. People already seem to think I’m out for blood, challenging the oh-so-loyal, been-here-forever hero.” He eyes you nervously once he realises who he’s talking to, but you don’t seem to take offence at anything he’s said.

“It’ll all blow over in a week,” you say, shrugging. “There’s going to be much more interesting stuff for the paddock to talk about, I suppose.”

Joshua exhales, sitting back, fingers toying absently with the corner of the tablet. You’re not sure if he’s done with it or if he’s just stalling.

You check the time on your watch. It’s late. Later than it feels.

“I should get going,” you say, standing up.

He only nods once and slowly. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

SAUDI ARABIA, JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT

Wednesday April 16th

The streets are busier than you’d expect for a weekday night. A light breeze carries the scent of cardamom and grilled meat, and the stalls are lit in warm, hazy gold—some selling glass perfume bottles that catch the light like gemstones, others crammed with embroidered scarves, clay dishes, and cheap toys. You trail half a step behind Doyoung, sipping slowly on the drink he forced into your hand earlier.

“Can you please be quicker?” he mutters, without looking.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to match your shopping pace. At least buy something if you’re going to step into every shop out there. I’m tired.” You complain.

Doyoung slows slightly but doesn’t respond, distracted by a rack of linen shirts. He lifts one and shoots a questioning glance at you. “Do I look like I’ve given up on life?”

You squint at it. “You look like you’re on vacation in Thailand and possibly in your forties.”

He puts it back with a shudder.

You drift toward a jewellery stall while he keeps browsing. The vendor raises her brows as you touch a pair of earrings, and you shake your head quickly before turning around. As you watch your brother drift through the clothing racks, you realise it’s been too long since you’ve gone shopping with him. You’ve forgotten how exasperating he can be—way too enthusiastic when it’s his turn, but already complaining about being tired when you start picking things for yourself. It’s been the same since you were kids, but maybe sometimes you just need a reminder.

“Since when do you window-shop?” Doyoung’s voice floats over.

“I don’t. I impulse-buy. But I’m trying to change.”

He snorts. “Growth.”

He rejoins you a few minutes later, a plastic bag dangling from one wrist. You don’t ask what he bought, but he looks more relaxed than he did when you left the hotel earlier.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, glancing down the line of stalls. “I could eat.”

“You always could eat.”

“Yeah, but now I want to.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, looking around the street, “everything looks good, but that just means oily, greasy and probably not something that will make your trainer very happy.”

“Oh, come on.” Doyoung sighs, pushing you ahead by the shoulders. “Stop acting like my manager and be my sister for once. Besides, it’s only Wednesday.”

You let him steer you toward the stall anyway, mumbling something about sodium levels and gut inflammation that he pointedly ignores. The smell is too good to resist, thick with spice and smoke, and the sound of oil crackling over flame drowns out any further protest you might’ve made.

“See?” he says, handing you a skewer, “Greasy, yes. But emotionally healing.”

You take a bite despite yourself. It’s delicious. You say nothing, but the way your expression softens is enough for a smug look to slither onto his face.

Before you can retort with something too self-defensive, someone—a teenage girl, nervous, with a small smile on her face—comes up to your brother and clears her throat.

“Um, excuse me. Sorry, but—are you Doyoung?” Her voice cracks slightly at the end.

Doyoung straightens, swallowing his bite. “Yeah, hey,” he says.

“Can I get a picture? My brother’s a huge fan. He’ll lose his mind.”

“Of course.”

You take a step back, pretending to check your phone while they pose under the soft glow of a nearby stall light. The kid thanks him profusely, then disappears into the crowd, clutching her phone like it might burn a hole through his hand.

Doyoung steps up to you before leaning against the edge of the table you’re at, chewing contentedly. “You know, when we were kids, I thought you’d be the one to run off and become famous.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because you were bossy and a little dramatic back then. I assumed you’d end up in some kind of power role. TV anchor or a pop star. Maybe even a dictator.”

“I manage your calendar and get yelled at by our mother three times a week because I’m working her precious son too hard,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

He grins. “You’ve come far.”

Doyoung’s phone buzzes with a message. He glances at it, then laughs under his breath. “Joshua’s looking for local fruit snacks. He’s convinced he saw some dried mango packets in a shop window and won’t let it go.”

You blink. “Now?”

“He’s not here, if that’s what you're asking,” he answers, a little absently as he types away on his phone. “He’s asked me to get it for him.”

“How did he know we were out?” You question, finishing the last of your skewer before wrapping it in a tissue and tossing it into a nearby bin.

“I told him before we left.” Doyoung shrugs.

“Didn’t know y’all spoke like that.”

Doyoung glances up from his phone. “He just asked if there was anything good to eat nearby, and I said we were heading out. I guess he remembered the shop from earlier.”

You hum. “And now you’re helping him chase dried fruit fantasies?”

“Why not? He’s been trying to branch out. And it’s easy, talking to him.” He pauses, like that admission surprises even him a little. “Easier than I expected, anyway.”

You look over, slightly caught off guard by his honesty. “And that’s good?”

“Sure.” He says, sounding like the thought only just settled with him. “It makes the team feel less… divided, I guess. It’s nice to actually have someone who acts like a teammate.”

You nod but stay silent, mind wandering to the last teammate Doyoung had. He wasn’t great, and the team barely liked him. Mercedes is a family of sorts—be it during your time in the team or after—and he just didn’t add to that. He’d been sharp-edged in all the wrong places, elbows out and isolating himself. Competitive to the point of pettiness.

You wonder if Doyoung sees the difference too, or if he’s just relieved the energy in the garage doesn’t leave him on edge anymore.

—

Thursday, Media Day April 17th

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit lies under the floodlights—bright against the night sky, casting long shadows across the asphalt. At certain parts of the track, you can see the ocean—a deep black, endless entity that stretches out forever ahead of you. You try not to stare for too long as it unnerves you, and turn back to the team members who’ve come along for the track walk.

You walk with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets, listening to the crunch of your sneakers on gravel when the curbs edge into run-off areas. Doyoung’s a few steps ahead with his engineer, occasionally pointing something out—turning angles, braking points, a new surface patch he doesn’t trust. Even with the number of years you’ve been here, you still don’t understand all the details of it, so you zone out slightly, eyes trained on the track beneath your feet.

You guys are not the only ones out here. A few other teams dot different sectors of the circuit: a couple of engineers taking notes, drivers with their performance coaches, someone filming content. It feels familiar in the way all track walks do—half routine, half ritual—but under the lights, it feels slightly more cinematic. You truly do love night races, but Jeddah tops your list due to the views it provides, not only in the morning, overlooking the Red Sea, but also under these floodlights.

You’re tracing the curb lines on the edge of the track with your feet when someone falls into step beside you. It takes you a second to look over. It’s Joshua. Hood up, eyes flicking over the circuit like he’s still studying it.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You come on track walks often?”

“Not really,” You reply, “Only the night races and other times when they go in the evenings. You couldn’t pay me to walk four kilometres in the sun.”

He huffs a small laugh, nodding like he understands exactly what you mean. “Fair.” He nudges a loose pebble with the toe of his sneaker. “Night ones feel different anyway.”

“Do you like street circuits?” You question after a few beats of silence.

Joshua considers the question for a second, eyes scanning the section Doyoung is walking over repeatedly. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “There’s something a little more alive about them.”

You nod slowly. “They’re tighter and riskier.”

“That too,” he agrees. “But kind of worth it. It feels sharper. A good result is much more gratifying.” He glances over at you. “You know what I mean?”

“Sure, I do.” You let out a short laugh. “Honestly, street circuits just keep me on edge. It’s never a good time to be in the garage watching you guys. It’s always just ‘Oh, no! What if he touches the wall?’ every single lap.”

“Mistakes do cost more here,” He agrees, coming to a stop at turn 13. “This one’s bad. I’m always a little wary about messing up here, because you come in with a lot of speed and exiting gets a little tricky. You’re in the wall if you brake and turn even slightly later than you’re supposed to.”

“I’ve seen your previous races.” You remind him, shaking your head, “and you definitely do brake later than most.”

“Like I said,” Joshua smirks a little, “I may be wary, but it’s fun to dance very close to the edge—the wall, in this case.”

“I think that’s the part I don’t get. The appeal of the edge.”

Joshua glances sideways, his expression thoughtful now. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not just about risk. It’s about control. Getting as close as you can to the limit—right up to it—and still having the trust in yourself not to cross it.” He pauses for a second. “It’s kind of like proving to yourself that you can walk the wire and not fall.”

You mull that over for a second, slowing your steps. “And what happens when you do fall?”

Joshua’s lips press together in a small smile. “Then you learn how to get up faster the next time.”

You glance at him again, but he’s not looking at you now. His eyes are on the track, tracing the curve of a corner like he’s still walking through the racing line in his head. The two of you settle into silence that is filled by your brother’s voice ahead and the occasional whoosh of other drivers cycling by with a team member.

Up ahead, Doyoung stops at turn 17, waiting for the two of you to catch up. He swings an arm over Joshua’s shoulder before pulling him away from you.

“I hope you didn’t get too technical with her. She used to think curbs were track decor.”

“Shut up.” You let out in disbelief, reaching forward to smack his arm. “I was nine. And you were the one who told me that!”

“She believed me for, like, the entire season,” Doyoung says, looking smug.

Joshua glances back at you with a grin, voice teasing. “So what else has he lied to you about? Does she still think the DRS button is for turbo boost?”

“I swear to God—” You roll your eyes. “You know what? No wonder you two are getting along. You're both full of shit.”

Joshua lets out an offended noise, turning back to your brother with an incredulous look. “Are you hearing this? Full of shit? I thought I was being charming.”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter.

Doyoung just grins. “She says that now, but she’s the one who told me you were ‘surprisingly likeable’ after testing.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I never said that.”

“Oh, you did,” he insists. “I think the exact phrase was ‘less stuck-up than anticipated.’”

Joshua raises both hands like he’s just won something. “I’ll take it. That’s basically a compliment.”

You give him a look. “You know, for someone new to the team, you’re awfully confident about how we operate.”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I learn fast. Comes with the job.”

Doyoung snorts. “Don’t give him too much credit. He thought I was the type to share setup data on the first weekend.”

“Okay, first of all,” Joshua says, indignant. “I was being hopeful.”

“Oh,” you sigh, “you just have to wait until he decides he likes you more. Doyoung does share set-up data sometimes.” You point at your brother. “Stop lying.”

Doyoung raises both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Occasionally. When I’m feeling generous.”

“You shared it with Mingyu like three races in,” you remind him.

“Yeah, well, he brought me iced coffee without asking.”

Joshua blinks. “Wait, so all it takes is a cold drink and a little charm?”

You glance at him. “You’re halfway there.”

“Noted.”

Doyoung groans. “God, I don’t like you two together.”

—

Sunday, Race Day April 20th

The safety car couldn’t have come at a worse time, Joshua thinks as he slams his foot onto the brakes at turn 27. Or maybe the team couldn’t have made a worse decision by choosing not to box them under the safety car.

Because now, Seungcheol’s Ferrari has begun to loom in his mirrors, on fresher tyres and faster as well. Up ahead, his teammate is a little over a second clear, safe—but barely, if Joshua lets the Ferrari get past. It’s only a matter of laps before it happens, and Joshua tries not to get affected by the thought as he switches his radio on.

“What to do about Choi?”

There’s a short pause, filled with static noises, before his engineer's voice breaks through.

“He’s got fresher softs. Our data says you have about four more laps before he can attempt the overtake. Try to lengthen the gap.”

Joshua exhales with frustration before replying. “And then what? Which lap am I on?”

“41. Ten more to go.”

“Man, my tyres are already bad. They’re going to be gone by the time I try to keep him away.” He complains, gritting his teeth as he drives through the straight.

“Alternate suggestion from the pit wall—we can let him through, then use DRS to re-overtake. Catch a second wind with slipstream.”

Joshua nearly laughs. “On what? Twenty-lap-old hards?” he says, dryly. “That’s not happening.”

There are a few seconds of silence from the garage end. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he can’t afford to get distracted now. Jeddah’s walls have been cruel to drivers this race, and making contact or getting too close with only 10 laps remaining isn’t safe at all.

His radio beeps almost an entire lap later. Joshua glances at his mirrors once before his engineer's voice cuts through.

“Joshua, Doyoung is suggesting a DRS train—if you can push a little to get within a second of him, provided that you keep it clean and do not take advantage of it.”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. A DRS train is smart. It could be a little risky, but it would make it very frustrating for Seungcheo, and the chance of the Ferrari overtaking both their cars is low. Low enough, Joshua hopes.

“Okay. Good with that.” He replies.

By lap 43, he tucks in closer behind Doyoung. Joshua doesn’t know how he’s doing up ahead—can’t ask, can’t guess—but he’s holding steady. Fast enough to keep Seungcheol off his tail. Slow enough for Joshua to inch into DRS range.

By lap 44, the beep sounds—DRS enabled.

It takes immediate effect. Down the main straight, he gets the tow from Doyoung’s car and gains just enough buffer that the Ferrari won’t get to attempt anything at the exit.

His engineer updates him again. “Gap to Seungcheol now 0.8. He has DRS enabled.”

Joshua doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say. This is the part of the race that feels like drowning with your eyes open—watching everything, calculating constantly, but unable to blink.

Lap 46. Then 47. Then 48.

Seungcheol doesn’t back off, but he doesn’t gain either. Their trap speeds are nearly identical every time they come down the straight. And without his DRS being effective, Seungcheol is stuck. Annoyed, probably.

Joshua can almost feel the pressure radiating off the red car behind him. The strategy is a bit dirty and a little unfair, Joshua thinks. If he’d been the third car in this, he would be pissed too. But it must be done. Doyoung is on the provisional podium and he’s in fourth. It’s great points for the team. Especially great, since holding Ferrari back will help them come closer in the constructors.

“Doing good,” his engineer informs. “Choi is complaining about it on the radio, but there’s no way for him to escape the train now. Keep going, three more laps.”

When they cross the finish line, it almost feels anticlimactic. Doyoung slows down enough for Joshua to pull up beside him and throws a thumbs up. Joshua reciprocates. His engineer lets him know that it was great teamwork that they displayed tonight, and Joshua agrees. It feels good.

He doesn’t let himself sit with the feeling for too long. By the time he’s pulling into parc fermé and climbing out of the car, the adrenaline is already thinning, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He watches Doyoung hop out a few seconds later and get surrounded by cameras.

When he comes to get weighed, they shake hands and part again. There will be more talks about this, but there’s time for that.

Later that night, they return to the hotel together, shoulders hunched and bodies and minds exhausted. Doyoung is in his team jacket, cap pulled low, expression unreadable—but there’s a relaxed slant to his posture now that wasn’t there in the past few weeks.

The lobby is quiet at this hour—soft yellow lights reflecting off the marble floors, staff murmuring behind the desk. Doyoung is halfway through explaining his first stint, Joshua reaching forward to the elevator buttons, when the doors slide open and Seungcheol steps out.

He stops short when he sees them. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. He’s changed into normal clothes and holds a bottle of water, his expression tightening when he sees them. His eyes flick between the two of them. There’s no smile, no small talk.

“Well,” he says, voice sounding like it’s on the edge of irritation still. “Didn’t think Mercedes would resort to formations just to hold me off.”

Joshua glances at Doyoung, whose face also tightens for a moment before he slips his bored expression back on.

“We did what we had to,” Doyoung says, not unkindly. “You were quicker. We just had to be smarter.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. It was smart. Just… frustrating as hell.”

Joshua nods. “We figured you’d be on us with those tyres.”

“Would’ve been nice if my teammate had helped out a little,” Seungcheol mutters, almost to himself. Then, as if catching himself, he waves a hand. “Whatever. Just one of those races.”

There’s a pause. None of them seems particularly eager to keep standing in the hallway like this, but no one moves either.

“You guys drove well,” Seungcheol adds after a second. “Both of you. I’ll get you next time.”

Doyoung smiles faintly. “Not if we get you first.”

The elevator dings open beside them, and Seungcheol nods once before stepping aside to let them in. Joshua watches his retreating back as the doors slide shut.

“Thought he’d be more aggressive, I can’t lie. Did not expect the teammate trauma dump,” he says quietly.

Doyoung hums, “Well, thank god we don’t have that issue.”

Joshua doesn’t know if he’s just imagining it, if he’s got it all wrong or if it’s also on his mind. But the unsaid yet at the end of the sentence is still heard.

ITALY, AUTODROMO INTERNAZIONALE ENZO E DINO FERRARI

Thursday, Media Day May 15th

Minghao calls you right after breakfast, his voice sounding thin and scratchy.

“I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to come today. I’m down with a fever, and I’m not even kidding when I say I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.”

Slightly worried, you assure him that it’s alright and tell him to rest. He pauses for a few seconds before croaking out again.

“I told the team, but I think they’ll most probably hand Joshua over to you as well.”

You stop in your tracks then, just outside the Mercedes hospitality. “What?”

“I know, I know it’s going to be so busy for you and I am truly so sorry. I’ll send over his schedule” He sighs. “I tried telling them to not hand it over to you, cause I know Doyoung has a shit ton to do today but I don’t think they’ll listen.”

You hang up just as you step through the glass doors. The paddock’s already starting to fill—press, crew, sponsors, all of them moving with that media day urgency that feels a little more frantic than usual. You’re used to it. What you’re not used to is the weight of two drivers and whatever the hell Joshua Hong’s day looks like.

Joshua’s schedule hits your inbox seconds later. You skim it through it quickly, stomach tightening when you realise how little time there is between each thing. Back-to-back and some even overlap with Doyoung’s.

Great. You think, mentally scorning the higher-ups for not having a backup plan.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you.

You turn. It’s Joshua, already changed in his team shirt, cap low, and with a bottle of water in hand. You straighten slightly, unsure how to even begin.

“Hi,” you say. “Uh—so Minghao’s sick, I don’t know if you know. They’ve put me on double duty today.”

His brows lift just a little. “So I’m yours now?”

The way he says it—casual, almost amused—makes you blink once.

“Temporarily,” you reply. “Until he stops dying.”

Joshua nods, then pushes his cap up a bit. “Guess I’ll try not to be too difficult.”

You don’t reply to that. You’re already flipping through his schedule and cross-checking it with Doyoung’s in your head. You have twenty minutes before Doyoung’s interview with American media, but Joshua’s supposed to be at a sponsor photoshoot in ten. It’s in a completely different building.

“I’ll walk you there,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

He follows easily, steps matching yours as he scrolls through his phone. At one point, you drag him by the sleeve towards yourself so that he doesn’t bump into a few Alpine mechanics hoarding around a box of something.

“Sorry,” he lets out with a small gasp, “God, my friends are planning to come in for Silverstone and I’m trying to figure out their passes.”

“All good.” You grumble slightly, checking your watch again.

The photoshoot runs long. Doyoung’s media prep runs early. You’re glued to your phone by mid-morning, answering one call while texting logistics to two different comms interns. It’s chaotic, but it’s familiar. You’d handle it fine if it weren’t for the fact that now, somehow, you’re fielding questions like “what do we usually do for Joshua’s media pen appearance, later on?” when you have no idea what his “usual” even looks like.

At one point, you find him sitting outside the hospitality, sipping a coffee like the world isn’t on fire.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to the Sky Sports filming right now. What are you doing?” You ask, huffing out a breath and trying to continue, when someone calls your phone. Letting out a small sound of frustration, you glance at him once more, pointing in the direction of where the interviewers are standing, before picking it up.

He blinks at you, almost innocently. “They told me it got pushed ahead by ten minutes.”

You don’t have the energy to check if that’s true. The call you’re on is already starting to drone in your ear, and someone’s messaging you about a missing team jacket. You close your eyes for a second.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Just go now. Please.”

Joshua lifts both hands in mock surrender, rising from the chair. “Okay, fine, fine.”

You shoot him a look, even as you bring the phone back to your ear and mutter something resembling an apology to the comms assistant still waiting on the line. By the time you look up again, he’s halfway across the paddock.

You don’t see him again until much later, when the worst of the day has passed and you finally get a minute to breathe inside the hospitality. You’re leaning back in a chair, half-reading a spreadsheet, when Joshua walks in holding two iced coffees.

He sets one down in front of you without a word.

You look up with a questioning glance.

“Half milk. Less sugar. Like how you ordered yours this morning,” he says, casually. “Figured I owed you.”

You blink, surprised but grateful nonetheless. “I—thanks.”

He shrugs, sliding into the seat across from you. “Didn’t get lost or miss anything this afternoon, so I’d say your track record’s looking good.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Are you done for the day? Or does your brother dearest still have schedules?”

“He’s in a meeting right now,” You sigh out of satisfaction from your first sip. “So I’m not done for an hour or more. I have a meeting to get to in…” you trail off.

Joshua raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“Now. Actually. You’re done for the day, so you’re free to go home.” You mutter, getting out of your chair and setting your cup down before beginning to gather your things. Joshua shifts, trying to help you, but you wave a hand at him.

“Thank you for not being a pain, actually.” You say to him once you’ve got everything you need in your hands. “I thought I’d have to chase you around all day or something. I know Minghao’s there with you most of the time, so I’m sorry I couldn’t but…”

“You thought I was difficult?” Joshua lets out, almost incredulously.

“I think you’re used to Minghao borderline baby-sitting you.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs now, tipping his head back a little. “To be fair, he likes bossing me around. Who am I to refuse?”

There’s something oddly warm about the moment, despite the fatigue clinging to your limbs. You glance at him again, at the way he’s still nursing his coffee like he has nowhere else to be.

He pauses, gaze flickering to you. His smile softens, not teasing or sharp, instead almost sincere. “Thanks for stepping in,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You shrug, throwing him a grin over your shoulder. “It’s just what we do as a team, I guess.”

—

Saturday, Post FP3 May 17th

“Joshua. Good to see you.” The journalist greets him as he steps up to the mic, the media pen’s noises buzzing around him. Next to him, Soonyoung speaks quite loudly to the French media, and frankly, Joshua thinks he may not be able to focus on his question if the Alpine driver doesn’t shut up.

He steps forward, giving a brief nod. “Good to see you too.”

“Final practice done,” the reporter starts. “And we’ve noticed—Doyoung’s finished above you in all three sessions so far. Is that more down to differences in setup, or is the car just not behaving the way you want right now?”

Joshua doesn’t look surprised. He’s heard the stat at least twice since stepping out of the car. Still, he keeps his expression neutral

“We split setups yesterday,” he says. “His side of the garage landed on something that worked quicker. Mine took a bit more time. We’ve closed the gap a little since FP2. I think we’re headed in the right direction.”

“And you’re confident in the changes?”

“As confident as I can be without seeing quali pace.” He offers a small shrug. “That’s what the next few hours are for.”

The journalist tilts their head, tone edging toward casual curiosity. “Mercedes brought a few small updates this weekend. Doyoung’s been open about how he’s been more in tune with the car. Do you think it’s just a case of him adapting quicker, or if you’ve just been unable to do so as well?”

“We drive differently. Some things click immediately. Some things take a bit of work. That’s normal.”

“Of course,” the reporter nods, backing off. “Well, thank you for your time, Joshua. All the best for qualifying!”

Joshua offers a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks.”

He steps back from the mic and adjusts the collar of his race suit absently, already scanning for the next media marker in line. Beside him, Soonyoung’s still gesturing wildly to someone off-camera, and it’s a minor miracle the Alpine PR hasn’t dragged him off yet.

The pen’s packed and noisy, familiar but still unnerving. It all blurs after a while—voices, questions, camera shutters, heat trapped in the narrow space between backdrops. But Joshua’s aware of the narrative now, the way it’s beginning to take shape around him.

It’s not wrong. Maybe that’s what gets to him.

Joshua exhales slowly through his nose, then moves on. He’s still got a second chance to prove himself today, and that is where his pace matters.

As he moves past the reporter talking to Seungcheol, he can’t help but overhear the question about his teammate currently being above the reigning world champion in the driver’s standings.

Oof, that’s gotta hit a nerve, Joshua thinks before it dawns on him that he’s in the same situation. It’s not like he expected himself to reach the front runners instantly—frankly, it wasn’t realistic, especially when most of them were more experienced in faster cars. The one goal he’d tried to set was to hopefully get an early start on his teammate, or at least come close to it.

And he is, Joshua supposes. Doyoung and he are right behind each other in the standings, but the gap has been growing recently, and although he tries not to be too uptight about it, he has to admit that it’s been bothering him.

It’s not like Doyoung’s making it difficult on purpose. If anything, he’s been great. Not icy like Seungcheol had been during their karting days. Not overly friendly to your face like Jeonghan was either, warm on the outside but always a part of him hidden away that he’d never show. The part that would give him the upper hand. Doyoung is none of that, yet he has a stark personality of his own. Slightly pessimistic in the name of keeping things real, and maybe just a little closed off at times. But he’s self-confident, and it shows in the way he’s willing to help Joshua out as well.

Still, there’s something about the way the car seems to come alive under him, the way the data favours him more often than not, that makes Joshua feel like he’s always half a second behind.

He doesn’t like the way that sits in his chest. Doesn’t like what it’s starting to turn into.

He tries to let it go as he rounds the corner back toward the paddock. Minghao would say something like You’ve done seven races, not seven seasons. He can already hear the exact tone of it in his head.

Once Joshua realises the pit he’s let his mind fall into, he immediately stops.

He is not going to spiral after FP3. No way in hell.

What Joshua needs is his lunch, a bunch of electrolytes and an empty room to gather his thoughts and strategy in, before qualifying.

SPAIN, CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA

Thursday, Media Day May 29th

“If one more person brings up Monaco again, I’m going to ruin the PR team's day and pretend like I’ve suffered selective amnesia over the triple-header.” Doyoung groans as he slumps into the seat beside Joshua.

“Oh,” Joshua rolls his eyes, “Do I fucking agree? I’ve explained that engine failure to like…six people today. That’s more than what I answered on the day of.”

“They were too busy worrying about Seungcheol falling off and his five-year streak ending, I guess.” Minghao shrugs as he scrolls through his iPad, legs stretched out onto the patio.

Joshua huffs. “My interviewer literally asked if I still believed in the power unit.”

“Did you answer?”

“I told him I’m not a priest,” Joshua mutters, looking slightly aghast.

You press a hand to your mouth to hide the laugh that nearly escapes. Doyoung catches it and smirks, but it fades quickly. He’s still irritated, his foot bouncing beneath the table.

“It’s just so dumb,” he says. “It wasn’t even our fault. The car gave out in quali, and we got stuck in traffic for seventy-two laps. That’s the story. I don’t know what else they want from us.”

“They want us to say we’re worried,” Joshua says, sharper now. “That we’re behind, that Ferrari’s too fast to catch up to and that Red Bull is leagues ahead. All of which are clearly seen.”

“It’s alright, guys.” You sigh, trying to get them to calm down. “That was Monaco, and it’s over, at least for you two. Let the people keep talking. You guys should just focus on Barcelona now. It’s the last race, and it’s been an exhausting triple-header. I’m sure we all just want to forget this and go back home—”

“—to the damn factory and deal with all the disappointment there,” Doyoung interrupts.

“—and relax.” You shoot him a glare. “If either of you breaks into the top five this weekend, I’ll personally have Monaco wiped off the triple-header summary video.”

“Make that top three.” Joshua laughs, waving as you nudge Minghao to get up for a meeting. “And you’ve got a deal.”

You shoot a thumbs up at him before turning to Doyoung. “Can you wait until I’m out? I’ll come back with you.”

Doyoung gives you a short nod, mouth full as he starts unwrapping another bar he swiped off the catering tray. He leans back in his seat, gaze flicking lazily to the empty courtyard outside hospitality. “I’ll wait.”

You disappear inside with Minghao, who sighs dramatically on the way in like the very idea of another sponsorship might physically kill him. He mutters something about needing more coffee, something about wanting to fake his own death, and then the door swings shut behind you both.

Joshua glances away once the door shuts. It’s quiet now—just the low hum of distant chatter, and the occasional whir of a golf cart driving past hospitality.

Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just picks at the corner of the granola bar wrapper, his eyes flicking toward the empty courtyard like he’s watching something no one else can see. Joshua leans back in his seat, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. He doesn’t expect conversation, not really. Doyoung’s never been the chatty type.

“Did you watch it back?” He begins randomly, but Joshua doesn’t have to ask to know what he’s talking about.

“I couldn’t. I just—” Joshua stops. “There was no point. We were stuck the whole time. I don’t think there’s a lot we could learn from that.”

They sit in silence again. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not easy either.

Joshua shifts slightly in his seat, tapping his heel against the floor. “I keep wondering if I should’ve done more, though.”

“To what? Make the engine not fail?” Doyoung says, the dry bite in his voice is muted by how tired he sounds. “You’ve been here for six months? Give it time.”

Joshua meets his eyes. “Is that what you did?”

Doyoung blinks, probably taken by surprise.

Then, quietly, he says, “No. I tried to win everything in my first year and nearly fell out with my first engineer in Hungary because of my ‘reckless driving’.”

Joshua lets out an exhale. “Oh, yeah. I remember. I used to watch your races, back when I was still in F2.”

“Damn,” Doyoung huffs out, “makes me feel old…which is weird because aren’t you older than me?”

“Maybe you just debuted really young.” Joshua shrugs.

Doyoung narrows his eyes like he’s trying to do the math. “I was twenty.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “See? That’s pretty young.”

“You’re making it sound like I was a prodigy or something.”

“You kind of were.” Joshua says it simply, without irony, and it lands heavier than Doyoung expects. There's a flicker of discomfort across his face, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. But Joshua doesn’t press.

He leans back instead, taking a long sip of whatever’s left in his coffee. “I remember Hungary, though. Thought you were going to throw hands with your engineer over the radio.”

Doyoung lets out a low laugh, tilting his head back against the wall. “I almost did. Guy didn’t speak to me until the next race. Not even a ‘good morning.’”

“Did you win the next one?”

“No. I crashed about fifteen laps before the end, causing a safety car and ruining Seungcheol’s race.” He grins. “That was the time I learned how not to lose my shit over the radio. The PR team nagged at me for so long, and so did—” Doyoung pauses as you come back out. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

Joshua smiles at that, quietly. “It’s a learning curve, alright.”

He hums. “Yep. Yours looks better than mine, though. I’ve never heard a bad thing about you in that aspect.”

“What are you glazing him for?” You ask, eyes narrowing in on your brother as you approach them, Minghao trailing behind you. “Are you ready to leave or not?”

Doyoung doesn’t even flinch. “Just acknowledging talent when I see it.”

Joshua snorts into his cup. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And it won’t happen again,” Doyoung replies smoothly, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Okay, weirdos. Minghao, how are you leaving?”

“I don’t trust either of them behind the wheel right now,” Minghao mutters, still squinting at his iPad as he follows you. “And besides, Joshua’s going to make me drive anyway.”

You bid goodbye to the two of them, Doyoung falling into step silently beside you. He yawns once, into his sleeve and murmurs something about needing sleep. By the time you reach the parking lot, the sky has turned into the cotton candy pink that you love. Your brother unlocks the car with a sharp beep and slides in without a word.

You take one last glance over your shoulder—only out of habit—and then climb in after him.

—

Sunday, Post Race June 1st

You’re sitting on the little couch in Doyoung’s driver's room, scrolling through messages and trying not to fall asleep. He’s in the shower—the water’s still running—and you’ve got maybe five minutes before you hand him over to his PR manager and head back home for the day.

So when the door opens behind you, you don’t even look up.

“Forgot your pass or something?” you mutter. “Please tell me you’re not trying to leave without finishing press—”

But it’s not your brother.

It’s Joshua.

He freezes in the doorway like he’s half-forgotten how to move. His hair’s wet, matted flat at the sides, his suit half-zipped, fireproofs clinging to him with champagne and sweat.

“…This isn’t my room,” he says after a beat.

You blink at him. “No. It’s not.”

But you don’t tell him to leave. You just… stare, for a second, at the way he’s breathing like his heart still hasn’t slowed down.

He blinks slowly, eyes rimmed red, and lifts a hand toward his face.

“My eyes are so dry,” he mutters. “I can’t find Minghao, and I think my drops are in the wrong bag. I—do you maybe have any?”

There’s something strangely vulnerable about it. The guy looks exhausted and probably doesn’t have enough time before he has to head to the media pen as well.

You stand up quickly, moving towards the bag in Doyoung’s locker. “Yeah. I think so. Sit down, if you’d like. Can’t reach your eyes otherwise.”

He doesn’t argue and sinks into the edge of the couch with a soft, grateful sigh, like his limbs don’t quite want to hold him up anymore. The material of his race suit rustles faintly as he settles. You find the bottle easily, fingers brushing over a familiar shape in the front pocket of your kit.

When you turn back around, he’s already tipped his head back, eyes shut, and jaw tight.

You cross the room slowly.

Joshua flinches slightly when you touch his chin to steady him.

“Sorry,” he says under his breath, opening his eyes.

“It’s okay,” You assure. “Just don’t blink too much once the drop goes in, okay?”

He nods, and you take it as a signal to lean in and let the first drop fall in. He flinches slightly again, and you assume that his eyes are already hurting from the champagne. The smell is stronger close to him, but you can also smell slight notes of perfume beneath the overpowering alcohol. He’s probably sprayed some on in the cooldown room.

You do the second eye, then pull away gently, handing him a tissue to wipe the corner of his lashes before it can trail down his cheek.

“Thanks,” he says, shutting his eyes once more before he gets up.

“Don’t mention it.”

You take a step back, making room for him to leave. The shower cuts off behind you, a reminder that Doyoung won’t be long.

Joshua notices too. He exhales, straightens up slowly. “Right. Wrong room.”

“Right,” you echo.

He’s almost out the door when his face pops back in again. “Hey, you said you’d cut Monaco out if one of us was in the top three.”

“You weren’t supposed to remember that.”

“I remember everything when it benefits me.”

You let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “It’s probably not going to happen, but I’ll try and ask them to make that segment the shortest, okay?” He grins, “Good enough. See you later.”

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oddlydescriptive · 5 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter One

Series Masterlist

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December 26, 2022. Milton Keynes, UK.

As bad things often do, it starts with wine and sentimentality-at least on your part. You’re not sure Max Verstappen is capable of something so pedestrian as sentiment.

You’ve shared… many things with Max. Loathing, mostly. But also a track, stuffy marketing events, opposite ends of long conference tables at the factory. A handful of tense, clipped conversations that ended in rolled eyes and barely concealed contempt. But loathing- yes, that’s the main thing.

And yet, here you are.

“Well?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. There’s entirely too little space between you, lips parted, eyes dark as sin. “What’s the verdict?”

The verdict?

For a moment, you can’t even remember what you were thinking before he spoke. Something important, probably. Something rational.

Oh. Right.

How the fuck did this happen?

Wine. Loneliness. A sick desire for some version of Christmas that doesn’t completely fucking suck. Maybe that’s how this- the hot, consuming press of his mouth against yours, the breathless heat still lingering between you- combusted into existence. But that’s not how all of this started.

No. That started months ago, on a pit wall across the Atlantic.

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Five Months Before, August 20, 2022. Worldwide Technology Raceway.

There’s a reason they call it competitive suicide.

Dale Coyne Racing is where talent goes to die- where decent drivers get ground down into nothing, where you get ground down into nothing. There’s no faith, no investment, no future here. You’re not their driver. Not really. You’re a placeholder, a warm body they can shove into a car when the boss’s son wrecks one too many chassis. A novelty they can parade around when they need to pretend they’re modern and progressive- a woman in their car, see? How inspiring.

Their car is a joke. A Frankenstein’s monster of outdated concepts and desperate engineering, held together with duct tape, stubbornness, and wishful thinking. It handles like a shopping cart with a broken wheel, understeers into corners, and then suddenly- violently- snaps into oversteer when you least expect it. The power delivery is shit. The brakes are worse.

The engineers know it. They all know it.

And still, every time you fight tooth and nail just to drag the thing across the line, they act like you’re the problem. Like it’s you who’s asking too much from the car. Like you should be grateful for the opportunity to pilot this rolling embarrassment.

The worst part? You are grateful. Because there aren’t many other options.

Not many teams are lining up to hire a woman. That’s the real fucking truth, the one nobody likes to say out loud. You could be better than half the grid, but when it comes down to it, you’re not one of the boys. You don’t have an automatic in with the old-guard team bosses, the ex-drivers turned management who only see their past selves in the drivers they choose. So you grit your teeth, push the useless fucking thing as fast as it’ll go, and tell yourself that points are points, even if they’re scraped out of misery one at a time.

You’d rather be anywhere else.

But instead, you’re here- sitting in the tight, suffocating cockpit of your Dale Coyne IndyCar, fighting a machine that doesn’t want to cooperate. The steering feels like shit, the setup feels like shit, and the tires are giving up on you way too soon. You’re fighting with every muscle in your body just to wrangle the damn thing around the track, squeezing every last bit of pace out of a car that has no business being on this grid.

And then- impact.

A split-second warning, a flicker of movement in your mirrors, and then your own goddamn teammate- fucking idiot- clips your rear tire, sending you into a spin. Your stomach lurches as the car snaps around, momentum carrying you straight into the wall. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber shattering around you barely registers before you slam to a stop.

Silence. Then static in your ear.

"You alright?" Your engineer, not sounding particularly concerned. Not like this is surprising. You don’t answer. Not yet. You’re too busy breathing, swallowing down the molten rage rising in your throat.

Then you key the radio. "Yeah." Your voice is clipped, devoid of anything but the raw edge of exhaustion. You climb out of the car, shaking out your hands, flexing stiff fingers against the uselessness of it all. The safety crew checks you over, but you barely hear them. It takes everything in you to walk back to the pits instead of finding your dumbass teammate and tearing him apart with your bare hands.

You should have seen today’s disaster coming. Your teammate- if you can even call him that- has wrecked you before. It’s almost routine at this point. The team never does anything about it. No real reprimands, no apologies, no accountability. Just another shrug, another "racing incident," another round of well, if you had just backed off, maybe that wouldn’t have happened.

Back off.

As if you have the luxury of backing off when your entire fucking career is balanced on a knife’s edge.

And now here you are, standing in the garage, helmet in hand, jaw clenched so tightly it might snap. The garage is silent when you step in. Or maybe you just can’t hear past the blood roaring in your ears. The team- if you can call this pile of underqualified morons a team- is already moving on, treating you like an afterthought.

No one’s looking at you. No one’s talking to you. No one gives a shit. Your wrecked car is being wheeled back, and they’re already moving on, like you didn’t just get speared into the wall by your own goddamn teammate. You snatch your phone from your pile of things on the bench and jam it into the waistband of your fireproofs- retreat to a corner of the garage to seethe.

If you were on fire in the middle of the pit lane, these people wouldn’t piss on you to put it out.

Your seat was always temporary.

Your teeth grind so hard your skull aches. You’re two seconds from lighting someone up just to make them react to something, fucking anything, when your phone buzzes.

You pay it little mind, ready to ignore whatever fresh bullshit is waiting for you. Another racing journalist already circling for a soundbite? A patronizing text from your team about “unfortunate circumstances”? PR telling you to keep your answers positive in post-race interviews?

But when you wipe the sweat from the screen and squint, your frustration flickers into confusion.

Incoming Call — Unknown Number (Europe)

You stare at it. A telemarketer? A wrong number? A scam? The incoming call window closes, and you’re staring at your home screen again. (1) Missed Calls.

You almost let it go. Almost toss your phone onto the table and keep pacing, keep seething. But something in you, some quiet, persistent part of your brain that still believes in Santa and unicorns, tells you to call back.

You hit the button. The line rings twice.

"LeChriste?" It’s crisp, clipped, professional. Male. Not familiar. But there’s something there- something sharp, something important.

Your grip tightens around your phone. "Yeah? Who’s this?"

"Franz Tost, team principal of Scuderia AlphaTauri." For half a second, you think you’ve imagined it. AlphaTauri. Formula 1. Franz Tost. The words don’t compute, don’t settle. It doesn’t make sense. Because why the fuck would someone from F1- someone from Red Bull’s junior team- be calling you?

"Right," you manage, forcing your voice to stay even. "And you’re looking for me?"

"I wouldn’t be calling otherwise." Fair enough.

You take a step back, pressing your fingers to your temple. Your heartbeat has changed- it’s not just pounding with anger now. It’s something else. Something sharper. "How’d you even get this number?"

"Christian Horner gave it to me."

Your stomach drops. Christian Horner. The team principal of Red Bull Racing. The guy running the best car on the grid, the one responsible for Seb Vettel’s dominance, for king-killer Max Verstappen, the guy at the helm of one of the biggest single seater operations in the world. That Christian Horner.

You inhale through your nose, trying to keep your pulse steady, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Professional. Stay professional. "What can I do for you, Mr. Tost?"

There’s a slight pause before he speaks, like he’s already bracing himself. "I assume you’ve heard of Yuki Tsunoda?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before you can stop yourself. It’s too loud, too immediate. You wince at the sound of it, clearing your throat quickly to mask the awkwardness. "Uh, yeah," you say, forcing your voice back to neutral. "I watch Formula 1. Believe it or not."

There’s a long pause. Too long. Franz doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react at all, really.

Jesus. Tough crowd.

"Good," he says finally, completely unfazed, his tone so dry it could ignite a brush fire. "He’s just undergone an emergency appendectomy. And we have a race in less than a week."

You freeze. Your heart picks up speed, but you force yourself to stay still. Stay neutral. Don’t react yet. "Right." You shift your weight. "And?"

"And I don’t have a lot of faith in our current reserve driver." Your lips part slightly. That’s… blunt. You weren’t expecting that level of honesty.

"So, what, you want me to- " you make a vague motion with your free hand, "-be the backup for the backup?"

"I want to see if you can be the backup," Franz corrects. Something cracks in your ribs. Not pain, not panic, but something more profound. The kind of break that feels like a door swinging open.

"Okay." The word comes out steadier than you expect, though your pulse is doing its best impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You square your shoulders, trying to sound measured and professional, like you totally understand what’s happening here and aren’t still two steps away from a full-blown existential crisis. "So you’re just… bringing me in? Throwing me in the car?"

"No." Franz’s voice is firm, edged with something that makes it very clear that whatever delusions you may have had need to be checked immediately. "You are being given a chance to earn a seat for the weekend. You will be tested. Evaluated. We have a reserve driver already- Liam Lawson. I assume you’ve heard of him?"

Your stomach clenches. Of course, you’ve heard of Liam. Red Bull’s academy prospect, the next in line, the logical heir to a temporary seat exactly like the one you’re being offered a chance to fight for. He’s been groomed for this, has the full weight of the Red Bull machine behind him, the kind of backing you don’t.

"Yeah," you say, and suddenly your mouth is dry.

"Good," Franz continues, tone unwavering. "You’ll both be in FP1. If you perform well enough- if you can out-pace him- we’ll consider putting you in the car for the full weekend. If you don’t, you’ll be on the next flight home, and we’ll pretend none of this ever happened."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. You’d been holding onto this flickering belief- this idea that maybe, maybe, they had already decided you were good enough. That you were stepping into a race seat outright, even if just for a weekend. That someone, somewhere, had already chosen you.

They haven’t.

This is a gamble.

And you still have to win.

"So, just to be clear," you say slowly, dragging a hand down your face, "if I suck, I don’t go into quali?"

"Correct."

"And if I don’t suck?"

"Then we’ll talk about Saturday and Sunday."

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Right. No pressure, then."

"There is pressure," Franz corrects. "You’ll also need to take media duties, regardless of how you perform. There’s already interest in the fact that a woman might be stepping into an F1 car for the first time in years. If we’re going to capitalize on that, we need you to be professional, presentable, and cooperative with PR."

The word capitalize sticks in your brain like gum on a shoe. "Ah." You blink, trying to process what he’s really saying. "So I’m a diversity hire?"

"No," he says flatly, no hesitation. "You are a marketing opportunity."

A sharp laugh leaves you before you can stop it, humorless and exasperated all at once. You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Fantastic."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, no," you say quickly, shaking your head. "I love being a prop.”

There’s a pause, and you definitely hear him sigh this time. Not annoyed- more like resigned, like he already knows exactly what he’s about to get himself into. "We can’t pay you much," he says, not like it’s an afterthought, but like it’s a formality, a line he already knows won’t matter.

The laugh that escapes you this time is real, sharp and immediate. "I don’t care about money." The words leave you fast, without hesitation, because they’re true.

There’s a small beat of silence, and when he speaks again, his voice is edged with something knowing, something wry.

"Figured," he says, almost to himself. "The ones that probably should care about money never do." You don’t know if that’s a compliment, an observation, or a warning, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t hesitate. Not now. Not when the door is cracked open and all you have to do is walk through it.

"Done."

"Pack your bags," Franz says, and there’s something final in his tone. Like a line has just been drawn in the sand. "We need you in Belgium as soon as possible."

You’re already moving, already grabbing your duffel, stuffing things inside with quick, frantic movements like this opportunity might vanish if you take too long.

"I can be at STL in thirty-five minutes."

Franz doesn’t reply, but the call clicks off.

That’s it.

No fanfare. No congratulations. Just a chance. Just the fight you’re about to throw yourself into. And fuck, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

They don’t measure and weigh drivers by reaction times for nothing- you’re in motion before your phone has even gone back to the home screen. Every second you waste standing here is one more second someone else could be getting that call. That seat. That chance.

Your hands move on autopilot, shoving gear into your duffel with the frantic, uncoordinated speed of someone packing up their entire life in real-time. Fireproofs, helmet bag, travel essentials- you don’t stop to think, don’t stop to fold, don’t stop to make sense of what’s going where. It doesn’t matter. You need to go. You need to get on a fucking plane.

The zipper jams for half a second, and you nearly rip the damn thing off trying to get it closed.

Then you hear it. "Hey, 66! Reserve!" The voice echoes through the garage, sharp and accusatory. You don’t stop moving. "The fuck do you think you’re doing?"

Kevin.

Pit Boss. Team Manager. Professional asshole.

You should have expected this. Hell, you did expect this. You just thought you might have gotten out before he caught you. That was a mistake. You glance up, keeping your expression level, because no matter what comes out of his mouth next, you are not letting this guy see you rattled. "Packing."

His face is already turning red. It’s almost funny- like he’s been waiting for this exact moment just to finally unleash on you. The same man who never looked at you twice unless he needed something, unless the boss’s son had embarrassed himself one too many times and they needed you to come in and scrape together whatever dignity the team had left.

But now?

Now that you’re leaving?

Suddenly, you’re the most important fucking thing in the world.

"Packing? You think you can just fucking pack? Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We have a race happening, in case you forgot!"

You shoulder your bag, biting down hard on the instinct to snap back. You’re already halfway out the door. You do not need to burn every bridge on your way out. Racing is a small world. Even in a shithole like this, people talk.

"I appreciate the opportunity- "

"Appreciate the- " He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "You’re really doing this? You’re just fucking walking out?"

"Yes."

The word lands between you, clean and final.

And that is what sets him off.

"Unbelievable," Kevin snarls, stepping in closer, voice rising. "Do you have any fucking clue what you’re doing? You think anyone else is going to take you? Give me a fucking break, kid. You’re here because no one else wanted you. You’re nothing without us."

You should ignore him. You should just keep walking. But something about the way he says it- the pure audacity- stops you cold. Because it’s not just an insult. It’s what they’ve always thought.

They never saw you as a driver. Not really.

Dale Coyne Racing has never been a real team, not in the way the others were. Their entire philosophy was built around pay drivers, the rich boys who bought their way in, who treated their race seats like VIP experiences- something their daddy’s money entitled them to. And because of that, the whole team functioned like a luxury service in kissing ass. The staff were there to cater to them, to make them feel like real race car drivers, even if they were absolute fucking shit.

And you?

You were not a customer.

You were the help.

The help that wasn’t even part of the boys’ club. A placeholder. A seat filler. Someone to throw in when their sweet, precious nepo baby couldn’t hack it. And they never let you forget it.

Ever.

But now that you’re leaving?

Now that the only driver who’s managed to score any points, the only driver keeping them from looking like an absolute joke, is walking away? Now it’s an emergency. Now it’s an insult.

Kevin takes a step closer, voice dropping into something venomous. "You know what? Go ahead. Get the fuck out. But when you crash and burn- when whatever bullshit gig you think you’re getting falls through- you better not fucking come back here expecting a seat. Because this? Right here? Was the only shot you were ever going to get."

You stare at him for a second, pulse steady, unreadable. Then you shake your head, more to yourself than to him.

"Then I guess I have no fucking choice but to make it work."

You don’t wait for his reaction. You turn on your heel, bag slung over your shoulder, and walk out of the garage without looking back.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The fluorescent lights overhead hum with an unsettling buzz, casting an unforgiving glow over the airport bathroom. The mirror in front of you reflects the mess you already know is there- the damp strands of hair curling at your temples, the sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin, the streaks of dirt and grease smudged across your jaw where you wiped at your face with a gloved hand during the race. Your Dale Coyne racesuit, still zipped up to your collarbone, looks even worse in this lighting, the fabric stained with oil, rubber, and whatever remnants of the track had clung to you before you’d walked out of that godforsaken garage for the last time. The fireproofs underneath stick uncomfortably to your skin, trapping the warmth of a race that already feels a lifetime ago.

People have been staring since you walked into STL, their glances lingering just a little too long, their hushed whispers and quick double takes barely concealed. You saw a few curious expressions, some with the kind of recognition that comes from people who know just enough about motorsport to be intrigued. Others just saw something out of place- an exhausted driver in a sweaty, dirt-streaked racesuit wandering through an airport like she had nowhere better to be.

You don’t care.

You grip the sink, fingers pressing into the cold porcelain as you drop your head, squeezing your eyes shut. Your pulse is still high, not from exertion, not even from frustration anymore, but from the sheer weight of what you’ve just done. You tell yourself it was the right decision. That it was necessary. That this is the step you were meant to take. But right now, standing in this too-bright, too-sterile bathroom, still feeling the phantom grip of a steering wheel in your hands, all you can think is what the fuck did I just do?

This has to work.

It has to.

You’d felt the moment your parents got the news. You hadn’t needed to hear their voices to know. It was as if the air itself had thickened with their disappointment, their frustration, their fear for you. Their anger wasn’t loud, wasn’t furious- it never was. Your dad would sigh, rub a hand down his face, mutter something about you needing a goddamn plan for once in your life. Your mother’s voice would be quiet, measured, more pointed than anything your father could say.

"Honey, please tell me you didn’t just burn it all down for a gamble."

But you did. You gambled everything.

Dale Coyne might have been a dead end, a team you despised with every fiber of your being, but it was a seat. It was IndyCar. It was a career that your parents had spent their entire lives trying to give you. The penny-pinching, the loans, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices you could never repay- Indy was the shot it had all been for. And you just walked away from it.

You tighten your grip on the sink, forcing down the lump rising in your throat. This isn’t regret. It can’t be. You made your choice, and now you have to fucking own it.

No one is going to save you if this goes sideways. There is no safety net waiting to catch you. If you fail in Belgium, if you don’t perform, if you don’t impress them enough to keep you for the full weekend, you’ll be on the next flight home with nothing.

No seat. No team. No future.

But that’s not going to happen.

You lift your head, staring yourself down in the mirror, taking in every sharp, raw edge of your reflection. You see the exhaustion, the stubborn set of your jaw, the faint tremble in your fingers from too much adrenaline and too little certainty. But beneath all of that, beneath the chaos, there’s something else. Something that has always been there.

Determination.

This is going to work. You swear it to yourself.

You will learn faster. You will push harder. You will do whatever it takes to make sure that when Friday rolls around and you get in that car, you earn your place. You didn’t walk away from everything just to fail. You didn’t burn it all down just to stand in the ashes.

Your parents are pissed. Loving, always, but pissed.

They’ll forgive you when this works.

You push away from the sink, rolling your shoulders back, exhaling slow through your nose. You should change, should clean up, should at least try to look like someone worthy of an F1 seat. There’s a fresh set of clothes buried somewhere in your duffel- a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, something normal, something that wouldn’t make you stand out like a sore thumb walking through the airport. But the thought of peeling this racesuit off, of stripping away the evidence of where you’ve been before you’ve even arrived at where you’re going, feels… wrong.

The weight of the fabric clings to you, sweat and exhaustion pressing into the seams. The patches of oil, the streaks of dirt, the faint, acrid scent of burnt rubber still woven into the material- it all sticks, like a brand, like a mark of what you’re running from. This suit, this thing you’ve poured yourself into for the past year, isn’t just a uniform. It’s a living symbol of suffering. It’s the proof of every shit race, every pointless debrief, every time you sat in a meeting knowing you weren’t actually being heard, just humored. The soul-crushing effort you gave, the hours you spent studying data, giving feedback, clawing your way to mediocrity because that was all the car would ever allow you to be.

Dale Coyne Racing. The team that would never carry you, only use you. The team that wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, that never let you forget you were just the help, a temporary piece they plugged in when their real drivers- their customers- floundered too much.

You should take the suit off. Should strip yourself of the dead weight. Be done with it.

But it doesn’t feel right.

Instead, it feels like penance. Like a burden you should carry for a little longer. Maybe it’s some twisted sense of self-punishment, or maybe it’s something deeper- something driving you. If you wear this suit through the airport, if you sit with it for just a few more hours, maybe it’ll push you harder. Maybe it’ll remind you that you can never be here again. That you won’t be.

That you will shed this skin.

That the next time you take off a racesuit, it won’t be this one.

That when you peel off the next set of fireproofs, they won’t carry the weight of failure, of stagnation, of being someone’s last-minute fill-in. They’ll belong to a respectable driver. To someone who fought and won. To someone who proved she deserved to take this one off.

You glance at yourself in the mirror one last time, the reflection of the Dale Coyne logos, the Honda badge, the grime-streaked collar sitting heavy on your skin. You meet your own gaze, holding it steady, knowing- knowing- this is the last time you’ll ever wear this thing.

You swear it.

You’ll take it off when you’ve earned the right to.

Then, without another second of hesitation, you turn on your heel and walk out of the bathroom, still wearing the evidence of the past, still carrying the weight of it. The stares continue as you weave through the terminal, but you don’t even flinch. You know where you’re going.

The next flight to Spa-Francorchamps.

And the start of the rest of your fucking life.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

As hyped, as promised- here is the first chapter of Reset, my MV33 x reader fic that's been in the works for.... 9 months, more or less. A few things to understand:

1- This fic has been written in pieces, over the course of many months, in all sorts of mental states and writing skills. As I edit, I try to edit for consistency of tone and keeping the overarching themes, but I'm just one person. Constructive criticism is always welcomed but cut me some slack.

2- This will devolve into explicit content within a few chapters. For those who are here for that, please bear with me as we build up this sweet, sweet burn. I promise I'll make it worth the wait- we're going on a journey here, not just writing p0rn. For minors or those that don't wish to read that, it may be best not to get attached to a fic that will turn into something you don't want.

3- The reader is afab. I try to remain inclusive and ambiguous where I can, but the nature of the story sometimes is less so. I love all of my readers, and I hope you can find joy in this story regardless. <3 She also has a last name, but I try to keep references to it to a bare minimum.

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #mv1 fic #max verstappen x you #mv1 x reader

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37sommz · 8 months ago

Text

❁ : no love . . .

✼. masterlist — taglist — request. ✼. genre: angst. ✼. wc: 5.8k.

after a botched pit stop in azerbaijan and a withdrawal in canada, michaela's side of the garage is heading down a slippery slope. michaela's depleted spirit can't take much more. until silverstone.

✼. warnings: language, arguments, more mclaren papaya mess. ✼. notes: so sorry but yuki is the villain in this part.

000.⠀⠀JULY 02, 2022 › Silverstone, UK.

Michaela stood tall in her cramped garage, surrounded by the mechanical hum of the Silverstone Grand Prix. Her eyes scanned her McLaren car, the sleek machine adorned with the papaya orange and blue livery that had become her battle armor. The smell of the mechanical tools and racing fuel filled her nose, a familiar scent that had become almost comforting over the years. Despite the whispers that had followed her since the last race, she was in her element, she could feel it.

Her last conversation with Jenson replayed in her mind as she climbed into the cockpit. He had tried to ease her nerves, but his words of reassurance had only served to highlight the precariousness of her situation. She pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand.

The British Grand Prix was a chance for redemption, and she was not going to let anything or anyone stand in her way. The sound of the engines firing up around her sent a shiver down her spine, a reminder of the power and danger that lay just beyond her grip. Her first free practice session had gone as expected, Michaela lay in comfortable territory on the rankings. The car felt great and she was at the helm, masterminding every turn and hum through the twists of the Silverstone circuit. The second session had followed in similar fashion. She did just enough in the car to provide a glimpse of her potential for the weekend, but not nearly enough for any real predictions to be made.

Michaela knew the media was watching her closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. The whispers grew louder, the questions more pointed. Her rivalry with Lando was a hot topic, especially after the disasters in Saudi Arabia, Azerbaijan, and Canada. But she had faced adversity before and had come out on top. As she stepped out of the garage and into the press conference room following the conclusion of Friday's practice runs, she felt the beginning of vindication start to settle in.

The journalists kept coming back around to her, their faces a mix of curiosity and accusation. The air was thick with the anticipation of a scandal, a juicy headline waiting to be born. One journalist, in particular, had a glint in his eye as he asked, "Michaela, what's your response to the rumors that Lando has been receiving preferential treatment from the team?"

Michaela took a deep breath, her grip on the microphone in her hand tightening. "My focus is on my performance," she replied with a steely smile, her voice as smooth as the freshly paved circuit she'd soon be racing on. "I've seen the times, and I know what I'm capable of. The team is doing their best, and I have full confidence in McLaren." Her response was met with a smatter of applause, a few nods of approval. It was a dance she'd done before, dodging the media's jabs with the grace of a seasoned professional.

The weekend dragged on, the tension between her and Lando palpable. She could feel his eyes on her during the practice session early Saturday morning, the unspoken challenge in every rev of his engine. But she had her own demons to face. Her relationship with Jenson was a tightrope walk, and the fear of losing her grip on her career was a constant weight on her shoulders.

Qualifying day arrived with a mix of nerves and excitement. The Silverstone circuit buzzed with energy, the crowd eager to see who would claim pole position. As she geared up for Q3, the final showdown, she knew she had to put everything aside and just drive. The pressure mounted as she took off for her out lap, the thunderous roar of the engines around her a reminder of the blend of power and ambition at play.

Michaela's heart raced as she pushed her McLaren to the limit, each turn a testament to her skill and determination. Her qualifying lap was pure poetry, a dance of precision and speed that would secure her a spot on the third row in 5th, just behind the two Red Bulls and Ferraris. The crowd erupted into applause, and she couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. The first question out of her mouth as she crossed the lap as the clock ran down was, "Where'd Lando end up?" The response of '7th' was left hanging in the air as she selfishly allowed her heart to flutter with ego.

The evening before the race, she and Jenson talked over the phone, his voice a gentle reprieve from the storm of the day. He apologized for pushing the topic of their relationship into the public eye, saying, "You're right, love. We'll do it on your terms." She felt the knot in her stomach loosen slightly, appreciating his understanding but still feeling the pressure to make a decision. They ended the call with a promise to meet up after the race, regardless of the outcome.

000.⠀⠀JULY 03, 2022 › Silverstone, UK.

Sunday dawned bright and early, the air thick with the scent of hunger and anticipation. As she put on her helmet, she could almost taste the podium champagne, her resolve to win stronger than ever.

But fate had other plans.

Michaela's heart sank as she heard the words from Zak Brown, her boss and McLaren's CEO, just before the race. Something about a potential team order to go on the defensive that could favor Lando. She had added a justification for the choice, something about standings and sponsors. She tried to push the thoughts away, but the doubt had already planted its seed.

As the lights turned green, she stalled, the car jolting awkwardly off the line as she dropped to 9th place. The roar of the McLaren fans morphed into a collective groan of disappointment, the air around her thick with the smell of misfortune as the field sped away. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos. Her engineer's voice crackled over the radio, a mix of concern and urgency, but she couldn't respond, her focus solely on regaining her lost positions.

Her first pit stop was a disaster. The mechanics were not prepared, fumbling with the tires. The seconds ticked by as she sat stationary, the frustration burning in her chest. When she was finally released, she shot out of the pits with a simmering rage, only to be met by Yuki Tsunoda, his Alpha Tauri car snapping at her heels. As he engaged in a risky twist with her, Michaela's anger that had been simmering within her boiled over.

The overtake was clean, a testament to her skill and patience, but Yuki wasn't going to let it go without a fight. He lunged back at her, tires squealing in protest as they danced dangerously close to the edge of the track. The crowd held their collective breath, the tension in the air as visible as the exhaust fumes.

Michaela felt a rush of adrenaline as she saw her opportunity to put distance between them. She floored the pedal, the engine screaming in response. The sound of the tires on the asphalt was a symphony of speed and grip, her car an extension of her will. But Yuki was persistent, his aggression unyielding.

The battle continued, a blur of Orange and Blue as their cars filed through the historic track. The heat of the rare British summer sun bore down on her, the cockpit a sauna of concentration and anger. Every time she glimpsed in her mirrors to catch sight of Yuki, it was a painful reminder of her botched start and the game of 'what if' she had been playing in her mind for the past 15 laps.

Michaela's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her eyes never leaving the track. The crowd's cheers grew louder as she approached the spot where she had made the overtake. She could feel the energy of the fans urging her on, willing her to push through the pain and frustration. But it was a fleeting victory, every corner a potential disaster waiting to happen.

As they approached the fast-approaching right-hand turn at Stowe, he took a risk, going wide, his tires grazing the grass. She saw her chance and took it, her car responding beautifully as she swung around him. The crowd roared as she reclaimed the position, but Yuki wasn't done yet. He came back at her, his car clipping her rear wing as he tried to muscle his way past. The contact sent her McLaren into a spin, the world around her a whirlwind of color and motion.

Her heart racing, she watched as the tire barrier grew closer, the world outside the cockpit becoming a blur of fear and frustration. Time slowed as she braced for impact, the thud of the car against the wall jolting her body. The sudden silence was deafening as the engine cut out, the only sound the hiss of escaping air and the faint crackle of the dead radio.

Her engineer, Rob, tried to get her attention over the radio, his voice strained with tension. "Michaela, are you okay?" He asked, the static crackling in her ears. She didn't respond, her thoughts a whirlwind of anger and frustration. She sat, dazed, as the safety car was deployed and the marshals rushed to her side.

Michaela's mind was a cloud of emotions as she climbed out of the wreckage. She could feel the eyes of the world on her, the cameras capturing every moment of her defeat. Yuki pulled up alongside, an annoyed look on his face, his words of apology barely audible over the engine noise. The frustration boiled over and she slammed her fist on the side of her car, the anger clear in her eyes.

The medical team checked her over, but she brushed them off, more concerned with the damage to her ego than any bruises she may have sustained. As she was escorted back to the pits, the weight of her failure pressed down on her shoulders. The crowd's cheers had turned to gasps, the excitement of the race now tinged with concern for her safety. She could barely bring herself to open her eyes fully, the pounding in her head echoing hisses of failure and upsetting shortcomings.

The moment she stepped out of the marshall car, the disappointments of the race weekend engulfed her. Mechanics swarmed around her, checking for any signs of injury while team members whispered about the potential repercussions of the crash. In the midst of this, Yuki's voice rang out clear over the huffing of the team.

"That was a bad move, Sommers," he spat, his eyes narrowed as he removed his helmet. "You had no right to take the inside like that."

Michaela's anger flared, igniting like a spark in dry grass. "Don't you dare blame me for your inability to drive in a straight fucking line," she shot back, her voice carrying over the rumblings of the pit lane. The tension between them was palpable, a live wire ready to snap.

Their words grew heated, accusations and recriminations flying as their teams looked on in shock. The cameras had caught every second, broadcasting their argument across the globe. It was a spectacle that no one could have anticipated, two of the sport's rising stars at each other's throats. The mechanics tried to pull them apart, their faces a mix of concern and embarrassment.

The argument was finally broken up by a burly figure in McLaren overalls, his voice a thunderous boom over the din. It was her team's chief mechanic, his face red with rage. "That's enough," he bellowed, his hands firmly planted on their shoulders. "We've got a race to manage."

Michaela took a step back, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her composure. Yuki glared at her before turning away, stalking off towards his own garage. The cameras continued to roll, the scene playing out in real-time on the screens lining the pit wall. Her heart was racing, the adrenaline from the crash mixing with the anger still coursing through her veins. She knew she had to get control of herself, to keep her emotions in check. But it was too late; the damage was done.

The race continued without her, a stark reminder of her failure. She watched from the pit wall, her eyes never leaving the track as Lando and the others fought for position. Each pass, each overtake, stung like a slap in the face. The voices in her head grew louder, questioning her place in the sport, her worth as a driver. Was she really as good as she had thought?

Her engineer, Rob, was by her side, trying to offer words of encouragement. But she couldn't hear him over the roar of the engines, the echo of the crowd's disappointment, and the thundering beat of her own heart. All she could think about was the look on Zak's face when he saw the replay and the inevitable questions from her manager, Guido, about her contract.

Michaela's eyes followed the cars as they disappeared around the final turn, heading towards the checkered flag. Lando would be finishing in a well-earned sixth place, something she couldn't even secure this weekend. The knot in her stomach tightened as the reality of her situation set in. Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of her headphones.

"Michaela, we need to get you to the medical center now," Rob’s voice was firm, yet filled with a hint of concern. She nodded, letting the team lead her away from the chaos, her head down to avoid the prying eyes of the media.

The medical center was a blur of white and blue as she was poked and prodded, questions about her well-being flying at her from every angle. Her thoughts remained on the race, on the podium that had slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. The doctor's voice was a distant murmur as she replayed every moment in her head, searching for where she had gone wrong.

Finally, she was given the all-clear, but her mind was anything but. She stormed through the McLaren garage, the smell of burning rubber and hot metal a constant reminder of the battle she'd left unfinished. Guido found her, his expression a mix of disappointment and frustration. He knew better than to speak to her now, the fire in her eyes a warning to tread lightly.

In the post-race press conference, she couldn't escape the questions about her argument with Yuki. A journalist, eager for drama, asked, "Michaela, can you comment on the tension between you and Tsunoda?" She took a deep breath, her jaw clenched tight. "It's just racing," she said through gritted teeth, her voice a forced calm. "We're all out there fighting for the same thing."

The room was a sea of flashing cameras and probing eyes, each journalist hungry for a piece of her. Beata, her press officer, shot her a warning glance, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and now the sharks were circling.

Michaela took a deep breath and faced the horde, her heart pounding in her chest as she grew more agitated by the second. "Yes, there was an incident on track, but that's all it was. Just racing." Her voice was firm, but she could feel the tremble in her hands.

The questions kept coming, each one more pointed than the last. She tried to keep her cool, to stick to the script, but the anger was too much. "I don't know what else you want me to say," she spoke plainly. "We're all out there to win, and sometimes things get heated."

The room fell silent, the only sound the clack of cameras capturing the moment. The moderator stepped in, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but it was too late. The journalists had caught the scent of a scandal and weren't letting go. "Michaela, is there any truth to the rumors of tension within the team?"

Her eyes flashed with anger as she leaned into the microphone. "I've said all I'm going to say about that," she bit back, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. She could feel Beata's eyes boring into her, willing her to walk away, but she was beyond caring. The whispers of doubt and favoritism had been eating away at her for too long, and she wasn't going to let them win.

The press conference was a blur, a minefield of words she carefully stepped around. Each question was a trap, designed to catch her off guard, but she was ready for them. Every answer was a calculated move, a defense of her talent and her team's strategy. But as she stepped out of the press pen, the weight of the weekend's events finally hit her.

Her eyes searched the bustling garage for Beata, who was nowhere to be found. She needed to vent, to scream, to let it all out. The tension in her shoulders was a constant reminder of the crash, the argument, the unspoken accusations. It was then she saw Guido, her manager, his face etched with worry and concern.

Michaela stormed towards him, the sounds of the garage fading into the background. "What the hell was that about, Guido?" she spat out, her voice a mix of anger and defeat. "Why did they have to pit me with those tires?"

Guido held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Michaela, let's talk about this in private," he suggested, leading her to a quieter area behind the garage. She followed, her mind racing with the events of the race.

Once out of earshot, she unleashed her frustration. "I can't believe this. The stall on the line, the pit stop, and now this with Yuki!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion. Guido's expression grew sterner as he listened, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Michaela, I know this weekend hasn't been easy, but you've got to keep your head focused," he said firmly, his voice low as he tried to keep his driver in line. "We're all feeling the pressure, but lashing out like that isn't going to help."

Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of understanding or sympathy, but she found none. The walls of the garage felt like they were closing in on her, the weight of the weekend's failure crushing her spirit. "What do you know about pressure?" she snapped, her voice filled with bitterness. "You sit up in your fancy office and tell me what to do, but you've never been out there, fighting for your life."

Guido's expression softened slightly. "You're right, I haven't," he admitted. "But I've seen drivers with half your talent crack under a quarter of the pressure you're under. You're better than this, Michaela."

Michaela's anger didn't abate. "Better than what? Crashing out because of a bad pit stop? Or maybe better than fighting with other drivers over a podium that was never meant for me?"

Guido sighed, his hand resting on her shoulder. "You know what I mean. You're one of the best drivers out there, and you can't let one bad race define you. We need to work on the contract situation, yes, but now is not the time for this."

Michaela's eyes searched his, looking for a glimmer of hope. "What if I don't want to stay?" she whispered, the words hanging in the air like a confession.

Guido's expression grew serious. "You have a contract, and we need to honor that," he said firmly. "But if you're unhappy, we'll talk after the weekend. For now, you need to keep your focus on the next race."

Michaela nodded, her eyes welling up with tears she refused to shed. The pressure of keeping her emotions in check was almost too much to bear. She knew he was right, but the feeling of being trapped was suffocating.

As they walked back to the garage, she spotted Jenson in the distance, talking to his fellow pundits, their expressions a mix of shock and concern as they watched the replay of her crash. She felt a pang of guilt for dragging him into this mess. Their relationship was supposed to be a sanctuary, not a source of additional strain.

The sight of him brought a fresh wave of tears that she hastily wiped away. She didn't want to face the cameras with red eyes and she didn't want to give the media more fuel for their fire.

Guido steered her towards the team's motorhome, the only sanctuary where she could retreat for a brief moment of solace. "Go in, take a breather, and we'll talk after," he said, his grip on her shoulder reassuring.

Michaela nodded, her legs feeling like lead as she climbed the stairs into the plush sanctum of the McLaren motorhome. She slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the narrow corridor. The silence was deafening, and she leaned against the cool metal, letting out a shaky sigh. Her eyes fell on her racing suit, still damp with sweat and stained with the grime of the track. The smell of burnt rubber clung to her, a painful reminder of her failure.

She stripped off the suit, the material peeling away from her sticky skin. In the small bathroom, she turned on the cold water, letting it cascade over her, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of the race still lingering in her veins. The water stung as it flowed over the scrapes forming from the crash, a physical representation of the pain she felt inside.

Michaela stood under the shower for what felt like an eternity, her thoughts racing. The pressure to perform, the fear of losing her seat, the strain on her relationship with Jenson, the constant scrutiny of the media—it all converged into a tumultuous storm in her mind. She wished she could wash away the weight of it all with the soap and water swirling around the drain.

Stepping out, she wrapped herself in a towel, the cool fabric offering a brief respite from the heat of her emotions. She took a moment to catch her breath, staring at her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed with anger. She looked nothing like the poised driver who had stepped onto the grid just hours before.

Michaela dressed in clean clothes provided by the team, her movements mechanical as she tried to push aside the turmoil of her thoughts. The soft knock on the door brought her back to reality, and she took a deep breath before opening it to find Beata waiting outside.

"Michaela, we need to talk," Beata's voice was firm, yet filled with genuine concern.

Michaela nodded wearily, stepping aside to let her in. "I know," she murmured, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions enveloped her in a comfort she hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity.

Beata's eyes searched hers, reading the raw emotion on her face. "Your behavior today was unacceptable," she began, her voice gentle but firm. "We can't have you fighting with other racers, especially not on live television."

Michaela nodded, the fight draining out of her. "I know," she said softly. "It just got to me. The pit stop, the questions about Lando, the whispers about favoritism..."

Beata sat beside her, her expression softening. "You're under a lot of pressure, more than anyone should have to bear. But you're better than that. You're a professional, and you can't let it get to you like this," she said, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

Michaela looked down, the weight of the weekend's events crashing down on her. "I know," she whispered. "But it's just..." she trailed off, unable to put her feelings into words.

Beata nodded, her expression understanding. "It's a lot, I know," she said gently. "But you can't let it consume you. We need to figure out how to manage this, how to keep your focus on the track."

Michaela leaned back into the cushions, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the ceiling. "I just want to race," she murmured. "I don't care about the drama, the politics, the cameras."

Beata squeezed her arm gently. "I know you do, but you're in the public eye now, and people are going to look for a story. You've got to learn to rise above it, to keep your cool when things get tough."

Michaela nodded, her eyes closing briefly as she took in her words. It was a lesson she knew all too well but had clearly forgotten in the heat of the moment. "What do we do now?" she asked, her voice small and defeated.

"We'll issue a statement about the crash and the incident with Yuki," Beata said, her tone professional once more. "But we need to be careful with how we handle this. The last thing we want is for it to blow up into something it's not."

Michaela nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. She knew the media would be hungry for more, eager to dissect every word she said and every gesture she made. The thought of facing the press again made her stomach churn, but she knew it was a necessary evil.

Beata stirred, reaching for Michaela's phone out of her handbag. "Jenson's been trying to call," she said gently.

Michaela's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't even thought about Jenson, about how he might have seen the crash, the argument, and the subsequent fallout. She took the phone, her hand trembling slightly as she answered the call.

"Hey," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jenson's voice was filled with concern. "Are you okay? I've been worried sick after watching that."

Michaela took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'm fine," she lied, the ache from the crash still present. "Just a bit shaken."

"You don't sound fine," Jenson said, his voice tight with worry. "What happened with Yuki? I've never seen you that angry before."

Michaela leaned her head back against the cool leather of the couch, feeling the weight of his question. "It was just a racing incident," she replied, her voice hollow. "We both wanted the same thing, and we didn't get it."

"Is that all it was?" Jenson's voice was probing, not quite convinced.

Michaela closed her eyes, the sound of his voice soothing the storm inside her. "It's just...it's been a tough weekend," she admitted, her voice cracking. "The pit stop, the questions about favoritism, and then this with Yuki..."

"I know, sweetheart," Jenson said, his voice filled with empathy. "But you've got to keep your head up. You can't let the media get to you like this."

Michaela felt a tear slip down her cheek. "I know," she said, her voice breaking. "It's just...I don't know if I can keep doing this."

"Keep doing what?" Jenson's voice was gentle, coaxing.

Michaela took a deep breath, the words spilling out in a rush. "This whole circus," she said, gesturing to the bustling paddock outside. "The racing, the drama, the expectations. It's just too much."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and she could almost see Jenson's furrowed brow, his mind racing as he searched for the right words to say. "Michaela, you're one of the best drivers out there. You can't let a bad race, or some idiot journalist, or even a dickhead like Yuki, get you down."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite her pain. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I just wish it was that simple."

"It is simple," Jenson said firmly. "You're in this because you love to race, not because you love the drama. Remember that."

Michaela nodded, his words resonating with her. "Guess I've gotta start looking at other teams," she murmured. "Even if McLaren decided to stick with me for next season, I'm not sure I'd be okay with that. Not at this point."

Beata and Jenson sighed on either ends of the call, both knowing the gravity of her words. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Beata said, trying to lighten the mood. "For now, let's get through this weekend."

Michaela nodded, her eyes still closed. "I'm sorry for putting you through this," she murmured into the phone, the weight of her emotions threatening to crush her.

"You don't have to apologize to me," Jenson said firmly. "But you do need to apologize to the team. They're all here supporting you, and you can't let them down."

Michaela nodded, wiping away the stray tear that had escaped. "I know," she said, her voice stronger now. "I'll go talk to them."

The conversation with Jenson had brought a small spark of resolve to her. She knew she couldn't let one bad race define her, especially not in front of her team who had put their faith in her. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the bustling garage, the sound of engines and chatter filling her ears once more.

The McLaren crew looked up as she approached, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. She could see the question in their eyes—what had happened? But she didn't want to rehash the drama of the day. Instead, she focused on what needed to be said.

"I'm sorry," she began, her voice loud enough to carry over the garage's din. "I know I screwed up out there, and let my emotions get the better of me." The team stared at her, some of the tension visibly draining from their faces. "I'm going to learn from this and move forward. I hope you all know how much I appreciate the work you all do for my benefit. This is just a bump in the road to better things. I'm so sorry, again. But, I'll see you all in Austria, cheers."

Her words were met with a round of nods and murmurs of understanding. The mechanics, engineers, and strategists were a tight-knit group, and she knew they had her back. But she also knew that she had let them down, and she wasn't about to let it happen again.

Michaela walked over to her car, the wreckage of her McLaren a stark contrast to the gleaming machines around her. The car looked defeated, a shell of its former glory, but she saw the potential beneath the bruises. She ran her hand along the carbon fiber body, feeling the coolness of the metal, the scent of failure still lingering in the air.

"We'll get it fixed," a voice said from behind her. She turned to see her chief mechanic, David, his eyes filled with determination. "We'll be back stronger in Spielberg."

Michaela managed a smile, appreciating the support. "Thanks, David." She knew the team would work tirelessly to rebuild the car, but it was the internal damage she wasn't sure could be repaired so easily. The doubt, the fear, the anger—it was all simmering just beneath the surface.

As the team began to disperse, Beata approached her with a gentle look. "You need to be more careful, Michaela," she warned. "The press is already having a field day with this. If you're not happy with McLaren, we can explore options, but you can't let it affect your performance on the track."

Michaela nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "You're right," she said, her voice a whisper. "I just want to get out of here."

Beata nodded sympathetically. "Let's get you out of here," she said, steering her away from the garage and handing her a pair of emergency sunglasses. They walked through the paddock, the buzz of the grandstands a stark contrast to the quiet of the team's area. The fans were already starting to file out, their excited chatter muffled by the distance.

Michaela's mind raced as she put on the sunglasses, trying to compose herself. She knew the moment she stepped out of the garage, the media would be waiting, eager for a glimpse of the troubled driver. The cool breeze outside did little to ease the heat of the day or the pressure in her chest.

"Michaela, are you okay?" a journalist called out as they passed by the media pen. She ignored the question, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Beata shot her a warning look, but she knew better than to engage.

The car ride to the airport was silent, both of them lost in their thoughts. The tension in the air was thick, and she could feel the unspoken words weighing down on her. As they pulled up to the rented jet, the reality of her situation hit her like a ton of bricks. She was living the dream, but at what cost?

Michaela took a deep breath before stepping out of the car, her eyes scanning the tarmac for any signs of paparazzi. The last thing she needed was another scene. She climbed the stairs to the jet, her legs feeling like jelly. Once inside, she collapsed into her seat, the plush leather a stark contrast to the hard plastic chair she had been in just minutes ago.

The flight to Austria was a blur of recaps and strategy sessions, the team trying to dissect where it had gone wrong. Each time someone talked about the pit stop or the crash, she felt a stab of pain in her chest. Her mind kept replaying the moment she lost control, the feeling of the car spinning out, the sickening crunch as it hit the barrier. It was a reminder that no matter how much she pushed herself, how much she wanted it, there were factors beyond her control.

Michaela sat in the back, her headphones on but the music muted. Instead, she listened to the hum of the engines, a constant reminder of the beast she would soon be taming again. She knew she had to channel her anger into something positive, to use it to fuel her drive in the upcoming race next weekend. But it was easier said than done.

The team's debrief was thorough, leaving no stone unturned. Each member took responsibility for their part in the weekend's disaster, but it was clear that the tension between her and the team was palpable. Guido, her manager, sat quietly in the corner, listening intently to every word. He knew that her heart was in the right place, but the public's perception was a different beast to tame.

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