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riaarivic · 2 days ago

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Ya girl just wrote a fic because she couldn’t find it to read it. And I feel so proud of it.

First I have to say I’m a HUGE F1 fan since I was a little girl. And fun fact I’m also a HUGE Ferrari fan but I just couldn’t see JK on the red team. And RB really matched my whole idea of the aesthetic in my head.

Also it goes without saying that this is a work of fiction and even if real drivers names are mentioned these is not in any way a reflection of their true personality.

Another thing I love doing when I write Y/N fix’s is that I try to make sure to describe the FMC the least as possible. So everyone can picture themselves or whoever they want here. This is always intentional on my side.

I had SO MUCH FUN writing this and I hope you like this as much as I did. epilogue is already Set to post Tomorrow 3PM EST!!!

Love,

Ría.

The Rookie Part 1 (M) I F1Racer!Jungkook x F!Reader

🏎️ Pairing F1Racer!Jungkook x RaceEngineer!Reader

🏎️ Genres F1!AU, Slow Burn, Forbidden Romance, Angst, Smut, Sports Drama, Rivals to Lovers, One shot

🏎️ Rating 18+ (minors DNI)

🏎️ Summary You were Red Bull Racing’s newest race engineer, brilliant, precise, and determined to prove yourself in the paddock. He was the team’s rookie driver, Jungkook: fast, reckless, magnetic. Neither of you expected sparks to fly in a world where one mistake could cost a career, or a life.

But the closer you get to him, the more dangerous the game becomes, both on and off the track. Between ruthless media, team politics, sabotage, and a love you’re forbidden to feel, every race pushes you closer to the edge.

And in Formula 1, one wrong move can change everything.

🏎️ Warnings: explicit sexual content, foul language, sabotage, media pressure, angst, forbidden romance

🏎️ Wordcount: 15k (I'm so proud of myself for this) Part 1 of the End Game Series of One-shots! 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The airport bar hummed like a hive on overdrive—laughter too loud, glasses clinking, the static of commentary spilling from every screen. Formula One highlights looped on repeat, the roar of engines bleeding into the chatter of strangers. You sat in the middle of it all with a sweating glass in hand, mango and passionfruit sugar coating your tongue, but nothing could cut through the knots in your stomach.

This wasn’t just another flight. This was the beginning of a career—and a collision course.

And then you hear it.

“Breaking: Jungkook Jeon signed with Red Bull Racing for the 2025 season.”

The anchor’s voice cuts through the chatter, commanding attention. Every head in the bar swivels toward the TV. Some gasp audibly, others laugh in disbelief. Phones come out, fingers flying, a wave of shocked murmurs rolling through the room like a sudden storm.

“Well folks, the speculation is over—Jungkook Jeon, a NASCAR champion from South Korea, is the new second driver for Red Bull Racing.”

The screen cuts to footage: Jungkook stepping out of a glossy black car, cameras flashing, his smile too effortless, too photogenic for someone stepping into the most cutthroat paddock in the world.

You grip your glass tighter, nausea climbing your throat.

This was supposed to be your moment. The opportunity of a lifetime. You’d worked endless nights, solved equations until your hands cramped, fought tooth and nail to make it here. Top of your class, fast-tracked through the junior programs, one of the few women to ever be trusted in this role. And now, finally—an official race engineer at a top Formula One team.

Your dream job.

You should be ecstatic.

But then the anchor twists the knife.

“And if that weren’t controversial enough, sources confirm that Red Bull has assigned him a female race engineer—an unusual move in such a male-dominated sport. It’ll be interesting to see if she can handle the pressure of managing the most scrutinized rookie of the decade.”

Half a prayer leaves your lips, half a curse. The reporter doesn’t even bother to say your name.

Your entire career is reduced to a novelty. A woman.

The crowd at the bar erupts again. A man in a Ferrari cap whistles low. Someone mutters, “This whole season’s going to be a circus.” Laughter follows.

You drain the rest of your cocktail in one long swallow, letting the rum’s burn cut through the sweetness.

Dream job. Worst possible start.

You toss some cash on the counter and grab your bag, weaving toward your gate. The announcement still rings in your ears—Jungkook Jeon, Red Bull Racing, season 2025.

But you already knew.

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Red Bull HQ, Last Week.

The air in the conference room had been thick with disbelief. The new Team Principal, Daniel Fischer—slick, smooth-talking—stood at the front with that practiced corporate smile.

“HYBE Motors will be our official engine partner moving forward. With their technology, we have a real chance of returning to the glory days of Red Bull dominance. Alongside Max Verstappen, we’ll be welcoming a second driver for 2025: Jungkook Jeon.”

The silence was suffocating. Max leaned back in his chair, jaw set, saying nothing, but his glare at the table said plenty.

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“Fischer’s lost it,” one of the veteran engineers muttered, shaking his head. “Good luck with the rookie.”

“Second seat curse all over again,” another mechanic sighed. “Checo never deserved to go out like that.”

Fischer had pulled you aside afterward, his tone softening just slightly.

“You’ve got a lot to prove. But if anyone can, it’s you. Driver and race engineer is the most important relationship in the team. Jungkook trusts you, he succeeds. If he doesn’t—well, you know how this goes.”

You’d nodded, the weight heavy on your shoulders.

“Trust yourself. You’ve built a reputation as a prodigy. Live up to it.”

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“Now boarding group three,” the gate agent called, and you flashed your first-class ticket. A small luxury you weren’t used to—your first real taste of what came with being on the biggest stage in motorsport.

Settling into the wide leather seat, you opened your phone. The headline blared across every outlet.

“From NASCAR to F1: Jungkook Jeon Brings His Playboy Lifestyle to the Paddock.” “Step-Brother of Billionaire Kim Seokjin, HYBE Engines, and Privilege: The Red Bull Gamble.” “Jungkook Jeon—Prodigy or PR Stunt?”

You scrolled further, a video clipping auto-playing. Jungkook, all sharp jawline and confident smirk, sitting at a press table.

“It won’t be that difficult,” he said casually. “I’ve always adapted quickly. Becoming F1 World Champion is just the next step.”

You paused the clip, shaking your head. That kind of cocky confidence would rub plenty of people the wrong way—starting with the man who already hated this decision: Max Verstappen driver number 1 in Red Bull and three time world champion.

You locked your phone before the spiral began again and leaned back, staring out at the tarmac.

Once, your dream had been to drive. To be the one behind the wheel, helmet strapped tight, engine roaring beneath you. But you’d been awful—no reaction time, no natural rhythm. Your father had nearly cried with relief when you gave up. So you’d pivoted to the next best thing: building the machines, calling the shots, being the mind that made the cars fly.

Now here you were. A rookie, about to work with another rookie. Both of you stepping into a world that didn’t want you there.

Both of you with everything to prove.

And tomorrow, whether you liked it or not, your fates would be tied together.

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Preseason, Red Bull HQ Garage

The garage was alive in that particular way only the start of a new season could be. Half-organized chaos: mechanics wheeling tires across the floor, engineers shouting over each other about calibration numbers, the faint screech of a drill in the background. Someone had taped a schedule to the wall, already covered in frantic notes and smudged fingerprints.

The air smelled like oil, rubber, and possibility.

You paused at the edge of it all, your badge swinging against your chest, the lanyard suddenly feeling heavier than it should. This wasn’t your first garage. You’d cut your teeth in Formula 2, survived endless late nights in junior categories, even sat in on strategy calls for smaller teams—but this… this was Red Bull.

This was the pinnacle.

And this year, your fate was sealed to the rookie no one wanted.

You slipped into the corner of the engineers’ space—the small area you’d share with your driver, full of screens, data sheets, telemetry graphs waiting to light up with his laps. You ran your fingers across the keyboard, forcing yourself into the ritual of setting things up: aligning notebooks, plugging in your headset, checking your comms.

The more control you had over your space, the less it felt like you were walking into an ambush.

Around you, the whispers had already started. F1 teams loved to pretend they were polished and professional, but the truth? They thrived on gossip just as much as the fans outside.

“Another second seat curse. You’d think they’d learn after Gasly. After Albon. After Checo. After Yuki.” “HYBE buys the engines, suddenly their boy’s behind the wheel. Nepotism at its finest.” “Did anyone even see him drive? I heard the tryout was locked down tighter than Fort Knox.” “Yeah, only Daniel, Max, Mr. Kim, and a couple of the senior engineers. Not even the rest of us.”

Your jaw clenched.

They weren’t wrong. Jungkook’s test had been completely private, no leaks, no scraps of footage. For all anyone knew, he could’ve spun into the gravel three times and they’d still have signed him. Today would be the first time you—and everyone else—actually saw him in the car.

You exhaled sharply, catching sight of another headache: the Drive to Survive crew already lurking near the pit wall, cameras perched on shoulders, boom mics dangling overhead. Beside them, a small pack of sports journalists hunched over laptops, ready to pounce.

Fucking Great.

You’d have to corral your driver before Netflix or the press swallowed him whole. Another line item in your unofficial job description: race engineer, strategist, data analyst… and babysitter.

“Ready to meet your rookie?” a mechanic teased as he passed, lugging a box of tools. You forced a thin smile. “As ready as anyone can be.”

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of nerves and exasperation. This was supposed to be about the car, about the racing. Instead, it was drama before the season had even begun.

The noise outside the garage swelled—engine revs echoing through the paddock, voices rising in a chorus of anticipation. And then, like someone had flipped a switch, a ripple of chatter swept the space. Heads turned toward the entrance.

He’d arrived.

A black sports car glided to a stop, cameras immediately swarming. The door opened, and out stepped Jungkook Jeon.

Sunglasses, black bomber jacket, hair falling effortlessly into place. He moved like he was born for the spotlight, shoulders loose, smile tugging at his mouth like he’d already won something. He slung his bag over his shoulder, unfazed by the cameras, soaking in the attention like it was oxygen.

The murmurs sharpened. “Looks like a K-drama star, not a driver.” “Bet Netflix is eating this up.” “He’s a pretty face, but can he handle 300 kph?”

You folded your arms, biting down your first instinct to roll your eyes.

Perfect. A playboy nepobaby just dropped in my lap.

He spotted you almost instantly, his smirk sharpening. He strolled over, sunglasses still on, head tilted in that infuriatingly casual way. “You must be my engineer,” he said, voice low, smooth. “Didn’t think they’d actually give me someone my age.”

Your eyebrows shot up “Don’t flatter yourself. I was assigned, not given.”

He chuckled under his breath, finally tugging the glasses off to reveal dark, sharp eyes. “So we’re starting strong. Good. I like that.”

The tension sparked, quick and electric. He leaned in just slightly, enough to unsettle without touching. “Hope you’re as good as they say, Y/N. Otherwise, this is going to be fun for both of us.”

You opened your mouth, already loading your retort, when voices carried from the other side of the garage. Two engineers, not bothering to lower their tone.

“You know he’s Mr. Kim’s step-brother, right? HYBE’s golden boy. Nepotism stamped across his forehead.” “Yeah. He’s just another Stroll—daddy buying him a seat. His own engineer called him a spoiled nepo baby." the other laughed "I mean, I do feel bad for her. Nobody in the paddock wanted to babysit the rookie.”

Your stomach plummeted. That wasn’t what you meant—you’d said it once in passing, in frustration, but not like this, not for the world to hear.

Jungkook’s smile was gone. His jaw tightened, posture stiff, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He’d heard every word.

“I didn’t—” you tried, guilt flooding your voice.

“Don’t.” His reply was curt, clipped, his eyes fixed anywhere but you. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked straight past, straight into the glare of the cameras.

The air between you went cold.

A beat later, his manager Park Jimin appeared—bright-eyed, tailored suit, charming, exactly the kind of man you suspected had to exist if Jungkook was going to survive this circus. He shot you a cheeky grin, clapping your arm. "Oh! don’t worry. He’s not always like this. He’s just jetlagged. And dramatic.”

You exhaled, watching Jungkook disappear toward the simulator room, the Netflix crew hot on his heels. Jetlagged or not, dramatic or not—one thing was clear: this partnership was going to test you in every possible way.

The garage smelled of rubber and hot machinery, the sharp tang of fuel clinging to the air. Monitors lined the engineers’ wall, already glowing with streams of data. Crew members buzzed between toolboxes and stacks of tires, the whole place vibrating with a nervous kind of anticipation. The first laps of the season were always like this.

Equal parts excitement and dread.

You slid your headset into place, steadying your breath. Your job was simple, on paper: guide your driver, read the data, keep him alive. But nothing about this morning felt simple. Too many eyes were on you, waiting for the rookie to fail—and, by extension, for you to fail too.

The car rolled out of the garage, Jungkook’s helmet glinting under the fluorescent lights a gold number 7 on the right side, you noticed that it was on the same position of his tattoo. Right behind his ear.

Not that you were staring, you just noticed things.

Definitely not staring at your driver.

He didn’t so much as glance your way as he settled into position, visor snapping shut. The RB21 growled to life, and the ground under your boots hummed as he took off down the pit lane.

“All right,” you said into the mic, keeping your tone professional. “Out lap. Feel the grip levels, don’t push it yet.”

His voice crackled back, smooth and smug even through the static. “Copy. Don’t worry. I don’t need you telling me how to drive.”

You squeezed the mic tighter. “It’s literally my job.”

A few mechanics chuckled under their breath, pretending to cough when you shot them a glare.

The monitors lit up as Jungkook rounded his first flying lap. And to your surprise—no, to your horror—his pace was good. Really good. Sectors lighting up purple, numbers climbing, the garage slowly falling into silence as everyone’s eyes widened at the screen.

Beside you, Verstappen’s engineer leaned forward, muttering under his breath. His face tightened as the lap time closed in on Max’s benchmark from earlier in the morning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You tracked the telemetry, heart rate spiking. He was pushing too hard into the corners, the rear dancing dangerously. You pressed your comms button.

“Turn nine coming up—slow down, Jungkook, you’ll lose grip again if you take it like last lap.”

“Relax,” he shot back. “I’ve got it.”

The words barely left his mouth before the car snapped. A sickening screech, tires smoking, and then the monitor feed went red. The RB21 spun off the track and slammed into the barrier with a crunch that echoed through the garage.

The room froze.

A collective inhale.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own pulse pounding in your ears.

“He’s okay,” came the marshal’s voice over the shared channel, and the pit wall exhaled in unison. Still, your stomach dropped.

Behind you, two engineers exchanged a crumpled bill with a muttered, “Told you he wouldn’t make ten laps.”

It wasn’t just him they were betting against. You felt it in your gut—they were betting against you.

A hand landed on your shoulder. Max’s engineer. “Happens to the best of them,” he said, almost kindly.

“Not to your driver,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ruined car.

He gave a half-smile. “Not everyone gets to work with a legend. Hamilton, The McLarens—hell, even Russel and Sainz—are going to eat your boy alive first race.”

The radio crackled again. “I’m fine,” Jungkook’s voice rang, too casual. “Car’s not, but I am.”

Minutes later, he appeared at the garage entry, helmet in hand, suit scuffed with dust. The cameras swarmed him instantly. And then, in front of the entire crew, he jabbed a finger in your direction.

“Next time, don’t give me bad calls. That crash is on you.”

The humiliation hit hot and sharp. You clenched your jaw, blinking fast to hold back tears, but when your eyes flicked up you caught Daniel Fischer, arms crossed, expression stone cold. Disappointment written clear as day.

“Go to your waiting room,” you said evenly, voice steady only by sheer force of will.

The door slammed shut behind you, cutting out the garage noise. Jungkook stood by the couch, helmet tossed aside, chest still heaving from the adrenaline. Jimin lingered near the door, looking between you like he was about to step into a minefield.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you snapped, ripping your headset off.

“What? Crash? Newsflash, it happens.”

“No,” you shot back. “Blame me in front of everyone.”

His smirk returned, sharper now. “Maybe don’t give me advice I don’t need.”

“Advice you don’t need?” you nearly laughed, bitter. “That advice keeps you alive, Jeon. Today you got lucky. But your recklessness just cost the team a few million dollars. And if you try that in the season, it’ll cost you a hell of a lot more.”

You didn’t stop.

“You think this is about proving you’re fearless? Out there, there will be nineteen other cars flying past at 300 kilometers an hour. One wrong move, and you won’t walk away. You need to earn their respect, Jungkook. You’re driving next to legends. That’s not a punishment—it’s a privilege. If you want to squash the rumors that you’re just a pretty boy cashing in on family connections, then step up. Put your mind in the game. Or leave before you get someone killed.”

A pause. His eyes flicked up, unreadable—then he leaned back against the couch with a crooked grin.

“So you think I’m pretty?”

It was sharp, laced with sarcasm, but there was something else under it—something teasing, almost flirtatious.

“That’s it, isn’t it? The spoiled rookie who needs babysitting.”

Your stomach twisted. Heat flushed up your neck, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the driver’s room, anger buzzing through your veins like static.

The garage was quieter now, the wrecked car already being hauled back by recovery trucks. Still, every glance you caught from the staff was a reminder of what had just happened—his blame, your humiliation, Fischer’s disapproval pressing heavy in your chest.

You told yourself you just needed air, distance. A walk down the quiet service corridor was supposed to help.

It didn’t.

Not when you heard voices echoing from the next room. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling into the hall. You paused without meaning to, your body betraying you, ears straining toward the sound.

Jimin’s voice, low and calm “Jungkookie, you can’t keep snapping at her like that. She’s just trying to help you.”

Then Jungkook, sharp at first “She doesn’t trust me. None of them do.”

A pause, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter, stripped of bravado.

“You think I don’t hear it? Every whisper in the garage, every headline? That I don’t know what they’re saying? That I’m only here because of Jin-hyung? Because HYBE bought me a seat?”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

He had heard it.

All of it.

“I worked my ass off to get here,” Jungkook continued, frustration bleeding into the tremor of his voice. “I didn’t want to inherit some company. I didn’t want to be another spoiled heir. I wanted this. I chose this. And now everyone’s just waiting for me to screw up. Betting on it. And she…” he exhaled shakily, “she looks at me like she’s already decided I don’t belong either.”

Jimin murmured something you couldn’t catch, probably his usual soothing words, the ones that made him everyone’s favorite buffer.

You stepped back before you could hear more, guilt knotting your stomach. You’d told yourself he was just arrogant. Entitled. A playboy with too much money and too little discipline. But what you’d just heard was something else.

Fear.

A boy who’d grown up in someone else’s shadow and was now being forced to prove he could stand on his own.

You retreated down the hall, heart pounding, forcing your expression back into neutrality before anyone saw you.

By the time Jungkook reappeared, the cocky mask was firmly back in place—hair damp from a shower, fresh team kit, smirk loaded and ready for the Netflix cameras still hanging around. To anyone else, he looked unbothered. Untouchable.

But you’d heard what was underneath.

And whether you wanted to or not, part of you couldn’t un-hear it.

For the first time since you’d met him, the cocky mask had cracked.

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The simulator lab hummed with quiet electricity, the sterile blue glow of monitors casting long shadows across the room. Most of the staff had already gone home hours ago, the garage empty save for a few night-shift mechanics tinkering in the distance. But the low growl of the computer echoed steadily, and of course, Jungkook was still there.

Helmet off, a black team hoodie, damp hair clinging to his forehead—he looked more like he’d been in a fight than sitting in front of screens for hours. His eyes were sharp, locked on the track layout in front of him, jaw tight in focus.

You leaned against the console, arms crossed. “Normal people would’ve gone to bed by now, you know.”

He didn’t glance up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “And miss the chance to prove I’m not a waste of your time? No thanks.”

You bit back a retort. The data on your monitor spoke for itself—his lap times were cleaner, his braking sharper, his lines tighter. He wasn’t just improving; he was adapting, fast.

“Not bad,” you admitted, typing in a quick adjustment. “Almost like you’re starting to understand how these cars work.”

“Almost?” He finally looked up, smirk tugging at his lips. “Brutal, engineer. You don’t hand out compliments easily, huh?”

“Not when you’re doing the bare minimum,” you shot back, but there was less bite in your tone than usual.

For a few laps, the only sounds were the simulated engine and your voice feeding him corrections. When he finished a clean run and the data streamed across your screen, you moved closer, pointing at the graph. Your shoulder brushed his as you leaned in, heat sparking at the contact.

“See this section?” you said, tracing the line with your finger. “You’re pushing too hard out of sector two. Smooth it out, and you’ll be more stable into the chicane.”

He leaned in too, deliberately close. His voice dropped low enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You always smell like that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?”

“Sweet,” he said simply, almost teasing. “Distracting.”

Your brows shot up, immediately defensive. “Is it too much? I won’t wear it again if—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off quickly, eyes locking with yours. “It suits you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His gaze held yours, and you were suddenly very aware of how little space existed between you, of the warmth radiating off him, of the faint tremor in your own breath.

You stepped back, breaking the spell. “It’s late. We have training early tomorrow. Wrap it up.”

But the moment lingered, unspoken.

He logged one final lap, the smoothest yet, and when he climbed out of the simulator his grin was wide, genuine.

“That felt good.”

Before you could think twice, you clapped him on the shoulder, the adrenaline infectious. And somehow, in the small charged silence that followed, that became a hug.

His arms wrapped around you easily, steady, warm. Yours lingered against his back for just a second too long. When you pulled away, the silence was thick, heavy, full of things neither of you dared say.

“Good work,” you murmured, forcing your tone back into neutral.

“Thanks,” he said softly, still smiling. But his eyes lingered on yours, and you had the sudden, dangerous thought that maybe he was seeing more than he should.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, needing the distance. “Don’t push it, Jeon. Big day tomorrow.”

He only smirked, but didn’t press, letting you leave first.

The next days blurred into a rhythm: simulator runs turning cleaner, track sessions sharper, nights swallowed by telemetry and quiet banter. He still teased you, still smirked too much—but he listened.

And against your better judgment, you found yourself listening back.

When the garage screens lit up with split times, whispers began to spread beyond your walls.

“Jeon Jungkook showing surprising consistency in sector two—still rough around the edges, but maybe more than just another formula one short-lived dream.”

The noise seeped in whether you wanted it to or not. Every headline, every post dissecting his form, felt like it ricocheted off your own skin. Because you weren’t just his engineer anymore—you were becoming part of his story.

And if he failed, if he crashed and burned, people would say you’d let him.

Still, there were flashes that made it worth it. A flawless lap. A save on the curbs that drew reluctant applause from the mechanics. Nights where he traded his arrogance for raw, hungry questions about cornering and tire temps. Nights where you saw the boy under the mask—the one who desperately wanted to belong.

But trust was still fragile.

He caught you second-guessing his numbers more than once. You caught him bristling at your corrections, holding his tongue only because Jimin’s warning echoed louder than his temper.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t safe.

And yet, in the quiet moments, when he met your gaze after a clean run and his smirk softened into something real, you felt the terrifying pull of momentum.

Because in racing, momentum was everything.

It could sling you forward into glory.

Or carry you, helpless, straight into the wall.

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Melbourne Grand Prix Weekend

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to the first race weekend of the 2025 Formula One season. We’re live from Albert Park in Melbourne, where excitement is through the roof—new cars, new drivers, and a rookie debut that has the entire paddock buzzing. Jungkook Jeon, the former NASCAR champion, makes his first official outing for Red Bull Racing.”

The commentators’ voices rattled through the monitors, filling the garage with energy. Mechanics shouted over one another, tires rolled across the floor, and the hiss of air guns punctuated the noise. It was chaos, but the kind you’d craved your whole career.

Across the way, Jungkook adjusted his gloves, helmet tucked under his arm. His smile widened when Fernando Alonso passed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Big step up, eh? Welcome to the madhouse.”

Jungkook nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ve… I’ve been watching you since I was a kid.”

Alonso chuckled and walked on, leaving Jungkook frozen for half a beat, grinning like a fan before he remembered the cameras. When his gaze flicked toward you, he straightened instantly, as if caught.

You pretended not to notice.

Friday practice was smooth—shockingly so. He listened, executed your calls, even kept the car out of trouble. Each lap time dropped lower, his rhythm sharpening. For the first time, your chest loosened. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be a disaster. Jimin slid up beside you on the pit wall, sipping a cold drink.

“Not bad, huh? Sponsorships are pouring in. They can’t get enough of him. And honestly…” he lowered his voice, grinning, “…it doesn’t hurt that he looks like a model. Fans are eating him alive.”

You rolled your eyes, but his wink made you laugh despite yourself.

By Saturday, the track shimmered under a clear sky, but the atmosphere shifted. Jungkook wasn’t the easy, eager driver from the day before. He moved through the garage with his jaw locked, shoulders tense. It didn’t take long to figure out why—the whispers spread fast.

“Mr. Kim is here. Walked in with Fischer.” “Of course. Big brother keeping his golden pet project safe.”

You glanced across the paddock and caught sight of Kim Seokjin, flawless in a tailored suit, cameras trailing his every step. Jungkook’s smile was gone, his focus razor sharp, but you could feel him withdrawing, brick by brick, until he barely met your eyes.

When qualifying began, the tension carried straight into the car. “Brake earlier into turn nine,” you instructed. “You’ll lose the rear if—”

“I’ve got it,” he cut in, clipped.

He didn’t.

The car twitched, sparks flying as he fought it back under control. He recovered, but the lap put him twelfth on the grid. P12. Max, meanwhile, flew across the line with a blistering time that put him on pole.

The garage roared for Max. And Jungkook? Silence.

When he returned, reporters swarmed instantly, cameras flashing. One shoved a mic forward.

“Jungkook, twelfth place on your debut—hardly what Red Bull fans expect. Do you think this proves you’re just here because of your brother’s sponsorship?”

Your blood boiled, but before you could step in, Jimin did. Smooth as ever, he slid between Jungkook and the mic.

“Reporters asking the same recycled questions? That’s disappointing. Come back when you’ve got something original,” he said brightly, steering Jungkook toward the garage.

You followed, catching the sharp line of Jungkook’s jaw. As he pulled off his helmet, sweat-dark hair clinging to his skin.

The relief of qualifying being over didn’t last. In the waiting room, the fight began before the door even shut.

“What was that out there?” you demanded. “You ignored every call!”

He ripped off his gloves, throwing them onto the table. “I’m not kid, Y/N. I don’t need someone babysitting me.” “You nearly wrecked the car again! You think this is just about you?” Your voice cracked. “Every mistake costs the team millions. Costs me credibility. If you won’t listen, then what am I even doing here?”

The door opened and Seokjin walked in, immaculate, dismissive. His eyes barely flicked to you before landing on Jungkook. “I think that is a wonderful thought, I should talk to Fischer about getting you a different engineer. One who can handle you.”

The humiliation burned hot in your chest, but before you could speak, Jungkook did.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “She’s fine. More than fine. She’s the only one who actually cares if I make it through this alive. Don’t talk about replacing her.”

The silence that followed was razor sharp. Jin smirked faintly, said nothing, and left. But you stood frozen, whiplash cutting you in two. One moment he tore you down, the next he defended you against the man who owned half the garage.

You had no idea what to do with him.

Sunday arrived in a storm of noise and color. Melbourne pulsed with energy, fans waving banners, the sun scorching down. The air buzzed with heat and excitement. For a moment, you almost let yourself enjoy it.

But the unease was back, crawling along your skin.

The perfect sky dimmed as the grid formed. Clouds rolled in, gray and heavy, swallowing the sun. Forecast updates flashed across your feed: rain expected around lap twenty.

Your stomach twisted.

Rain in a simulator was one thing.

Rain in real life at 300 kilometers per hour was another.

The lights above the grid blinked.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Lights out and away we go!”

The roar of engines shook the air, the ground vibrating under your boots. Jungkook’s start was clean, but you could hear the tension in every clipped reply over the radio. He pushed hard, lines aggressive, each lap a battle.

Then the rain came. First a drizzle, then sheets of water smearing the track into silver. Cars peeled into the pits for wets, chaos erupting over comms.

“Box now,” you ordered. “Conditions are changing—” “I can stay out,” Jungkook cut in. His voice sharp, desperate. “This is my chance.” “Don’t you dare. The track is slick, you’ll—” “Trust me.”

The monitors blurred with static and spray. His car, number seven, snapped sideways, sliding helplessly across the drenched track. The sickening crunch of impact reverberated through the garage as he slammed into the barrier.

And then—silence.

The pit wall froze.

Engineers stared, motionless. Even the commentary cut off, as if the entire world had been muted.

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest heaved, but the air wouldn’t come. Your fingers dug into the desk hard enough to hurt.

Move.

Get out.

Please get out.

But the cockpit stayed shut. No movement. No signal.

Your headset slipped down, useless against the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. The spray on the monitors blurred everything, rain streaking across the cameras. For a moment you thought the water on your face was the same, until you blinked and realized—no. You were crying. Hot, helpless tears spilling as your pulse screamed.

You told yourself it was professional. Any engineer would be scared for their driver. It didn’t mean anything else. It didn’t.

But the hollow ache in your chest, the way your entire body begged for him to move, to live, told another story.

The marshals’ voice finally crackled through comms. “Red flag. Car seven in the barrier. No movement yet.”

The world narrowed. The track, the crowd, even the rain itself faded. It was only you and the hope he was alive.

Then—blessedly—the cockpit hatch moved. Jungkook climbed out slowly, rain plastering his suit, raising one arm to signal he was okay. The crowd erupted in relief.

Your knees nearly buckled, the tears burning hotter.

He was alive.

But as the relief crashed over you, so did the fury. He hadn’t listened. He’d risked everything. He’d scared you half to death.

And the only clear thought in your head, sharp and breathless, was:

I’m going to kill him myself.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The medical center was quiet except for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the muted drip of rain off the awnings outside. You stood just beyond the curtain where the doctors finished with him, arms crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

Then Jungkook stepped out. Suit damp, hair sticking to his forehead, knuckles scraped raw. He looked pale but stubborn, the same cocky mask tugging at his mouth like nothing had happened.

“Cleared,” he muttered. “No fractures. Just bruises.”

You moved toward him before you could stop yourself, voice sharp, finger pressing into his chest. “You could have died out there.”

“But I didn't. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Your voice cracked, too loud in the sterile room. “You scared the entire garage half to death. You scared me. And for what? For ignoring me again?”

His eyes narrowed, shoulders taut like wire. “Don’t make this about you.”

The laugh that left your throat was bitter, shaking. “It is about me, Jungkook. I’m your engineer. Keeping you alive is my job. But you’re so desperate to look fearless you don’t even realize you’re bluffing.”

His jaw twitched. For a second, he looked like he might fight back, but his hands betrayed him—shaking as he flexed them against his thighs. You caught it instantly, and the flash of truth in his eyes nearly undid you.

“You’re terrified,” you said quietly. “You’re just pretending you’re not.”

For a heartbeat, his mask cracked. Raw panic, so quick you might have imagined it. Then, like a curtain falling, the smirk was back. “I’m just trying to prove I can belong here. That I’m not just… Someone's little brother.”

Your chest squeezed, fury igniting through the ache. “Prove it by finishing a race. Not by almost getting yourself killed. You keep saying you want to move away from the pretty boy persona—but all you do is mess it up and for what? Both of our careers depend on us trusting eachother.”

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable, lips twitching as he tilted his head. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

The words landed like a slap.

It wasn’t witty. It wasn’t harmless. Not now. Not when fear still clung to your skin like smoke. Heat stung behind your eyes, spilling fast and hot before you could stop it.

“You think this is a joke? You think I’m just overreacting because I’m a woman, don’t you? You’re not taking me seriously at all.”

“No—” The bravado shattered, his voice faltering. Guilt washed over his face like a tide, panic flickering as he saw your tears. “No, that’s not—Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

But you were already shaking your head, the betrayal cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. “Forget it.”

You shoved the door open, footsteps echoing down the hall, each one fueled by humiliation and rage.

Inside, silence hung heavy. Jimin stepped into the room, his sigh heavier still as he looked at Jungkook.

“Jungkookie…” His voice was low, edged with disappointment. “You need to do better. You scared her, you scared everyone, and then you made it worse. If you want her on your side—you owe her a real apology. A sincere one.”

Jungkook’s throat worked, but no sound came. For the first time since joining the team, he had nothing to say—only the sting of knowing Jimin was right.

Outside cool night air slapped against your face as you stumbled out of the medical building. You wiped at your cheeks with trembling hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Y/N.”

The voice made you flinch. It was one of Red Bull’s senior engineers—older, sharp-eyed, respected by everyone. He caught you before you could duck away. His gaze flicked down, reading your tear-streaked face in silence that felt heavier than any lecture.

“You can’t be seen like this,” he said evenly. “Not here. Not now.”

You tried to answer, but nothing came.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong for feeling it,” he added more gently. “But you know as well as I do—the entire paddock is watching. Today wasn’t just about Jungkook’s recklessness. Your reaction matters too. People will remember it. All eyes are on you. Remember that.”

You nodded stiffly, throat too tight to speak.

When he walked away, you pressed your back against the wall, sliding down until you sat on the damp concrete. The rain had eased into a drizzle, but you still felt wet, inside and out.

You told yourself the tears were about professionalism, about credibility, about the risk to your career if your driver refused to listen. That was all. That had to be all.

But the hollow ache in your chest told another truth. The thought of losing him—the thought of watching number 7 stay down, never climbing out of that cockpit—had broken something in you.

And you didn’t know how to face it.

The night after the crash was long, sleepless. You stayed in the garage until the mechanics packed up, pretending to check data that blurred before your tired eyes. Everyone had already gone—except him.

You heard his voice behind you, softer than usual.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I couldn’t. Not after yesterday.” His footsteps drew closer until he stood right beside you, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, hair still damp from the shower. He looked younger like this—unguarded, stripped of his arrogance.

“Look…” He hesitated, jaw tight. “I know I scared you. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass. But I don’t want you to think I don’t take you seriously. You’re the only one I trust in that car.”

That made you glance at him. The words came out too fast, too raw. He reached across the table, resting his hand over yours. Warm, calloused, steady despite everything.

For a second, the world stilled. The telemetry screens hummed, the rain tapped against the windows, and all you felt was the weight of his hand and the pull in his eyes.

Then reality snapped back. You yanked your hand away like it burned, chest heaving. His face flickered—something wounded flashing before he smoothed it over.

“Fine,” you said, too sharp. “Then prove it. Promise me you’ll do better.”

“I promise.”

His voice was low but firm. “Not just to you. To the team. To myself. I’ll earn it.”

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The media fallout was brutal.

Headlines questioned if he was reckless, if HYBE Motors had bought him the seat, if Red Bull’s prodigy engineer had been thrown to the wolves. Cameras stalked the paddock, waiting for a crack.

At the emergency team meeting, the Team Principal’s glare could have cut steel. “You don’t get to gamble with our reputation, Jungkook. Not again. Tell them.”

Jungkook stood in front of the engineers, mechanics, strategists—every pair of eyes heavy on him.

“I screwed up,” he admitted, shoulders squared. “If I want to belong here, I need your trust. I’ll earn it. I’ll fight for it. And I’ll listen.”

The room was quiet, then slowly heads nodded. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was a start.

And slowly, it began to show.

Shanghai: P10. Suzuka: P7. Bahrain: P5. Jeddah: P5 again.

The rookie was climbing, steady and relentless. Every debrief was smoother, every radio call sharper. Even the McLaren boys, darlings of the season, started throwing side-eyes at his lap times.

By the time Miami came, the entire paddock buzzed with his name.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Miami was not just a race.

It was a spectacle.

The grandstands shimmered with sequins and neon, fans waving flags like they were at a music festival instead of a circuit. Yachts floated on the fake marina like props from a billionaire’s daydream, champagne flutes glinting under the sun. Celebrities clogged the paddock, designer sunglasses and glossy smiles, each one trailed by cameras desperate to catch their soundbite before the engines roared to life.

The air smelled of sunscreen, salt, and too much money.

Pop songs thumped through the loudspeakers, colliding with the high-pitched whine of pit guns, the crackle of radios, the steady beat of anticipation that thrummed beneath it all.

“This is the sexiest race on the calendar,” one commentator laughed into the mic, voice carrying across the track. “And all eyes are on Red Bull’s rookie Jungkook Jeon. He’s been climbing steadily, showing flashes of brilliance. Could Miami be the weekend he takes it all?”

Inside the garage, the atmosphere was electric.

Mechanics moved with laser focus, every socket wrench and wheel gun perfectly choreographed. The glossy RB21 shimmered under the Florida sun, already dressed in tire blankets like a fighter in silk robes waiting for his entrance. You kept your headset steady, notes crisp, but your pulse betrayed you—beating in time with the crowd’s fever, with the promise of what was about to unfold.

“Jungkook Jeon!” The familiar voice of Jackson Wang carried over the paddock noise, ESPN’s camera crew trailing behind him as he jogged up. The reporter grinned wide, energy infectious. “Everyone’s talking about you, man. You’ve been shaking up the grid—how are you feeling heading into Miami?”

Jungkook, still in his race suit, tugged his fireproofs higher on his neck. For once, there was no smirk, just the calm weight of someone holding all his adrenaline in check. Cameras zoomed close, the roar of fans nearly drowning out his reply.

“I feel ready,” he said simply, voice low but certain.

Then his gaze flicked toward you—just a second, just enough for the world to notice. “I’ve got the best team behind me. My engineer knows what she’s doing. I trust her completely.”

Jackson raised his brows, smiling at the directness. “That’s big words from a rookie.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook answered, still looking at you. “Guess I’m not much of a rookie anymore.”

The crowd cheered at that, feeding off the bravado, but you knew the truth—knew how hard he’d fought to mean it. And beneath the sun, the cameras, the glittering chaos of Miami, something in your chest shifted.

He trusted you.

And then it happened.

Pole position. P1.

When Jungkook pulled into the pit lane, climbing out of the car to the roar of Miami’s crowd, you didn’t have time to think. He strode straight toward you, adrenaline in every step, and before you could react, his arms wrapped around you.

The garage erupted in cheers. You froze for a heartbeat, body stiff, then forced yourself to relax—brushing it off as celebration, nothing more.

But when he pulled back, his eyes lingered on yours.

Too close.

Too intense.

Later, you were alone in the quiet corner of the garage, the tension still simmered. “You believed in me,” he murmured, gaze never wavering.

“That’s my job,” you shot back, though your voice was softer than intended.

His smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a slow curl that was half-mockery, half-something else. He leaned just a fraction closer, the smell of sweat, rubber, and champagne clinging to his skin. “Funny,” he said, voice dropping, “you make it sound like I’m the only one you’d go this hard for.”

Your breath caught, words evaporating on your tongue. His face was inches from yours, his hand brushing the workbench near your hip. The garage around you seemed to fade, replaced by the thrum of your heartbeat.

You should have pulled away. You didn’t.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

“Yah, Jungkook!” Jimin’s voice cut through like a slap, stumbling into the garage. “Netflix wants you. Retake of the interview.”

Both of you jerked back. Too fast, too guilty. Jimin’s brows furrowed as he looked between you, his manager’s smile failing to cover the worry in his eyes.

When Jungkook walked off, muttering something under his breath, Jimin lingered behind, watching you as if he’d just seen something dangerous spark between fire and gasoline.

Race day in Miami felt different.

The air itself seemed to hum—thick with heat, thick with expectation.

The sun blazed off Biscayne Bay, turning the fake marina into a mirror of glittering blue, yachts bobbing in the pool's water. The crowd’s roar was already building, a steady pulse you could feel beneath your feet.

The garage buzzed, a hive on the edge of frenzy. Engineers called out numbers, mechanics checked tire blankets, cameras swooped in like vultures. And through it all, you and Jungkook had settled into something almost dangerous—a rhythm that went beyond headset chatter and lap times.

He listened now.

He trusted you, sometimes even joked with you, and it made your chest tighten in ways you refused to name.

You reminded yourself it was simple. He was beautiful. Anyone would notice. That didn’t mean you did.

But then, before the race, he lingered too close.

Helmet tucked under one arm, sweat glinting on the edge of his jaw, eyes fixed only on you.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For sticking with me. For… believing.”

The words hit harder than they should. And when his hand brushed yours—openly, deliberately, in a garage full of cameras and sponsors—you went still. His grip was warm, steady, grounding in the chaos.

And then—

“Jungkook!”

The voice sliced through the noise like sugar poured over glass. You turned, and your stomach hollowed.

Kim Sooyeon.

Her beauty was unreal up close—skin like porcelain, smile rehearsed for stadiums. She moved like she owned the air itself, sliding her arms around his neck before you could even step back. The scent of gardenias and silk clung to her.

You knew that face.

Everyone did.

She was on your niece’s wall in glittering posters, her songs blaring from every mall. Korea’s princess.

“Baby, I made it,” she purred in Korean, sweet enough to rot teeth. “Did you miss me?”

Your chest locked. Baby?

She flicked a dismissive glance your way, her smile sharp as a blade. “And you are?”

Your voice came before you could stop it. “I’m his engineer.”

Her answering laugh was soft, cruel. “Cute. I’m his girlfriend.”

It landed like a fist to the gut. Something inside you buckled, ugly and breathless.

“Ex,” Jungkook cut in sharply, peeling her wrists from his neck. His tone was cold, edged with warning.

She only pouted, lips glossy, eyes glittering. “Don’t be like that.”

You barely heard him. Blood roared in your ears, your throat tight as the walls of the garage seemed to tilt.

Before you knew it, you were turning away—straight into a stack of tires.

They wobbled dangerously, mechanics rushing in to catch them, half-stifled laughter breaking out.

And then the flash of cameras—dozens of them, catching your stumble, catching the heat rising in your face. Your humiliation sealed in high definition, broadcast before the lights had even gone out.

The race began under blistering sun.

You barely breathed as you watched his car, #7, gliding through the corners. The commentators were hyped, the crowd on their feet. But your chest was tight, your headset slick with sweat.

Over the radio, his voice cut through.

“Y/N… please don’t give up on me today.”

Your throat constricted. He sounded calm, but you heard the edge beneath.

And then it happened.

You miscalculated the pit call.

A hesitation, just seconds—but in Formula 1, seconds were everything. Norris dove in at the perfect time, McLaren nailing their strategy. Jungkook came out behind, momentum lost. By the last lap, the commentators were merciless.

“And that’s it—Lando Norris takes the Miami GP! Red Bull’s rookie Jeon Jungkook drops to P7 after a strategic blunder on the pit wall.”

Your stomach sank.

The checkered flag waved, the crowd erupted, and yet the garage was dead silent. Every set of eyes was on you, the weight of your mistake pressing harder than the heat of the Florida sun.

He stormed back in, helmet ripped off so violently the strap snapped against his chin. Sweat slicked his hair, fury written in every line of his face.

“You cost me the win.”

The words tore through you. You swallowed, spine stiffening even as your throat burned. “I know. It was my mistake. I’ll own it.”

But instead of cooling him, your admission seemed to fuel him. His jaw clenched, chest heaving. The anger in his eyes was blinding, and something inside you cracked.

Your voice came out sharper than you meant, bitter and trembling. “But do me one favor—get your little girlfriend out of my fucking garage.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

He froze. His expression hardened into something cold, venomous. “Excuse me?”

You didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. “You heard me.”

His lips curled into something between a sneer and a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only pain, laced with rage. “You didn’t just cost me my first win because you were jealous.”

The word landed like a blade, twisting deep. Jealous.

You blinked hard, your nails digging crescents into your palms. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jeon.”

He took a step closer, close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him, close enough that his fury was a living thing between you. “Maybe I should really consider Jin’s offer.”

The world tilted. Your breath hitched. That—cut deeper than anything he’d ever said. Because beneath the rage was something worse. The threat of betrayal. The reminder that he could walk away, that he didn’t need you.

Your chest locked, your throat too tight to speak. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would be fury or heartbreak that spilled out.

So you turned. Walked past him, past the cameras catching every second, past the mechanics pretending not to watch, past Jimin’s worried eyes.

You didn’t look back. And you didn’t speak to Jungkook the entire week before Imola.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Imola.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of wet grass and rain-soaked tarmac. Clouds pressed low over the Emilia Romagna hills, and the circuit seemed to breathe with the weight of its own history. A track known for heartbreak. For endings that came too soon.

And Jungkook’s race was no exception. A technical issue forced him into early retirement. His car wheeled back into the garage before lap twenty, smoke curling from its rear like a taunt. He ripped off his gloves, helmet crashing onto the counter with a bang that made the mechanics flinch.

The silence between you was poisonous.

The cameras caught it, too—your stiff back, his glare that could split steel. And the press latched on immediately.

“Jeon Jungkook visibly furious after yet another setback.” “Red Bull rookie and his engineer caught in tense silence after retirement.” “Has the Miami fallout carried over to Europe?”

Other drivers chimed in, not helping.

Max, his teammate, muttered to a journalist that Jungkook “wasn’t focused enough, too distracted by drama in his own garage.” Then Hamilton shrugged and said, “Talent isn’t enough here. You need discipline.”

By the time the sun began to dip behind the gray clouds, Jimin had had enough. He shoved both of you into a cramped meeting room, the door slamming so hard the walls rattled.

“You’re not coming out until you fix this,” he barked, jaw tight. “I don’t care if it takes all night.”

The lock clicked. Silence fell.

You stood with your arms crossed, pressed against one wall, glaring daggers. Jungkook was on the other side, pacing, chest rising and falling too fast.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet, raw and unsteady. “You think I don’t regret what I said?”

Your laugh was harsh, bitter. “You said it. You meant it.”

“I didn’t—” He cut himself off, dragging both hands through his hair until it stuck up in frustrated tufts. His hands trembled. Again. That tell he couldn’t hide, no matter how much he smirked on camera.

“You’re bluffing,” you said coldly. The words sliced through the air.

His jaw flexed, his eyes darkening. “And you’re crying because you think I don’t take you seriously. Because you’re a woman.”

The fury in your chest ignited, hot and fast.

The palm of your hand cracked across his cheek before you could stop yourself. The sound echoed in the tiny room, louder than the rain outside.

His head jerked to the side, a red mark already blooming on his skin. Slowly, he looked back at you. But there was no anger in his eyes now. Just something bare, unguarded, almost broken.

The tension stretched, unbearable. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, see his chest heaving, his lips parting as though he was about to say something he couldn’t take back.

Then he moved.

In two strides, he was in front of you, and before you could speak, his mouth crashed against yours.

It was not soft. It was messy, furious, desperate.

His hands framed your face like he needed to anchor himself, fingers trembling against your skin. Your fists balled into his fireproof undershirt, pulling him closer, too close, until you couldn’t tell if the wetness on your face were your tears or his sweat.

Every ounce of anger, grief, and betrayal poured into the kiss. It burned. It consumed. It left you breathless.

A noise outside—a mechanic’s voice, footsteps—made you jolt apart, gasping for air, lips swollen, eyes wide.

You wiped your face roughly, forcing your voice steady. “That never happened.”

And before he could stop you, you yanked open the door and left.

He stayed behind, chest still heaving, one hand pressed to his stinging cheek, the other covering his lips like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Monaco.

The city had always felt like a dream. The pale pastel buildings climbing the cliffs, the Mediterranean sea glittering like scattered diamonds, yachts bobbing in the marina, streets that seemed too narrow for cars yet somehow hosted the most dangerous race in the world.

But for you and Jungkook, Monaco felt like a pressure cooker.

Since Imola, the silence wasn’t sharp anymore—it was suffocating. Not fighting, not ignoring. Just… avoiding. Stealing glances that lingered a beat too long. Brushing past each other in the garage with a jolt, like magnets turned the wrong way. Both pretending the kiss had never happened, both failing miserably.

In the garage, even the smallest moments felt loaded. Passing him a water bottle meant your fingers brushed his. Leaning over his telemetry meant your hair skimmed his shoulder. His laugh—rare, low, rough—was enough to make you forget what you were meant to be analyzing.

Practice went well. Qualy, too. Jungkook thrived on tight circuits, threading the car through Monaco’s walls like it was stitched into his veins.

The commentators were already buzzing.

“Jeon’s confidence here is impressive. Like he was born on these streets.” “Red Bull’s rookie could be a real podium threat.”

When he secured P4 on Saturday, the garage erupted, but his eyes found only yours. That infuriating, disarming grin tugged at his lips as he shrugged, like he hadn’t just pulled off something spectacular.

“Street races,” he said. “My thing.”

“Oh yeah?” you shot back, rolling your eyes, but your voice was softer than you intended. “Let’s just hope you don’t make them your funeral.”

He smirked, leaning a fraction closer, his helmet still tucked under his arm. “Careful, engineer. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you worry about me.”

You scoffed, turning back to your laptop too fast. “They literally pay me to worry about you.”

But the air thickened anyway, humming with everything you weren’t saying.

For a second, neither of you moved. The noise of the garage faded—mechanics chattering, tools clanging, engines firing—until it was just the two of you and the ghost of that night in Imola, still clinging like a bruise.

His voice dropped, low enough that only you could hear. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Your breath caught. You knew what he meant. And from the way his jaw clenched, like he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth, so did he.

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen. “It was a mistake. Heat of the moment. That’s all.”

His silence stretched, heavy. When you finally looked up, his eyes were on you—dark, steady, searching like he wanted to call you a liar but couldn’t quite get the words out.

At last, he forced the grin back onto his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Just a mistake.”

And that was worse than any fight.

Because both of you knew it wasn’t.

The sponsors’ dinner before the race was hosted in a palace-like hotel overlooking the sea. Your suite had high ceilings, white marble floors, and a balcony with a view so stunning it almost hurt. For the first time in months, you weren’t in fireproofs or baggy sweats.

You slipped into deep blue silk, the fabric cool and liquid against your skin. It caught the light with every movement, whispering of elegance but carrying an edge—a slit climbing your leg, a neckline daring enough to make you stand taller. The heels felt foreign under your feet, the earrings brushing your neck even stranger.

But as you caught your reflection, you didn’t see an engineer with grease under her nails. You saw someone who belonged in this glittering, impossible room.

And that recognition was both terrifying and exhilarating.

When you entered the ballroom, heads turned. Laughter dipped, conversations faltered. Jimin spotted you first, jaw dropping before he broke into a grin. But then Jungkook turned—and the world tilted.

His eyes widened, spark catching like ignition. He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe, like the entire room had dissolved into silence. His gaze didn’t waver, reverent in a way that sent heat flooding your chest. It wasn’t lust. It was awe.

You forced yourself forward, greeting engineers, sponsors, even rival drivers, laughing too brightly at their jokes. But Jungkook’s stare never left you, and every brush of his eyes against your skin felt like fire.

You were only steps from him when a hand caught yours.

Mr. Kim SeokJin.

“Dance with me,” he said smoothly, his smile easy, commanding. And you couldn’t refuse your boss.

On the dance floor, his hand pressed steady at your back, guiding you with the ease of someone born to command attention. His voice was low, threaded with amusement.

“You outshone half the room just by walking in,” he said. “And I’ve always had a good eye for valuable things.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected compliment, but then his gaze flicked toward Jungkook, who stood rigid at the edge of the floor, watching like the music itself had turned hostile. His jaw was tight, his fist clenched at his side.

Jin chuckled softly. “My little brother’s never been good at sharing.” Then his smile dimmed, his words turning razor-sharp. “Listen to me, Y/N. He has an empire to fall back on. You don’t. One mistake, and it’s not just your career—it’s your entire life. I won’t let anyone ruin him. Not even you.”

The words weren’t cruel, not really.

They were a warning, laced with a strange kind of protection. He wasn’t mocking you. He was reminding you of the stakes.

When the song ended, you slipped away, lungs aching for air. The terrace was quiet, sea air thick with salt and the shimmer of the bay stretching endlessly below.

And then—he was there.

“Did he say something to you?” Jungkook’s voice was tight, protective, his eyes searching your face as though Jin might’ve left a scar.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “He just… talked.”

But Jungkook didn’t look convinced. His brows furrowed, lips pressed in a hard line. Then softer, almost reverent:

“You look… breathtaking tonight.”

You almost laughed, breathless, because that was the exact word you’d thought for him a hundred times. “Thanks,” you managed, your heart hammering.

For a moment, you just stood there together, the party a faint hum behind you, the city glowing in blues and golds below. His gaze held yours, so unguarded it nearly undid you.

“Soyeon…” His jaw flexed. “She’s a childhood friend. We dated once, but—she shows up when she needs press. That’s all.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” you said quickly.

“I want to,” he insisted. His voice was rough, almost breaking. “Because I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I can still feel you.”

The world swayed. Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, the air electric, charged. His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching, as if the smallest spark would ignite something dangerous. “And your perfume…” His voice dropped, reverent. “It’s everywhere. It’s you.”

Your noses brushed, breaths mingling, his lips hovering a whisper from yours—

And then: fireworks. Exploding over the bay, dazzling red and gold across the night sky. The crowd inside rushed to the terrace, cheering, the moment shattering like glass.

You stumbled back, pulse erratic. “I should—go.”

His eyes lingered, raw and desperate, as if he wanted to stop you. But he didn’t.

And as you slipped back inside, one thought burned through your chest:

This was a more dangerous game than tomorrow’s race.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The streets of Monaco gleamed under the late afternoon sun.

Crowds filled every balcony, every yacht, every rooftop overlooking the circuit. The sound of engines had shaken the city all day, but now it was over.

The checkered flag had waved.

Jungkook won.

The rookie, the one everyone doubted, had tamed the impossible streets of Monaco.

The radio exploded with cheers—engineers shouting, mechanics crying, Jimin’s voice cracking with laughter. You felt your throat tighten, your chest swell so tight you thought it might burst.

“P1, Jungkook! You’ve just won Monaco!”

You didn’t even realize you were screaming into the comms until your voice cracked, raw with disbelief and joy.

When the car rolled into parc fermé, pandemonium erupted. Celebrities, journalists, fans—everyone pressed forward. The noise was deafening. Jungkook pulled off his helmet, sweat dripping down his temples, hair sticking wild, eyes ablaze with adrenaline. But he didn’t look at the cameras, or the sponsors, or even at Jin, who stood stone-faced in the corner.

He looked only at you.

And then he was moving—shoving past microphones and outstretched hands—straight toward you once again.

He grabbed you by the waist, lifted you off your feet, spinning you in the air like you weighed nothing. You gasped, breathless laughter spilling out, his grin brighter than any firework exploding over the Mediterranean.

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Red Bulls’s victory.

It was yours.

Yours and his.

Later, when the podium glittered under the Riviera sun, you stood just behind the barriers, trying to steady your breathing.

His name rang through the streets, through the yachts, through the walls of pastel buildings. When the Korean flag rose for the first time in Formula 1 history, when the anthem swelled and echoed across Monte Carlo’s cliffs—you couldn’t hold it back. Pride burned in your chest, hot and unstoppable, and tears blurred your vision.

And there he was.

Standing taller than ever, champagne still dripping from his suit, cheeks wet with his own tears. Not the fierce firebrand who fought every corner, not the boy who lashed out in anger, but Jungkook—your driver.

Your impossible, history-making driver.

And even then, even with the world watching, his eyes found yours in the crowd.

The whole team piled onto him after, champagne exploding, everyone euphoric. But the high shattered when you were summoned.

“Team principal’s office. Now.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Jimin’s voice cut through the chaos of celebration. He didn’t smile. His usual spark was gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy sadness. That single look cracked your joy in half, leaving you hollow.

Inside, the air was suffocating. Red Bull’s principal sat at the head of the table, Jin beside him—perfectly composed, unreadable. And across from them: Ferrari’s principal, sharp suit, sharper smile.

He didn’t waste time. “Lewis wants you on his team.”

For a second, you thought you’d misheard. Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. The legend of the sport.

Wanting you.

But no one laughed. No one corrected him.

“We’ve been watching you closely,” Ferrari’s principal continued smoothly. “Your instincts under pressure, the way you command your driver… it’s rare. We’re prepared to buy out your Red Bull contract. These opportunities don’t come twice.”

The words landed heavy, twisting inside you. Yesterday’s warning from Jin replayed in your mind like a curse: One mistake, and it will end both your careers. He has an empire to fall back on. You don’t.

Now it all clicked. Jin hadn’t been protecting Jungkook—he’d been paving the way to remove you. This wasn’t just an offer. It was exile, dressed up in prestige and red paint.

The Red Bull boss leaned forward, fingers steepled. “It’s entirely your decision. No pressure.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. Ferrari. The Scuderia. Legacy, power, immortality in red. Lewis Hamilton himself asking for you. Any rational person would leap at it.

But then—Jungkook’s face flashed in your mind. His trembling hands after crashes. The fire in his eyes when he pushed past his own limits. The fragile, raw trust he’d given you, piece by piece. You thought of Monaco—the way his tears had fallen with the anthem, and how he’d only looked at you.

Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you said carefully, voice steady despite the storm inside. “But I won’t leave my driver mid-season. It wouldn’t be fair. We’ve come too far together.”

The Ferrari principal’s smile faltered, then softened into something like reluctant respect. He nodded once, curt. “Understood. But you know where to find us.”

Silence stretched. The Red Bull principal scribbled something in his notes. Jin, however, didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on you, sharp and unblinking, as if he were dissecting every corner of your resolve.

For the first time, you realized this wasn’t a game to him.

It was war.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

When you finally escaped the suffocating office, your pulse still thundering, you found him where you knew he’d be: the simulator room.

The monitors glowed in the dark, replaying the same crash over and over, his car smashing into the barriers in a blur of violence. He tore the headset off, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, chest heaving. His fists trembled around the wheel, and for a terrifying second you thought he’d hurl the helmet against the wall.

Until he saw you.

He froze.

His jaw clenched, eyes wild, raw and hollow at once. “You came to say goodbye?”

Your chest caved in. The way he said it—betrayal cut into every syllable. “I’m not leaving the team.” You stepped closer, voice cracking. “I’m not leaving you.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His throat worked, like he was swallowing glass.

Then—something inside him broke.

He closed the distance in a heartbeat, slamming his palms against the wall on either side of you. His face was inches from yours, breath ragged, eyes dark and blazing. And then he kissed you—hard, relentless, like every ounce of anger and pride and fear had been funneled into that single act. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, claiming, the kind of kiss that stole thought and left only instinct.

Your hands fisted in his undershirt, dragging him closer, feeling the solid heat of his body and the frantic rhythm of his heart beating in time with yours.

“God, Y/N,” he groaned against your lips, breaking just long enough to breathe. “They wanted you. Ferrari wanted you. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea—how proud—” His voice cracked, fury and awe tangled together. “But all I could think was—you’d leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered fiercely. “Not now. Not ever.”

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you back into him, the kiss deepening until it set your veins on fire. You tugged at his collar, shoving the heavy fabric off his shoulders until his undershirt clung damp against his skin. And then—your breath caught.

Ink.

Dark, twisting tattoos scrawled across his chest and arms, lines and shapes you’d only ever glimpsed in photos or under fireproof sleeves. Seeing them up close was something else entirely. Raw. Intimate. Like you were being allowed into a part of him no one else saw.

Your palm pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the black swirls of ink. “You’re…” The word stuck in your throat. “God, Jungkook.”

His lips curved into a broken smile before finding yours again, desperate, needy. Somewhere in the chaos your own uniform had been tugged open, buttons slipping loose, his hands skimming heat along your sides until your bra strap slid against his fingers.

Your mind spun.

This was reckless, dangerous, forbidden. Yet the way he kissed you—like you were oxygen, like you were the only thing keeping him alive—you couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen. His breath shuddered as he took you in, your messy hair, your flushed chest, your half-open uniform. His hands shook as he traced the faint red marks he’d left blooming across your skin, tattoos of his own making.

For a long moment, no words passed.

You didn’t need them.

The truth was etched in every glance, every trembling touch: you were his, and he was yours, even if neither of you dared to say it.

Then reality crept back. The walls, the fluorescent hum, the reminder of where you were—Red Bull headquarters, not a hotel room, not your world. You both stilled, breathing hard, as if waking from a fever dream.

And that’s when you heard it.

Click.

Quiet.

Mechanical.

Cold.

Your stomach dropped. Both of you turned, hearts still racing—not from the kiss this time.

A camera.

Hidden in the shadows.

Watching.

Recording.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The season rolled forward in a blur of screeching tires, flashing cameras, and deafening cheers.

Spain. Jungkook stood on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, his grin boyish and disbelieving as commentators shouted over the roar of the crowd:

“The second-seat curse is over! Red Bull’s rookie is proving himself to be the driver of the season!”

Race after race, he climbed higher. Consistent. Focused. Ruthless. P4 in Austria. P3 in Silverstone. P2 in Hungary.

The world was watching now—not just the rookie who had almost thrown it all away in Melbourne, but a rising star. Every commentator, every journalist, every fan screamed the same words:

Rookie of the Season.

And through it all, you and Jungkook had learned to move in a delicate rhythm—professional on the surface, something else simmering underneath.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Summer break came like a sigh of relief.

Your London flat felt almost foreign after months on the road—quiet, still, walls that didn’t vibrate with engines or team radios. You fell back into a routine like muscle memory: kettle boiling in the morning, laundry humming in the corner, tapping out notes from race weekends while rain streaked the windows. For a while, it was easy to pretend the last months hadn’t happened, that the whirlwind of Monaco and Red Bull and Jungkook had been some fever dream.

If it weren’t for your phone.

Buzzing. Constantly. Messages from colleagues, endless media recaps, gossip headlines pinging your feed, and—always—him.

Jungkook.

Little updates.

Photos.

The occasional voice note that made your chest ache in ways you tried to ignore.

One evening, you escaped it all. A local pub, low lights, sticky tables, laughter filling the air. You nursed a pint with a couple of your friends, letting yourself sink into the normalcy of banter, silly arguments over football, someone’s half-baked plan to start a podcast.

For a few hours, it felt like you again.

Until your phone lit up.

“Come to Italy.”

You stared at the message, Jungkook’s name bold on your screen. Before you could process, his call came through—voice low, insistent, like he was right there at your table.

“Come with me to Portofino. I’ve got a boat. Jimin’s here, some friends too. Just… come.”

You pulled the phone from your ear, pulse unsteady.

Your best friend leaned over, reading the name flashing across the screen. She whistled low. “That’s the Jungkook, isn’t it? The one who made you go all ghost-mode?”

You shot her a look, cheeks heating, but she only smirked and took a sip of her drink.

“You’d be a complete idiot not to go,” she said simply.

The next morning came like a blur.

Shoving clothes into a weekender, grabbing sunscreen and sunglasses, double-checking your passport. Jungkook had sent a car, sleek and black, waiting at the curb like something out of a movie. From there—Heathrow.

A private plane.

The whole thing felt absurd, surreal, like you were stepping into someone else’s life.

On the runway, before takeoff, you sent a quick text to your best friend:

You were right. Going. Italy. Don’t wait up.

Her reply came seconds later:

Good girl 😏. Also… I slipped a surprise in your bag. You’ll thank me later. Trust.

You groaned, but couldn’t help laughing. God only knew what she’d tucked inside.

Portofino greeted you with golden cliffs and pastel houses spilling toward the harbor.

And then, the yacht.

It gleamed white under the sun, massive but graceful, all smooth decks and glass railings, like a floating palace.

On board, you found them—Jungkook’s circle, the ones he trusted enough to let close.

Yoongi was sprawled in the shade, sunglasses on, scrolling his phone, the faintest smirk betraying he was only half-listening to everyone else. Namjoon lounged with a paperback in hand, occasionally pushing his glasses up his nose before chiming in with some sharp, clever comment. Taehyung had a vintage camera slung around his neck, his girlfriend curled beside him as he snapped photos of everything—the sea, the sky, the way sunlight glanced off Jungkook’s profile.

Jimin, of course, was holding court. Shirt open, drink in hand, teasing everyone shamelessly.

“Look at them,” he said, nodding toward the couples. “Domestic, boring. That’s why I keep my options open. Why settle when I can sample?” Yoongi snorted without looking up. “More like your options keep you open.”

The deck erupted in laughter.

Jimin only grinned wider, unbothered.

You’d expected awkwardness, but instead there was… peace.

The yacht drifted over water so clear you could see the seabed. The air was heavy with salt and citrus, a warm breeze brushing your skin. For once, there were no cameras, no paddock, no obligations. Just freedom—sun and sea and the quiet hum of possibility.

Jungkook found you by the railing, where you’d been staring out at the endless blue. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the wood beside you, his arm brushing yours. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, alive, like the air before a storm.

Then—without warning—he shoved you.

You shrieked, splashing into the sea with a curse, icy water shocking your skin. “YAH!” you sputtered, hair plastered to your face. He was doubled over laughing on deck, nearly falling to his knees.

You swam back toward him, splashing furiously. “You’re dead.” “Am I?” His grin softened as you reached him, eyes glinting. And in that still moment, salt water clinging to your lips, the whole world narrowed.

He kissed you.

Quick.

Sweet.

Stolen.

And suddenly, this wasn’t a yacht anymore. It was your own tiny paradise—untethered, infinite, just the two of you floating in a sea too vast to care.

At sunset, everyone drifted back to their cabins to prepare for dinner. The air still smelled of salt and sunscreen, the sea rocking the boat in a gentle lull. You stayed on deck, wrapped in a towel, watching the sky bruise into shades of rose and gold.

Jungkook padded up beside you, barefoot, hair still damp and curling from the water. He carried two glasses of sparkling water, handing one to you without a word before dropping into the chair beside yours. For a long while, you just sat together, letting the hush of waves fill the silence.

“You know,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady, “I’ve never been this scared in my life.”

You glanced at him, startled. “Scared?”

He nodded, eyes on the horizon like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you. “Of hurting you. Of messing this up. I can crash a car at three hundred kilometers an hour, and it doesn’t scare me half as much as this does.”

Your heart twisted, something fragile and fierce all at once blooming in your chest. “Kook…”

He shifted then, turning toward you, and the mask he usually wore—the cocky grin, the fire—was gone. What was left was raw and boyish, his vulnerability shining through in a way that almost broke you.

When he leaned closer, it wasn’t reckless, wasn’t hunger or fire like Monaco. It was slow, hesitant, trembling with honesty. His lips brushed yours like a question. You answered without words, tilting into him, letting your hand find his damp hair, your towel slipping just a little as his fingers grazed your arm.

For once, it wasn’t about tension, or anger, or secrecy. It was just him. Just you. Two idiots falling without a parachute, and neither of you wanting to stop.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You both jolted apart like teenagers caught sneaking out. Taehyung stood in the doorway, hand clamped over his mouth in exaggerated shock. Then his smile cracked into a grin. “I knew it. I’ve been rooting for you guys from the start.”

Your face burned as Jungkook dropped his head into his hands with a groan, muttering curses under his breath.

But the teasing didn’t matter.

Something shifted after that—something soft and unspoken. The rest of the weekend, it was as if the veil had been lifted. You laughed louder, ate slower, let your fingers brush across his more freely. He lingered near you, his touches casual but constant—hand at your back, his knee bumping yours under the table, a smile saved just for you.

The others didn’t comment again. They just folded you into their world with an easy, knowing acceptance, like they’d been waiting for this to happen all along.

For two days, you lived in a secret kind of paradise.

Free.

Unburdened.

Seen.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The last day, Jungkook disappeared for a while. You assumed he was training, or maybe napping below deck, until he appeared suddenly with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“Come with me.”

You frowned. “Where?”

He only grinned wider, tugging you by the wrist toward the dinghy tethered to the side of the yacht.

Minutes later, the two of you were skimming over the waves, wind tugging at your hair, the coastline shrinking into a smear of color behind you. The dinghy slowed, bobbing as he steered toward a tiny island—just a sliver of sand and palms in the middle of endless blue.

“Private,” he said proudly as you stepped onto the warm sand. “No press. No one but us.”

The air was heavy with salt and heat, cicadas buzzing faintly from the brush. You laughed, half disbelieving, as he spread a blanket across the sand and pulled a cooler from the boat. Champagne, fruit, little bites wrapped neatly.

“A whole date,” you teased, sitting cross-legged beside him. “Who knew Jungkook Jeon was a romantic?”

His cheeks pinked, but he shrugged. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Dinner passed in slow warmth, your toes buried in the sand, the sea glowing violet as the sun slid lower. He told you stories—of growing up with the others, how seven of them had stumbled through boyhood together. Yoongi teaching him guitar, Namjoon dragging them to art galleries, Taehyung insisting on midnight photography experiments.

“And Jin?” you asked softly.

His face shifted, a flash of something complicated in his eyes. “He… grew apart. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. He’s always felt responsible for me—sometimes too much. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know how to be my brother without being my boss.”

You reached for his hand without thinking, squeezing once.

Later, when you asked about the number stitched boldly onto his car, his helmet, his shirts, his skin, he smiled faintly.

“Seven. For them. For us. They’re not just my friends—they’re my brothers. We all got it, even Jin. When I drive, they’re with me.”

Your throat tightened.

Somehow, it made you love him more.

By the time you returned to the yacht, night had fallen fully. The air smelled of salt and wine, music floating up faintly from below deck. The others were laughing, teasing Jimin about something, but when you slipped away to Jungkook’s cabin, no one stopped you.

Inside, the air was cooler, the boat rocking gently against the waves.

It started quietly—his hand cupping your jaw, your mouths finding each other in the hush. But it didn’t stay quiet. The hunger that had been simmering for months finally tore free, hot and unrelenting. He pressed you against the door, lips sliding down your throat, your fingers fumbling at his fireproof shirt until it fell open.

Ink sprawled across his chest, his ribs, curling over his arms like living fire. Seeing his tattoos this close—raw, real—made you tremble. He looked dangerous, untouchable, and yet he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your shirt came undone under his hands, bra straps tugged down your shoulders until lace peeked through—lace you hadn’t worn in years.

Your friend’s message flashed in your mind, and you nearly laughed, dazed, when Jungkook’s eyes darkened at the sight.

You'll have to thank her later.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough, reverent.

The kiss deepened, messy, desperate. You pulled him down with you, the yacht rocking gently beneath the storm you were creating. His mouth left marks on your skin, tattoos of his own making, while your hands memorized every line of muscle, every scar hidden under ink.

It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, molten. The world outside didn’t exist—only him, only you, the sound of waves colliding with the hull as you finally gave in.

After, you drifted in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your ear, the scent of salt and him wrapped around you. You barely noticed sleep stealing you under.

But near dawn, voices cut through the haze.

Through the cracked door, you saw him outside with Jimin, shadows etched in the pale gray of pre-sunrise.

“Hyung,” Jungkook’s voice was low but sharp, the kind of steel you’d only heard from him in the cockpit. “I don’t care. If this becomes a PR war, I’ll fight it.”

Jimin’s sigh carried across the deck. “I just want to make sure you’re sure. She’s not like the others. Once the world knows, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Jungkook said, firm, unshaken. “That’s why I can’t let her go.”

Your heart throbbed at his words.

But then—

The hairs at the back of your neck stood on end. A chill skittered across your skin, sharp despite the warm night. From the corner of your eye, through the half-open porthole, you swore you saw movement on the cliffs—something watching.

That same crawling sensation, the one you’d felt in Melbourne, sank its claws into you.

Only this time, it didn’t let go.

Something was coming.

And it was already close.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The season pressed forward like a fever dream.

Another qualifying session, another pole position for Jungkook. The rookie who’d once been brushed off as reckless was now commanding headlines—“Prodigy. Unstoppable. Future Champion.”

And yet, beneath the roar of engines and flash of cameras, you couldn’t shake it. That feeling. The one you’d first felt in Melbourne, then again on the boat in Italy. Like something was closing in, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Still, that night ended with champagne showers and laughter.

Jungkook hugged you so tightly it knocked the breath out of you, his joy bleeding into yours until you forgot the dread for a few blissful hours.

The morning after, your phone buzzed you awake.

“BREAKING: Car #7 hit with 15-position grid penalty for illegal part.”

Your blood ran cold.

That can’t be right. That can’t fucking be right.

You remembered every bolt, every recalibration, every sleepless night in the garage. You’d triple-checked before signing off after practice. It was airtight.

Yet the penalty stood.

When Jungkook saw the headline, his face fell—but he didn’t look at you with anger. Just heartbreak.

“We’ll fight back,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours in the quiet of the hospitality suite. It was barely a kiss, over before it began. But it was enough to send a jolt of fire through you. Enough to make you forget that anyone could be watching.

You caught Jin in the hallway before the race. He leaned casually against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You should’ve taken my mercy when I offered it,” he said smoothly, as though the words were meant to sting and soothe at once.

Your stomach dropped.

Despite the setback, Jungkook was electric on track. He clawed his way through the grid, overtaking with a hunger that left commentators breathless. P3. Another podium. Another miracle drive.

But the headlines weren’t about his race.

Every screen in the paddock lit up with the same story:

“Red Bull Rookie Caught in Secret Affair with His Engineer.”

The photo attached left no room for doubt—your hands tangled in his hair, his mouth on yours in the waiting room. Too intimate, too clear to be spun as anything else.

And then, as if the wound needed salt, a carefully crafted statement began circulating. Soyeon’s words.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but it seems Jungkook was seeing her even while we were together. I wish them the best, but I deserved better.”

Her name trended within minutes.

So did yours.

By the time you caught your reflection in a TV screen, your face was already plastered across international broadcasts—zoomed-in, frozen mid-kiss. Not an engineer. Not a professional. Just a scandal.

And it didn’t stop there.

Podcasts uploaded within the hour, hosts laughing crudely into their mics. “She knew what she was doing. Playing his career like a ladder.” “Sleeping with your driver? It’s not even subtle.” “She’ll be gone in a season. He’ll move on. They always do.”

Tweets, Instagram threads, TikToks dissecting your clothes, your voice, your very existence. Even the race commentators, usually clinical, couldn’t resist slipping in sharp words about “distractions off-track.”

And then—one reporter’s voice, sharp as a blade: “This isn’t just unprofessional. It’s predatory. She’s supposed to be his engineer, not his girlfriend. What does that make her if not—”

The word cut like glass.

Slut.

It reverberated in your skull until everything blurred.

Your lungs seized.

The air in the garage turned to concrete.

You stumbled backward, past blurred faces, ignoring the weight of their stares, until you found the darkest corner you could crawl into. Knees drawn tight to your chest, fingers clawing into your temples, you tried to disappear.

But the panic attack swallowed you whole.

Breath ragged. Vision fragmented. The roar of the crowd outside felt like a hurricane, but inside your head it was louder still—the podcast clips, the headlines, Soyeon’s voice, that one filthy word.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan.

This isn’t love—it’s destruction.

And yet—traitorous, wild, merciless—your heart still beat in rhythm with the number seven car.

The world tilted.

Your stomach lurched.

You shoved past him and stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it before you doubled over the sink. Bitter bile tore up your throat, the acid burn mixing with the salt of your tears. You retched until there was nothing left, body heaving in brutal waves, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too merciless.

You gripped the edges of the sink until your knuckles went white, the taste of iron on your tongue, your reflection a stranger—wild-eyed, mascara streaked, trembling.

Behind you, one of the senior engineers lingered in the doorway.

Not intruding, not offering empty comfort. Just waiting. Watching with that same grim patience carved into the lines of his face.

When the silence stretched too long, he spoke. Low. Gravelly.

“Chin up.”

You flinched, choking on a sob.

He stepped closer, crossing his arms, gaze sharp but not cruel. “I told you before. The worst is yet to come. This sport—” his jaw clenched, eyes flicking to the headlines blaring from a phone someone had left on the counter “—it doesn’t just test machines. It chews people alive.”

Your breath rattled, uneven. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone hardened, slicing through your spiral. “Because if you don’t, they’ll win. Every reporter, every armchair critic, every person waiting for you to fail—they’ll eat you whole. And he…” His eyes softened for the first time. “That boy is fighting enough battles on track. Don’t make him fight yours too.”

You bit your lip so hard it split, copper blooming on your tongue. Slowly, shakily, you straightened. Wiped your mouth. Lifted your chin, though your body still trembled.

Minho gave a single, satisfied nod. “Good. Now remember this—Formula 1 doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t forget. And it sure as hell doesn’t love you back.”

The words lodged like lead in your chest.

He left you there, hollowed out but upright, staring at the wreckage in the mirror. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you’d ever be strong enough to survive this world.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The fallout hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook tore through the garage like a man possessed, searching every corner for you. His pulse hammered, his hands still raw from the steering wheel. He needed to see you, to make sure you were okay, to anchor himself in your eyes—only to be hit with the new headline splashed across every screen.

Not the kiss this time. Something worse.

A photo of you, months ago, smiling as you shook hands with Ferrari’s team principal. Out of context, harmless. But paired with the words stamped beneath it, it was poison.

“Espionage Scandal: Red Bull Engineer Feeding Ferrari Secrets?”

His stomach dropped.

The garage was a warzone—phones buzzing, engineers whispering, reporters already circling like vultures. And everywhere he looked, it was your name.

“Red Bull Seductress.” “She Used Him.” “Jungkook’s Miracle Season Built on Lies?”

He knew about Ferrari. He’d heard the offer, knew you’d turned it down for him. But seeing you painted this way—scheming, manipulative, disloyal—it felt like he was staring at a stranger.

And the worst part? The proof looked airtight. Too airtight. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used him. And God, you were so good at what you did—so good at reading him, guiding him. Maybe you’d been just as good at hiding the truth.

He tried to push the thought away. Tried to remind himself of the way you’d looked at him, the way your hands shook when you touched his, the way you’d whispered you weren’t leaving. But the headlines kept screaming louder. Doubt dug its claws into his chest.

When you finally found him in the hallway, it was like a blade to the heart.

“Jungkook—” your voice cracked.

He froze. Helmet still in his hand, eyes locked on you, throat closing around everything he wanted to say. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t trust his own voice. Because if he opened his mouth, he didn’t know if it would be to defend you—or to demand the truth.

So he said nothing.

The silence between you grew heavy, unbearable. Your face crumpled, the devastation in your eyes worse than any crash he’d ever endured.

Jimin appeared, cutting the tension like a knife. His jaw was tight, voice clipped. “You need to go home. Now.”

You shook your head, desperate. “I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t do this—”

Jimin’s voice softened, urgent. “I know. But this storm? You can’t fight it here. Not today. Let me get you out the back.”

Jungkook stood rooted to the spot, guilt gnawing through him as Jimin guided you away, his arm firm around your shoulders.

You didn’t look back. He couldn’t make himself call your name.

And that silence—the silence he chose—was louder than every headline in the world.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The garage was a blur.

Voices rose and fell around him, reporters shouting, cameras flashing—but none of it reached Jungkook. It was all static, like his head was submerged underwater.

What he couldn’t block out was you.

The image burned behind his eyelids: your body curled in on itself, eyes wild with panic, lungs choking on air that wouldn’t come. You looked like someone had cut every string holding you up. And he hadn’t moved. He’d just stood there.

Focus on the race. Jin’s voice echoed like a curse. His brother’s warning from Monaco clawed at him now—One mistake, and it’ll be both of your careers.

But this wasn’t a mistake. This was ruin.

His jaw locked, helmet crushing beneath his grip as the headlines blared across the big screen overhead.

Affair.

Espionage.

She used him.

They painted you as a stranger. Cold. Calculated. A woman with nothing but ambition in her veins. And maybe what terrified him most was the doubt gnawing at him—because he did know you. Didn’t he?

Every late-night strategy session. Every time your hands steadied his before lights-out. Every glance that lingered too long when you thought no one was looking. You weren’t some faceless manipulator in those moments. You were his.

But another part of him—the part trained to survive in this brutal world—whispered it would be easier if you had played him. If every kiss, every laugh, every whispered be careful had just been a performance. Because then he could hate you. And hating you would hurt less than this—than wanting you still, even as the world shredded you apart.

His chest burned with that contradiction. Anger, confusion, longing—all tangled into something raw enough to make him feel sick.

“Jungkook.”

Jimin’s voice cut through, steady but heavy. He had just walked you out. Jungkook could feel the absence of you hanging in the air, like smoke after fire.

“She’s gone,” Jimin said quietly. “I put her in a car.”

Jungkook turned, throat raw. His voice came out hoarse, breaking on the edges: “She didn’t do it.”

“I know.” Jimin’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. But behind it, there was something else—something that made Jungkook’s stomach twist.

“The question is…” Jimin’s words landed like a blade. “…do you?”

That night, alone in his hotel room, Jungkook scrolled until his eyes burned. Article after article, dissecting you, crucifying you. That damn picture of your kiss replaying on loop, like it wasn’t his lips too.

He pressed his palm against his mouth, remembering the warmth of it, the way you’d tasted like something he wanted to ruin himself for.

And he wondered—sick to his stomach—if he’d just watched the only person who really believed in him walk out of his life for good.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Monza.

Temple of Speed.

Temple of ghosts.

Jungkook hadn’t slept. The hotel ceiling stared back at him all night, the sheets twisted like restraints around his legs. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you—your face when the cameras swarmed, when the headlines called you a traitor, when you begged him with your eyes to believe you.

And he hadn’t.

Not enough.

By morning, the rain clouds had given way to a harsh September sun, but his chest still felt sodden, heavy. He walked through the paddock with his jaw set, refusing to meet the flashes, ignoring the questions journalists hurled at him. Let them fine him, let them crucify him.

Passing the Red Bull suite, he caught his brother’s voice through the crack in the door.

Calm.

Detached.

“It’s for the best. He’ll thank me when this storm blows over. She was never going to last in this sport.”

Jungkook’s vision tunneled.

He shoved the door open. Jin sat there with a tablet in hand, scrolling telemetry like none of this mattered. Like your life hadn’t been set on fire by his hand.

“You,” Jungkook rasped, rain still dripping off his jacket. His voice trembled, not with weakness, but fury. “You did this.”

Jin looked up, unbothered. “I saved you.”

“You ruined her!” Jungkook roared, shoving the table so hard the tablet crashed to the ground. “She believed in me when no one else did. And you—”

“I protected you from yourself,” Jin snapped back, cold as a scalpel. “She was a liability. She would’ve destroyed you.”

“She’s the only reason I’m still standing!” Jungkook’s voice cracked, rage spilling raw and unrestrained. “You think I’m your pawn, Jin? I’m your brother. And I swear to God, if you ever touch her name again—”

His hands shook.

With rage.

With grief.

With love that refused to die.

For the first time in his life, Jungkook hated his brother.

Truly hated him.

None of it mattered—not if he couldn’t survive the day in one piece.

Back in the garage, Jimin caught him by the shoulder. His voice was low but urgent. “If we’re going to help her, we need to be smart,” Jimin said. “To clear her name, you’d have to admit it wasn’t just an affair—it was real. You’d be taking the fall.”

Jungkook froze. The weight of it pressed against his ribcage. “Your reputation, your career,” Jimin continued. “You’ll risk lose everything you’ve worked for. Are you sure you want this?”

His throat burned. His fists clenched so tight his nails cut crescents into his palms.

“I’d rather lose everything than lose her,” Jungkook said hoarsely. And it was the only truth he had left.

The call came.

Race time.

The garage felt foreign with a new engineer feeding him numbers, the rhythm broken, the sync lost. His head wasn’t in the data, it was in the betrayal. Every instruction grated against him. Every lap felt jagged, wrong.

And then Ocon crossed him in the paddock tunnel before lights out, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t think Red Bull hired sluts as engineers, but—guess they’ll try anything.”

White-hot fury exploded in Jungkook’s chest. His fists flew before he even registered the motion, shoving Ocon back so hard the wall rattled. Another second, another word, and he would’ve driven his knuckles into the man’s face.

It took three crew members to drag him away.

Helmet on, heart pounding, breath ragged, Jungkook slid into the cockpit. The Temple of Speed roared to life around him. His pulse matched the scream of the engine.

He wasn’t ready. He knew it.

And for the first time in his career, he didn’t care.

The sky had lied to him.

Clear blue when he left the paddock, and now—ominous, swollen clouds rolling in faster than anyone expected. By formation lap, the heavens had split open. Sheets of rain slashed across Monza’s straights, turning the Temple of Speed into a trap.

The worst possible scenario.

Jungkook’s chest was tight beneath the harness. He hated wet tracks. Always had. The car never felt like his anymore in the rain—more like an animal barely tamed, snarling to throw him off at the first mistake. And now he didn’t even have you in his ear, reading the skies, steadying his pulse, warning him where grip might still exist.

The rain came down like knives.

Every lap blurred into survival. Tires aquaplaning. Wheelspin threatening at every corner exit. Visibility shredded by rooster tails that turned the track into a blind labyrinth. He gritted his teeth, fighting physics itself.

“Take it easy,” the new engineer urged through comms. Too calm. Too clinical. The voice grated. Wrong.

Because the one voice he needed—the one that always cut through the storm—wasn’t there.

And for the first time in his career, Jungkook realized how terrifying silence could be.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

London was gray, but not as gray as you.

You hadn’t left your flat in days.

The curtains were still drawn, the same mug of untouched tea sat cold on the table. You hadn’t changed out of your pajamas—just traded the same shirt for the same blanket, wrapping yourself tighter, as if fabric could hold together what your chest couldn’t.

Your best friend sat beside you, her hand wrapped around yours. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her thumb stroked your knuckles with the quiet patience of someone who understood that sometimes, words only made the silence heavier.

The screen in front of you glowed like a wound. Sky Sports commentary filled the room, but it felt muffled, distant, like it was happening under water. You knew you shouldn’t be watching. Every headline, every push notification for the past week had told you to stay away—that he wasn’t yours anymore, that you’d been erased from the story.

But you couldn’t.

You needed to see him. Just once. Even if only through glass and pixels. Proof he was still here. Still fighting.

Your friend’s grip tightened when the clouds above Monza darkened. The commentators were already whispering about the storm front, about “the curse of the Italian rain.” You knew his weakness. He hated wet tracks. And without you in his ear—

“Don’t,” your friend whispered sharply, as if she could read your thoughts. “Don’t go there.”

But your chest was already a furnace of dread.

And then—Lap 27.

The camera panned to the number seven car, rooster tails spraying behind it. You leaned forward, breath fogging the glass.

Just one clean corner, you begged silently.

Just one.

The car twitched.

Hydroplaned.

And in one impossible heartbeat—it was gone.

Steel met concrete with a sound that seemed to tear through your own bones. Sparks exploded into the storm, flames roaring to life before your mind could catch up. The screen turned into hell itself—black smoke, red fire, twisted carbon fiber disappearing into a wall of rain.

Driver #7 didn’t climb out.

The world stopped. The commentators choked mid-sentence. Other cars slowed, a few pulling off completely, drivers raising their hands, helmets shaking in disbelief.

Silence fell across the paddock.

Silence fell across your flat.

You didn’t even feel your knees give out. One second you were sitting, the next you were on the floor, palms pressed so hard into the carpet that your nails left crescents. A sound ripped out of you—raw, animal, breaking. “Please. Please. No. No. No—”

Your friend dropped down with you, pulling you against her chest, but you barely felt her. Your body shook with sobs that felt like they were tearing pieces out of your lungs.

Prayers tumbled out—words you hadn’t said in years, bargains you weren’t sure you believed in. Anything, anything, if he would just open that cockpit. If he would just move.

The broadcast cut to pitlane. Medics sprinting. Marshals battling the fire with foam and frantic arms. Time distorted—every second stretching into eternity. And then, at last—

They pulled him out.

Limp. Charred. Smoke still curling from his suit. The stretcher disappeared into a sea of helmets and orange overalls.

Alive.

But broken.

The only word whispered on the broadcast was critical.

As the storm kept hammering Monza, your tears blurred the screen into nothing but colors and light.

But you heard the crowd.

You heard the silence.

You heard the weight of the world as it realized Jungkook’s future, your future, hung by the thinnest of threads.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The flight to Italy felt like punishment.

Hours collapsed into one endless blur of whispered prayers against your palms, of turbulence that rattled your bones, of an engine hum that drowned out the pounding of your heart. You hadn’t slept, couldn’t—because every time you blinked, you saw the fire swallowing his car, saw the moment he didn’t move.

By the time you reached Italy, you felt like a ghost chasing the living. Your body stayed heavy, dragging through airport corridors and taxi rides, but your soul—your soul was already there, racing ahead of you, desperate just to see him breathing.

The hospital was a cathedral of despair.

Bleached walls, sterile light, floors polished so clean you could see your reflection—one you barely recognized, hollow-eyed and trembling. Every nurse you passed wore the same expression: careful, pitying, heavy with things they didn’t say out loud.

And then—finally.

The nurse guiding you stopped at a door.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if sound itself might shatter him.

“He’s awake.”

Your pulse stuttered so violently you thought you might collapse.

Inside, the world shrank to a single bed.

He lay pale against the sheets, hair damp with sweat, bruises splashed across his jaw like dark ink. Bandages wound tight around his ribs, wires crawled over his skin, tethering him to machines that hummed with quiet vigilance. He looked broken, fragile. But then—

His eyes found you.

Instant. Unwavering.

Like they’d been waiting.

“Y/N,” Jungkook rasped. The syllables frayed, his voice like torn fabric.

Air tore from your lungs. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding it for days. You stumbled forward, hands trembling, hovering over his until he shifted—just barely—lifting his hand enough for you to seize it, to cradle it like it was the only real thing in the universe.

“You scared the life out of me,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto the back of his hand. Your voice broke. “I thought I lost you.”

His throat worked around the effort of swallowing. His lips cracked into the faintest shape of a smile. “I thought… I wouldn’t get to see you again.”

“Don’t,” you gasped, shaking your head fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

That tired, crooked smile tugged again. “Still bossing me around, even when I’m half-dead.”

A sound tumbled out of you—half sob, half laugh. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

Silence settled, fragile and holy. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, barely there, but it anchored you to him, tethered you to the rhythm of his unsteady breath.

“You know what I kept thinking?” he whispered, each word costing him.

“What?” you breathed, terrified of breaking the spell.

“That I didn’t tell you enough. That I didn’t show you enough.” His eyes shone wet under the fluorescent light. “I wasn’t scared of the crash. Or the fire. I was scared of never… getting to say it.”

Your heart lodged in your throat. “Say what?”

His chest shuddered on a breath, and the truth cracked him open. “That I love you.”

The words spilled like they’d been dammed for years, heavy and unstoppable. His hand tightened in yours with surprising strength, as though he needed you to feel it, believe it. “I’m so goddamn in love with you, Y/N. And I hate myself for waiting this long to admit it.”

Your tears fell faster, hot and unrelenting. You leaned in until your forehead pressed against the back of his hand, clutching it like a lifeline. “You’re an idiot,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “The biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?” His lips ghosted a smile, weak but real. “Takes one to love one.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze, every wall you’d built crumbling under the raw ache in his eyes. The words tumbled out of you before you could stop them. “I love you too. God help me, Jungkook, I love you so much it hurts.”

The monitor beside him beeped erratically with his quickened pulse. His hand shook, but he reached for your face anyway, thumb brushing clumsily against your cheek as if he needed to feel the tears he’d caused.

For the first time in forever, he exhaled a laugh that wasn’t bitter, wasn’t strained.

Just broken relief.

“Finally,” he breathed.

You pressed his hand harder to your cheek, closing your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Not again. Not after this.”

And when his shoulders softened, when his eyes slipped closed with the ghost of a smile on his lips, you knew.

For the first time since the fire, since the scandal, since the lies.

He believed you.

The door opened softly.

Jimin stepped in, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. His gaze landed on your joined hands and softened. For a moment, he looked like he might break apart entirely.

“Good,” he said firmly, his voice low but steady. “Good. Because we’re going to fix this. All of it. Together.”

You nodded, and for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Two Days Later – Press Conference

The media room buzzed like a hive before the storm.

Reporters jostled elbows, microphones angled forward, camera shutters popping even before he stepped inside.

Then Jungkook appeared.

Bruises still purple across his jaw, bandages peeking beneath the cuff of his shirt, posture stiff with pain—but his head was high. His walk was deliberate, almost defiant, like every step was proof that he was still standing.

The chatter died instantly. A silence thick with anticipation settled over the room.

He reached the podium, fingers curling briefly around the mic as if to ground himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady, almost cold—until it caught on you at the very back. Just for a second, his shoulders loosened.

“There’s been a lot of talk,” Jungkook began. His voice was rough around the edges but unwavering. “About me. About my team. About my race engineer.”

A ripple of tension swept the room. Pens poised, cameras leaned forward.

“I want to make this clear: there was no affair,” he said, jaw tightening. “What there is… is a relationship. It may not be the kind you expect between a driver and his engineer, but her professionalism has never once been compromised. Not once.”

The room detonated. Reporters shouted over one another, flashes burst like fireworks, the noise rising to chaos. Jungkook didn’t flinch.

Jackson Wang’s voice cut through the clamor—smooth, insistent. “So are you confirming you’re together? And Jungkook—what do you say to those questioning her credibility in the paddock?”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitched, not a smile but something sharper. He leaned into the mic. “She is the most talented, most professional engineer in this paddock. Period. Anyone who’s worked with her knows it. And if they don’t—” His eyes burned into the cameras, unyielding. “They will.”

For once, the reaction was different. Instead of scandal, the room buzzed with something else—approval, even admiration. The headlines shifted in real time, the tone changing like the tide: Power Couple of the Paddock.

Later that day, the FIA released its findings. No faulty part. No espionage. No breach of conduct. Smoke and shadows, nothing more.

Ferrari, surprisingly, confirmed the whispers too. Their offer to Jungkook had been real. They wanted him for the scarlet seat. And though he hadn’t signed, the very acknowledgment validated everything.

And behind the scenes, you learned the rest.

It had been Jin who pulled the final strings—moving quietly to clean up the mess he’d created, scrubbing the false reports, leaning on his contacts until your name was clear again. He hadn’t asked for forgiveness. Jungkook hadn’t given it.

The silence between brothers lingered like an open wound.

But then Red Bull’s official announcement blazed across every screen: YN will resume her position as Race Engineer for Car 7, starting next race weekend.

Your hands trembled as you read it. Relief slammed into you, leaving you unsteady, lightheaded.

You weren’t just back. You were back with him.

And now—for better or worse—the whole world knew it.

But every race has a final lap, and theirs was still to come.

(End of Part I)

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

OMFG, guys! I think I just wrote my favorite fic so far. I’m so happy that this journey has finally pulled me out of a writing slump that lasted for a little over a year. I’m so excited for the epilogue of this story—which might even turn into a series of standalone fics! I’m just so happy to be back. Love, Ria 💖

#bts au #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #bts jk #bts jimin

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riaarivic · 2 days ago

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The Rookie Part 1 (M) I F1Racer!Jungkook x F!Reader

🏎️ Pairing F1Racer!Jungkook x RaceEngineer!Reader

🏎️ Genres F1!AU, Slow Burn, Forbidden Romance, Angst, Smut, Sports Drama, Rivals to Lovers, One shot

🏎️ Rating 18+ (minors DNI)

And in Formula 1, one wrong move can change everything.

🏎️ Warnings: explicit sexual content, foul language, sabotage, media pressure, angst, forbidden romance

🏎️ Wordcount: 15k (I'm so proud of myself for this) 🏎️ Epilogue (Part 2) Here Part 1 of the End Game Series of One-shots! 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️