rickybobbydan

[rickybobbydan]

Prologue: The Ones who Start Young

Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC

Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.

Frida is caught between legacy and loyalty, victory and vulnerability, Frida has to decide whether she will always belong to someone else's race, or is she finally ready to lead her own?

They met before the world began watching. Before the cameras. Before the contracts. Before the weight of legacy could fold a child in half. Before the paddock knew their names.

Frida Montoya was twelve the first time she beat Max Verstappen in a karting final.

He was already being called a prodigy—the son of a Dutch F1 racer with a temper and a terrifying precision behind the wheel. Max was unnervingly fast. The kind of fast that made mechanics whistle under their breath. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension through his helmet. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile, not unless he was winning. And even then, it was more exhale than celebration. His father demanded lap times, not laughter.

Frida, meanwhile, was fire wrapped in grit. Mexican blood. Spanish tongue. California-born lungs, LA raised, that laughed when others yelled. She raced like someone who refused to be ignored, on the throttle early, on the brakes late, always inches from the edge of disaster. She was chaos in motion with a braid down her back and a chip on her shoulder. By the time they met at the Cadet Cup in Zuera, she was already known as the wildcard: the girl who could feel grip in her bones and never backed down from a fight.

The final lap of that race would live in Max’s memory forever.

He had the inside line. She had the guts. And when she took Turn 8 on the outside, wheels nearly touching, she laughed.

It infuriated him. And something else he couldn’t name at the time, something that sat low and hot in his chest, twisted inside him.

Max didn’t speak to her for a week afterward. He sulked through breakfast, snapped at mechanics, and didn’t meet her eyes.

Then, one morning, he sat beside her in the shaded area near the track, didn’t say a word, and slid her a bruised banana. She peeled it, slow and smug. And that was how he surrendered.

He told himself he didn’t care that she’d beaten him. But he remembered every second of that final lap. And the sound of her laughter still echoed when he closed his eyes.

They’d been inseparable ever since.

By thirteen, Frida was a fixture in the Verstappen garage. Jos didn’t love it, but he tolerated her, mostly because Max drove better when she was there. He was calmer, sharper, more dangerous.

Frida had a gift for analytics and data. Everyone knew it. She could read kart setups better than grown engineers. Talked about balance like it was a feeling, not a metric. Something in her just sensed when a chassis needed more bite or a softer front end. She didn’t ask for attention. Didn’t care for praise. She just wanted to get it right.

And Max, he watched her more than he should have. He told himself it was because she was smart. Because she pushed him. Because no one else in his world had ever challenged him without fear. But sometimes, when she was leaning over telemetry or yelling at him through her headset, short hair swinging tousled but the breeze, Max would feel that same twist in his chest. He buried it. Like everything else.

And then came Carlos.

Older by a few years. Already polished. Already carrying the weight of the Red Bull Junior Programme like a badge. His Spanish was smoother than Frida’s—Madrid-tinged and musical—and when he walked into the karting paddock in Italy, Frida rolled her eyes like she already knew he’d be a problem. The first time they met, she was standing next to Max, arms crossed, jaw set.

Carlos gave her a lazy once-over and smiled. “¿Y tú quién eres, niñita?” And who are you, little girl?

Frida didn’t flinch. “Call me that again and I’ll out brake you into Turn 1.”

Max had grinned, actually grinned, the kind that caught Frida off guard because it only happened when someone else was about to get humbled.

Carlos laughed and raised his hands. “Noted.”

But that weekend, something broke. Frida crashed in qualifying. The track was slick. Her tires were cold. The rear stepped out in the esses. She went hard into the barriers. Helmet rattled. Ribs bruised. Ego shattered.

She limped away without speaking. Sat alone on the tire wall for nearly an hour, suit still on, helmet tucked under her chin like armor.

It wasn’t the pain that undid her. It was the fear. Because for the first time, Frida Montoya hesitated.

Carlos found her first. He crouched beside her like he wasn’t afraid of the fire leaking from her eyes.

“You’re allowed to be afraid,” he said softly. “Just don’t live there.

He handed her a juice box. Apple. She didn’t say thank you, but she took it. A few minutes later, Max appeared.

He didn’t speak. Just sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched. He started quietly picking bits of gravel from her gloves, one at a time, like it was his job. Like she was something he could fix with his hands.

She didn’t look at him. But she didn’t move away either. That moment—silent and raw—changed everything.

Three kids. Three lives shaped by rubber and rain and impossible expectations.

Frida never imagined she’d have to stop racing. But when the injury came, sharp, sudden, unforgiving, she didn’t vanish.

She evolved.

If she couldn’t drive, she’d build. If she couldn’t win from behind the wheel, she’d outthink every strategist on the grid. She trained. She studied. She fought her way into engineering meetings no other girl her age was invited to.

By twenty-four, she had done the unthinkable: Lead Race Engineer at Red Bull Racing. The voice Max Verstappen trusted above all. His compass in the chaos. His anchor in the storm.

And Carlos?

Carlos took a different road, a slower one. But he always watched her from across the grid with something just behind his smile.

Sometimes they exchanged nods. Sometimes more. Never enough.

Max saw it Of course he did. He wasn’t blind. He just didn’t say a word. Because if he never said it, it didn’t have to be real.

Time has a funny way of sanding down the edges of childhood tension until they resemble something else, something unspoken and dangerous.

Now, years later, all grown up, the world watches now. The stakes are higher and the silence between them is heavier.

And Frida stands between them again. Max, who never asked her to be less. Carlos, who might finally be brave enough to ask her to be more.

But this time? She won’t let fear keep her from the race. Not the one on track. And not the one in her heart.

[rickybobbydan]

05/07/25, Northampton. Max Verstappen cools down in parc ferme after taking pole prior to the F1 British Grand Prix 2025. Photo by Rudy Carezzevoli, edited.

[rickybobbydan]

Oh my gosh... that Jenson fic was so sweet and incredibly written. Thank you so much for that! 💖💖

I loved writing this! I absolutely love Jenson and I had so much fun writing this out and exploring the mutual pining! 💙💙🥹

[rickybobbydan]

I would LOVE some sort of slow-burn, mutual pining sort of thing with Jenson. Maybe something where he and reader (or OC if you're more comfortable with that) are both SkySports pundits? Where maybe Jenson is always taking her under his wing and they both have feelings for eachother but hide it so well?

Just a suggestion, I would love to read whatever you come up with if you decide to write anything for JB. 💖

It started when you got the call. Of all the jobs with media outlets you had applied to, Sky Sports was the first to get back to you. You had a fairly successful stint covering IndyCar and having covered lower formula series like F2 and F3, along with a podcast where you talked about motorsports and, technicalities of those series, including F1. So, to say you were familiar with the world of motorsports, was the understatement of the year.

You went through the process and traveled to SkyCampus to meet the team of other pundits you would be working with. Of those, you were introduced to Nico Rosberg, Jenson Button, and unfortunately Danica Patrick. From a first glance, it was Jenson that shook your hand first. Your smaller one in his, a spark at first touch. The handshake lasted a second too long before she pulled back and smiled at Nico and Danica

“I’m y/n l/n. It’s nice to finally meet you all,” you composed yourself, smiling at Nico and Danica. Though Danica looked more bored than anything. You could say you weren’t her biggest fan, having spoken up about her inaccuracies when it comes to talking about F1, often having nothing to back up what she was saying.

Nico was the first to speak, “I’m glad to finally meet the revered podcast host. I've listened to some of your episodes on the current season discussing tire degradation and how to improve the world of F1 with sustainable methods.”

To say you were surprised that THE Nico Rosberg was an active listener of your podcast was like a dream come true.

"Thank you. That honestly means a lot. I try to be as informed and give input with the knowledge of my mechanical engineering degree,” you smile. Your attention then turns to Jenson, who smiles at you warmly, “I liked your episode on Monza. The bold takes on teammate rivalries within teams were captivating. I like what you have to say a lot.”

You meet his gaze and gave a small laugh, “Thank you. I hope it’s not too bold for live TV.”

Danica crosses her arms, leaning on the wall, utterly bored of this conversation, "We’ll see if she can hold her own on live TV.”

You looked toward her, giving her a rehearsed smile dedicated to people you didn’t like, “I guess we’ll find out in Bahrain.”

You met Jenson’s gaze, his blue eyes lingering just a little too long to be casual. It was polite not in the way that you wanted to keep staring into those pools of blue. You already had a feeling this was going to be a very interesting season.

Lingering looks and small smiles. That’s how it started. There wasn’t anything loud about Jenson. He was kind and gentle with you, the complete opposite of his interaction and look of displeasure directed at Danica.

It was the small things, leaning over, whispering small corrections on some data you may have miscalculated, helping out instead of making you feel small, like so many others in motorsports journalism had made you feel. Jenson made sure to always stand next to you in broadcast lineups. A subtle move, a step closer to you that would have people questioning if it was normal, if they stared too long. He offered a quiet murmur of, “You alright?” If Danica’s passive aggressiveness was ever directed at you.

You remember a particularly hectic qualifying breakdown, Danica kept interrupting you, talking over you, never letting you get a full thought out, it was Jenson who cleared his throat very loudly into his mic, “Let her finish, Danica.”

Through every interview, simmering frustration was replaced with surprise. He didn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on the camera ahead of him, but you saw a small smile and the two small taps, something you picked up on the first week you started working with him, on his microphone that reassured you, You’ve got this.

From then on, you two never brought up the silent agreement of making sure you had space to voice your input, more often more insightful than Danica’s thanks to the knowledge of the sport you had.

This was work. That was the one thought that constantly ran through your mind during every interaction with Jenson. Jenson mirrored the same thoughts, telling himself he needed to be respectful, that he admired you as a colleague, but every time your smile was directed at him or something Nico said, the tight pull in his chest was impossible to ignore. He knew what it was.

You would find him later, in a hospitality area somewhere around the paddock that he had introduced to you when you first arrived for the race weekend on Thursday. There, he had waited for you to find him, two cups of lukewarm coffee on the table in front of him.

“Thank you for what you did earlier,” you said quietly.

Jenson gave you that small smirk that had your stomach flipping, “You’d do the same for me.”

You would. You almost told yourself that you’d do anything to keep that smile directed a you.

Silverstone finally came around. Not only was this a home race for many drivers and some of the teams, but this was a home race for Jenson.

It was raining, the English drizzle bringing the type of cold that you could feel in your bones. It had been a long day of media duties, dealing with Danica, and feeling like all you wanted was a hot shower so you could feel your toes again. But once it was over, it was Jenson, with an umbrella barely big enough for two people who offered to walk you to the car park, shielding you from the rain.

The silence between you two was almost electric, neither of you saying anything. The months of pining without any thought that it might be mutual, an unspoken weight. You stayed silent, the sound of raindrops falling on the umbrella, the distant buzz of the paddock being the only sound between you two.

It was Jenson who finally dared to speak up, It’s always strange coming back to Silverstone. Driving days far behind me.”

You finally look up at him, realizing how close you are to him, “Do you miss it?”

He glanced in the direction of the track, jaw tensing, “Parts of it. I don’t miss the politics, the pressure. But the feeling of being in the car, I miss that. I miss the rush of adrenaline. Sometimes the loneliness, as odd as that sounds.”

You both take a few more steps, letting the silence settle between you two before speaking up, “It’s not so lonely now, is it?”

Jenson looks at you, really look this time. His lips parted, something unreadable in his expression, “No. Not when you’re next to me.”

You still at his confession, swallowing hard, but not saying anything.

Your hands brush once against the one that doesn’t hold the umbrella. Neither of you move away.

The tension kept building up throughout the season, steadily and quietly. Glances started lingering too long to be considered professional. He always looked for you first before interviews. He laughed at your jokes, you felt his eyes on you when you traveled from country to country, sitting next to you if the opportunity came. Long flights often ended up with you falling asleep against his shoulder, using him as your own personal pillow.

You never talked about it. Because this was work. Because he was older than you. Because you were supposed to be professionals and colleagues.

But sometimes you would catch him already looking at you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was like he was trying to memorize every detail on your face in case you disappeared one day.

And sometimes, after long flights and little to no sleep, in your tired stupor, when you noticed a hair out of place, all you wanted to do was reach out and brush it back into place. You wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

Then, the last race of the season: Abu Dhabi.

The bright light glittered off the water in Yas Marina. Everyone felt the year-long exhaustion now. But now, after the post-race coverage you, Nico, and Jenson did, you finally sat in the green room, shoes next to you, feet aching from standing in heels you now regretted wearing.

This was when Jenson walked in, hair tousled by the wind, looking tired. His demeanor and expression softened as soon as he laid his blue eyes on you.

“You okay?” He spoke up.

You didn’t hear him come in and look up as soon as he spoke, I’m just…tired.”

He sat next to you on the couch, knees touching, the warmth of his thighs seeping into your tired muscles, “It was a hell of a season.”

You looked over at him, in your exhaustion. You really looked at him.

The words tumbled from your mouth without thinking, “Were you just kind to me because I was the new girl?”

Jenson was now facing you, vulnerability swimming in the look he gave you, “No. It wasn’t because you were new.”

Holding your gaze, you said softly, “Why then?”

He exhaled, slow, “Because you’re you. And because” he stopped himself, calculating his next words, “I’ve spent the entire year denying myself of what I’ve felt, trying not to feel what I feel.”

You blinked, the familiar feelings resurfacing, “Then stop denying yourself. Stop trying.”

It was like the tension finally cracked between you two. The small, secret smiles, the lingering looks, all the times he protected you in his own subtle way, it all rushed in at that moment. Jenson looked at you, really looked like he was on the edge of falling into a decision he refused to act on all year.

For the first time, he didn’t deny himself what he felt for you. He reached out to you, placing a warm hand on your cheek. His thumb tracing the edge of your mouth, a look telling you he’d been contemplating this moment for a long time. You lean into his touch, placing your hand on top of his, asking him not to let go.

His touch was gentle, careful like you were something sacred he was dying to touch, to worship, “I don’t know what this is, but I know what I feel.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you whisper.

His lips find yours first, his other hand cupping the side of your neck, hidden in your hair. You’d imagined this moment for months, but you still couldn’t believe this was happening. His lips moved against yours own, slowly, as if he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your lips. You kissed him back gently, almost as if anything else would break the moment. There was no rush here. You had wanted this for so long, your fireworks finally happening, but you think it might have been the ongoing celebrations out in the world, away from this moment.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against your own, his breath warm and mixing with your own.

“For the record,” he whispered, “I stopped trying, the day you wore your Sky Sports jacket inside out and still out-analyzed the entire panel.”

You laughed, coming out quietly, “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.”

[rickybobbydan]

1. Fire and Fog

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!OC Driver

Summary: The first race of the 2016 season brings chaos and resurrects fears still living within Solana

Warnings: Fernando ALonso's crash, metions of self doubt

Words: 2.6k+

Next

Melbourne, Australia – March 2016

The first race of the season is always a kind of rebirth. New liveries., new teammates, new hopes wrapped in carbon fiber and painstaking strategy meetings. The paddock smells of tire rubber and ambition, nerves hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, and the hum of new power units being brought to life.

But for Solana, it’s not just the beginning of a new year. It’s a reckoning, it’s survival.

It’s proving she still belongs in the seat of a Ferrari, even as the whispers gather like storm clouds in the corners of press conferences and VIP lounges. Even as sponsors and journalists murmur that maybe she’s peaked, that her miracle rookie season and her second year were just that: miracles, flashes of a girl on fire, now flickering.

The SF16-H sits like a beast in the garage, sleeker and sharper than its predecessor. But the upgrades mean nothing if she can’t drive like she used to, like she still has something to prove. he does.

Every lap this weekend, every corner, is a declaration: I am not done.

Sebastian Vettel watches her from across the garage, already suited up, arms crossed over his chest. Their partnership is civil, professional, but it’s not close. Not yet. Maybe not ever. There’s history in the air lingering with respect, but distance, too. Both used to being the first name on Ferrari’s lips.

Solana tightens her gloves, inhaling sharply.

Outside, the clouds hang low and moody over Albert Park. Fog curls over the lake like breath, and the buzz in the paddock thickens with tension. New rules, new tire compounds, and new rivalries waiting to ignite.

Daniel Ricciardo’s laughter carries faintly from the Red Bull motorhome across the way, unmistakable, easy. It's the laugh she wakes up to echoing from the kitchen in the mornings when he burns his toast trying to multitask breakfast and race replays.

He’s joking with a mechanic now, that familiar crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When he catches her looking, he lifts a brow, slightly. A quiet acknowledgment, a silent challenge, the kind couples exchange when things are fine, but not simple.

They’ve slept in the same bed, shared breakfasts, but there are still things they haven’t said out loud. Questions that are buried under routine. Emotions neither of them have unpacked yet, not fully.

She adjusts the wristband on her left arm, a Red Bull-branded one Daniel left on their dresser that she’d stolen just to mess with him. He hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had and let her keep it.

“Five minutes to pit lane,” Marco says over the radio, breaking her thoughts. “Time to light it up.”

She nods once, mostly to herself, and tugs her helmet down. The world narrows. The visor lowers. Everything becomes focus.

The engine screams to life beneath her. Fire and fog, rising together. And when she rolls onto the track, the only thing that matters is the next corner.

Ferrari Garage – March 17, 2016

"Looks good," says her race engineer, Marco, eyes flicking across a sea of telemetry lines on his tablet, brows furrowed in focus.

“You say that every year,” Solana replies, arms crossed over her chest, tone dry but affectionate.

The SF16-H glints under the garage lights, deeper red than last year, curves more aggressive, leaner in its stance. It looks like a weapon. It is a weapon. Even so, Solana studies it with the eyes of someone who knows that beauty doesn't win races, precision does. Grit, timing, temper do.

Still, something inside her aches. Not the dull throb in her right shoulder from winter training she’s used to by now. Not the residual tension of press obligations or simulator work or endless days at Maranello. This ache is quieter. It runs deeper, the ache of coming back to something you love while knowing it won’t last forever.

Each year in this sport is a countdown, not a climb. Legacy is a summit with no map and every race run, every lap driven, is both a triumph and a loss. It's another passage in the history books. One step closer to goodbye. She doesn’t say it aloud. But it lives in her.

Across the paddock, the media pen is buzzing with microphones, flashbulbs, the scent of sunscreen and adrenaline. The new season smells like fresh vinyl and scorched rubber.

And through the flurry, Daniel grins at her from under his Red Bull cap. That same boyish grin. The one that’s undone her in ways she’s never admitted, even now.

He’s mid-interview, but when their eyes meet, he lifts a hand in a mock salute, then switches channels.

“You still love this chaos?” his voice crackles through her earpiece. The private comms line they always swore was for “strategy banter only.”

Solana's lips curve.

“Still pretending you weren’t pacing the flat all night like a rookie?” she fires back, teasing, but there’s warmth under it.

He laughs, warm and real, even through static. God, she missed that sound every time he wasn't near her. Its the kind of laugh that unspools her nerves and resets her breathing. The kind of laugh that feels like home, even when everything else is shifting sand.

She doesn’t respond right away, just lets the noise of the paddock swell around her again. Reporters calling names, camera shutters clicking, engines revving in the background.

And the ache in her chest, it lightens, just a little bit.

Qualifying – March 19, 2016 Albert Park Circuit – Melbourne, Australia

The sun hangs low over the paddock, casting long shadows across the tarmac as the day winds down. The air smells of burnt rubber and eucalyptus, laced with the electric aftertaste of adrenaline.

Solana unzips her race suit halfway, letting the humid breeze cool the sweat at the nape of her neck. P3. A solid qualifying. She’d wrung every tenth out of the SF16-H, threading the needle between corners with the kind of razor-sharp edge only born from instinct. Lewis took pole. Nico slotted in beside him. Sebastian lined up behind her, P4, close enough to back her if things got messy at Turn 1.

Still, it didn’t feel like a victory. Not when her eyes kept drifting across the screens to one name Daniel Ricciardo in P8. A Red Bull caught in a battle it wasn’t built to win.

She finds him where she knew he’d be: tucked behind the Red Bull hospitality area, out of sight, just visible beyond a line of crates and a half-empty espresso cart. The crowds have thinned, everyone’s either packed up or facing interviews under fluorescents.

He’s perched on a metal stool behind the Red Bull hospitality crates, chugging from a water bottle like he’s trying to flush out the frustration. One leg bounces restlessly, fingers drumming a rhythm she’s come to recognize, his loop of self-doubt. She’s heard it tapping on their shared kitchen counter at 1 a.m. more than once over winter.

His fireproofs are still half on, sleeves tied around his waist, chest rising with the shallow breath of a driver who expected more and got less.

“Eight,” he mutters when he sees her approach, not surprised or performative. Only honest, “Again.”

Solana doesn’t flinch. She just walks up, arms crossed loosely over her Ferrari gear, eyes steady. “You’ll fight through.”

Daniel lets out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Only if I’ve got something to fight for.”

She doesn’t hesitate, she doesn’t need to, “You’ve got me.”

He looks up then, fully and completely looking at her. There isn't a hint of the look he used to give her, one of the old hesitance, none of the wondering. Just tired brown eyes meeting hers with a clarity that only comes from knowing and from nights spent in the same bed, from coffees made without asking, and sharing the silence when words felt too fragile.

His fingers still and his leg finally quiets.

“I know,” he says softly. This time it’s not a question.

Solana steps closer until their knees nearly touch. The paddock hums somewhere behind them, muffled by canvas and tension and the slow fall of dusk.

She smiles, small but certain. “You’re allowed to be angry, you know. Just don’t let it change who you are.”

Daniel takes another sip of water, wrapping his arms around her waist, “And who’s that?”

She shrugs. “The man who made the whole world love this sport again who still makes me leave the lights on in the kitchen because he’s scared of walking into chair legs in the dark. The man I fell in love with.”

That gets a proper laugh. He leans forward, forehead resting briefly against her stomach and chest. Daniel's way of saying I needed this, thank you.

“You gonna shake up the silver boys tomorrow?” he asks into the space between them.

Solana grins. “I’m thinking about it.”

He sits back, smile spreading wider now, warmth rising behind his eyes like sunrise. “That’s my girl.”

And just like that, the world feels a little less heavy.

Race Day – March 20, 2016 Albert Park Circuit – Melbourne, Australia

Chaos. That’s the only word for it.

When the lights go out, it’s war into Turn 1. Solana gets a clean launch, holding P3 through the first sector and fending off Sebastian by inches during the opening laps. But nothing about this race feels settled. Every corner is a gamble, and every straight feels like a test of nerve.

Then, on Lap 17, everything changes.

Coming out of Turn 3, Solana sees the crash unfold in a terrifying stutter of motion in her mirrors. Fernando Alonso’s McLaren clips the rear of Esteban Gutiérrez’s Haas. The impact launches Fernando’s car airborne, flipping violently before it disintegrates into shards of carbon fiber and shattered metal. It slams into the barriers upside down, the wreckage so mangled it barely resembles a car.

The radio crackles almost instantly. “Red flag. Red flag. Box, box.”

No one moves. No one breathes.

Solana’s stomach knots as she pulls into the pit lane. The SF16-H crawls under the blinding garage lights, and all around her, the Ferrari crew is frozen. Mechanics hold tools mid-air, and Marco stares at the monitor, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. A hush spreads down the pit lane as every team turns to their screens, waiting for a verdict.

The garage feels colder than it should, like the breath of something too close, too real, too familiar.

She doesn’t breathe until the words finally come through. “Fernando is okay.”

The relief is instant and almost audible. Her crew blinks and exhales. Someone swears. Marco lets out a choked breath, then speaks again, more alive this time. “Driver out. Confirmed. He’s walking.”

Solana presses the heel of her glove to her eyes, forcing herself not to imagine what could have happened. How thin the line really is. How it could have been anyone—her, Daniel, Charles—on any given day.

The race is delayed for more than fifteen minutes as debris is cleared and the barrier is repaired. When it finally resumes, the energy is different. It’s no longer about pace or podiums. It’s about survival, rage, and something sharper—clarity.

By Lap 30, she has dropped to P6 after a sluggish restart and a bump from Bottas. But she claws her way back. Corner after corner, she reclaims her rhythm. She dispatches Verstappen in Turn 9, then chases Sainz for five relentless laps before forcing him into a lock-up. Her hands ache from gripping the wheel. Her chest burns from holding her breath through too many braking zones.

By Lap 47, she’s behind Massa, and she knows she only has one shot. She dives down the inside at Turn 13, brakes late, and muscles her way through. It’s clean, aggressive, and absolutely perfect.

“Beautiful move,” Marco says in her ear. “P3, Sol. Let’s bring it home.”

The final laps blur into pure instinct. She holds off Räikkönen without error and refuses to glance at the timing screens.

When she crosses the finish line, the checkered flag waving like a banner of defiance, she’s P3. The silver cars of Hamilton and Rosberg may have taken the top two steps, but Solana? She’s back on the podium.

She climbs out of the Ferrari, drenched in sweat, the smile on her face real and radiant.

Let them talk. Let them say she’s fading. Let them whisper about how long she can last.

She’s still here. She’s still fighting.

And she’s only just getting started.

Post-Race – A Balcony in Melbourne March 20, 2016

That night, Melbourne hums beneath them. The soft blur of traffic, a cricket chirping in the distance, and the occasional gust of wind rolling off the bay fill the quiet. The balcony is barely wide enough for two chairs and a railing, but it’s theirs tonight—a small refuge above the noise.

Daniel’s legs are propped up on the railing, socked feet swaying slightly to the rhythm of whatever melody loops in his head. Solana sits beside him, knees tucked into her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. The sweat from the race is long gone, and her curls are still damp from the shower. Her body aches with her shoulders tight and knuckles sore, but it’s the emotional exhaustion that weighs heavier than anything physical.

“You didn’t crash,” she says, her voice just louder than the breeze.

Daniel doesn’t look at her right away. He tilts his head back and stares at the stars, faint and hidden behind the city’s haze.

“You didn’t let the world forget you,” he replies after a long pause. His tone is even, not a compliment, but a simple truth.

They sit in silence, letting the day settle around them. The ceremony, the interviews, the restart after the crash. The image of Alonso’s McLaren in pieces still lingers at the edges of Solana’s thoughts. There’s something grounding, almost brutal, about being reminded just how thin the line is between glory and disaster.

The air smells of eucalyptus and the faint trace of frangipani, with summer clinging tightly to the edge of autumn.

“I’m scared this is the last year I’ll feel like this,” she says eventually. Her voice catches. “Like I still matter. Like they still believe in me. Like I belong.”

Daniel lowers his legs, his feet landing softly on the concrete. He turns toward her, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sol,” he says, his voice warm and steady, calling her by the name that always sounds like home. “You could walk away tomorrow and still matter.”

She doesn’t answer. Her gaze stays fixed on the skyline, where the lights blur and pulse like heartbeats.

Daniel leans forward and gently brushes her hand with his fingers. “But if you’re scared, then let’s make it count. Let’s burn the year into our skin. Let’s make it feel like forever, even if it’s not.”

Solana turns to him, her eyes shining under the faint light from the hotel window behind them.

She leans in, slow and certain, and when she kisses him, firm, honest, and full. It isn’t for just reassurance, but it’s a promise. A shared truth carved from everything they’ve endured.

The kiss lingers until she finally pulls away. She rests her forehead against his, releasing a breath like it’s the first real one she’s taken all day.

And just like that, the fog inside her, the doubt, the pressure, the fear, it all begins to lift. Not completely, but just enough.

Enough to believe in tomorrow. Enough to keep going. Enough to keep fighting.

Next

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream , @cryingtoteenwolf

[rickybobbydan]

👉👈

I really enjoyed your recent Daniel fic!

Would you ever write anything for Jenson? Maybe just a oneshot or something? Don't feel pressured if you don't want to. 💖

Thank so much! I definitely would write for Jenson! I have a few idea, but let me know if y'all want anything specific!

[rickybobbydan]

🔥 Red Flame 🔥

Sequal to "Art of the Apex"

In which Solana and Daniel have endured so much since her rookie year. Now, team dynamics, team rivalries, and internal power struggles really start testing Solana.

Stay Tuned!

[rickybobbydan]

Take a Vote!

I know it doesn't show the whole grid, so I plan on adding maybe another poll to get some options!

[rickybobbydan]

Update: A second Installment of Danny and Sol's story

I've been working on the first few parts of Danny and Solana's story. I am going to put out a poll while I simultaneously work on stories for other drivers. If y'all have any requests, feel free to send them!

[rickybobbydan]

Between the Lines

Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC (platonic)

Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.

Frida is caught between legacy and loyalty, victory and vulnerability, Frida has to decide whether she will always belong to someone else's race, or is she finally ready to lead her own?

[rickybobbydan]

Q: those solutions to the car problems that you said you have, are they coming with the next upgrades?

charles: “no. there’s something more in the car, i never talked about it - and, believe me, it’s better i don’t talk about it. let’s hope the solution will come soon.”

[rickybobbydan]

22. Por Siempre

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!OC Driver

Summary: Mayne things are finally looking up as we end the 2015 season and get ready to see whet 2016 brings/

Warnings: Mentions of Jules,

Words: 2.6k+

A/N: SO this is the end of this part of Solana and Daniel's story. I'll be posting an initial poll with some drivers so that it makes choosing one easier. On another note, I really hoped you enjoyed this story as much as I did when I wrote this a while ago.

Previous

Winter 2015–2016 – Between Seasons

The paddock sleeps, tucked under frost and silence. Garages dark. Flights paused. Helmets stored away like relics of war.

But Solana doesn’t sleep.

Not really.

She lies awake in her apartment in Maranello, or sometimes in Daniel’s flat in Monaco, listening to the quiet hum of the world. It should be peaceful. It should feel like rest. But her soul still runs hot, haunted by the rhythm of circuits and ghosts.

The roar of the engine lives in her chest like a second heartbeat. Sometimes she dreams of Eau Rouge. Sometimes Suzuka. Sometimes Jules's laugh in the gravel after a qualifying run gone wrong.

In the mornings, she traces her calloused fingers over photos taped beside her bed: her parents at the Mexican GP, Charles and Jules in karting gear, Daniel kissing her podium-wet cheek in Austin. Proof that the year happened. That she made it through. That she didn’t drown in expectation or grief.

But survival changed her.

She trains harder now, alone on empty tracks under gray skies, headphones blasting music loud enough to drown doubt. Her trainer tries to convince her to rest. But how do you rest when you spent a season proving you're worthy of the seat you were told you’d never earn?

Sometimes, on particularly cold mornings, she texts Charles.

Still feel him out there?

Every time I brake late, he writes back. He’s smiling.

And then there’s Daniel. The boy with the sun in his laugh and grief hidden behind his teeth.

Their love lives in stolen days, quiet breakfasts in bed, blurry Facetimes between testing, laughter in languages that don't always need translating. They fight sometimes, too, when fear creeps in and neither of them knows what the future holds. But they always come back to each other. Anchors in a sport that never promises permanence.

One night, curled against his chest under a worn Red Bull hoodie, she whispers, "Do you ever think we’re just trying to hold something broken together?"

Daniel presses a kiss to her temple. "Maybe. But it’s ours. And it’s still beating."

She closes her eyes. Counts the seconds between his breaths. Between seasons. Outside, the world is sleeping.

But Solana is still awake. Still listening. Still carrying the weight of everything she lost and everything she became. Because the story isn’t over.

It’s just winter. And winter is when champions are made.

Monte Carlo – December 2015

The skies over Monaco are soft and gray, the kind of overcast that mutes the glitz into something reverent. Rain glides down the hills and rooftops, tracing the old bones of the city with quiet, steady grace.

Solana walks through the winding streets. Her hood pulled low, red scarf knotted tight at her neck, one of the last things Jules ever gave her.

The cemetery sits high on the hill overlooking the marina, where the water glimmers steel-blue beneath the clouds. The headstone isn’t Jules’ actual resting place—his grave is in Nice, with his family—but this memorial was erected with Charles' help. A place for them. For his chosen family. A space carved into Monaco’s silence where they could come and feel close.

Jules Bianchi 1989 – 2015 Pilote. Fils. Ami. Tu vis dans nos cœurs.

It’s simple. Quiet. The kind of tribute Jules would have preferred—modest, easy to miss unless you knew where to look. But to Solana, it’s the only place where her heart lets go.

She kneels in front of it, rain soaking the knees of her jeans, gloves damp from the slick stone.

She doesn’t pray.

She speaks.

"Charles is getting stronger. More focused. I see you in him more every day."

Her voice catches, low and brittle.

"I still hear your voice sometimes. When I brake late. When I’m scared. You always said 'Don’t lift.' So I don’t."

She bows her head, one tear sliding down, followed by another. They fall like the rain—soft and constant.

Then—arms.

Strong, familiar ones.

Daniel.

He wraps himself around her from behind, not saying anything at first. Just being there. Being with her.

"I didn’t want you to be alone," he murmurs into her damp scarf, voice quiet but steady.

She places her hand over his, right where it rests against her chest.

"You never let me be," she says. "Even when I tried to push you away."

He presses a kiss to her temple. Gentle and grounding.

"This place isn’t for him," she whispers. "It’s for us. For me, for Charles. So we have somewhere to remember without falling apart."

Daniel doesn’t speak. He just holds her tighter. The kind of silence that says, I get it. They stay there for a while, kneeling before memory, grief wrapped in red scarves and rain. Eventually, Solana leans her head back against Daniel’s chest.

"You were a bug part of his life" she says softly. "He always talked about you."

"I miss him. Everyday," Daniel answers.

And for the first time all season, Solana lets herself cry without guilt.

Here, in the city where Jules lived and laughed and dreamed, she lets Daniel carry the weight with her.

Because this monument may not hold Jules' body, it holds their love and it’s enough.

Italy – Ferrari Factory, Maranello December 2015,

The skies over Emilia-Romagna are overcast, heavy with the kind of chill that seeps into bones and carbon fiber alike. But inside the gates of Maranello, there’s a different kind of intensity. Not the roar of engines, but the hum of legacy being reassembled—one part, one vision, one heartbeat at a time.

Solana visits the factory twice that winter, once early in the month for business, and once quietly, just before Christmas.

The first is all business. She arrives in a tailored Ferrari jacket and sharp boots, sleeves pushed up, eyes focused. She spends hours in the simulator room, headset on, dissecting telemetry down to the millisecond. The engineers learn to keep pace with her—not just technically, but emotionally. Because she doesn’t speak in cold math. She speaks like the racer she is.

"You're overthinking turn-in response here," she says, leaning over a screen. "The car doesn't hesitate, the team does. Make it trust itself again."

She challenges them to find the soul of the machine, not just its specs. She pushes aero concepts that mimic driver instinct, not just wind tunnel approval. She reminds them that the driver isn’t the last step in development. She is the blueprint.

"I don’t just want a faster car," she tells the tech director. "I want a car that punishes fear. That rewards risk. Build me that."

They nod. They listen. Because she's not just the face of the team anymore. She’s its backbone.

The second visit is quieter. Personal.

Charles Leclerc joins her—fresh off his final F3 tests, wearing a puffy jacket too big for his narrow frame, his eyes full of awe and unspoken grief. The factory feels sacred to him. But also distant.

She walks him through the Hall of Legends—walls of red velvet and gold plaques, every world champion immortalized.

"Un día estarás aquí," she says, stopping beneath the names of Schumacher and Lauda. Her voice is soft, but sure.

Charles lowers his gaze. "Only if I earn it."

"You already carry it," she replies, looking directly at him. "You just don’t know it yet. But you will. Drive like you deserve to be remembered. Like Jules believed in you. Because I do."

His throat works with emotion. But he nods.

"Merci," he says quietly. "Pour tout." Thank you. For everything.

Solana places a hand on his shoulder. "For Jules, we go forward. Always."

Before she leaves, she asks for a moment alone on the assembly floor. The factory lights are dim, casting golden hues over unfinished chassis, sleek nosecones, and scattered parts like relics waiting for purpose.

Her next season’s car rests there—just a shell for now. But she walks toward it slowly, reverently. She presses her gloved hand against the monocoque. The cold carbon fiber warms beneath her touch, or maybe that’s just her heart answering back.

"Let’s write the next chapter right," she whispers. "Together."

And somewhere in the hum of the factory—in the echoes of Jules, the spark in Charles, and the fire in her own chest—Solana Villarosa knows:

The future isn't waiting.

It's being built here.

Right now.

By her own hands.

Navidad con la familia Riverside, California – December 24, 2015

The Villarosa household is glowing—literally. Strands of colorful Christmas lights hang from every corner of the roof and twine around the iron gate. Inside, the warmth isn’t just from the space heaters or the stove; it’s from the people.

The living room is full of voices and aromas that stitch together her childhood—tamales de mole rojo, pozole rojo, carne asada sizzling on the grill outside where her tíos laugh over beers and swap family gossip under strings of blinking lights. The kitchen table is crowded with bowls of guacamole, pan dulce, mugs of bundles of strawberry flavors atole, and her abuela’s ceramic nativity set, carefully arranged like it has been every year since Solana was five.

Her younger cousins crowd around the TV, screaming in a chaotic mix of Spanish and English as they battle it out on Mario Kart. “¡No manches!” one yells, after spinning out on Rainbow Road. Another shouts, “Cheater!” before bursting into giggles.

Solana watches it all from the couch, wrapped in a thick fleece blanket, the familiar scent of cinnamon and masa in the air. Her cheeks are flushed from laughter, from home, from something more.

Daniel rests his head in her lap, legs stretched out, curls slightly damp from the shower he took after helping her tíos set up the canopy outside. He’s barefoot, in sweats and a borrowed Christmas shirt from her cousin. It says “Feliz Navidrift”with a drifting sleigh.

He watches her, eyes soft beneath the blinking lights.

“You’re happy here,” he says, not as a question, but as a realization. His accent is gentle, like he's afraid to break the moment.

Solana nods, stroking his hair, twirling a damp curl between her fingers. “Because this is home,” she whispers. “Not the podium. Not the paddock. Just this. You.”

Daniel’s hand slides up from the blanket, lifting hers, and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, slow, tender, reverent.

“Wherever you are is home for me too,” he says.

Outside, fireworks pop in the distance, someone in the neighborhood jumping the gun on Nochebuena. The sound blends with laughter, the shuffle of feet in the hallway, and the low notes of Juan Gabriel playing on the stereo.

She leans down and kisses his forehead, lingering there as he closes his eyes. “Then you’re stuck with me.”

Daniel opens his eyes again, smirking. “That was kind of the plan.”

Solana smiles and sinks back into the couch, letting the warmth and joy of the night settle over them. And for once, there’s no press, no pressure, no ghosts whispering in the background.

Just tamales, tangled limbs, and the kind of love that tastes like cinnamon and mole.

January 1st – 2016 Begins

The first dawn of the new year spills soft pinks and golds across the sky, painting the quiet Monaco harbor in watercolor light.

Solana sits curled on the balcony of her apartment—their apartment now—legs tucked under her, wrapped in one of Daniel’s sweatshirts that hangs loose around her frame. The coffee in her hands is still steaming, the scent of cinnamon lingering from the pot he made just before sunrise. Below them, the sea is still, barely touched by wind, the boats rocking gently like they too are easing into the new year.

Daniel sits beside her, barefoot and rumpled from sleep, one hand holding his own chipped mug, the other laced with hers. There’s no need to speak yet. Just the hush of morning. The breath of a world catching up to them.

Her new Ferrari helmet she had kept stored since the Mexico Grand Prix rests on her lap—white, trimmed in glinting gold, with her mother’s roses etched across the top in delicate crimson and green. On top the visor, #JB17. The design had been her idea. But Daniel had been the one to sneak it to the paint shop, surprising her after Mexico.

He looks at her now, eyes still soft from sleep, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will you race forever?” he asks, voice low, like he’s asking the sunrise to keep glowing just a little longer.

Solana takes a long moment, watching the horizon. Her thumb brushes over the curved edge of the helmet.

“No,” she says finally, honest and unafraid. “But I’ll never stop belonging to this. Even when I’m not behind the wheel. It’s part of me. The fire, the grief, the pride. It made me who I am.”

Daniel nods, leaning his head gently against hers. “It shows. Every time you get in that car. Every time you speak. Every time you carry those who came before.”

She closes her eyes, breathing him in, warm, familiar, the scent of clean cotton and black coffee and something steady. “Then let’s keep building something worth remembering,” she murmurs. “On and off the track.”

Inside, the soft clatter of their dog’s paws, rescued in the off-season, already spoiled, echoes against the floorboards. Their coats hang together by the door. Their lives, stitched now in the ordinary and the extraordinary.

They sit in silence, watching the sky lighten, watching the sea stretch toward tomorrow.

And for the first time, the new year doesn’t feel like a finish line or a deadline.

It feels like home.

Somewhere in Italy…

A thin veil of fog clings to the hills just outside Maranello. The private test circuit is slick with morning frost, the winter sun still hiding behind the gray.

A red car slices through the cold.

A junior driver—still lanky with youth but hardened by grief—runs lap after lap, pushing harder each time. His tires scream through every chicane. His visor fogs with breath. His hands ache from the cold seeping through his gloves.

But he doesn’t stop.

His lungs burn. His muscles shake. But he keeps going. Because the stopwatch is watching. Because the silence between corners still speaks.

Because she once told him he could.

“You don’t need to be anyone’s shadow,” Solana had said to him. “Jules didn’t raise ghosts. He raised fire.”

And Jules—years before—had told her something just like it. On a night when she’d doubted herself. When the world seemed too heavy. He had looked at her with that crooked smile and said, “You don’t need permission to be great, just the courage to stay when it gets hard.”

Now Charles Leclerc floors the throttle out of the final corner.

Because she believed in him. Because Jules believed in her. Because legacies don’t rest.

They’re carried. Pushed. Driven.

And today, he drives for both of them.

Por siempre means forever.

And legends like hers don’t fade.

They evolve.

They etch themselves into the asphalt and the silence between gear shifts. They linger in the smell of fuel, in the way young drivers grip the wheel tighter when her name is spoken.

They shift. They rise. They pass the torch.

Her legacy isn’t just podiums or champagne or the thunder of tifosi. It’s in the girls lining up in karting suits three sizes too big. In the engineers who now listen when a woman speaks with authority. In the boy she once mentored, who now carries both her fire and Jules’ memory like armor.

They live on—in stories, in circuits, in the roar of the engine, and the stillness before the lights go out.

Because the race may end.

But she never will.

She became the apex.

And the world never stopped chasing her shadow. 

Previous

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream

[rickybobbydan]

21. Fire in the Finish

Daniel x Fem!OC Driver

Summary: The final race of the season is here. Solana moves to prove everyone wrong, including her own teammate. But she's not alone. Will Charles and Daniel by her side, what can't she achieve.

Warnings: Hints of smut, grief

Words: 4.1k+

Previous || Next

October 31 – Interlagos, Brazil The Night Before Race Day

Rain slicks the garage floors, beading on carbon fiber and blurring pit lane lights into watercolors.

Solana stands just beyond the paddock, the São Paulo night thick with humidity and tension. The city hums around her, music from distant bars, the echo of drums, the occasional cheer from fans camped outside the circuit gates. It’s Brazil. It breathes racing.

She wraps her jacket tighter around her fire suit, pacing slowly beneath a covered walkway. Her helmet is still in hand, even though the day’s sessions ended hours ago.

Tomorrow is everything.

She looks up at the stands, empty now, but alive in her mind. She sees the colors, the chants, the flags waving wildly for the legends who came before her. Senna. Fittipaldi. Massa. She thinks of Jules. Of the way he talked about this place like it was sacred.

"Interlagos is magic," he'd said once, grin wide, voice full of awe. "You don't just race there. You listen to it."

Footsteps behind her. She doesn’t turn.

Daniel’s voice is soft. “Didn’t think I’d find you out here.”

“I couldn’t sleep even if I tried,” she murmurs.

He joins her, falling into step beside her. “Big race.”

“Big country,” she replies, managing a small smile. “They expect heroes here.”

He watches her profile. “You already are one.”

She snorts lightly. “Tell that to the part of me that still feels like the kid from Riverside watching old races with subtitles.”

“You’ve earned every inch of this,” Daniel says. “You carry Mexico, Jules, Ferrari, and somehow, you still manage to carry me when I fall apart.”

She looks at him then, eyes shining in the damp light. “You’re not a weight. You’re the reason I remember who I am.”

He brushes her damp hair off her forehead. “Then remember this, whatever happens tomorrow, they already love you.”

She nods, swallowing the knot in her throat. Her voice breaks a little. “I want to win. Not just for the team. For everyone who never got the chance. For Jules.”

Daniel presses a kiss to her temple. “Then go out there and race like he’s watching.”

She leans into him. Breathes him in. Holds onto that steadiness, that warmth, for just a moment longer.

The sound of distant engines testing echoes through the trees.

And Solana Villarosa, in the heart of Brazil, closes her eyes and whispers,

“Mañana es para todos.” Tomorrow is for all of them.

Race Day – Acid Rain & Silver Linings Interlagos, November 1, 2015

The rain comes fast, angry, relentless, and tropical. The kind that turns Interlagos into a river of memory and instinct. It pounds the pit lane, swallows the curbs, and turns every brake marker into a dare. Marshals huddle under soaked tarps. Fans refuse to sit, ponchos ripple like prayer flags in the stands.

In the cockpit, Solana’s breath is measured, sharp behind the visor. Her gloves are already damp, her heart pacing just beneath the noise.

This isn’t just weather.

It’s a reckoning.

Lights out.

The grid launches in a flurry of spray and chaos. The visibility is zero. Tires churn water like propellers. Cars twitch and correct like dancers on a glass stage. Rosberg gets ahead early, his lines defensive and neat. Hamilton stalks behind.

But Solana? She waits. She watches.

Lap 12—Les Senna curves into Descida do Lago. Rosberg brakes a fraction late. That’s all she needs.

Solana dives. Bold, ruthless, and beautiful.

A slice of scarlet cuts through silver.

The Ferrari plants itself like it belongs there because it does.

Gasps ripple through the grandstands. The Ferrari pit wall erupts.

Her engineer doesn’t even hide the awe. “That’s why you’re number one, Sol. That’s exactly why.”

She doesn’t smile. Not yet. Not until it’s done.

Behind her, Hamilton mounts pressure, but can’t break through. The spray hides her, and when it doesn’t, she’s already gone.

The car floats through the corners and she shifts with instinct, not thought. Brake bias flicks, differential tweaks. Rain lines like second nature. Every decision is half reflex, half memory. Jules used to say Interlagos doesn’t forgive. She doesn’t ask for forgiveness, she claims what’s hers.

Daniel claws up to P5. His car dances under him, every move fierce but controlled. She hears his name in the updates. Feels him like a tether behind her. He’s still fighting.

Lap 39. Rain lightens, but tension doesn’t.

Lap 50. Marco's voice is low and calm. “Stay with it. Hamilton’s three seconds back. Keep that gap alive.”

Solana bites down on the urge to scream. Her arms ache. Her neck is stiff from bracing. Her eyes blur from the water inside her visor.

“Keep me focused,” she rasps into the radio. “I'm not letting this slip.”

The tires are screaming. But she doesn’t ease. Not yet.

Lap 55.

She crosses the line. Victory in Brazil.

A home away from home on Latin soil in a Ferrari.

Her scream through the radio is guttural, raw joy, disbelief, memory. It sounds like relief and redemption and resistance.

Pit lane loses it. The mechanics pound the garage tables. Marco cries out of joy.

She parks the car. Leaps out.

It’s still raining. She doesn’t care. She rips off her helmet and lifts her arms, face to the sky, as if the clouds owe her something too.

Her mother and father break to the front of the barrier, handlers trailing. Her mother sobs into her scarf, clutching her daughter’s helmet like a sacred object. Her father hoists the Mexican flag with both hands, soaked but proud.

“¡Lo hiciste, mija!” he shouts, voice cracking. “¡Campeona nuestra!” You did it! Our champion!

Charles Leclerc is at the fence, face flushed, eyes glassy. He doesn’t shout. He just nods, proud. The way Jules once did.

On the podium, Solana lifts the trophy with both hands. Rain drips down her nose. Her fire suit clings to her skin.

The Mexican and Italian anthems rise, and for a moment, there’s no pain, no pressure, and no proving left to do.

She sings the words under her breath. Hand on her heart. The other still curled around the cold silver base of her victory.

Down below, mariachi players strum “Cielito Lindo” in full suit and soaked hats. Fans wave flags in time with the beat.

Solana cries. Not because she’s broken, but because she’s whole. Because here, in the heart of Brazil, she wasn’t just racing for herself.

She raced for the ghosts, for the girls who didn’t believe they could, for the people who still say she shouldn’t, for Jules.

She raced for México and México answered back.

Post-Race – A Quiet Conversation Ferrari Motorhome, Interlagos

The corridors are quieter now. Most of the team has spilled into celebration or exhaustion, empty champagne flutes litter tables, mechanics slump on benches, red uniforms damp and streaked with grime and rain, but here, in the narrow hallway just beyond the garage, time slows.

The hum of the rain outside is a pulse. It's steady and soothing. The scent of wet asphalt clings to everything.

Solana finds Daniel leaning against the wall like he can’t quite decide if he wants to stay upright or sink into the floor. His fireproofs are half unzipped, the black undershirt plastered to his chest. A towel is slung across his shoulders, forgotten. His curls are still dripping from the storm outside, clinging to his forehead in loose, damp coils.

When he sees her, he straightens, but just barely. As if part of him is afraid to meet her in this moment, like it might break him.

“I thought you might fall,” he says quietly, voice gravel-soft and aching.

Solana doesn’t answer right away. She’s still in her suit, soaked through, her gloves peeled halfway down, her boots squishing faintly on the floor. There’s no polish left, just the aftermath. Her cheeks are flushed from adrenaline. Her eyes shimmer like the lights outside.

“I almost did,” she breathes. “On Lap 38… my hands were shaking so badly I thought I’d lose control.”

Daniel’s brow furrows. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for her, but doesn’t know if she’ll let him.

“What stopped you?”

She exhales, a quiet, broken thing. “The weight. It was everywhere. Jules. My parents. Mexico. Ferrari. You. I thought if I let go, even for a second, I’d drown.”

He steps forward now, slow and measured, like she’s something sacred. “But you didn’t.”

Her eyes lock onto his. Fierce. Fragile. “No. I didn’t.”

Her voice is steady, but inside, she’s trembling.

Daniel nods, his jaw tight with emotion. “You didn’t just hold yourself up. You carried everyone. The whole damn country. Ferrari. Even me.”

Solana looks away, swallowing hard. The tears threaten again as they always do after victory. Not from pride, but from relief that she survived.

“Then let me lean on you now,” she whispers.

And he does reach for her this time, his hand lifting gently to her face, brushing away the damp strands of hair stuck to her cheek. His thumb lingers there, just beneath her eye.

“I was so scared,” he murmurs. “Not that you would fail. I was scares I was going to lose you.”

She steps into him, soaked fabric pressed against soaked fabric, and rests her forehead against his. Their breath mingles. Rain pounds the windows like applause.

“Daniel,” she says, soft but raw, “I love you.”

The words don’t come like a fairytale. They land like a truth she’s carried too long.

His eyes close. His arms wrap around her, tight. She's finally home.

“I love you too,” he says, voice breaking around the edges. “I think Every time I said it, I was terrified I’d lose you.”

Her lips find his cheek first, then his mouth. It's slow and searching. It's all too familiar and new all at once.

This kiss isn’t for show, it’s not the podium kiss, the cameras kiss, the relief kiss. It’s the one they’ve both needed when no one else is looking. The one that says: You’re not alone anymore.

And when they pull back, foreheads still pressed together, she smiles, It's a genuine smile.

“We survived it,” she whispers.

Daniel presses his lips to her temple. “Yeah, Sol, we did, but you conquered it.”

They don’t let go. Because in this hallway, still slick with storm and celebration, they’ve found the only thing they weren’t racing toward Peace.

November 28 – Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi The Night Before the Final Race

The desert cools as night settles over Yas Marina. The circuit glows under artificial stars, blue and gold and electric. In the distance, mechanics finish their final prep. The air smells like rubber and fresh paint. There’s tension in every breath.

Solana Villarosa walks through the paddock slowly, helmet in hand, race suit unzipped to the waist. Her red fireproofs cling to her frame, sleeves knotted around her hips. The usual pre-race buzz feels muted. Heavy. Like the whole season is holding its breath.

Inside the Ferrari garage, the energy has shifted. Engineers murmur in tight huddles, eyes on her telemetry, not Vettel’s. Her name is the one they say first in briefings. Her car is the one they gather around. She’s not the future anymore. She’s the now.

Charles Leclerc finds her just outside the pit wall, clutching a water bottle, still in his junior overalls. His gaze is steady, but his fingers fidget at the seams.

“You look ready,” he says.

Solana half-smiles. “I’ve felt ready all year. But now it actually matters.”

Charles glances down, then back up. “I know it’s selfish, but... I wish Jules could see you now.”

Solana’s chest tightens. She sets her helmet down and places a hand gently on his shoulder.

“It's not selfish, Charlie. He does. I feel him every race. Every time I risk something no one else will. He’s a part of both of us.”

Charles nods slowly. His voice is barely audible. “You carry him like he’s still here.”

She leans in, rests her forehead against his. “Because he is. In every corner. In every heartbeat.”

They stay like that for a long moment—two souls, chosen family brought together by tragedy, wrapped in shared grief and a love that never got to say goodbye.

Later That Night – Balcony, Hotel Suite

The noise of the world softens beneath the city lights. Solana sits on the balcony couch, legs pulled to her chest, a hotel robe wrapped around her. The marina glows below. The air is warm against her skin, but her heart beats loud in her chest.

She doesn’t hear the door open, but she feels him before he speaks. Daniel slips in next to her, barefoot, hoodie thrown on. He settles next to her, knees bumping, his arm resting around her shoulders.

“You always disappear when it matters most,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t look at him. “I needed to hear myself think, to feel something real before tomorrow.”

Daniel doesn’t press. Just pulls her close.

They sit in silence, the kind you only earn after surviving a season together. After grief and podiums. After letting go. After love spoken out loud.

He presses a kiss to her temple. “You're not alone, Sol. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.”

“I know,” she whispers. “That’s what scares me.”

Daniel’s hand finds hers. Their fingers intertwine like muscle memory.

“You already know how I feel. I said it because I meant it. I don’t care what happens tomorrow. Win or crash out, I’m still here.”

She turns toward him, eyes wet but unafraid. “I know and that’s why I’m not running.”

He leans in. Their foreheads touch.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

Her voice trembles. “Hold me tonight. So I can remember what that feels like before the lights go out.”

He does. Not with urgency, but with reverence. The way you hold someone when you know they’re not yours to keep, but you’re still lucky enough to love them in the quiet.

The final race waits.

But for now, it’s just Solana and Daniel. No expectations. No ghosts. Just this night. And the love that made all of it worth it.

Sweeping Sunset – Race Night Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi – November 29, 2015

The desert glows like fire beneath the lights.

Yas Marina sparkles, artificial stars tracing the outline of speed. The sky is deepening to violet as the five red lights flicker overhead.

Then...lights out.

Solana launches off the line, P3 holding firm into Turn 1. Hamilton gets away cleanly. Rosberg covers aggressively, but Daniel vaults past Vettel into P4, a flash of navy and gold skimming the inside like a predator in flight.

The race opens with the sharp crack of opportunity. The pack stretches thin by Lap 5. But at the front, it’s war by millimeters.

Solana’s radio crackles. "Mode push confirmed. Brake bias forward."

"Balance feels tight," she replies, voice clipped. "But I can work with it."

Lap after lap, the air in her cockpit thickens with heat and tension. Sweat clings to her spine beneath her fireproofs. Her fingers ache from the wheel. But her eyes stay cold. Calculated. Watching.

Behind her, Daniel applies pressure to Rosberg’s mirrors, while Vettel fades. Ferrari’s strategy call keeps Solana ahead in the first round of stops, a perfectly timed overcut that slots her closer to the front.

Then, Lap 30.

Vettel spins.

A rare, rattled error from the four-time champion. Into the wall. Yellow flags wave.

Her heart lurches—but she doesn’t flinch.

"Box opposite Hamilton," comes the call.

She responds without hesitation. In and out. She's in P3 again, with fresh tires and fire in her chest. And now Ferrari’s hope rests fully on her shoulders.

Lap 45.

She sees the moment before it opens, Rosberg’s rear tires falter slightly out of Turn 9. DRS clicks and she dives. Inside line. Crisp. Clean. No contact. No second chances.

The pit wall erupts. The mechanics, the strategists, the ones who doubted her back in Melbourne, they’re on their feet.

She's in P2 and hunting.

Final Laps

Hamilton remains just out of reach, but she doesn’t overdrive. She doesn’t panic. The battle isn’t for one move, it’s for the legacy of a season.

She thinks of Jules, of Charles, of Sebastian and the tension that nearly drowned her, of the girl who walked into winter testing a shadow of herself, and the woman now breathing steady at 190 miles per hour.

Marco radios in: "You're doing this. You're bringing it home."

She exhales, her voice low. "Copy. Tell them... thank you."

Checkered Flag

She crosses the line P2.

Not a victory. But more than that.

A season cemented. A team reclaimed. A country lifted.

She slows on the cooldown lap, tears blurring her vision. Her hand clenches over her heart. She lifts her visor to the twilight, whispering through the roar:

"Gracias, Jules. Lo hicimos."

Celebration & Legacy

Back in the paddock, the lights are blinding, but Solana sees only one thing: Charles, waiting by the garage wall, still in his Ferrari junior overalls, tears in his eyes and pride blooming across his face. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just throws his arms around her, a little too tight.

"Tú eres una campeona," he says into her shoulder, his Spanish rough but full of heart. You are a champion.

She pulls back slightly, brushing a damp curl from his forehead.

"Et toi, tu es l’avenir." And you, you are the future. "Ne l’oublie jamais, Charles." Never forget that.

He sniffles, blinking fast. "Tu penses vraiment que j’y arriverai?" Do you really think I’ll make it?

Solana smiles softly, her voice steady. "Je le sais." I know it. Then she switches back, softer now: "Y tú eres el futuro. Nunca lo olvides." And you are the future. Never forget that.

He nods, lip trembling. "Gracias por no rendirte." Thank you for not giving up.

She cups his cheek in her hand. "Jamás lo haría. No por él. No por ti." I never would. Not for him. Not for you.

They stand there a little longer, the noise of the celebration fading behind them—two souls stitched together by grief, legacy, and the love of someone they’ll never stop carrying.

The Final Goodbye – Team Ferrari

That evening, Ferrari hosts a grand gala in one of Abu Dhabi's glass towers. Red silk banners cascade from the ceiling like rivers. Engine parts hang from the rafters like modern art. The room glows in warm golds and deep crimson, every detail a love letter to legacy.

Mechanics laugh over Negronis. Engineers toast to strategy boards and sleepless nights. Solana stands among them, not above, but with. Not the figurehead Ferrari expected, but the one they needed.

She’s mid-conversation with Marco when she feels it—the quiet shift behind her.

Sebastian Vettel. A glass of wine in his hand. Tired. Formal. Still carrying the weight of four championships and one bruised ego.

He waits until her eyes meet his. Then, finally, he approaches.

"You fought harder than anyone," he says, voice low. No press. No audience. Just two champions.

Solana studies him carefully. The tension between them has softened, but the scar tissue is still there. "You didn’t make it easy," she replies, honest but not bitter.

"I wasn’t supposed to," he says with a small smile. "I saw the way they looked at you. From the beginning. And I hated it, not because you weren’t good enough, but because I knew you were."

That knocks the air out of her chest a little. She wasn’t expecting candor. Not from him.

"You pushed me," she says after a pause. "But I never stopped being myself. Even when you questioned it."

Sebastian looks away for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "That was fear, not doubt. Fear that Ferrari would forget what it used to be."

"And now?" she asks.

He meets her gaze again. "Now I think...maybe it needed to be reborn...through you."

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. They stand there, not as rivals, not as teammates, but as two people who wore the same red suit under different skies.

"You were my idol," she says. "You should know that."

His lips twist into a half-smile, tired and real. "Then I hope I didn’t disappoint too badly."

She clinks her glass gently against his. "Only when you called me reckless."

He chuckles softly. "Well, I was wrong."

She raises an eyebrow. "Say it louder."

"Don’t push your luck."

They both smile.

Then, as the room bursts into another round of applause for the team’s season, Sebastian steps back, raises his glass just slightly, and says, "Nos veremos en el próximo desafío." See you at the next challenge.

Solana watches him fade into the crowd, and for the first time, there's no animosity. Only mutual respect. Only a goodbye worthy of the season they survived.

Yas Island, Midnight

The balcony overlooks the glowing Yas Marina Circuit. Below, the sea shimmers like melted silver under the floodlights. The echoes of celebration still hum in the distance, with champagne laughter, camera flashes, the soft beat of music, but here, it’s just them. The silence is sacred.

Solana stands at the railing, barefoot and wrapped in one of Daniel’s soft T-shirts. Her curls are damp from a shower, clinging to her neck. Her skin still smells faintly of champagne and perfume and salt and victory.

Daniel moves behind her, arms slipping around her waist like memory. He rests his chin against her shoulder, nuzzling into the curve of her neck. His hands splay against her stomach, grounding her.

"You did it," he murmurs, lips brushing her skin. "Not just the races, but the year, the grief. All of it."

She exhales, watching the lights flicker on the marina. "I didn’t think I’d still be standing at the end of all this," she admits.

"You didn’t stand," he says, voice low and full of awe. "You flew and you set the sky on fire."

Solana turns slowly in his arms, hands rising to his chest. Her eyes, those dark, relentless eyes, search his. "And you… you were the only thing that kept me from burning out."

Daniel leans his forehead to hers, the heat between them humming like electricity beneath skin. "You saved me too," he says. "When I didn’t know if I had anything left to give, you were the one thing I wanted to fight for."

Her fingers trail down his chest, slipping under the hem of his shirt. She palms his heartbeat. "Do you ever wonder what comes next?" she whispers.

"All the time," he says, brushing his nose against hers. "But for the first time in years I’m not afraid of it. Not if it’s with you."

Her lips ghost over his jaw. "Then let’s stop wondering."

His kiss finds her before she can finish the thought—slow and deep, drawn from the marrow. Not the kind of kiss meant for show. The kind that undoes you. His hands skim up her back, beneath the shirt, finding bare skin. Her body arches into him instinctively, breath catching.

"I thought you'd be untouchable after this year," he murmurs against her lips. "Like you'd be all steel and light."

She pulls back just enough to look at him, her eyes burning. She lifts his hand, pressing it flat to her chest. Her heart pounds wild beneath his palm.

"I still have edges," she says. "But now they're shaped like hope, like you."

Daniel’s hands drop to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her inside, the open balcony doors letting in the city’s glow.

He lays her down on the bed with reverence, as if she’s something holy. She pulls him down with her. Their clothes fall away in pieces, soft laughter between kisses, sighs stitched with need. There’s no rush, only reverence, skin, and trust and the kind of closeness that feels like a prayer.

He kisses her like a man who’s been lost in deserts and just found water. She touches him like someone who has known grief and finally found warmth again. There’s nothing performative in it, just a hunger to feel alive together and to let go of everything the season demanded, if only for a night.

When they finally move together, bodies slick and tangled, it’s slow and raw and completely theirs. She breathes his name like a secret. He moans hers like it’s salvation.

And when it’s over, they don’t move.

They just lie there. Her head on his chest. His fingers tracing lazy circles along her spine. Still a little breathless, and still connected.

"If loving you is sharp," he whispers into her hair, "then I’ll bleed forever."

She smiles into his skin. "Then bleed with me."

And he does. Not with pain, but with everything that’s ever mattered. Because in a year of loss, of fear, of noise, this is the one thing that feels true.

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[rickybobbydan]

20. Tierra y Fuego

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!OC Driver

Summary: Home is a lot of things. A place, a feeling, a person. For Solana, it's all those things. And Daniel, he's her favorite person she gets to call home.

Warnings: Sebastian still being cold, illusions to smut, language

Words: 4.2k+

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October 23 – Circuit of the Americas, Austin Round 16 of the 2015 Formula 1 World Championship

The skies over Austin are streaked in warm pink and orange hues as the sun dips low across the Texas hills, casting a golden glow over the sprawling Circuit of the Americas. The paddock hums with its usual pre-race rhythm—media calls, setup tweaks, drivers ducking from trailers to briefings and back again—but here, everything feels looser. Freer.

Texas had that effect.

And for Solana, Austin wasn’t just a race. It was close to home—both literally and spiritually. Her family stretched across the Southwest: Tías in Amarillo, cousins in San Antonio, her godson in Houston, her parents once settled in Riverside after a long journey from Guadalajara. This part of the world carried her roots. The language. The food. The feeling of sunbaked concrete and Tex-Mex joy.

And the fans felt it too.

Mexican flags wave proudly among the grandstands, wrapped around shoulders and flapping against fences. “¡Villarosa! ¡Eres nuestra campeona!” one sign reads in green, white, and red, hoisted by a girl no older than seven in a miniature Ferrari fire suit. Another reads, “¡Hija del desierto!” Daughter of the desert.

Solana walks the track on Thursday, ahead of media day. Fingers grazing the red-and-white curbs through the tight Esses. Her fireproof boots crunch softly against the asphalt. She’s quieter than usual, absorbing it all.

Daniel walks beside her, hands in his pockets, baseball cap turned backward. He watches her more than he watches the track.

"You’re different here," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Different how?"

He shrugs, smirking. "Grounded. Lighter. Like you’re walking inside a memory you haven’t made yet."

She laughs gently. "That's because I am. I remember coming out here when I was a kid, before they even finished building the circuit. My tío used to take me to watch MotoGP in Texas. He always said, one day this will be your playground.”

Daniel grins. “He wasn’t wrong.”

They reach Turn 1—the iconic climb. It rises like a statement against the flat Texas horizon, a dramatic incline Solana had once only seen in renderings and magazine photos. Now, she stands at the base of it, breathing in its silence.

Daniel follows her gaze upward. "I love this place,” he says after a moment. “The food, the music, the people... the weirdness. It’s like everything’s turned up to eleven and nobody apologizes for it.”

She smiles. “So you like it because it reminds you of yourself?”

He nudges her with his shoulder. “Pretty much.”

She looks around—the skyline in the distance, the long stretch of tarmac looping through hills and grandstands. “It’s like this whole city wants you to be loud. Big. Bold.”

Daniel’s voice softens. “And you don’t need to pretend to be any of those things here. You just are.”

That gets her. She blinks and looks away, jaw tightening just a little.

A soft breeze carries the scent of warm grass and oil from the pit lane. Off in the distance, speakers test-run the opening notes of Tejano music.

Solana exhales slowly. “I don’t know if I’m ready for Sunday.”

Daniel steps closer, sliding his fingers through hers. “You were born ready. This is yours. Your people, your fight, your story.”

She leans against him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder for just a moment.

“This is for all of them,” she murmurs. “For everyone who’s ever been told they don’t belong in the front row.”

Daniel kisses the top of her head, reverent. “And for the record, you’ve never belonged anywhere but the front.”

They keep walking, slow and steady beneath the fading light. Not just drivers anymore. Not just competitors. But two people trying to carve something real out of the tangle of circuits, spotlight, and expectation.

In the heart of Texas, under a dusk-soaked sky—they find a kind of stillness.

And somewhere in the distance, the crowd is already chanting her name.

Friday – Austin Practice & Ferrari’s Faith

The Ferrari hums beneath her like it was custom-built for the sweeps and climbs of the Circuit of the Americas. From the carousel of Turn 1 to the quick, surgical cuts of the esses, Solana carves the asphalt like it’s instinct. She finishes FP2 second fastest, just behind Hamilton. Vettel is P5.

Inside the garage, the hierarchy is shifting—and everyone knows it.

Her telemetry is on the main screen first. Her engineers speak with urgency and focus. The rear jackman swaps her tires like his hands know her rhythm by heart. And when she steps out of the car, water bottle in hand, the energy around her buzzes with something electric. Confidence. Command.

Sebastian notices. And he doesn’t hide it.

“She’s still overdriving through the esses,” he snaps during debrief, eyes trained on the lap delta chart.

One of the engineers mutters, not quietly enough, “No, she’s just faster.”

The silence after that is sharp. Solana doesn’t flinch. She simply flips to the next page of her data packet, eyes forward, face unreadable.

Later, as the sun melts behind the rolling hills of Austin, she slips away from the paddock and finds Daniel perched on the tailgate of a Red Bull service truck. Boots on the bumper, sleeves rolled, Stetson balanced precariously on his knee—he looks every bit the outlaw Texan he likes to play up here.

“You missed your calling,” she says, hopping up beside him. “Should’ve been a cowboy.”

He tips the imaginary brim of his hat. “I do love it here. The people, the food, the music… the fact that they put hot sauce on literally everything.”

She smiles. “Feels like home, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning to look at her. “And you—this place lights you up. The way they cheer for you, chant your name—it’s not just pride. It’s reverence.”

She swallows, caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice. “It’s a lot to carry.”

Daniel nudges her gently. “You’re carrying it better than anyone else could.”

She leans into his shoulder, the cool air brushing against her cheeks as the sky deepens to lavender and indigo.

“They finally trust me,” she says softly. “Ferrari. The whole team. The updates go to my car first now. My setup leads the briefings.”

“Because you’ve earned it,” he replies. “They’d be idiots not to see it.”

She glances up at him. “Seb still thinks I’m a threat.”

“You are,” Daniel says without hesitation. “But not in the way he thinks. You’re not here to erase him. You’re here to rewrite the story. You're the heart of this place.”

She watches the last of the sun disappear behind the trees. “Then I better make sure it keeps beating.”

Daniel grins. “You always do.”

Sunday – Austin Race Day

The rain pours through the morning like a test from the gods.

By the time the race rolls around, the skies have cleared—but the track is still slick in spots, glistening under the Texas sun. Puddles gather at the edges of the curbs. The air is thick with humidity, tension, and the smell of wet asphalt.

Solana starts P3. A strong qualifying run, but not enough to ease the fire in her chest.

The crowd roars as the lights go out. She nails the start—clean, fast, committed—holding her line through Turn 1, battling Daniel through the twisty Sector 1. By Lap 20, she’s locked in a brutal chess match with Nico Rosberg, both drivers jostling for second while Hamilton stretches a lead out front.

On Lap 47, Rosberg dives into Turn 12, tires screeching. Solana holds her nerve and takes the inside into 13, braking late—so late—Jules would’ve called it perfect.

She doesn’t flinch.

She wins the fight.

By the checkered flag, she crosses the line in P2, helmet bobbing with exhaustion and pride. Behind her, the grandstands explode with noise—flags waving, fans chanting her name in two languages.

“¡So-la-na! So-la-na!”

In parc fermé, she removes her helmet to a sea of red, white, and green.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds up a small American flag in one hand, and a Mexican one in the other—arms stretched, head bowed, eyes burning. She crouches down, the weight of the podium, the tears threatening to fall, the immense pride she feels.

On the podium, the champagne barely registers.

She stares out over the crowd. The kids waving hand-drawn signs. The abuelos with Ferrari shirts tucked into jeans. The mothers and fathers with daughters on their shoulders, grinning wide.

And when the mic comes to her, she doesn’t hesitate.

“This one’s for both sides of the border,” she says, voice steady, emotional. “For the kids watching from both homes I carry in my heart. California and Jalisco. Riverside and Guadalajara. You can be more than one thing. You can belong in more than one place. I do.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then thunderous applause.

Somewhere off-stage, Daniel watches her, arms crossed over his chest, a soft smile curving his lips.

She’s not just racing anymore.

She’s rising.

October 30 – Arrival in Mexico City

The plane touches down just as the sun dips low over the mountains—casting everything in gold and shadow.

The moment the cabin doors open, the sound hits Solana like a tidal wave. Not just noise—feeling. Drums, mariachis, chanting, shouting. A wall of people lines the barricades outside the arrivals terminal, waving Mexican flags, wearing Ferrari red, holding signs with her name painted in glitter and marker.

“¡Solana! ¡Reina del asfalto!” “¡Vamos, campeona!” “Una de las nuestras.”

The scent of street food drifts on the warm air—elote, tamales, churros—and somewhere in the distance, someone sets off a firecracker.

She steps out into it like she’s stepping into a dream.

Mexico City isn’t where she was born. It isn’t Jalisco. It isn’t California. But it feels like home. In the way that only places filled with your people can.

She sees the murals before they even reach the car. Painted on buildings, underpasses, market stalls—her face beside Checo’s, beside Esteban’s. Not sleek PR shots. Raw. Real. Smiling, eyes burning with focus. Brown, bold, proud.

Her mother sees them too.

Tears shine in her eyes as she clasps Solana’s hand. “Estás en casa.”

Solana turns to her, voice cracking, forehead against her mother's temple. “Nunca me fui, amá.”

A passing child wearing a Ferrari cap tugs at her sleeve. Solana kneels instinctively, eye level with the girl, who looks maybe eight—wide-eyed and awestruck.

“¿Tú eres Solana?” Are you Solana?

“Sí, mi amor.” Yes, my love.

The little girl beams. “Yo quiero ser como tú.” I want to be like you.

Solana swallows the lump in her throat and presses a gentle hand to the girl's shoulder. “Entonces serás aún mejor.” Then you'll be better than me.

When she finally reaches the car, Daniel’s already there, leaned casually against the door, sunglasses tucked into his collar, watching the chaos with amused reverence.

“You’re a damn rockstar here,” he says as she approaches.

Solana laughs, still breathless, still emotional. “No. I’m a daughter here.”

He looks at her—really looks at her—and nods.

“Then let’s give them a weekend they’ll never forget.”

Friday – Practice with Purpose

The morning air in Mexico City buzzes like static, thick with altitude and expectation. The Ferrari hums beneath Solana like it knows the weight it carries—generations of dreams, decades of absence, and a girl who grew into a storm.

Every lap through the Foro Sol stadium sends tremors through her chest. The crowd erupts every time she passes, their voices a wave that crashes over the barriers. Flags wave like fire. Drums thunder in rhythm with her heartbeat. Children on shoulders scream her name.

Her visor fogs slightly from the heat. Her breath is steady.

In FP2, she dances with the circuit—no mistakes, no fear. She’s not just driving. She’s found herself.

P1.

When she pulls into the garage, the roar from the stands doesn’t fade—it builds. Her mechanics crowd around her. The engineer’s voice crackles in her ear, thick with emotion: “P1, Solana. You’ve got the city in your hands.”

Back at the monitors, Sebastian Vettel watches, arms folded, jaw clenched.

“She’s overdriving,” he mutters under his breath.

Marco, her lead engineer doesn’t even look at him. “No,” he says, eyes still locked on the data. “She’s flying. She’s found her wings.”

Later, as the sun sinks behind the mountains, casting long gold shadows across the paddock, Daniel finds her by the pit wall, staring at the track. She’s still in her fire suit, helmet tucked under one arm, stretching out her shoulders with a resistance band. The red of Ferrari glows like flame under the light.

“They adore you here,” he says, voice low, reverent.

She doesn’t look away from the track. “They’ve always loved us,” she says. “They just never got to see us race at the front.”

Daniel steps closer. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin through the suit. He brushes his fingers lightly down her arm—just once, just enough.

“You’re more than a driver to them,” he says softly. “You’re a revolution. A reckoning.”

She turns to him then, eyes dark and burning with pride and something deeper—something that simmers just under the surface. “Then I guess it’s about time they see what we’re capable of.”

For a moment, there’s only the hum of distant engines and the crowd still chanting her name.

And then Daniel says, barely above a whisper, “You make me believe in things I thought I’d lost.”

She lets the silence hold.

Then:

“You helped me find my voice,” she replies. “Now I’m just making sure they hear it.”

They don’t kiss. There's no need to when they stand next to each other.

But the gravity between them is undeniable.

And it’s only getting stronger.

Saturday – Qualifying & Pressure

The sun hangs low over the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, its light filtered through a haze of cheers, mariachi horns, and swirling red, green, and white. The air is thin, but Solana’s lungs feel full. She’s not running from the pressure anymore.

She’s feeding off it.

Qualifying is brutal. Hamilton sets an impossible early benchmark. The Merc is hooked up and ruthless.

But Solana is sharper.

She threads through the esses like she’s carving through memory, her car balanced on a razor’s edge. Every millisecond wrung from instinct. From sacrifice. From something no simulator can teach—bloodline and fire.

And when she crosses the line…

P2.

Just behind Lewis. Just ahead of Rosberg.

Sebastian is P7. And furious. She sees it in the tight set of his jaw when he stalks past the timing screen, not even glancing at her.

She doesn’t care.

Because when she steps out of the car and lifts her visor, the Foro Sol erupts like a volcano. Tens of thousands scream her name. Her hands tremble as she waves—half from adrenaline, half from the weight of what she’s doing, what she’s becoming.

The press zone is chaos.

Flashes. Questions. Microphones in her face.

"Solana, do you feel the pressure of being Mexico's only female Formula 1 driver—here, at home, in front of your people?"

She smiles—not plastic, not polite. Proud.

"I feel the honor," she says, voice steady, warm, undeniably hers. "Pressure? That’s just the cost of pride."

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that follows something true.

Then the journalists start clapping.

Daniel finds her afterward in the cool-down room, half-zipped suit and a smirk on his face.

“You didn’t just qualify P2,” he murmurs, stepping close. “You just carved your name into history.”

She shrugs, but her eyes shine. “I told you. This isn’t pressure. It’s purpose.”

He leans in, brushing a curl from her cheek. “Tomorrow’s yours.”

She grins. “Damn right it is.”

Saturday Night – Reunion of Heritage

The ballroom glows with warm light and louder hearts.

The Mexican Grand Prix hosts a private celebration beneath chandeliers and papel picado strung in Ferrari red, Red Bull blue, and the green, white, and red of home. It’s more than a party—it’s a moment. A gathering of generations.

Current, past, and rising Mexican drivers stand shoulder to shoulder. A toast is called.

Checo Pérez raises his glass, voice steady with emotion.

“Por los que soñaron. Por los que lucharon. Y por ti, Solana—la que lo logró.” For those who dreamed. For those who fought. And for you, Solana—the one who made it.

The room erupts in applause, full-bodied and unapologetic.

Esteban Gutiérrez claps her on the back. “Nunca pensé ver esto en mi tiempo.” I never thought I would see this in my time here.

Carlos Sainz, already grinning, raises his beer. “Yo sí. Desde el primer día que la vi frenar tarde.” I did. Since the first day I saw her brake late.

She laughs through her tears, cheeks flushed from something far deeper than champagne.

Fernando Alonso lifts his glass next. “To the driver who made even old men like me believe again.”

Solana's eyes well up again. Her parents watch from the corner, proud and misty-eyed. Her mother places a hand over her heart.

And then Daniel steps forward, just behind her, close enough for only her to feel the warmth of his presence before she even turns.

He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to.

“They’re not just clapping because you’re theirs,” he says quietly. “They’re clapping because they see you.”

She turns to face him, soft but serious. “Do you?”

He meets her gaze fully. “From the start. Even when you didn’t.”

His hand finds hers—simple, grounding. A touch that speaks louder than speeches.

Across the room, Charles approaches, Solana inviting him to come see her race.

“Jules always said you raced with your whole soul,” he says, offering her one.

Solana accepts it, her voice thick. “He’d hate all this attention.”

Charles chuckles. “But he’d be proud. Of all of it. Of you.”

She pulls him into a hug. The kind that folds years of grief and memory into a single, wordless embrace.

As she steps back, she finds Daniel still watching her.

“I’ll race like he’s still watching,” she whispers.

Daniel lifts his glass. “Then tomorrow, let’s light the whole damn circuit on fire.”

They toast.

To Jules.

To home.

To Solana Villarosa—the girl who dared to dream loud enough that the world had no choice but to listen.

Sunday – Mexican Grand Prix

The anthem rises, rich and thunderous, echoing across the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez. Solana stands tall on the grid, flanked by Checo Pérez and Esteban Gutiérrez—three Mexican drivers ready to race, side by side beneath the sun.

Her visor is up. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

She can feel it in her bones—this is more than a race. This is a homecoming, a reclamation, a revolution wrapped in red and green and the sound of thousands chanting her name.

"¡So-la-na! ¡So-la-na!"

On the pit wall, her mother’s hand grips her father’s tightly, pride and prayer mingling on her face.

"Hoy corres con el alma de un pueblo entero," her mother whispers. Today you race with the soul of an entire people.

Her father presses a kiss to the back of her mother’s hand.

The lights count down.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Lights out.

Solana launches. Instinct and fire. Hamilton leads into Turn 1, but she holds firm—Rosberg lunges, tries the outside. She keeps her elbows out and her jaw set.

By Lap 8, she's in rhythm. The Ferrari sings beneath her, every apex sharp, every straight a bullet of hope.

And then—

Lap 26.

A flash of DRS. A deep breath. She sends it down the straight into Turn 1.

Late braking. Full trust in the car.

She takes the lead.

And the stadium explodes.

The Foro Sol quakes with voices. Flags wave. Fans scream. Fireworks pop mid-race. Some cry. Some pray. All believe.

She holds it. Tire degradation. Pressure from behind. Every lap is war—but she holds it.

The checkered flag waves and Solana crosses the line, first.

P1. In Mexico. For Mexico.

She slams her fist against the wheel, voice cracking through the radio.

“¡Lo hicimos! ¡En casa! We did it!” We did it! At home!

In parc fermé, her family storms past security.

Her father lifts her off the ground, spinning her like she’s still ten years old at the go-kart track. Her mother is crying, hand to her chest, whispering thanks to the heavens.

"¡Lo hiciste, mija! ¡Lo hiciste!" You did it! You did it!

Her tíos shout in Spanish, waving hats and flags, one of them yelling, “¡Esta es la reyna en México, cabrones!” She's a queen in Mexico, cabrones!

Checo finds her in the chaos and hugs her hard. “Siges cambiando la historia, Sol.” You keep changing history, Sol

Later, in the press conference, someone calls her “The Pride of Mexico.”

And she smiles—but gently.

Because to her, it’s not just pride.

It’s belonging.

It’s family.

It’s home.

Podium – Mexico City Triumph

The air is electric—thick with joy, disbelief, and the roar of 100,000 hearts beating as one.

Solana stands at the top step of the podium, hands trembling as she lifts the silver trophy high into the air. The Mexican national anthem swells, rich and thunderous, and it doesn’t just play—it resonates. Every note weaves into the red smoke, the waving flags, the tears on strangers’ cheeks.

Solana’s own tears roll without shame as she tilts her head up towards the Mexican sky. They aren’t quiet. They’re loud. Fierce. This is joy and legacy and reclamation all at once.

“¡So-la-na! ¡So-la-na!”

“¡Orgullo Mexicano!”

The champagne erupts around her, and she doesn't flinch. She lets it baptize her—this moment, this mountaintop. The liquid victory spills down her fire suit like it’s writing a new history.

One where she is the author.

One where she is the hero.

She raises both flags—the American and the Mexican—in each hand, held high above her head, arms spread like wings.

“Para los dos hogares que viven en mí,” she whispers. For the two homes that live inside me.

Down below, through the photographers and the press, Daniel waits. No microphone. No bravado. Just her person, eyes glossy and lips curled in the softest, proudest smile she’s ever seen on him.

She bounds down the steps, champagne still dripping from her sleeves. He catches her mid-leap, lifting her clean off the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

“You didn’t just win,” he whispers into her neck. “You became legend.”

Solana pulls back just enough to look at him—cheeks soaked, lips parted.

Then she kisses him.

Full. Unapologetic. Beautiful.

And the crowd erupts again.

This isn’t a secret anymore.

This is love in the open air, unafraid and in Technicolor, standing in the country that raised her.

The press clicks. The headlines write themselves.

But none of it matters.

Because Solana Villarosa didn’t just race in Mexico.

She raced for Mexico.

And Mexico didn’t just cheer her name.

It roared it back.

That Night – Mexico City

The city is still alive below them—horns, music, fireworks. Somewhere near the Zócalo, fans are dancing. Somewhere near the Angel de la Independencia, someone is still chanting her name.

But up on the balcony of her hotel suite, it’s quiet.

Solana lies draped across the small couch, a glass of mezcal in her hand, her braid long undone, curls cascading over the pillow. Her bare legs stretch out across Daniel’s lap, her fire suit folded over a chair inside. She’s wearing an old Torro Rosso T-shirt—his, a loose fit on her shoulders.

Daniel nurses his drink, eyes on her, not the skyline.

"You know," he says, brushing his fingers lightly along her shin, "I’ve never seen anything like you today."

She turns her head, lashes heavy. “And I’ve never felt anything like you.”

His breath catches. He laughs, but it’s soft and nervous, like her honesty disarms him more than any podium ever could. "Careful," he says, "I might actually believe that."

She slides her foot up his thigh slowly, teasing. “You should. You’ve always been better at faith than I am.”

Her voice drops, and her expression shifts—not flirtation now, but something rawer.

“I love you, Daniel.”

He sets his glass down, carefully, like the moment might break if he moves too fast. Then he leans in, pressing his forehead to hers, eyes closed.

“I love you too,” he says, voice cracking, “even if it terrifies me.”

Their lips meet—slow at first, no rush, just the grounding warmth of two people letting go of everything outside this room. The pressure, the grief, the cameras, the fear of not being enough.

His hand slides beneath the hem of her shirt, fingers splaying across the curve of her waist.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs against her skin.

She looks at him—really looks at him. At the man who has held her through victory and heartbreak. The man who saw her not just as a driver, or a headline, or a symbol—but as Solana. The girl who once cried after go-kart races. The woman who stood alone at Turn 7.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispers.

They don’t need to rush.

Tonight is not about urgency—it’s about knowing. About skin against skin, laughter muffled into a kiss, fingers laced, bodies curled under hotel sheets that smell like champagne and perfume and heat.

It's quiet. It's sacred. And it’s theirs.

Later, tangled together in the afterglow, Daniel presses a kiss to her bare shoulder and whispers, "You're the bravest person I’ve ever known."

Solana exhales, eyes closed, smile soft.

"And you’re the safest place I’ve ever called home."

Outside, Mexico City keeps celebrating.

Inside, so do they.

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Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev

[rickybobbydan]

19. Scars and Speed

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!OC Driver

Summary: Solana steps foot in Suzuka again, a year later. The ghosts of her past come to haunt her, the piece of her that died that day does not come back. It stays here and stays with Jules. She has to learn how to navigate it while living in a world her best friend is no longer in.

Warnings: mention of Jules, sadness, grief, team dynamics, Kyvat's crash in Sochi, implied smut

Words: 3.1k+

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September 25 – Suzuka Circuit, Japan Round 14 – Japanese Grand Prix

The sky is overcast when Solana steps onto the grid at Suzuka.

The light feels diffused, like the whole world is holding its breath. The air is cool and still. The asphalt carries the scent of mist and motor oil, and under her boots, the track hums with old ghosts.

Turn 7 waits in the distance.

The same corner. The same place Jules went off one year ago.

Solana makes the walk alone before practice—no engineers, no press. Just her helmet in her hands, the white petals painted into the grass ahead of her, and the quiet that only the bravest know how to sit with.

The memorial is simple.

A line of white chrysanthemums laid gently beneath the marshal post. A decal on the grass: #JB17 – Toujours dans nos cœurs.

She doesn’t crouch. She doesn’t touch anything. She just stares.

Because there, under the grey sky, grief doesn’t need ceremony. It needs presence.The void in her chest growing as she looks on.

And Solana’s been carrying his absence for 365 days.

Tears fall silently—no sobbing, no shaking. Just the kind of heartbreak that’s never been dramatic, only constant.

Carlos finds her like that—motionless, locked in place by memory. He walks up slowly, careful not to intrude.

"No estás sola," he says quietly. You're not alone.

She doesn’t look at him right away. Her voice is soft, almost lost in the breeze. "I know." A beat. "But part of me stayed here last year. It still hasn’t come back... and I don’t think it ever will. It left with him."

Carlos doesn’t press. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just stands beside her in the silence, shoulder to shoulder.

A shared history. A shared language. A shared friend.

Later, in the paddock before FP2, Solana walks with purpose—but her hands shake just slightly. She’s about to pull on her gloves when a strong arm reaches out.

Checo Pérez. No words.

Just a tight, solid hug—no hesitation, no expectation. A brother in mourning.

His voice is low, grounded. "Por él, y por ti. Hoy, manejas con tu alma." For him, and for yourself. Today, you'll drive with your soul.

She nods into his shoulder. Her voice cracks. "Gracias. Lo intentaré." Thank you. I'll try.

FP2 – Suzuka

She gets in the car with a clenched jaw and a heart full of fire. Every lap feels like a prayer and a battle.

She doesn’t try to break the top times. She tries to feel everything.

The weight. The grip. The track. The memory of the man who used to call her “vaillante” before every start. Brave.

And when she comes back into the garage after her run—helmet still on, visor fogged—her race engineer doesn’t say anything. Just gives her a thumbs-up and a small nod.

Because everyone knows what day it is. And everyone knows whose ghost she races with.

Suzuka Circuit – Just Before Qualifying Turn 7

The noise of the paddock fades as Solana finishes her final prep.

And then she sees him—Charles—lingering by the edge of the garage in his Prema overalls, quiet and withdrawn, holding two small white flowers in his hand.

"Do you want to come with me?" he asks, almost whispering.

She doesn’t hesitate. Just nods, removes her gloves, and walks beside him.

The gravel crunches under their feet as they follow the narrow service path to Turn 7—the place neither of them says aloud, because it doesn’t need to be named.

A makeshift memorial hugs the fence. Candles in windproof jars. Sharpied tributes on tire barriers. A #17 flag flutters gently in the breeze.

Solana kneels, knees in the dirt, her fingers tightening around the single flower.

The moment hangs in the air like a breath no one wants to exhale.

"He never got to see us become what he believed we could be," she murmurs, her voice cracking. Her hands tremble as she places the flower into the grass. "All he did was believe in us. And then he was gone."

Charles doesn’t say anything at first.

He places his flower beside hers, hands shaking slightly as he brushes the petals flat. Then, softly: "But we are becoming it. And he knew we would. He never doubted."

Solana wipes a tear from her cheek with the back of her bare hand. The wind tugs gently at her hair.

"I still hear him sometimes," she confesses, voice raw. "In the cockpit. At full throttle. Telling me not to lift. Telling me to trust myself."

Charles nods, his eyes shining. "When I feel alone, I pretend he's standing just off-track, arms crossed, waiting with that lopsided grin."

Solana lets out a broken laugh. "God, that grin." She swallows, then adds, "He talked about you too, you know. Always. Said you had the kind of soul that would scare people one day. In the best way."

Charles turns toward her, his jaw clenched. "He said you raced like the track owed you something. Like you didn’t care what they thought—as long as the car listened."

Her breath catches. Her shoulders shake.

"I miss him so much," she says, the words crumbling as they leave her lips.

Charles doesn’t answer with words.

He just leans into her, their shoulders pressing together like ballast against grief.

And in that stillness—surrounded by the soft flicker of candles and the hum of distant engines—they cry. Openly. Freely.

No shame. No cameras. No need to pretend.

Just two souls mourning the man who once called them his future.

A brother and a godson.

A sister and a best friend.

Left behind, but not alone.

Race Day – September 27, 2015 Suzuka Circuit, Japan

The air is sharp and gray above the stands. A strange, aching clarity sits over the paddock like fog that never quite touches the ground.

The grid is tense. Focused. No one says it out loud, but everyone feels it—Turn 7 is not just a corner today. It's a memory. A scar.

Solana lines up P6, jaw tight, hands wrapped around the steering wheel with a grip she doesn’t fully release—even on the formation lap.

Marco checks in. Her strategist reads the numbers. But none of it matters as much as what’s waiting at that spot on the track.

The place that stole Jules.

Lights out.

The race is brutal. Relentless. Hamilton bolts from pole, Rosberg clings behind, and Vettel muscles his way into a comfortable third.

But Solana fights.

She weaves past Bottas with precision in Sector 1, then hounds Raikkonen until he locks up into the hairpin. P5. Then P4.

And then, Turn 7.

Her foot should hesitate. Just slightly. Just enough to ease through.

But she doesn’t lift.

She hears Jules in her head.

"Flat, it wants you to flinch. Don’t."

She takes it flat-out.

The car wobbles. Slides for a breath. But it holds.

And she flies.

The team erupts in her ear. Data streams green. She’s on the limit—but safe.

And still, she doesn’t care about the lap times.

She just needed to make it through.

Not physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

P4. She finishes just outside the podium, but this time, it doesn't sting.

Because when she climbs out of the car, still shaking, helmet in hand, she's not thinking about the flag.

She's thinking about that moment. That corner. That fear.

And how she faced it.

Her breath is uneven as she walks back toward the paddock. The noise blurs around her.

And then—she sees him.

Charles.

Waiting by the paddock fence, still in his Prema jacket, cap low over his eyes. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes a little red, but clear.

He doesn’t speak.

He just nods.

Once.

And she understands.

Everything that needed to be said was already written in rubber and courage on that one corner of tarmac.

She nods back, tears stinging her eyes—but she lets them fall.

Because today wasn’t about the podium.

Today was about remembering.

And surviving.

And carrying Jules—not in fear, but in motion.

Forever forward.

Ferrari Garage – Post-Race Debrief, Suzuka

The whir of cooling fans hums in the background. Telemetry scrolls across three wide monitors—corner speeds, tire drop-off, brake temps. The room smells faintly of fuel and espresso. A mechanic murmurs something in Italian before slipping out. Most of the debrief is over, but Solana hasn’t moved.

She stands at the edge of the room, arms crossed, still in her fireproofs, hair damp with sweat. Her helmet rests on the table like a loaded weapon.

“Maurizio,” she says suddenly, not loudly—but with weight.

Heads turn. Silence.

Arrivabene glances up from the data tablet in his hands. His suit jacket is still buttoned, expression unreadable beneath his signature silver beard.

“I need to speak plainly,” Solana says, stepping forward. “Because if I don’t say it now, I never will.”

He sets the tablet down with care. “Go on.”

She exhales, steadying her voice. “I’ve held my tongue for too long. But I’m done pretending everything’s equal in this team.”

The team principal shifts in his chair. He looks down at his notes.

Solana keeps going.

“I get second-call strategy. I get second-tier data. I’m sent out behind Sebastian in qualifying runs even when I’m faster in FP3.”

She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to.

“I’m not here to boost someone else’s narrative. Not here to be a feel-good headline or a political shield. I’m here to win.”

Arrivabene leans back slowly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “You think we don’t want that?”

“I think the team wants me competitive,” she replies. “But not too competitive. Not if it threatens the hierarchy.”

A pause.

“I risk everything out there. Every weekend. You know that. And I do it without complaint. But if Ferrari wants me to keep giving everything I’ve got, I need clarity.”

The room is quiet. Not tense—controlled.

Arrivabene finally speaks, his voice even, low.

“You're not here to play second fiddle, Villarosa. And you're not invisible.”

She watches him closely. Waiting.

“But this is Ferrari. We don’t operate on emotion. We operate on results, on discipline, on trust. You want equal treatment? Earn it, not just on the track—but in here. In meetings. In how you carry the name.”

Solana blinks, jaw set. “So what have I been doing until now?”

His gaze narrows. “You’ve been proving you have fire. Now prove you have focus.”

Another pause.

Then—softer, almost reluctantly—he adds, “Today showed something. That Turn 7 lap? We saw it. Everyone did.”

He folds his hands. “You’re not a shadow. Not to me. Not to this team.”

The words hit harder than any podium.

Solana nods once. Measured. Cool. “Then start treating me like the driver who ran Turn 7 flat.”

She grabs her gloves from the table, turns, and walks out.

In the hallway, a young mechanic steps aside instinctively. Her name carries weight now—spoken not like a novelty, but like a warning.

Back in her driver’s room, she closes the door softly behind her, and leans against it for a long breath.

Only then does she whisper—to herself, to the ghost of Jules, to the version of her that once doubted:

“I’m not here to play support.”

October 9 – Sochi, Russia

The paddock in Sochi is colder now—not just the air, but the way people move. Fewer smiles. Shorter conversations. Everyone walks like the ground might split open if they step too hard.

The ghosts of Suzuka still linger, and now a fresh echo joins them.

FP3. Daniil Kvyat hits the barriers—hard. Double-waved yellows flash across the screens. The silence that falls over the garages is instant and suffocating. No one breathes until they hear he's okay.

But it doesn’t matter.

Not really.

Because everyone remembers. Suzuka. Jules. The slow-motion horror of it all. And now it’s playing again, just with different colors, different helmets, same dread.

Solana watches the replays on the monitor, hands clasped, jaw clenched. Her mouth is dry. Her eyes burn.

And Daniel?

He’s standing behind her. Frozen. Shoulders tense, like he's waiting for the blow that hasn’t landed yet.

They don’t speak until after parc fermé, once the adrenaline crashes and the weight of the day settles into their bones.

Daniel walks beside her in silence. Helmet in hand. Steps heavy.

They make it halfway through the paddock before he finally speaks.

"He hit the wall hard."

His voice is too low. Too quiet. Like he’s afraid of the truth inside it.

Solana doesn't answer. She just slips her fingers into his, gently but deliberately. Like she’s reminding him—I'm here. I'm not letting go.

Daniel stops walking. His grip tightens suddenly, almost desperately.

He looks at her, and there’s something breaking open behind his eyes.

"What if you’re the one who drives away first?" he whispers.

Not just about racing. Not just about danger.

About love. About grief. About the unbearable idea of losing her too.

Solana turns to face him fully, both hands wrapping around his now.

Her eyes are fierce—but soft. Steady, even as her heart pounds.

"Then chase me," she says. "Like always."

She brushes her thumb against his cheek, damp from the cold—or maybe not.

"Catch me, Daniel. And don’t ever stop."

He kisses her then—not out of want, but out of need.

A kiss that trembles with fear, aches with love, and clings to the fragile, burning hope that somehow, in this chaos, they can still find each other again and again.

October 11 – Sochi Race Day

Hamilton wins. The Silver Arrow cuts through the Russian air like inevitability.

Vettel finishes second, his celebration quiet but confident.

Checo Pérez shocks the grid, bringing his Force India home in third with the kind of tire management that earns a standing ovation in the paddock.

Solana?

She was hunting Kimi for fourth—braking late, biting at apexes, heart in her throat—until Lap 48.

The radio crackled. The car twitched. And just like that, her rear tire gave up on her.

She limps back to the pits, the SF15-T groaning beneath her. She finishes P6.

Not a failure. But not what it could’ve been.

After the debrief, she slips away from the Ferrari motorhome, still in her race suit, hair pulled loose from her braid. Her gloves hang from her fingers.

She finds Daniel leaning against the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, curls damp with sweat, jaw tight. He’s staring out toward parc fermé, but his eyes soften when he sees her.

"You finished strong," she says first, voice quiet.

"P5," he replies. "Could’ve been more. But it was clean."

She nods, slowly. "I had it. Then I didn’t. Story of my year."

Her voice dips at the end, and the weight behind it betrays how deep that sentence cuts. She’s not just talking about a race.

She’s talking about everything.

Daniel pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. He studies her like he’s looking for damage the telemetry didn’t catch.

"You’re too hard on yourself."

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "That’s how I got here. Being harder on myself than anyone else ever could be."

Her hands tighten around her gloves. She’s trying to hold something back.

"I’m tired, Daniel. Tired of being almost fast enough. Almost respected. Almost loved by this team. I’m tired of being almost everything."

She doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

But once it’s there, hanging between them, she can’t take it back.

Daniel doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps in close, close enough that she has to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

Then, with a gentleness that undoes her more than any race ever could, he lifts one hand to her cheek.

"You’re not ‘almost’ to me," he says. "You’re already everything."

Her breath catches.

Because it’s not a line. It’s not flattery.

It’s truth.

The kind that makes her knees soften and her throat tighten.

She leans into his touch, eyes glistening. "I don’t know how to be soft in a world that keeps trying to break me."

Daniel brushes his thumb across her cheek. "Then let me be soft for you."

She closes her eyes. Not to hide. But to finally rest—for just a moment.

And in that breathless silence between engines and headlines, between ambition and exhaustion, he kisses her. Not like he’s claiming her.

Like he’s reminding her:

She is not alone.

Private Moment – Hotel Room, Sochi

The night air is cool through the cracked hotel window, the scent of sea salt and autumn rain drifting in from the Black Sea. Somewhere below, the city hums with quiet traffic and fading post-race energy.

Inside, the lights are dim. The room feels like a shelter—soft linens, hushed walls, the only sound their shared breath.

Solana lies draped across Daniel’s chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. Her body aches from the race, from the pressure, from carrying it all, but here… in this room… the weight shifts.

Her fingers trace absent circles across his bare skin.

"I don't want to lose who I am," she says, voice raw.

Daniel’s hand moves slowly through her hair. "You won't," he murmurs. "You'd burn Ferrari to the ground before that happened."

A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. But her eyes stay glassy, shimmering in the low light.

"You love me?" she asks, like the question might dissolve if spoken too loud.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at her—really looks at her. No helmet. No fire suit. No cameras.

Just Solana.

And then he nods.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I really fucking do."

Something in her unravels at that.

She shifts, rising to meet his mouth—slow, deep, without defense.

The kiss isn’t hungry. It’s honest. Built from everything they haven’t said, everything they’ve felt, and everything they’ve lost. Their hands find each other instinctively—his fingers trailing down her spine, hers tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck.

No rush. No masks.

Just two people choosing each other after the noise.

She presses her forehead to his, their breaths mingling in the dark.

"This isn’t just heat, is it?" she whispers, afraid to open her eyes.

"No," he breathes. "It’s fire. The kind that stays lit."

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Solana lets go of everything she’s holding back. The grief. The fear. The pressure. She surrenders, not in defeat, but in trust.

And Daniel holds her like he knows exactly what that costs her.

When they finally fall asleep—limbs tangled, hearts exposed—the city fades beneath them. The world feels quieter. The future closer.

Because this—whatever it is between them—is real.

And they’re still here.

Together.

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Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev

[rickybobbydan]

leo, roscoe and lewis 🥺

[rickybobbydan]