#smoooothoperator recs

[smoooothoperator]

Go read, you know the deal

ten millimeters

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.

Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)

TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content

A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART

other drivers content will be coming soon...

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.

They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.

From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.

That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.

Oscar was out. She won.

And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.

Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.

Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.

They weren’t done. Not even close.

The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.

Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.

His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.

The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.

From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.

He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.

Lena.

She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.

In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.

On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.

Until he saw the screen.

Lena Bauer – P1 – 1:29.771Oscar Piastri – P2 – 1:29.784

Thirteen milliseconds.

He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.

When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.

Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.

"Almost, Piastri."

Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.

Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.

"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."

Lena arched an amused brow.

"For you? Doubt it."

She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.

The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.

But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.

Sunday morning.

The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.

Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.

Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.

But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.

Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.

And she, as always, noticed.

Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.

Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.

"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"

She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.

"Yes."

The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?

"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"

"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."

The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.

"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."

Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.

"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."

She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.

Oh, how she loved this.

The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.

Lena was at the center of it all.

Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.

A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.

Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.

He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.

The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.

Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.

And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.

By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.

She found him instantly.

With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.

"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."

Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.

"Oh, I will enjoy it."

And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.

Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.

The lights went out.

The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.

He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.

He didn’t.

He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.

For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.

His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.

The race was a war of attrition.

Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.

Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.

But he did it.

Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.

He won.

The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.

When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.

Until he saw her.

Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…

Happy.

No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.

She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.

But Lena Bauer didn’t.

Lena Bauer was celebrating.

Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.

When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.

Because if she didn’t care about losing…

Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?

Melbourne, on a thursday night.

Oscar hated these kinds of events.

It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.

And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.

Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.

Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.

“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”

It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.

People loved it. Oscar… not so much.

“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.

Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.

“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”

“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.

Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”

Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.

“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”

“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”

Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.

“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”

Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?

“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.

Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.

“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.

“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”

“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.

“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”

Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.

Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.

It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.

However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.

“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”

Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.

“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”

“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.

That was what everyone saw.

But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.

The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.

And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.

It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.

She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.

There was no logical reason for it.

The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.

No one except Oscar.

And that was what irritated him the most.

The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.

Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.

P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.

As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.

Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.

"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.

"Always," he replied without hesitation.

She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.

"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."

Oscar blinked, caught off guard.

It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.

She seemed… sincere.

Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.

"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.

"I’m proud of you, Piastri."

The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.

It was Lena.

And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.

Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.

He couldn’t let it end just like that.

"Lena."

She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.

Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.

"You’re going to have a great race too."

His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.

She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.

Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.

"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.

It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.

It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.

The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.

The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.

But there was no time to relax.

Lena was there.

Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.

Ten millimeters.

That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.

The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.

On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Turn 3.

Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.

Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.

He reacted instantly.

Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.

The crowd was on their feet.

Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.

Oscar held the line. Barely.

Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.

Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.

But it didn’t.

Oscar kept the position.

When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.

"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"

He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.

As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.

But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.

Lena.

She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.

Oscar froze completely for a second.

He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.

The cameras caught everything.

Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.

Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.

Ten millimeters.

That was what separated them on track.

But here, there wasn’t a single one.

A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.

He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.

And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.

It was absurd.

He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.

But he had never felt her like this.

Close. Present.

No helmet. No barriers.

A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.

And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."

Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.

"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.

Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.

"So it’s Lena."

Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.

"What?"

"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."

Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.

"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."

Oscar looked away, uneasy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I think you do."

Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.

Lando was right. He knew.

But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.

Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.

And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.

Always too close.

And yet, never as much as now.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.

"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.

His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Whatever you say."

The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.

Oscar closed his eyes.

But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.

He only saw Lena.

Her smile.

The warmth of her embrace.

The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.

The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.

Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.

Peace.

That was what he needed.

He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.

He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.

He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.

Lena Bauer.

He frowned.

It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.

He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.

Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."

He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.

But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.

He sighed.

Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."

His phone vibrated almost instantly.

Lena: "thankiu ily"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.

No.

Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.

Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.

There she was, locked in battle with a couch.

The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.

Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.

"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.

Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.

"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."

Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.

"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"

Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.

"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.

"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.

"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."

Lena eyed him skeptically.

"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."

"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."

Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.

He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.

She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.

"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.

Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.

"Don’t you dare."

But it was already too late.

Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.

The caption read:

"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."

Lena let out an outraged groan.

"Delete that. Right now."

"It already has likes."

"How long has it even been!?"

"Twenty seconds."

Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."

Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.

They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.

"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."

"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.

Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.

"Lena, please."

She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.

Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."

Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"Could’ve been worse."

Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"

"For example."

Lena let out a breathless laugh.

"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."

Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.

When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.

“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.

Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”

For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You said there was beer.”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”

Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.

There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”

Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

Lena turned the bottle in her hands.

“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”

She shot him a lazy smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”

Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”

Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.

“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”

Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.

“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”

Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.

“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”

The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.

Because she said it while looking at him.

He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.

“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”

Oscar let out a quiet snort.

“That could’ve been a creative solution.”

“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”

He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.

“Isn’t it?”

Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not yet.”

Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.

Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.

“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.

“A couple of days. Why?”

“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”

Oscar eyed her suspiciously.

“Lena…”

She held up her hands in mock innocence.

“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”

“You want me to do your entire move?”

“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”

Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.

“We’ll see.”

The following days tested Oscar’s patience.

What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.

“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”

“I don’t know, most of them are books.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You read?”

Lena shot him an offended look.

"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"

"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."

"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.

"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.

"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."

Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.

"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.

"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"I’m efficient."

By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.

They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.

"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.

Lena elbowed him.

"Almost."

He groaned.

"I knew you were lying to me."

"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"

Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.

"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."

Lena stuck out her tongue.

And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.

The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.

But something had changed.

It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.

Lena.

Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.

Just because she was there.

Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.

And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.

The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.

From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.

"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.

"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.

"We’ll see about that."

And they did.

Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.

When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.

P1.

On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.

Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.

He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.

He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.

When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.

His start was good. Hers was better.

They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.

The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.

And then—it happened.

It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.

It was a matter of… ten millimeters.

Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.

Their rear wheels touched.

And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.

The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.

The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.

Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.

When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.

He jumped out of the car.

And there she was.

Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.

They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.

Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.

There was no need for words.

What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.

It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.

It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.

When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.

So they were left in a room. Alone.

The silence was suffocating.

The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.

Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.

But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…

He knew.

This wasn’t about the race.

It had never been just about the track.

And then, the storm broke.

The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.

Silence.

Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.

Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.

Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.

"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."

"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."

"There was no more space to give you."

"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."

Oscar took a step toward her.

"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."

"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"

The air crackled between them.

The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was everything behind it.

Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.

Oscar took another step.

Lena didn’t move an inch.

"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.

"Do what?"

"Put me in this fucking situation."

Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.

"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."

"Oh, no?"

"You know it’s not."

Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.

"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.

"What pisses me off?"

"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."

Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.

"You have no idea what I’m feeling."

Lena stepped closer.

A single damn millimeter.

"Of course I do."

A flicker in his jaw.

"No. You don’t."

"I know it’s not about the race."

Oscar swallowed.

"Shut up."

"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."

"Lena."

"I know you want to kiss me."

Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.

"Shut up."

Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.

"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"

Oscar gritted his teeth.

"Because it’s bullshit."

"No, it’s not."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, really? Then why—"

She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.

"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"

"I don’t look at you in any way."

"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"

"Because you’re unbearable."

Lena clicked her tongue.

"Liar."

Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.

"Drop it."

But she didn’t.

"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"

Oscar didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.

Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.

It wasn’t competitiveness.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t that she won.

It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.

It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.

It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.

It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.

And she knew it.

Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.

"See?" she whispered.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.

"No," he said.

But it sounded like what it was—a lie.

Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.

"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."

Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.

"Shut up."

His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.

"Make me."

Oscar swallowed hard.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.

They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.

But fury didn’t burn like this.

Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.

Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.

"Say you don’t want this."

Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.

That none of this existed.

That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.

But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.

The last barrier shattered.

The final ten millimeters disappeared.

And Oscar kissed her.

The impact was brutal.

No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.

Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.

That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.

But had they really?

His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.

"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.

But everything was Lena.

Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.

He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.

Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.

"I knew I was right."

Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.

"Don’t ruin it," he growled.

But she did anyway.

"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.

But there was no anger left in him.

Only this.

This vertigo, this need.

This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.

Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.

"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.

He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.

And then he knew.

"I have no fucking idea."

Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.

The door creaked open.

Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.

The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.

"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."

Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.

A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.

He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.

No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.

When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.

Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.

Ten millimeters.

They had crossed them.

And there was no turning back.

Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.

"Doctor. Now."

"I'm fine."

"Doctor. Now."

Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.

But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.

She had slipped away.

Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.

And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.

"Piastri."

Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.

"Sit down."

"Is Lena here?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."

Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.

Where the hell had she gone?

He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.

Because now he knew.

She had been right.

And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.

But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.

The flight back to Monaco was a blur.

He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.

The room in the paddock.

Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.

By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.

He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.

He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.

Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.

The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He knew sleep would be impossible.

He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Seen.

Nothing else.

No message. No reaction.

Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.

Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a bad idea.

No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.

What the hell was he thinking?

He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.

Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.

The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.

And then the doorbell ringed.

Oscar opened his eyes.

He froze.

Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.

Doorbell. Again.

This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.

He opened it.

Lena.

Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

And then, everything unraveled.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.

Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.

She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.

Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”

Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”

She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”

Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”

That was all he needed.

The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.

And then, everything really unraveled.

Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because for once, there was nothing left to say.

The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.

Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.

He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.

Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.

“Always.”

Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”

She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”

She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”

Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.

“No more running,” she said.

His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”

Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”

“You like that about me,” she teased.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”

“Healthy,” she deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Extremely.”

Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”

Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”

She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”

“I can be responsible sometimes.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”

She grinned. “But it worked.”

He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”

And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog

[f1letters]

f1letters' formula 1 fic recs - pt. 1

✨ SURPRISE! ✨ as an early Christmas gift for all of you, and since I will be continuing the 'midnights' series during the holiday season as well, I decided to make a small list with some of my all-time favourite stories!

I tried to include a variety of different drivers to the best of my ability, which was harder than I thought it would be, since some drivers don't have a lot of stories available (every single person writes for alex, lance or esteban deserves a giant smooch from me, I swear), or I don't read them as much. for other ones, I have like 20+ stories saved so it was really hard to stick to only a few! haha

anyways, I hope you enjoy this little present from me and I encourage you guys to check out all of these amazing and talented writers!

happy holidays to all of you lovely people! 💜 - cat

max verstappen | mv1

'long time lovers' || @libraryofloveletters

'little verstappen' || @lxclerc

'traitor' || @lxclerc

'dog days' || @tierneysodegaard || 13 parts

'our dirty little secret' || @timetorace || 2 parts

daniel ricciardo | dr3

'stargazing' || @art-outlaw || 28 parts

'memories hold me hostage' || @libraryofloveletters || 2 parts

'you abandoned me' || @lovingperfectionsblog || 2 parts

'sweet boy' || @unluckyhoneybee

'twin flame' || @vinvantae || 26 parts

lando norris | ln4

'breaking the rules' || @f1goat || 7 parts

'mini norris' !! @unluckyhoneybee || 2 parts

sebastian vettel | sv5

'after all this time' || @kates-dirty-sister

'chapters from an old book' || @libraryofloveletters

'thin walls' || @tierneysodegaard

pierre gasly | pg10

'pillow' || @illicitlimerence-writes || 4 parts

'one true love' || @mytinycrazymind

'secret' || @mytinycrazymind

'fake it till you make it' || @smoooothoperator || 6 parts

charles leclerc | cl16

'a moment in time' || @hey-kae || 2 parts

'babies and bahrain' || @illicitlimerence-writes

'little enzo' || @mytinycrazymind || 2 parts

'maybe summer doesn't have to end' || @rebelwrites || 11 parts

'the real deal' || @rebelwrites

lance stroll | ls18

'sugar plum' || @libraryofloveletters || 2 parts

'summer lovin' || @libraryofloveletters

'yule shoot your eye out' || @lovelytsunoda

'the second one' || @unluckyhoneybee

alex albon | aa23

'made in the a.m' || @lovelytsunoda

esteban ocon | eo31

'hot n cold' || @lovelytsunoda

'be my date' || @timetorace || 2 parts

lewis hamilton | lh44

'love you from the sidelines' || @libraryofloveletters

'old flame' || @lostinlewis || 5 parts

'what you can't have' || @luvth0t

mick schumacher | ms47

'dress' || @daydreamingleclerc

'lost in japan' || @illicitlimerence-writes

'romeo & juliet' || @illicitlimerence-writes

'see you later' || @illicitlimerence-writes

'sparkling' || @illicitlimerence-writes

carlos sainz | cs55

'in this lifetime or another' || @libraryofloveletters

'cockblock' || @lxclerc

'nothing happened' || @timetorace

george russell | gr63

'never really over' || @charlewiss-writes

'who you belong to' || @russellsppttemplates

multiple drivers

'bad omens' || @lxclerc || cl16 x pg10

'moth to a flame' || @lxclerc || cs55 x cl16 || 2 parts

'all too well' || @targaryenluv || lh44 x pg10

'are you happy now?' || @oyesmendes || pg 10 x gr63 || 3 parts

PS: if you want, feel free to leave your recommendations in the comments and/or message me! i'm always looking for new fics to read and I'd love to know your favourites! 💜

[smoooothoperator]

My boo is starting a new story!! Go check it🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Racing Hearts Masterlist

a/n: hello everyone, it's been a long time since I've written something on here. But I am back. And this time I'm creating my own story! I've never done this before on here, so don't mind any mistakes. I'm in love with the rich lifestyle genre, billionaire romance, grumpy X sunshine, he falls harder type of stories. You will be warned, it's not your average cute romance story, be prepared for loads and loads of angst.

If you want to be added to the taglist, please comment down below or send me a message in my inbox.

Epilogue coming soon...

He doesn’t believe in love. For Lando Norris, it’s all about racing, entrepreneurship, and success. Besides being a Formula One racing driver for McLaren, he's also the founder of Velocity Estates, a luxury real estate company. He’s successful, wealthy, and accustomed to getting whatever he desires. However, when he meets her, life forces him to reconsider his priorities. Can he still have it all? Or is she the exception to his guarded heart?

She’s never experienced love. Her life consists of high-profile galas and maintaining her parents’ company’s image as a PR Director. She’s smart, talented and dreams of a life beyond the expectations of high society- yearning to travel, experience new cultures, and embrace adventures that challenge her. When she meets him, she can’t help but feel fascinated by how he seamlessly blends the two; the thrill of racing and the demands of running a high society business.  

-

TAGLIST

@smoooothoperator

[smoooothoperator]

Again, let's cry together and read my sis work 🥹😭

step by step

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: After a devastating crash, Oscar Piastri’s road back to F1 is anything but smooth. Stuck with Mandy, his stubborn physiotherapist, he’s forced to face pain, fear, and emotions he never expected. Racing was always his dream—but now, she’s part of it too.

Word count: 12k (wtf)

TW: graphic depictions of injuries, medical procedures, strong language, emotional distress and trauma, disability, sex (not explicit)

A/N: god, I love oscar (even tho i make him suffer like a bitch in this one...) again, i promise it has a good ending, just bear with me

masterlist

Oscar Piastri was living the best moment of his career.

McLaren had made an incredible leap in performance, and though he wasn’t the main title contender, he was constantly fighting for podiums and key points. The season was a dream come true—strategies were working, his confidence in the car was absolute, and the team supported him every step of the way. There was nothing better than feeling that rush of adrenaline when lowering the visor, hearing the countdown on the radio before the start. Everything in his life revolved around Formula 1, and at that moment, nothing seemed capable of stopping him.

It was a race weekend at Spa-Francorchamps. The track, legendary and imposing, always demanded the absolute maximum. Rain had been a constant threat, and the race had started under mixed conditions, with the asphalt in that tricky in-between state—neither fully wet nor fully dry—that tested a driver’s instincts to the limit. Oscar felt in control, managing the tires with surgical precision, confident in every move.

Until he wasn’t.

The crash happened in an instant, a blink that changed everything. An unexpected touch, the car losing control, the barrier approaching at impossible speed.

The impact shook him like a rag doll. The crunch of twisted metal, the deafening crack of carbon shattering, the sheer violence of hitting the barriers—all of it collapsed into a single second of absolute terror.

And then, silence.

He didn’t lose consciousness. He wished he had.

The world slowed down, as if time itself refused to move forward. The pain didn’t come immediately, as if his body hadn’t yet figured out how to process what had just happened. But when it did, it was a burning wave that consumed him entirely.

His leg.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something was wrong—very wrong. With difficulty, he turned his head and saw it. His right leg… bent at an impossible angle. His stomach lurched. He felt bile rising in his throat but could barely breathe. The blood darkened the bright orange of his suit, sticky, hot. His mind screamed, but his body didn’t respond.

“Oscar! Oscar, say something!” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, sharp and desperate.

He tried to answer. Tried to tell them he was there, that it hurt like hell, that he couldn’t move… but his throat made no sound. He could only gasp, feeling the pain expand, the panic grow with every beat of his heart.

“Oscar, respond! Can you hear me?” this time, he heard Zak’s voice.

Every second of silence only made the desperation on the radio worse. He knew they were all watching from the pit wall, that the cameras were on him, that the entire world was waiting for a sign.

But he couldn’t give them one.

Fear hit him harder than the impact against the barriers. His career, his life, everything he knew… was it over?

A violent spasm of pain made him clench his teeth so hard he thought they would break. His vision blurred. He heard noises around him—the screech of the safety cars, the hurried footsteps of the marshals running toward him, the sharp ringing in his ears.

“Oscar! We’re on our way! Don’t move!”

The emergency team arrived in seconds, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Firm hands touched his helmet.

“Oscar, breathe. We’re here.”

Breathe.

He tried, but the air came in ragged, shaky gasps. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t control it. Everything around him was a whirlwind of noise, flashing lights, faces he couldn’t focus on.

They pulled him from the car with the utmost care, but every movement sent unbearable pain through him. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and the voices around him became even more urgent.

Then the helicopter.

He felt it before he saw it. The pounding of the rotors in the air, the deafening roar that made his skull vibrate. He shut his eyes tightly. His body was shaking—he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the adrenaline, or pure terror.

Someone placed a mask over his face.

“Oscar, count to ten for me.”

One.

He thought of his wrecked car.

Two.

Of the leg he might never use again.

Three.

Of everything that was at stake.

Four.

Of the fear—the real fear—that maybe, just maybe, he would never be a driver again.

Five.

Darkness.

The days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and emptiness.

Surgeries followed one after another. Some days passed without intervention; on others, he woke up to the news that another operation had been scheduled—another attempt to save what was left of his leg.

It was absurd.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him how severe the injury was. He had known from the moment he saw the way his leg had been left in the car, from the instant he felt the indescribable pain as they pulled him out, from the way the doctors spoke in urgent terms, as if every second mattered.

Each surgery was a battle he had never asked to fight.

They administered anesthesia, his body sank into unconsciousness, and when he woke up… everything was still the same.

The same pain, the same feeling of being trapped in a body that no longer responded as it once had.

The same damn certainty that maybe, no matter how many operations they performed, he would never be the same again.

Sometimes, he woke up from the anesthesia feeling confused, disoriented, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. They tried to make him eat, but everything tasted like nothing. The food remained untouched on the tray as he simply turned his head away, unable to even attempt it.

The pain was a constant, a searing presence that settled deep in his bones and refused to let him breathe. The painkillers barely helped, and when they did, they left him in a lethargic state where reality and dreams blurred together in an unpleasant haze.

The only certainty was the passing of the days, marked by the doctors’ visits, by the sound of his own pulse in his ears, by the way night fell without him feeling like he had moved forward in any way.

Nothing.

That was the word that defined his existence now.

Nothing to think about, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.

Only pain. Only uncertainty. Only the echo of a future that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure still belonged to him.

The hospital clock marked time with cruel precision, each second dragging by like a silent sentence. Light filtered through the window at different times of the day, casting shadows on the white walls, but he never looked away from it.

Looking at anything else meant facing reality.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

His world had shrunk to that sterile room, to the machines beeping around him, to the soft murmurs of doctors coming and going, to the sound of doors opening when someone came to visit.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look.

He didn’t have the strength to.

His mother had tried to talk to him at first. So had Lando. His childhood friends, the McLaren mechanics, Zak Brown… they all came in with the same worried expressions, with the same look of someone who wanted to say something but didn’t dare to.

He never looked at them.

He couldn’t do it without feeling a raw, burning anger in his chest. He couldn’t listen to them without the frustration building up like a knot in his throat. He couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, their pity.

Because if he did, it meant this was real.

It meant his career was in danger.

That his life was no longer his own.

That he was trapped in a bed, unable to move his own leg without feeling such unbearable pain that sometimes he wished they would put him to sleep and not wake him up until it was all over.

He clenched his jaw every time sharp, stabbing pain shot through his body, every time his leg—or what was left of it—reminded him of his own fragility. The doctors spoke of progress, of successful surgeries, of rehabilitation plans, but it all felt distant, irrelevant.

He knew that at some point, he would have to face it. That eventually, someone would force him to move, to try, to do something other than just lie there, feeling himself wither away.

But not today.

Today, he only stared out the window, lost in thoughts that ate away at him from the inside.

He replayed every second of the accident, like a broken film looping in his mind over and over again.

Could he have avoided it? Could he have turned sooner? Braked differently?

His brain tortured him with every possibility, every alternative, every little thing he could have done to not end up here.

To not be… this.

To not feel like a useless, broken piece of flesh.

And then she arrived.

The first time he saw her, Oscar barely lifted his gaze.

He heard her voice before he saw her—clear, firm, with not a hint of hesitation.

"Oscar, I’m Amanda, your physiotherapist. From now on, we’ll be working together."

He didn’t respond. He had no intention of doing so.

But then she stepped closer, placed a few papers on the table next to his bed, and waited. Not with endless patience, not with the forced sweetness he had noticed in other visitors. She simply waited.

And when he didn’t react, she continued.

"I know you probably hate me. Everyone does at first."

That, at least, made him look at her.

She wasn’t what he expected.

She wasn’t the image of an older therapist, hardened by years of experience. She wasn’t someone who radiated the wisdom of decades in the profession. She was young. Incredibly young to be standing there, to be the one McLaren had hired to fix him.

But she didn’t seem uncertain. Not even for a second.

She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her words. She simply looked at him with an impenetrable professionalism.

Oscar didn’t know what he had expected from the person who was supposed to give him his life back, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t someone who introduced herself with that much confidence, who spoke with that much honesty.

It wasn’t someone who, with complete calmness, made it clear that the worst was still ahead.

The sessions started the next day.

And within hours, she became the embodiment of his worst nightmare.

The pain was unbearable.

Oscar thought he knew physical suffering. He had felt it after minor accidents, after grueling races, after brutal training sessions. But this… this was different.

This had no purpose. No satisfying end. It wasn’t the consequence of something great, but of something that had taken everything from him.

“Move it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I. Can’t.”

“Oscar.”

He hated the way she said his name. As if she had absolute certainty that he would succeed. As if she knew more about him than he did himself.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried, unsuccessfully, to move his leg. A single centimeter felt like a monumental task, and every time he tried, the pain blurred his vision.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t offer empty words of comfort. She didn’t try to minimize his suffering.

She just waited.

Waited for him to try again.

And when he did—when he managed even the slightest progress—she nodded ever so slightly, as if she had expected nothing less.

She never praised him. Never told him he was doing a good job.

As if, to her, getting better wasn’t an option, but an inevitable fact.

Oscar hated that. He hated the certainty with which she believed in his recovery, because he didn’t believe in it himself.

But more than anything, he hated how, despite it all, every morning when he woke up, she was still there.

Always there.

Always with that same determined look.

Always with that same certainty.

Oscar didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the feeling that, somehow, she had no intention of letting him fall, when all he wanted was to let go.

When Oscar left the hospital, he didn’t feel relief.

He had expected that being back to his home in England, near the McLaren headquarters,would make everything easier. That the air wouldn’t smell of antiseptic, that his days wouldn’t be dictated by visiting hours and surgeries, that he could find some peace in the familiarity of his home.

But reality was different.

Being home meant facing life outside the hospital, and that terrified him.

His mother was there with him, helping with everything he needed. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden, but that only made things worse.

This place had once been his sanctuary. Now, every corner felt like a reminder of what he had lost.

Especially the garage.

He had turned that space into his personal gym back when he would spend hours training relentlessly. Now, that same space had been transformed into his rehabilitation room. The weights and machines were covered in dust, replaced by support bars, resistance bands, and a therapy table.

And Amanda—Mandy, as his mother insisted on calling her—was there every day.

She entered with the same energy she had at the hospital, unfazed by his silence or his bad mood. She greeted his mother with a smile before dragging Oscar’s chair to the garage, waiting for him to start the session.

And he did, because he had no choice.

The exercises were unbearable.

The pain burned.

Every time he tried to move, his leg felt like someone was driving a red-hot iron through it.

And Mandy showed no mercy.

“Up,” she ordered, arms crossed. “One more time.”

Oscar gritted his teeth and glared at her.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Mandy, for fuck’s sake…”

“Oscar, for fuck’s sake.”

He let out a sarcastic laugh, incredulous.

She didn’t budge. She never did.

At night, when he dragged himself back to bed, exhausted and aching, he swore he hated her.

But no matter what he did or said, the next morning, she was always there.

Waiting.

But without a doubt, what he hated most about rehab were the days when Mandy helped him lie down on the therapy table, his right leg lifted, pink scars in plain sight.

Oscar hated these moments.

Not because they were the most painful—he reserved that for the rehab sessions where Mandy made him sweat until his muscles trembled—but because they left him completely exposed.

The massage sessions were necessary. He knew that. His leg had been through too many surgeries, too many stitches, too many hours of immobility. The skin was tight over the scars, the muscles stiff, and every movement reminded him that he wasn’t the same as before. Mandy said they needed to work on elasticity, circulation, pain relief. He listened to her say it in that neutral, almost dispassionate voice, as if she were talking about any other patient.

But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell.

At first, he tried to endure it in silence. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and held on. But the longer the session went on, the more unbearable it became. Mandy wasn’t exactly gentle, and even though she used oils and her hands were firm and skilled, she didn’t hold back when she needed to press on the tension points.

So, without thinking too much about it, Oscar started talking.

“You know Eau Rouge has a 17% incline?” he blurted out, his jaw tight.

Mandy didn’t stop but responded calmly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Spa is a brutal circuit.”

Oscar winced as her fingers ran over an especially sensitive scar.

“Technically, the corner isn’t just Eau Rouge. It’s part of Raidillon, but people say it wrong.”

“Mmm. Fascinating.” The lack of emotion in her voice told him she didn’t care at all.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Did you know Formula 1 had its first season in 1950? And that the world championship only had seven races?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know Niki Lauda won the title in ‘84 without taking a single pole position all season?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know—”

“Oscar.” This time, Mandy stopped, pressing his leg a little harder than necessary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to distract yourself, aren’t you?”

He frowned but couldn’t deny it.

Mandy smirked and went back to work, massaging his leg with precision.

“It’s fine. Keep going. Surprise me.”

Oscar eyed her warily. “You don’t mind me talking?”

“I’d rather you talk than start yelling at me. Besides, I’m learning a lot. Like, what was that Spa incline again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Uh-huh. Good to know.”

The irony in her voice made him click his tongue, but for some reason, his initial frustration faded a little.

The conversation continued in a disjointed rhythm. Sometimes, Oscar complained about the pain; other times, he got distracted enough to forget why he was even talking so much. When Mandy pressed on an especially tight spot, he let out a grunt and muttered,

“I hate you.”

She didn’t even blink.

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

That response, so unexpected and casual, made a laugh slip past his lips. Almost immediately, Oscar regretted it. He didn’t want to laugh with her. He didn’t want to like her.

But the truth was that, for the first time in a long while, the session hadn’t been just pain and frustration. And deep down, that terrified him.

The months passed, and though Oscar hated to admit it, he was starting to see results.

They weren’t huge, not yet. He wasn’t running, not even walking, but every day, there was something new. A little more mobility, a little less pain, a small victory that Mandy celebrated as if he’d just won a Grand Prix.

And the worst part was… he appreciated it.

The anger was gone. He no longer spent his days hating his leg or cursing his luck. Now, all that remained was frustration. The unbearable, slow, agonizing frustration of not being able to do what his body had been programmed to do for as long as he could remember.

But Mandy was there. Always.

And somehow, she had become the most constant thing in his life.

“Well, Piastri, today we’ve got a new set of exercises.” Mandy flipped through her notebook with a nonchalant air. “And by ‘new set,’ I mean you’re going to suffer.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wheelchair and groaned.

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Why do you enjoy complaining?”

“Because you give me reasons.”

Mandy laughed and patted his good leg. “Come on, up.”

The sessions were exhausting. But Oscar had learned to tolerate them, partly because Mandy had stopped worrying about keeping up a strictly professional façade. Now she messed with him, made jokes at his expense, gave him ridiculous nicknames.

“That’s it, champ. You’re an inspiration.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Netflix probably wants to make a documentary about you. The Rebirth of Oscar Piastri.”

“Mandy.”

“One man, one mission. To reclaim his leg. But first, he must survive his physiotherapist.”

He scowled at her, but the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.

That was the other part of the equation: Mandy knew when to push him and when to let him breathe. There were days when, instead of doing the scheduled exercises, she simply pushed his wheelchair to the park behind his house.

She was sitting on a bench beside Oscar’s chair, the cool breeze on his face, and he took a deep breath.

"You know I want to come back, right?"

Mandy stared ahead, arms crossed over her chest, enjoying the warming sun.

"I know."

"You know I will come back."

She took a moment to respond.

"I know you want it with everything you have."

"That’s not the same."

Mandy turned to him, her expression serious.

"Oscar, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how this is going to end. No one does."

It was the conversation he dreaded most. But it was also the one he needed the most.

"And if I can’t?" he asked quietly.

Mandy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and nudged him lightly.

"Then you’d find another way to be happy."

Oscar glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Easy for you to say."

"No, it’s not. But it’s the truth."

They fell into silence.

Oscar thought about everything that had changed in the past few months. About the person he had been before the accident and the person he was now. He thought about Mandy, her laughter, her persistence, how she had become one of the few people he could truly be honest with.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this.

The moment came without warning.

One day, after months of grueling exercises, of falls, of frustration, of pain, Oscar stood up.

It wasn’t heroic or cinematic. His legs trembled, his breathing was ragged, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest. But he did it.

With a crutch in one hand and his heart pounding in his ears, he took his first step without completely relying on someone else.

When he looked up, Mandy was watching him with a smile that held no trace of mockery.

"You’re a damn beast, Piastri."

He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head forward as he tried to catch his breath.

But the victory was short-lived.

Because as soon as the news reached McLaren, so did the calls.

"How long do you think it’ll take for him to get back in a car?"

"What does his physiotherapist say?"

"Next season is already on the horizon. The sponsors are asking."

Oscar had lost count of how many times he had heard the word "normal" in the past few days, but every time he did, his stomach twisted.

He convinced himself that all of this was helping. Pressure had always been his fuel. If he worked harder, if he gave everything, if he pushed his body to the limit, maybe he could come back faster.

Maybe he could be himself again.

But what he refused to acknowledge was that, when left alone with his thoughts, the idea of coming back terrified him.

It wasn’t just the physical recovery. It was the uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing if his body would hold up. If he would hold up.

And that was when the invitation arrived: an event at McLaren’s headquarters, with sponsors, staff, executives… Oscar had the sinking feeling they had invited him to reassure people. To put him on display, to let everyone see. "Look at him, he’s fine. He’s still alive. He has both legs."

The last rehab session before the event started like any other.

Mandy had set up a series of stability and mobility exercises. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

But at some point, everything started to fall apart.

The attack came without warning.

Oscar was standing, one hand gripping the crutch, the other pressed against the wall for balance. He had done this before, hundreds of times over the past months. One step, then another. Control the breath. Keep the posture.

But this time, something felt different.

First, a slight dizziness, a sharp pang of weakness in his injured leg. Then, his heart started pounding too hard, too fast. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, a cold sweat running down his back.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the air wouldn’t fill his lungs.

No. Not now.

He couldn't breathe.

Panic hit him like a clenched fist to the chest. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, his hands trembled, his muscles tensed as if his entire body were in high alert.

Oscar staggered, and Mandy saw it before he could even get a word out.

"Oscar." Her tone changed in an instant. Firm, but concerned.

He tried to lift his gaze, but the room tilted around him. Everything was moving too fast and too slow at the same time.

"Oscar, sit down."

He didn’t know if she helped him or if his legs gave out on their own, but in the next instant, he was sitting on the bench against the wall, his head in his hands.

Everything was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe.

Each gasp of air got stuck in his throat.

“No… I can’t…”

His voice sounded strange, broken, like it didn’t belong to him.

Mandy knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.

"Oscar, look at me."

He tried, but his vision was blurred, his chest so tight it felt like he was suffocating.

“Breathe with me, okay?” she said, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and steady around his. “Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.”

Oscar trembled, his whole body shaking with chills, with the unbearable tension making him feel like he was about to fall apart at any moment.

“No… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.” Mandy didn’t budge an inch. Her voice, though calm, held a note of urgency. “Listen to me, Oscar. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not alone.”

You’re not alone.

Those words shattered him.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, burning as they slid down his cheeks.

Months.

Months of holding everything in.

All the pain, all the frustration, all the anger, all the fear.

Months of pretending he was fine. Of smiling at the doctors, of enduring the pressure, of telling himself he had to be strong, that he had to keep going, that he had no other choice.

But there, in that moment, with Mandy holding onto him, with his ragged breathing and trembling body, everything broke.

Oscar gripped her with both hands, without even thinking, burying his face in her shoulder.

And he cried.

He cried like he hadn’t since the accident.

His body shook with every sob, every uneven breath. Mandy didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or brush it off. She just wrapped both arms around his back and let him fall apart.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “I’m here, Oscar.”

He could only nod against her shoulder, because words wouldn’t come.

Everything he had buried crashed over him like an unstoppable wave.

The fear of never being the same.

The pressure of the entire world waiting for his return.

The terrifying possibility that, even if he came back, maybe he’d never be enough.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Only that, eventually, his breathing evened out, his grip on Mandy loosened a little, his head no longer felt like it was about to explode.

And she was still there.

She didn’t tell him to be strong.

She didn’t say everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

She just stayed with him.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but the storm inside him had quieted, at least a little.

Mandy handed him a tissue without a word.

Oscar took it, wiping his face with a tired, embarrassed laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list of clients who’ve cried in your arms.”

Mandy smiled, but her eyes still held concern.

“No, but you’re officially my most dramatic case.”

He let out a shaky chuckle.

She sighed, studying him with a sharp, assessing gaze.

“You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

Oscar looked down, twisting the tissue between his fingers.

“Yes, I do.”

Mandy didn’t argue.

She just placed a hand on his injured knee, steady as always.

“Then we do it your way. Not theirs.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But this time, when he looked at her, he felt like he could breathe.

The morning of the event arrived too fast.

Oscar looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with trembling hands. He had spent months preparing for this moment. To prove to the world—and to himself—that he was ready, that he could come back.

But now, with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt felt too tight against his chest, like an invisible noose.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Ready to dazzle the media?" Mandy peeked her head in with a half-smile.

Oscar exhaled sharply, letting his shoulders drop.

"If by ‘dazzle’ you mean not falling flat on my face in front of everyone, then yeah, I guess I’m ready."

Mandy stepped inside, crossing her arms as she looked him over.

"That’s not going to happen. You’ve worked too hard for this." She moved closer, automatically straightening his tie. "Besides, I’ll be there."

Oscar blinked.

"What?"

"I’m going with you."

He frowned, confused.

"Mandy, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not here because I have to," she cut him off, her tone firm, the one she used when she wasn’t taking no for an answer. "I’m here because I want to be."

Oscar didn’t know what to say.

There was something different in the way she looked at him now, something softer, warmer. It wasn’t just the professional watching over her patient. It was Mandy, his Mandy, the person who had seen him at his worst and never once backed away.

So instead of arguing, he just nodded.

"Thank you."

And this time, he didn’t just mean for the event.

The McLaren conference center was packed. Journalists, executives, sponsors—everyone was waiting for Oscar Piastri’s return.

Camera flashes flickered through the air, and voices blended into a constant hum. For a second, Oscar felt dizzy, the grip on his crutch making his knuckles turn white. Then, he felt a hand on his back.

Mandy.

"Breathe," she murmured next to him, so quietly only he could hear.

He did.

Every step he took was deliberate, measured, the cane clicking against the floor. He knew every eye in the room was on him, assessing him.

But he wasn’t alone.

Mandy walked beside him—his shadow, his anchor. Not in an obvious or overprotective way, but just enough for him to feel steady.

They approached the small stage where Zak Brown and Andrea Stella were waiting. The McLaren executives smiled at him, and though their words were encouraging, Oscar could feel the pressure behind every question.

"When will we see you back in the car?"

"How are you feeling physically?"

"Are you ready to compete again?"

Each question was a reminder of everything expected of him.

He smiled. Answered calmly.

"I’m working really hard on my recovery. I’m focused on coming back as soon as possible, but I want to do it right."

It was the right answer. The answer everyone wanted to hear.

But deep down, his chest tightened again.

The press conference went on, and while Oscar kept his composure, Mandy knew him well enough to notice the stiffness in his posture, the subtle clench of his jaw every time someone mentioned his return to normal.

When it was all over—when the cameras were lowered and the executives drifted into side conversations—Mandy stepped closer, leaning in just enough so no one else could hear.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

He looked around at all the faces expecting something from him. Then, he glanced down at his crutch—the constant reminder that he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

But when he lifted his gaze again, the first thing he saw was Mandy.

She wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with confidence.

And something in his chest, something that had been too tight all day, loosened just a little.

"Good," he finally said, with a half-smile. "A lot better because you’re here."

Mandy smirked.

"Of course I am."

And though Oscar knew he still had a long road ahead, for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t have to walk it alone.

The afternoon of the event passed in a blur.

After the press conference, Oscar endured the conversations with executives, the unwavering smile on his face, the pats on the back, and the promises of a bright future. He handled every question with the patience of a saint, but when he finally stepped outside, with Mandy beside him, he felt like he could breathe again.

They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither in a rush to leave.

"Alright," Mandy said, crossing her arms. "On a scale of one to ten, how unbearable was that?"

Oscar huffed.

"A fourteen."

She laughed—that soft sound that always did something to his chest—and shook her head.

"You survived."

"So did you," he replied with a slight shrug. "You had to sit through all of it with me."

"I always do," she said, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.

Oscar felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Not discomfort, but… awareness.

Suddenly, he was more aware of her than ever before. Of her presence, the way the breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the ease with which they talked, as if there was no longer any barrier between them.

Oscar cleared his throat and looked away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

Mandy raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out to dinner, Piastri?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I mean, yes. But… as a thank you, you know? For being here.”

Mandy looked at him with amusement.

“A thank you, sure.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Dinner started with the same relaxed energy as always.

Mandy didn’t sit across from him but beside him, in the corner of a small Italian restaurant that smelled of basil, garlic, and freshly baked bread. It was a cozy place, unpretentious, the kind of spot where people talked loudly and steaming plates of homemade food kept arriving at the tables.

“You do realize this is technically a date?” Mandy commented lightly, flipping through the menu without looking at him.

Oscar scoffed, taking a sip of his water.

“No, it’s not. It’s a thank-you dinner.”

“So you’re thanking me with food?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that sound exactly like what someone does on a date?”

Oscar slowly turned his head to her, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Mandy shrugged, but the amused smile on her lips threw him off.

“That depends. Are you paying?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, it’s a date.”

Oscar huffed but couldn’t stop the smile that twitched at his lips. Mandy had this way of turning any conversation into something light, of pushing him just a little outside his comfort zone without him realizing it until he was already laughing.

When the food arrived, Oscar leaned over his plate of pasta with the hunger of someone who had spent too much energy pretending to be fine all day. Mandy, on the other hand, picked up her pizza with a calmness that could only be described as irritating.

“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if you were as fast on track as you are when you eat, you’d be unstoppable.”

Oscar froze, fork halfway to his mouth, staring at her in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re always complaining about recovery being too slow, but at this speed, you should be running marathons.”

Oscar set his fork down with an exaggerated thud on the table and turned to her, feigning outrage.

“Are you challenging me, Mandy?”

“I’m just saying what I see, Piastri.”

“Fine.” Oscar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “Then I say your pizza choice is terrible.”

Mandy placed a hand over her chest as if she had just been stabbed.

“What?”

“Pineapple, seriously?”

“Oh, please, we’re not starting this debate.”

“There is no debate,” Oscar said with a shrug. “Just facts. And the fact is, you’ve committed a crime against Italian cuisine.”

Mandy shook her head, laughing.

“You know what’s worse? I’m helping rehabilitate someone with a child’s palate.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

“Says the one eating pineapple pizza.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Of course, it is.”

“No, it’s not. But that’s okay, Piastri. Not everyone can have good taste.”

Oscar shot her a look of disbelief before shaking his head, a reluctant smile breaking through.

It was strange. Unexpected. But it felt good.

Easy.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the weight of recovery on his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pressure to become the driver everyone expected him to be again. He was just there, with Mandy, eating at a small restaurant, joking about nonsense.

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to enjoy it.

The weeks passed, and their dynamic only continued to evolve.

Mandy was no longer just his physiotherapist.

She was the person who showed up at his door with extra coffee when she saw he’d had a rough night.

She was the one who sat on the floor with him when he got frustrated in sessions, saying nothing, just staying there until he was ready to talk.

She was the one who called him an idiot with the sweetest smile when he tried to push himself harder than he should.

She was the one who made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

And without realizing it, Oscar started looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit.

He started noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. He started remembering little details about her without meaning to—how she liked her coffee, how she scrunched her nose when she was focused, how she had a particular way of tilting her head when she was about to give him advice.

And worst of all… he started realizing she was looking at him differently too.

There was something in the way she watched him now, a softness in her gestures, a tenderness in the way she touched his arm to support him, in the way she whispered, “You’re doing amazing” after every small progress.

One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Oscar collapsed onto his couch while Mandy packed up her things.

“I hate you,” he muttered without conviction.

Mandy smiled, not even looking at him.

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Oscar spoke again.

“Would you stay a little longer?”

Mandy turned to him, surprised.

"What?"

"You don't have to. But… I don’t want to be alone tonight."

She looked at him for a moment, evaluating him. Then, without a word, she set her bag on the floor and dropped onto the couch beside him.

Oscar didn’t know what that meant.

But he didn’t feel the need to ask.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else, something deeper, as if a silent understanding had settled in that brief moment.

Mandy didn’t ask why Oscar didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell him everything would be okay because she knew that wouldn’t help. Instead, she just stayed.

Oscar turned his head toward her, noticing how relaxed she looked on his couch, as if she somehow belonged there. It was strange how Mandy, who had once been just his physiotherapist, had now become a part of his life in more ways than he could fully grasp.

"Do you want to watch something?" she asked suddenly, pulling out her phone.

"If it’s another video of cats trying to jump and failing, I’ve already seen them all."

Mandy scoffed.

"Don’t underestimate my ability to find quality content."

Oscar let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Prove it."

Mandy wasted no time playing a video. It was a compilation of funny falls—people slipping on ice, dogs miscalculating their jumps, kids getting scared by their own reflection.

And against his will, Oscar ended up laughing.

At first, just a small smile. Then, a quiet chuckle. Until finally, he let out a real laugh—the kind that rumbled in his chest and left him breathless.

Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye, smirking.

"Well, looks like you do have a soul after all."

Oscar wiped away a tear from laughing, his eyes still shining.

"And what about you? Are you going to admit you have a heart?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I don’t?"

"You hide it well."

Mandy smiled but didn’t reply. She simply leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest.

The silence returned, but this time, it felt different.

Oscar felt the urge to speak, to say something important, something he had been trying to understand for weeks. But instead, he just exhaled slowly and said,

"Thanks for staying."

Mandy didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft when she replied,

"Always."

After a while on the couch, Mandy stretched her arms and stood up.

"Alright, I think it’s time I eat something. And you too."

Oscar groaned from his spot.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don’t care. You’re eating."

Oscar shot her a look of feigned exasperation as Mandy walked toward the kitchen like she owned the place. He had seen her move around his space so many times over the past few months that it didn’t even feel strange anymore.

"You do know this is my house, right?" he said, dragging himself off the couch with the help of his crutch.

"I know," Mandy replied without turning around, rummaging through the pantry. "But someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death."

Oscar huffed but didn’t argue further. He followed with unsteady steps, still slow, but more confident than he had been weeks ago.

"What are we making?"

"Something simple. I don’t want you collapsing halfway through the recipe."

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned against the counter as Mandy pulled out ingredients. They ended up cooking together, at their own pace. Mandy did most of the work, but she let Oscar help where he could—stirring the sauce, chopping a few things with effort.

It was a ridiculously domestic scene.

After everything they had been through, after months of rehab and pain, cooking together in his house felt like a line he hadn’t expected to cross.

When they finished, they sat at the table with steaming plates of pasta in front of them. The dim kitchen light cast an unexpected intimacy over the moment. Oscar watched as Mandy took the first bite and nodded approvingly.

"Not bad, Piastri. Maybe you’ve got a future in cooking if this F1 thing doesn’t work out."

Oscar smiled, tired but genuinely warm.

"Maybe I’ll open a restaurant. ‘The Cripple’s Pasta.’"

Mandy burst out laughing, and he was surprised by how much he liked the sound.

After a while, Mandy set down her fork and looked at him.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar lowered his gaze to his plate, idly stirring the leftover pasta with his fork.

"Tired. Sore."

Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

He lifted his eyes.

"But… good."

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Good, huh?"

Oscar swallowed.

"Yeah. Because I’m here. With you."

There was a moment of silence. Mandy looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Something soft, something that made his throat tighten.

"You’re an idiot," she said finally, but there was more fondness than anything else in her tone.

Oscar smiled.

"I know."

Mandy sighed and stood to clear the dishes, but Oscar stopped her, his hand gently wrapping around her wrist.

She froze, surprised by the gesture.

Oscar wasn’t sure what he was doing either—only that he didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

"Mandy…"

She waited, her gaze locked on his.

He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

He could feel the line between them blurring more and more.

Mandy didn’t move. She didn’t pull her hand away, didn’t make any gesture to tell him to let go of her wrist. She just looked at him, expectant, as if she knew he had something to say but wouldn’t pressure him to say it.

Oscar swallowed. His mouth was dry.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mandy smiled, but there was something in her expression—something softer, more intimate.

“You won’t find out,” she said quietly.

Oscar stared at her. Something tightened in his chest.

That was when he realized how close they were.

How close they had been for months.

Only now, for the first time, he truly felt it.

The warmth of her skin, the way his breathing matched hers. The way his thumb, without thinking, traced the lightest touch against the skin of her wrist.

Mandy noticed.

And she didn’t pull away.

“Mandy…” he whispered.

He didn’t know what he was going to say next. He wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, except that he wanted to stay there. That he wanted her to stay there.

Mandy exhaled softly. Her fingers moved against his in the slightest motion—a touch so faint it barely registered, yet enough to make something inside Oscar go taut.

“Let’s watch a movie,” she said suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Oscar blinked, disoriented.

“What?”

Mandy gently pulled her hand away and started gathering the dishes, as if nothing had happened.

“A movie. You need it. And I don’t want to see you overthinking anything else tonight.”

Oscar watched her move around the kitchen, trying to process what had just happened.

But, for some reason, he didn’t feel disappointed.

Because Mandy hadn’t run.

Because he didn’t want to force anything.

Because this—whatever this was—made sense.

So he let out a soft laugh, shook his head, and got up to follow her to the couch.

The movie played on the screen, but neither of them was really watching.

Oscar tried to focus, tried to follow the plot, but his mind was elsewhere. On the way Mandy sat beside him, on how their bodies seemed to drift closer without either of them making a deliberate move.

Under the shared blanket, their legs brushed every now and then, and each fleeting touch sent a shiver down his spine. The first time, Oscar thought it had been accidental. The second, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But by the third, the fourth, the fifth—he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.

And then he felt her hand.

Just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, but it was enough to make the air between them feel heavier, charged. Mandy didn’t move away, and neither did he. Somehow, their hands remained still under the blanket, their pinkies barely touching, neither of them daring to be the first to move.

But Oscar felt every heartbeat like a drum, each passing second unbearably slow.

The tension was almost tangible.

Mandy swallowed.

“This movie is kind of boring, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”

Mandy turned her head to look at him, and Oscar felt the exact moment the air shifted between them.

She felt it too.

Her gaze flickered down to his lips for the briefest second, barely noticeable.

But Oscar noticed.

And that was all he needed.

His hand slid under the blanket until his fingers intertwined with hers, and Mandy didn’t pull away. On the contrary, her grip tightened slightly, her thumb tracing a small circle against his skin—a gesture so intimate and silent that Oscar instinctively leaned toward her.

Their faces were only inches apart.

He could feel her breath, her perfume, the warmth of her skin so close to his.

The moment stretched.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Oscar wouldn’t be able to say who closed the final distance. Maybe him, maybe her. Maybe it had simply been inevitable.

But when their lips finally met, when the kiss sealed with the sweetness of something held back for too long, Oscar knew there was no turning back.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile bubble they had enclosed themselves in. Mandy was the first to react, tilting her head just slightly, parting her lips, giving Oscar the answer he hadn’t dared to ask for out loud.

And then, there was no more hesitation.

Oscar cradled the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her mouth. Mandy moved without doubt, her fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, before tangling into his hair.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had ignored for weeks.

The brush of their lips deepened, grew more intense. Oscar felt his chest expand with a sensation he didn’t quite recognize, something intoxicating that left him insatiable. She was fire and calm all at once—a refuge and a storm.

Mandy pulled back for a moment, breathless, her nose brushing against his.

“Oscar…”

There was no doubt in her voice, but there was something else—something that felt like a warning. As if she were giving him the chance to stop.

Oscar met her gaze, darkened by something he could feel echoing in his own body.

He didn’t want to stop.

So instead of answering with words, he kissed her again.

Mandy smiled against his lips before matching his urgency, her fingers tracing a slow, torturous path over the fabric of his shirt. Oscar shivered when she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling him beneath her fingertips, sliding her hand lower toward his abdomen with a boldness that made his pulse race.

The blanket slipped from their bodies as Mandy shifted onto his lap—carefully, with a near-imperceptible gentleness, as if she knew exactly how far she could push his limits without causing him pain.

Oscar buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, whispering her name against her skin. Mandy let out a shuddering sigh, and he felt satisfaction ripple through him.

For the first time in months, Oscar didn’t think about his injury.

He didn’t think about his rehabilitation, the pressure, the fear.

He only thought about her. About the way her body fit against his as if it had always been meant to be there.

And how, for the first time in a long time, he wanted more.

The atmosphere had shifted. Desire still burned between them, the electricity was undeniable, but amidst the urgency, the hungry kisses, the clumsy touches, there was something else. Something much deeper, much more intimate.

Oscar barely registered how they got here, how their clothes started to disappear. He only knew that at some point, Mandy slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of him with effortless ease, helping him remove his pants with the same delicacy she always treated him with.

And then, everything stopped.

Oscar felt the cold air against his skin, against the scarred skin of his leg. He tensed, the instinct to hide, to pull away, flaring inside him like a reflex. He felt ridiculous for thinking about it—Mandy had seen his scars countless times, had touched them, had studied them.

But Mandy didn’t look away.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t make any expression of pity.

Instead, she placed her hands on his leg with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.

Her lips, warm and soft, traced over every scar, every mark that told a story of pain and struggle. She didn’t skip any, didn’t avoid a single one. She took her time, as if she wanted to memorize each line, each ridge, each imperfection.

Oscar didn’t know when his throat started to burn, when the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He only knew that before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek.

He didn’t understand why.

It was affection, it was tenderness, it was sorrow. It was everything at once.

Mandy lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. She didn’t say anything, but her look spoke volumes. Of acceptance, of devotion, of a love without cracks.

Without moving her hand from his leg, she reached up to his face, brushing the tear away with her thumb, unhurried.

Oscar leaned toward her and kissed her.

It was a slow kiss, deep, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, Mandy rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. And Oscar didn’t know if she meant his body, his recovery, his strength—or just him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because, for the first time since the accident, Oscar Piastri didn’t feel ashamed of what he was.

The night continued with an unexpected tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and whispers, tangled in kisses and caresses that seemed endless.

Oscar had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed—and yet, so safe. Mandy touched him as if every part of him deserved to be cherished, as if his scars were testaments to his strength, not reminders of what he had lost.

When they finally rested, their bodies intertwined beneath the blanket, Oscar felt something new settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with passion or desire, but with peace.

Mandy traced lazy circles on his arm, her breathing slow, steady.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy.

Oscar took a moment to answer.

“That I don’t know how we got here.”

Mandy let out a soft laugh.

“If you need me to explain it in more detail…”

He rolled his eyes, laughing against her hair.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“When I first met you, I hated you.”

“I know,” Mandy replied with amusement.

“No.” Oscar propped himself up on one elbow to look at her better. “I mean it. I thought I’d never be able to stand you. You were too stubborn, too optimistic.”

“Guilty.”

“But then…” Oscar exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then you became the only thing keeping me sane.”

Mandy looked at him in the dim light, her expression softening.

“Oscar…”

“No.” He cut her off, feeling that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. “I just want you to know. That without you, I…”

He stopped, swallowing hard. Mandy reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, making him hold her gaze.

“I know,” she whispered.

And Oscar knew, with a certainty that scared him a little, that she really did.

That Mandy understood him better than anyone.

That if there was a way to truly heal, it was with her by his side.

Oscar remained silent after that, his mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mandy was resting against his chest, her breathing steady, but he couldn’t fully relax.

“Mandy…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.

“Mhm?”

“Is this okay?”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar hesitated.

“Us. What just happened. The fact that you… you’re my physiotherapist. Or at least, you were. And that we’re crossing a line.”

Mandy watched him in silence for a moment before sighing with a small smile.

“Are you worried I’ll get you in trouble?”

“No, I’m worried you’ll get fired,” he answered honestly. “That this isn’t allowed in your contract or that—”

Mandy interrupted him with a soft touch to his cheek.

“Oscar, my contract ended weeks ago.”

He blinked, surprised.

“What?”

“McLaren only asked me to get you to take your first step. That was my goal as your physiotherapist,” she explained calmly. “After that, your physical trainer was supposed to take over.”

Oscar was speechless.

“So…?”

“So I stayed because I wanted to. Because I wanted to keep helping you. Because this was never just a job for me.”

Oscar felt something inside him crumble. All the doubts, all the insecurities, the nagging thought that maybe she was only there because she had to be… vanished in an instant.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mandy smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile of hers.

“Because I know you. If you had known, you would’ve pushed me away. You would’ve said you were fine just so I wouldn’t feel like I had to stay.”

Oscar couldn’t deny it. Because it was true.

“So…” he said slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “This whole time…”

“This whole time, I’ve been here because I wanted to be.”

Oscar swallowed.

“And now what?”

Mandy rested her head on his chest again, tracing light circles on his arm.

“Now, you sleep. And tomorrow… we’ll see.”

But Oscar knew that, no matter what happened, she was already a part of his life.

And he didn’t want that to change.

The air in the garage feels heavy. No one talks much. The team of engineers and mechanics works around him with meticulous precision, preparing him for the private test. It’s just a test—no media, no spectators. But for Oscar, it’s much more than that. It’s his ultimate test.

Mandy stands to the side, arms crossed, watching him closely. She’s not supposed to be here—officially, her job ended months ago—but that hasn’t stopped her. And Oscar hasn’t tried to stop her, either.

When he finally sits in the car, when he feels the pressure of the molded seat against his back, when the cockpit surrounds him, when the steering wheel is in his hands and the tires are ready to hit the track… it happens.

The memory strikes like thunder.

A flash of light. The impact. The raw, metallic sound. The pain.

He can’t breathe.

He’s not here, in this garage. He’s back on that day, in that moment. He’s trapped in the wreckage of the car, the smell of fuel filling his nose, his leg crushed under the destroyed chassis.

He feels the same sharp pain in his leg. Almost two months without feeling it, and suddenly, it’s as if the injury is fresh. As if it just happened.

Someone says his name, but he doesn’t hear them. His breathing quickens. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto the halo, the carbon fiber, the chassis that isn’t broken, the helmet protecting him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

But it’s not.

Sweat beads on his forehead. A ringing starts in his ears. He wants to move, wants to get out, but his muscles won’t respond.

A hand touches his arm.

Oscar blinks, as if snapping back to reality.

Mandy is there. She’s reaching for him from.above the car, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes, dark and steady, find his.

“Oscar.”

Her voice is low, calm, but not condescending. She doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile, like he’s going to break.

“I’m here,” she says, and those two words cut straight through him.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. His breathing is still uneven, his heart still racing.

Mandy watches him for another second before moving her hand to his. Her fingers slide over his, carefully loosening his grip on the wheel.

“Look at me.”

Oscar lifts his gaze.

“You’re here. Not there. You’re in 2025, in this garage, in this car. And you’re okay. That was a year ago. You are okay”

He swallows hard. His jaw is clenched, his mind still filled with ghostly images.

“I don’t have to do this.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

Mandy nods.

“No, you don’t have to. But you want to. And that’s different.”

The team is still waiting. The mechanics pretend not to look, but Oscar feels their eyes. He knows they expect him to start the engine, to go out on track, to do what he does best.

But it’s not that simple. Not when fear is eating him alive.

Mandy squeezes his hand once more.

“You can step out right now, and no one will say a thing. It’s okay. But if you want to try, just try. Don’t think about anything else.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Tries to find the ground beneath him, even though he’s in the car.

When he opens them, he sees her. She’s holding his hand, but she’s not keeping him there. She’s just there.

And that’s enough.

Oscar nods, slowly.

His fingers wrap around the steering wheel again, but this time, with control. Mandy releases his hand and steps back.

The mechanics get ready. The engineers check the data.

The garage fills with the roar of the engine as he starts it.

The fear is still there, like a weight in his chest. But now, there’s something else, too.

Oscar focuses on that.

And he drives.

The roar of the car echoes in his chest, a familiar vibration running down his spine and seeping into his blood. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and for a moment, doubt whispers in his mind.

What if he's not the same? What if he never will be?

But then he presses the throttle.

The tires bite into the asphalt, and suddenly, the world makes sense again. The wind slams against his helmet, the colors of the circuit blur around him, and adrenaline surges through his veins like an unstoppable force. The first corner comes faster than expected, but his body reacts before his mind does—steady hands, precise turn, clean acceleration on exit.

It’s like breathing. Like remembering who he is.

Every lap is an affirmation. Every brake, every change of direction, every fraction of a second shaved off the clock.

He is where he belongs. He is home.

When he finally returns to the pits, the echo of the engine still thrumming in his chest, Oscar allows himself to close his eyes for a moment.

He feels no fear. No doubt.

Only relief.

Lando is the first to reach him, landing a hard smack on his helmet before ruffling his hair once he takes it off.

"Seriously? After almost a year out, and you set a faster lap than me on your first run?"

Oscar smiles, taking a deep breath.

"I try."

Lando scoffs, but there's pride in his expression.

Zak, Stella, and the rest of the team surround him in seconds, congratulating him. Even a few drivers from the grid have come to see him, asking McLaren for permission just to be there. George pats his back, Alex and Charles can’t help but pull him into a hug. Even Colapinto is there, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.

But there’s one person Oscar searches for among them all.

Mandy stands at the back of the garage, not intruding, but with a small smile on her lips. Her dark eyes scan him up and down, as if making sure he’s truly okay.

And he is.

Later, as the sun begins to set, the two of them sit on the empty grandstands of the circuit. The roar of the engine is gone, but the day’s echoes still vibrate in the air. Mandy rests her elbows on her knees, gaze lost on the track.

"I saw you at Turn Five," she says suddenly. "There was a moment when you hesitated."

Oscar lowers his head, smirking.

"Yeah. But it passed quickly."

She nods. A long silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Until Mandy sighs and says, "McLaren offered me a contract."

Oscar blinks, turning to her.

"What?"

"As the team's physiotherapist. They were impressed with my work with you and thought I could be useful."

Oscar stays silent, waiting for her to continue. Something in her tone tells him there’s more.

"I turned it down."

He frowns.

"Why?"

Mandy wets her lips, as if searching for the right words.

"I didn’t want my work to mix with… this. With you."

Oscar feels something warm in his chest. He can’t quite name it—gratitude, relief, something else—but it’s strong.

"So… you turned down McLaren?" he repeats slowly. "The team that treated you so well, gave you access to the best facilities, let you work with the most prized gem of their lineup?"

Mandy blinks.

"You?"

"Obviously."

Mandy laughs, shaking her head.

"You’re insufferable."

"And you clearly made a terrible decision."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Because tell me, which team signed you now?"

Mandy stretches with satisfaction before answering.

"Ferrari."

Oscar frowns, his brain processing the information.

"Ferrari?"

"Ferrari."

"Maranello’s Ferrari?"

"Unless there’s another one."

Oscar blinks.

"So now you’re going to be one of those people who speak Italian all the time and say ‘Forza Ferrari’ every five minutes?"

Mandy smiles, almost wickedly.

"Forza Ferrari."

Oscar looks at her with feigned disappointment.

"Mandy, for God’s sake, you haven’t even started yet and you’re already lost."

She laughs, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

"Come on, it can’t surprise you that much. After all, someone has to be in the paddock to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."

Oscar watches her with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Oh, I see how it is. You didn’t stay because you like red—you just can’t live without me."

"Definitely not for the red. It’s hard to match."

"You’re not denying you can’t live without me."

Mandy rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.

"I’m going to request to be assigned to Charles just to spite you."

Oscar places a hand on his heart, feigning a stab wound.

"Betrayal!"

Mandy bursts out laughing, and before she can reply, Oscar turns to her with a sly grin.

"You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone in the paddock knows you love me more."

Mandy raises an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh, really?"

"Of course. And if they don’t know yet, they will as soon as they see us together."

Before Mandy can throw back another sarcastic remark, Oscar leans in and kisses her. It’s warm, with the night breeze around them and the thrill of the day still running through his veins.

When they pull apart, Mandy exhales softly.

"You know what? Maybe red does suit me after all."

Oscar smiles, resting his forehead against hers.

"Forza Ferrari, I guess."

And Mandy laughs, kissing him again.

Throughout the season, Oscar and Mandy’s relationship had become an open secret in the paddock. Not because they had been careless—on the contrary, they had done everything possible to keep it private—but in a world where every gesture was scrutinized, some things were hard to hide.

Photographers had never caught them together outside the circuits, and in the paddock, they always maintained a professional distance. Mandy was disciplined about it, ensuring she never gave him special treatment in front of others, making sure no one could accuse her of favoritism at Ferrari for being with a McLaren driver. But inside the garages, in the hallways, in the small interactions away from the cameras, something was building between them—something any keen observer could notice.

Those closest to them—Lando, Zak, the McLaren team, Ferrari—knew. Lando had thoroughly enjoyed teasing them in private, dropping hints whenever he could, like when he caught Oscar glancing sideways at Mandy on the grid or when she walked past the McLaren mechanics and Oscar pretended to be engrossed in telemetry.

Their dynamic was simple: Mandy didn’t treat Oscar like a driver but as himself. She didn’t care about his lap times, his points, or championship statistics. She cared about whether he was sleeping well, whether the pain in his leg returned after grueling races, whether his mind was calm before he put on his helmet.

For Oscar, that was invaluable. In a world revolving around competition, having someone who saw him beyond the driver was a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, when race weekends became too intense, they found themselves in the quieter corners of the paddock—a back hallway, the furthest spot in the Ferrari or McLaren hospitality, anywhere they could share a few minutes without cameras surrounding them. Mandy always had a sarcastic comment ready, and Oscar would respond with his dry humor, their back-and-forth banter momentarily making them forget the pressure.

And on tough days, when things didn’t go well on track, she was there. Not with empty words, not with forced motivational speeches, but with a hand on his back when no one was looking, with a quick message after a disappointing race: “I’m waiting at the hotel with ice cream. Don’t argue.”

That’s how it had been all season—care, attention, and a love woven in the margins of F1, in moments beyond the reach of headlines.

On the other hand, Oscar’s comeback season was exceeding expectations. He had returned stronger, more consistent, racking up podiums nearly every weekend. But the long-awaited first victory since the accident still eluded him. Despite it all, he didn’t feel frustrated. He knew it was only a matter of time.

But now, they were in Spa-Francorchamps. And with that came the second anniversary of the day everything changed.

Before practice sessions, interviews, and the inevitable noise of a Grand Prix weekend began, Oscar made a decision. He wanted to go to the crash site. To the exact corner where his life took an irreversible turn.

The rain was relentless as he set off. It was nearly nightfall, and the paddock was slowly emptying. People were retreating to their hotels, seeking rest before the intense day ahead. Mandy, however, stayed.

“You can still go back to the hotel. It’s cold, it’s raining, and I don’t want you to get sick because of one of my whims,” Oscar murmured, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wet ground.

“And miss a dramatic moment of personal development like this? Not a chance. I’m about to witness a canon event,” Mandy teased, giving him a light shoulder bump.

Oscar let out a quiet chuckle, but his steps slowed as they neared the corner. It was strange how, after two years, his body still reacted to the sight of it. The memory of the impact, the pain, the fear—it all returned with chilling clarity.

He stopped a few meters from the exact spot, a tingling sensation running through his bad leg. Almost unconsciously, he tapped his thigh as if trying to shake off the feeling. Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye before intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing firmly.

“What are you feeling?” she asked softly.

Oscar swallowed hard.

“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like I can still feel it. Like I can see everything again.”

Mandy nodded, waiting to see if he needed to say more. But he just stood there, eyes locked on the track, the sound of rain filling the silence.

Finally, Mandy spoke, her tone light yet sincere.

“You know… in a way, we should be grateful to this corner.”

Oscar turned his head, frowning.

“What?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “if you hadn’t crashed here, McLaren wouldn’t have hired me, we wouldn’t have spent so much time together, and we wouldn’t have fallen madly in love with each other. So technically, if you think about it, Eau Rouge is the real matchmaker in this story.”

Oscar let out a genuine, warm laugh that cut through the cold night air.

“That is, without a doubt, the most twisted and optimistic way to look at it.”

“Better than being stuck in a pit of trauma and existential despair? Absolutely.”

Oscar shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. He turned to look at Mandy, watching how the rain made her skin glisten under the dim glow of distant floodlights. He had no words to describe how much he loved her in that moment.

So he didn’t use any.

He simply leaned in and kissed her, with the rain falling around them, with memories losing their sharp edges little by little. Because Mandy was right. Eau Rouge had changed his life. But not just because of the accident. Somehow, it had also led him to her.

On Sunday, Oscar rounded the final straight for the penultimate time, each lap bringing him closer to something he had dreamed of but never imagined quite like this. The rain had eased, the track still damp but stable under his tires, and the McLaren was responding with surgical precision. From the first corner, he had dominated. He knew this day was his. No one could touch him.

His engineer’s voice came over the radio, filled with barely contained excitement.

“Last lap, Oscar. Last lap.”

Oscar took a deep breath. The roar of the engine, the vibration of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the feeling of the car as an extension of himself. It was him, fully. No doubts, no fear. Just speed, precision, victory drawing closer with every meter.

In Ferrari’s garage, the atmosphere was electric. With Leclerc securing second place, mechanics had their arms raised, team members were jumping, and in the middle of it all—Mandy. Her nails dug into Alex’s jacket, Charles’s girlfriend, both of them on the verge of losing their voices from screaming so much. Her faith in Oscar was absolute. She knew how this was going to end—she had known since the first lap.

When Oscar crossed the finish line, something inside him shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time. The radio exploded with the team’s cheers, his engineer repeating his name over and over, but he could barely hear it. Laughter escaped him uncontrollably, mixed with tears and a relief so deep it made him feel breathless.

He had won. He had won in Spa.

His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he slowed down for the cool-down lap. He looked around—the grandstands on their feet, flags waving under a gray sky that threatened more rain. It was poetic, perfect, as if the circuit itself was giving something back to him.

“Yes, Oscar! Yes, yes, yes!” Zak Brown shouted over the radio, and in the background, he could hear the McLaren garage erupting like they had won a championship.

Oscar let go of the wheel for a second, running his hands over his face, still in disbelief. He had dreamed of this moment, visualized it a thousand times, but now that it was real, it was overwhelming.

When he finally parked the car in parc fermé, his body moved before his mind could catch up. He unbuckled his harness clumsily, climbed out of the car, and jumped into the sea of McLaren mechanics. He let them hug him, shake him, pat his back—but his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

Mandy.

And there she was.

In her red Ferrari polo, still wearing the team’s headset around her neck, eyes shining and lips trembling with a smile.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through the McLaren crew, dodged the drivers climbing out of their own cars to congratulate him, and reached her where she stood with the Ferrari team. It didn’t matter who was watching, it didn’t matter if there were cameras, the press, or social media.

He grabbed her by the Ferrari polo, stretched over the barrier, and kissed her.

With the raw emotion of someone who had fought against the worst version of himself—and won.

With the certainty that, in the end, she had always been there.

As the world roared around them, Oscar leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless, both of them smiling like idiots.

"You know," Mandy whispered, her fingers still curled around the collar of his suit, "if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could've just asked."

Oscar huffed a laugh, his hands firm on her waist. "Figured winning was a more dramatic way to earn it."

Mandy tilted her head, pretending to think. "Mm… I don’t know. Might need a few more wins before I’m fully convinced."

His smile widened. "Challenge accepted."

She kissed him again, softer this time. "Good. Now go collect your damn trophy, Piastri."

@smoooothoperator

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among all the people, always you

a Carlos Sainz one-shot

Summary: they always knew their love wasn’t enough to keep them on the same path. Over the years, they find and lose each other in an endless cycle of nostalgia, love, and goodbyes. There’s no resentment, only the pain of knowing that even the purest love may never be enough. But among the people, they were always each other's.

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: emotional neglect, unrequited love, breakup, grief

A/N: some might say that I'm not capable of writing beautiful things, but the truth is, I LOVE angst. I cried while writing this—I hope you give it the love it deserves and appreciate it a lot. Like and reblog!! Lots of kisses <3 I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING

masterlist

The first memory she had of Carlos Sainz wasn’t particularly grand. It wasn’t of a rising Formula 1 driver, nor of a young man carrying the weight of a last name that already resonated in motorsport. It was, simply, of a guy who had walked into a café in Madrid with messy hair and exhaustion in his eyes, ordering a black coffee with the deep voice of someone who hadn’t slept enough.

She didn’t know him personally, but she knew his name. She had seen him on TV, in sports articles, in interviews where he smiled with the same expression he had now—a little distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else. On another track, in another country, in another time.

It was a mutual friend who introduced them, almost as an afterthought. A simple, “Oh, by the way, this is my friend,” as if he weren’t about to change the course of their lives.

Carlos shook her hand and smiled.

“Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t a spectacular moment. There was no spark of electricity, no instant certainty that they were destined for something more. But when they sat at the table and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity, she knew she was in trouble.

The conversation started effortlessly, with the ease of two people who, though they came from different worlds, shared the same language in humor and irony.

“So… you’re the one who wants to be world champion?” she teased, resting her chin on her hand.

Carlos set his coffee down on the table and held her gaze with a smile that didn’t hide his pride.

“I don’t want to. I’m going to be.”

He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of someone who had spent his life preparing for it. There was no doubt in his voice, not a hint of false modesty. And in that instant, she understood that this was not a man who knew how to love halfway. That if he gave his life to something, he did so completely.

“And what if you don’t?”

Carlos looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense.

“That’s not an option.”

There was nothing more to say on the matter.

Outside, Madrid carried on at its usual pace, but inside the café, time seemed to slow down. They talked about everything and nothing, losing track of time until Carlos checked his phone and frowned.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“No,” he replied, but slid his phone back into his pocket with a hint of discomfort.

She understood the signal. She smiled, leaning back in her chair.

“Do you have a flight?”

Carlos let out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck.

“Tomorrow.”

“And today?”

“Today I have training. Then the simulator. And after that, probably a call with the team.”

“Ah.”

There was no reproach in her voice. Just the acknowledgment of a truth she didn’t yet know would weigh so much.

Carlos noticed her expression and tilted his head with an amused smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who says ‘nothing’ when clearly thinking about something.”

She let out a sigh, playing with the napkin between her fingers.

“I was just thinking that if this were a date, it’d be pretty depressing to know I have to share you with a race car.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation.

“Hey, it’s a very beautiful car.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s my job.”

She smiled, unsurprised.

“I know.”

He studied her for a moment, as if weighing the meaning of her words. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked at her intently.

“And if this were a date?”

She tilted her head, amused.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Carlos held her gaze for another moment before letting out a short laugh and shaking his head.

“If this were a date,” he said, picking up his coffee, “I’d probably do something stupid like try to impress you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’d tell you something exaggerated about my job, like that my heart rate never goes above 80 beats per minute while driving at over 300 kilometers per hour.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s completely true.”

She set the napkin down on the table, crossing her arms.

“And how would I know you’re not saying the same thing to everyone?”

Carlos rested an arm on the table and leaned slightly toward her.

“Because if this were a date, I would’ve already asked you to have dinner with me tonight.”

She felt a flutter in her stomach, but didn’t let it show.

“And if it weren’t a date?”

Carlos held her gaze for another second before smiling, resigned.

“Then we stick with coffee.”

And it was. For weeks, months. They saw each other whenever flights and schedules allowed. They shared late nights in airports, brief calls between meetings, messages sent across time zones.

She nodded, smiling too.

"Then coffee it is."

They didn’t rush to put a label on it because they both knew the truth from the start: she wasn’t competing against another person.

She was competing against the one love Carlos would never sacrifice.

And the worst part was that he never made her feel like she had to.

The problem with Carlos Sainz was that loving him felt like the easiest thing in the world.

She hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t planned it. It just happened. A quick call that stretched into the early hours. A message between flights that made her smile before she even realized it. A conversation that started with “Have you eaten?” and ended with her staring at him through a screen, feeling both closer and further away at the same time.

They weren’t together in the traditional sense of the word. No promises, no unrealistic expectations. No grand declarations, no ultimatums. Just him and her, finding each other in whatever gaps the calendar allowed, in every city where their paths happened to cross.

Sometimes, that meant a quiet dinner in a tucked-away corner of Barcelona. Other times, it was a fleeting visit to his hotel room after a race, where she would find him exhausted, the marks from his helmet still pressed into his skin—but his eyes lit up when he saw her.

“Come here,” he’d say, reaching for her.

And she would.

She’d sit next to him on the bed, the TV humming softly in the background, while he talked about tires and strategies, blind corners and missed opportunities.

Sometimes, he would fall asleep mid-sentence, his head resting against her shoulder.

She never woke him.

The first time she realized she had crossed an invisible line was at Silverstone.

It wasn’t because of a fight. It wasn’t because of a misunderstanding. It was because of how she felt when Carlos crossed the finish line, arms raised, his team’s cheers echoing through the radio.

She was in the stands, lost in the sea of people celebrating his victory, and yet, in the middle of all that euphoria, she felt something unexpected: emptiness.

Because when he stood on that podium, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the anthem playing, the flag waving above him—she knew she wasn’t there.

Not because she didn’t want to be.

But because, in that moment, he didn’t need her to be.

And it didn’t hurt. It didn’t make her feel small. It only reminded her of what she had always known: in Carlos’ life, she wasn’t the main character.

She was a pause.

A beautiful, warm, fleeting pause. But a pause, nonetheless.

And that day, as she watched him celebrate with his team, arms wrapped around his people, she understood that she couldn’t compete with something that had been his whole life long before she ever came along.

So she didn’t try.

She simply loved him.

She loved him the way you love something ephemeral, the way you love a summer sunset you know won’t last.

She loved him without asking for more than what he could give.

And Carlos never promised more than he knew he could offer.

That was the cruelest part of it all.

He never lied to her.

He never misled her.

He never asked her to stay.

But he never let her go, either.

With time, she learned to read the signs.

The way his voice sounded when he was exhausted. The way his gaze shifted when something frustrated him. How his laughter changed depending on whether he was truly happy or just covering the weight of a loss.

She also learned to recognize when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reach out to her.

Not because he didn’t care. Not because he didn’t miss her. But because sometimes, his world was too loud, too demanding, and there simply wasn’t room for anything else.

She never complained.

Never asked why his replies sometimes took hours. Never mentioned that, during the busiest weeks of the season, the calls became fewer, the messages shorter. Never admitted that there were nights she fell asleep with her phone in her hand, rereading their last conversation, wishing it had lasted a little longer.

And Carlos, somehow, knew.

Because when he finally had a moment to breathe, he sought her out.

Not with apologies, not with excuses.

Just with his voice, with that quiet laughter through the phone, with an “I miss you” whispered between sighs, as if the words slipped out before he could stop them.

She always answered with the same softness.

But one day, without knowing exactly when it had started happening, she stopped feeling like that was enough.

The first and only time she thought about leaving was in Abu Dhabi.

The end of the season always carried a mix of exhaustion and celebration. Carlos had finished the race with a solid performance, and though he hadn’t made the podium, his team was satisfied.

At the closing party, he was surrounded by his people, a glass of champagne in hand, his smile easy, relaxed. She watched from a quiet corner, the same tenderness in her gaze, the same admiration.

But something inside her felt different.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It wasn’t anger.

Carlos would have celebrated just the same. He would have laughed just the same. He would have woken up the next day with the same determination as always, ready for the next season, ready to keep chasing the dream that had been his long before she came into his life.

And for the first time, she allowed herself to ask:

What’s in all of this for me?

She didn’t have an answer.

But she did have a ticket back home.

And that night, while he kept celebrating with his team, she decided she wouldn’t wait until the end of the party to use it.

When Carlos saw the message on his phone, his smile faded.

I love you. I’ve always loved you. But in this story, the protagonist has always been F1. And I’m just someone passing through.

There was no reproach.

She hadn’t asked him to stop her.

Just a truth that, deep down, he had always known.

The noise of the party continued—the toasts, the laughter, the camera flashes—but to him, it all became a distant echo.

For a second, he convinced himself that she was still there, somewhere in the room, with her quiet smile and patient gaze, waiting for the moment he would realize he had neglected her once again.

But no.

She was gone.

Not in anger. Not with accusations. Just with the certainty that he couldn’t give her more than he already had.

And the cruelest part of all was that she was right.

She always had been.

Carlos doesn’t remember leaving the party. He doesn’t remember crossing the hotel lobby or the way his footsteps echoed in the hallways when he reached his room’s door.

He finds it just as he left it: closed. Untouched. As if she had never been there.

But when he turns the handle, what he sees tells him otherwise.

There’s a coffee cup on the table, still bearing the imprint of her lipstick on the rim. Her jacket is draped over the chair, as if she had hesitated for a moment before deciding not to take it.

And on the bed, perfectly folded, is the sweater he had lent her the last time they saw each other.

Carlos stares at it for too long.

He doesn’t touch it.

He doesn’t move.

Because in that moment, he finally understands.

She never wanted him to choose between her and Formula 1. She never asked him to.

But the problem was that even if she had, Carlos wouldn’t have been able to give her the answer she deserved.

It had always been her who adjusted to his life.

It had always been her who found the gaps between races, between commitments, between flights and hotels.

It had always been her who waited for him.

It had always been her.

And now, for the first time, she had stopped waiting.

For the first time, she had decided she didn’t want to be just the space between his priorities.

Carlos sits on the edge of the bed.

He closes his eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, he feels what it’s like to lose something without ever meaning to let it go.

The airport was almost empty at that hour of the night.

Cold lights illuminated the polished floor, reflecting the silhouettes of the few passengers dragging their suitcases with tired steps.

Carlos found her by the boarding gate, sitting with her back straight, hands clasped in her lap.

For a moment, he just watched her.

He wanted to memorize her like this, before she saw him. The serene profile of her face, her hair falling over one shoulder, the way her lips pressed together softly, as if holding back a thought she wouldn’t say out loud.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until she lifted her head and saw him.

And then, she smiled.

Sweet. Calm. As if his presence didn’t surprise her at all.

As if she had known he would come.

“You came,” was all she said.

Carlos exhaled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked toward her.

“Of course I did.”

He didn’t ask why she hadn’t told him she was leaving.

He didn’t ask why their last conversation had been a message instead of a goodbye in person.

Because deep down, he knew.

If she had told him earlier, he would have tried to convince her to stay.

And she had never wanted to force him into that.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the runway through the window.

The murmur of flight announcements filled the space between them, blending with the muffled voice of a child playing with a toy plane a few seats away.

“I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said at some point, without looking at her.

She turned her face toward him but didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have something to say, but because she was choosing her words carefully.

“It was never about how it would end,” she finally replied. “It was about everything it meant while it lasted.”

Carlos clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair how calm she sounded, how at peace she was, while he felt like something inside him was slowly breaking.

Because he loved her.

He loved her with a certainty he had rarely felt in his life.

But love wasn’t enough.

Not when she had always been the one who waited.

Not when he had never put her first.

Not when, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his world would always revolve around one thing: Formula 1.

She smiled at him, as if she could hear his thoughts.

"I know you, Carlos. I don’t want you to promise me something you can’t keep."

He closed his eyes.

Because that was the hardest part of all this.

That even if he loved her with everything he was capable of, he couldn’t promise her that he would change.

He couldn’t give her a different story.

And she knew that.

That was why she was leaving.

That was why, this time, she wasn’t going to wait for him.

Carlos didn’t know when he started crying.

It wasn’t when he saw her pick up her bag. It wasn’t when he heard the final boarding call for her flight.

It was when he truly understood that there was nothing he could say to make her stay.

He wouldn’t lose her because he didn’t love her.

He would lose her because he had never known how to make room for her in his life.

And that truth, so brutal and definitive, shattered him.

She watched him break.

And yet, she didn’t walk away.

Instead, she came back to him. Without hesitation. Without thinking. She hugged him as if it hurt to let him go, as if she loved him with every part of herself but knew that love wasn’t enough to stay.

"I can’t do this," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice broken in a way he had never let anyone hear before. "I can’t…"

She shut her eyes tightly, feeling his tears soak through the fabric of her coat, but she didn’t let go.

"Carlos…" she whispered, and the way she said his name—filled with both sweetness and sorrow—made him tremble.

He held onto her tighter, desperately, as if some part of him still believed that if he held her long enough, she wouldn’t leave.

But she couldn’t stay.

Not when he had never asked her to.

"Tell me what I have to do," Carlos's voice broke into a plea he never thought would leave his lips. "Tell me how to fix this."

She let go just enough to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

And the image of her tears sliding down her cheeks burned into his mind like a wound that would never heal.

"You don’t have to fix anything," she said, her voice softer and more broken than he had ever heard it. "I never asked you to change for me."

"But I want to," he insisted, and his voice cracked at the end, because now he understood, now he saw everything clearly, and goddamn it, why did it have to be now? Why so late? "I want to, for you."

She shook her head, with a tenderness that tore him in two.

"You can’t. You don’t know how."

And she was right.

Because she never wanted him to give up anything.

And he didn’t know how to love in a way that wasn’t defined by Formula 1.

Carlos swallowed hard, feeling the anguish burn in his throat.

"I need you."

She smiled—a sad, beautiful smile that shattered what little was left of him.

"No," she whispered. "You want me. That’s different."

Carlos closed his eyes as if that could contain the pain, as if not seeing her could make it hurt a little less.

It didn’t work.

Because when he opened them again, she was still there.

Beautiful. Steady. Determined to leave him.

And yet, with trembling hands, she wiped the tears from his face with her thumbs.

"You don’t know how much this hurts me," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Of course I do," she replied, and a single tear rolled silently down her cheek. "Because it hurts me too."

He shook his head, as if he couldn’t accept that this was the end. As if there was still something he could do to stop her.

"How do I go on without you?"

She let her hands drop to her sides, as if she no longer had the strength to hold him.

"You will. You always have."

And that was what finally destroyed him.

Because he knew she was right.

Life would go on. The engines wouldn’t stop. The next flight would be waiting for him, and then another, and another, and another…

But she wouldn’t be there.

And when she took a step back, Carlos felt every part of him screaming for him to stop her. To do something, anything.

But he didn’t.

Because he no longer had the right to ask her to stay.

"I don’t want you to go," he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

She closed her eyes.

Because she knew.

Because if she had heard those words before, if he had said them at any other moment, maybe everything would be different.

But he didn’t.

And now, it was too late.

"I know," she whispered against his hair. "I don’t want to go either."

Carlos swallowed hard.

She looked into his eyes one last time.

And with the same tenderness she had always spoken to him, with the same sweetness with which she had loved him, she said:

"I’m glad I loved you."

Carlos felt his throat close up.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t try to stop her.

He didn’t reach for her when she turned and walked toward the gate.

He just stood there, watching her leave.

Watching as, for the first time, she took a path that didn’t include him.

And when the last image he had of her was her silhouette fading beyond the gate, Carlos knew that no matter how much he had loved her, he had always been too late.

The first reunion

Airports had never meant anything to Carlos.

They were nothing more than transit points, impersonal spaces where life moved too fast to leave a trace. Arrivals, departures, goodbyes, reunions… everything happened in a rush, leaving no time to process anything.

But that wasn’t true.

Because there was one airport that had marked him forever.

And now, so many years later, in another airport, he sees her.

Just a few meters away.

His heart lurches in his chest, strong enough to make him stop in his tracks.

She hasn’t changed. Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.

She still has that natural elegance, that quiet air of someone who doesn’t need to draw attention to fill a space. Her hair is a little longer, her movements a little more measured. Life has passed.

But not enough to erase what they once were.

She looks up.

And sees him.

Carlos doesn’t know if one, two, or five seconds pass before a smile curves her lips.

It’s a warm smile, but soft. No surprise, no hesitation, as if finding him here were the most natural thing in the world.

"Hello, Carlos."

God.

Her voice.

He hadn’t expected hearing her voice after so long would do this to him.

Carlos feels a tightness in his chest. It’s not sadness. It’s not regret.

It’s just… affection.

A deep, unwavering affection that time hasn’t managed to wear down.

He smiles too. He couldn’t not.

"Hello."

She lowers her gaze for a second, as if processing something, before looking at him again.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you here."

"Me neither."

And yet, here they are.

They are no longer the same people. Life went on, the choices they made led them down different paths, but…

But they haven’t forgotten.

And maybe that’s enough.

There are no promises, no expectations. Just two people who once meant everything to each other, meeting again in the one place where they had always said goodbye.

"Do you have time for a coffee?" she asks, with the same sweetness with which she once offered him her love.

Carlos nods, feeling that, even though he’s no longer part of her life, he still likes the idea of sharing a little time with her.

Because love doesn’t disappear.

It just changes shape.

And this time, instead of hurting, it feels like a beautiful memory that still breathes.

The coffee between them is a clumsy attempt at normalcy, a shared routine that feels foreign after so much time. Sitting across from each other at a small table, they play with their cups in their hands.

"You still take it the same way," he murmurs, breaking the silence.

She nods with a tense smile. She doesn’t dare tell him she’s spent years waiting to hear his voice this close.

"So do you."

Carlos lets out a soft laugh, but neither of them finds the conversation funny. Another silence settles between them, heavier this time, more suffocating.

"How did we end up in the same airport, on the same day, at the same time?" she asks, her tone light, almost amused.

"I don’t know." He plays with the handle of his cup. "Probably the universe deciding we haven’t had enough."

She smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

"It always did have a twisted sense of humor."

"I couldn’t agree more."

They remain silent for a few seconds, but this time, she is the one who breaks it.

"Do you still not know how to pack properly?"

Carlos bursts into genuine laughter, remembering all the times his suitcase looked like it had been packed by someone with their eyes closed.

"I’ve gotten a little better, but I still don’t know how to fold shirts properly."

"I always found it incredible that you could drive a car at 300 km/h but couldn’t fold a T-shirt without it looking like crumpled paper."

"Everyone has their talents."

She smiles, lowering her gaze to her coffee, stirring it unnecessarily.

"And you?" he asks, resting his arms on the table. "Do you still carry a library in your suitcase?"

"Of course," she laughs softly. "You never know when you’ll need to kill time."

Carlos nods, vividly remembering all the times she pulled out a book in the middle of the chaos of a paddock, as if the world around her didn’t exist.

"What are you reading now?"

"Something on Stoic philosophy," she replies. "I bought it out of curiosity, but I think I’m getting more out of it than I expected."

"Sounds deep."

"It is. It’s basically about accepting what you can’t control."

Carlos sets his cup down on the table, watching her intently.

"That sounds pretty convenient."

She shrugs, offering a half-smile.

"I guess at some point, we all need to learn how to do that."

Silence creeps between them again. They don’t ask because they fear the answers. They don’t talk about the important things because they know it will hurt.

He doesn’t ask if she’s been happy without him.

She doesn’t ask if he still thinks of her before falling asleep.

He doesn’t ask if she ever loved someone else.

She doesn’t ask if, at any point, he wanted to find her.

Instead, they keep talking about trivial things, as if they were strangers. As if they didn’t know how the other kisses, how their laughter sounds intertwined in a dark room.

"Well..." she checks the time. "My flight leaves soon."

Carlos nods but doesn’t move.

"Yeah, of course."

She stands, and he follows, walking together toward the boarding gate. They stop a few steps apart, looking at each other.

"I’m glad I saw you," she says, and it’s the first truth they dare to admit.

"Me too."

She hesitates for a moment before smiling at him, as if the goodbye doesn’t hurt.

"See you around."

Carlos holds her gaze, watches her walk away, and feels like he’s losing her all over again.

The second reunion

Carlos wasn’t expecting to see her.

Not here, not tonight.

But fate, with its twisted sense of humor, has brought her to the same wedding he’s attending.

When he sees her, something inside him stops.

It’s a mutual old friend who’s getting married—someone with whom they once shared memories of another time, back when they were still a couple, when life seemed a little less complicated. Carlos wonders if she knew he would be here, if she saw his name on the guest list and decided to come anyway.

Or if, just like him, she simply went along with the invitation, without thinking too much about what she might find.

She hasn’t changed.

Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.

The dress she wears falls elegantly over her figure, and her smile is still the kind that lights up a room without effort. She’s talking to someone, a glass of wine in hand, tilting her head with interest—the same way she used to listen to him when he told her stories that didn’t really matter.

He wonders if she still bites the inside of her cheek when she’s nervous.

If she still falls asleep on planes before takeoff.

If she ever thinks of him when she hears about Ferrari.

She notices him after.

Their eyes meet across the crowd, and it’s as if time contracts. As if all the times they’ve avoided each other, all the efforts to stay apart, are erased in this single moment.

And yet, they don’t move closer.

Not yet.

But the entire night revolves around them in ways neither wants to admit.

Mutual friends glance at them with nostalgia—some with knowing smiles, others with a hint of sadness in their voices when they remember what they once were.

"Do you remember them? How good they were together…"

"They were perfect."

"Such a shame it didn’t work out."

She smiles politely. Carlos merely takes a sip from his glass.

They don’t say anything.

Because what could they say?

That yes, they were happy, but they were also not enough.

That love is not always enough when time and priorities are working against you.

The night goes on.

And stolen glances become inevitable.

Carlos looks for her in the crowd, only to find her already watching him.

She finds him when he’s at the bar, when he laughs at someone’s joke, when his expression softens for a fleeting moment.

They both look away, but never for too long.

Then comes the accidental brush of their hands when they cross paths on the dance floor.

She’s spinning with someone else, and he’s passing through the crowd.

It’s just a second, a fleeting touch of her skin against his.

But they both feel it.

Like an echo of everything they once were.

A moment that lingers longer than it should, though neither says it out loud.

And the respect.

That silent respect, that invisible space they’ve learned to keep—as if getting too close might wake something that has only ever been asleep, never truly gone.

Carlos watches her as she dances with others, laughing, her hair falling down her back, the golden light reflecting off her skin.

She watches him when he stops to talk to old friends, when his laughter rings through the warm night air.

They have never been strangers.

But they can’t be what they were either.

And that truth weighs as heavily as the music filling the room.

The music changes.

From the lively, upbeat songs that have dominated the dance floor, the DJ slows things down with a soft melody—one of those that invite bodies to draw closer, to sway gently, as if time might pause just for a little while.

Carlos looks at her.

"Dance with me," his voice is low, barely audible over the wedding’s hum.

She looks at him, surprised.

For a moment, Carlos thinks she’s going to refuse. That she’ll smile kindly and say no, that it’s better not to tempt fate.

But then she nods.

"Okay."

And she lets him take her hand.

They move through the crowd with the same ease with which they once sought each other out in any room. But there’s a chasm between them, one that time and choices have carved with ruthless precision.

They dance.

They move with a familiarity neither dares to acknowledge. Hands on waist and shoulder, fingers brushing with painful tenderness. They’re not pressed together—not like before—but the space between them is filled with what they were and what they still feel.

It’s the perfect balance between nostalgia and restraint.

Between the love still burning in their eyes and the certainty that they can do nothing about it.

They dance in silence.

No words. Just slow movements, the careful touch of their bodies, the feeling that this is the last time they’ll be like this—in each other’s arms, pretending for a few minutes that life didn’t get in the way.

Carlos takes a deep breath.

He wants to say something, anything.

But what can he say when she already knows everything?

When she has always known?

She is the one who breaks the silence.

"You still dance the same," she murmurs, a sad smile on her lips.

Carlos lowers his gaze to hers, to her eyes that are still the same as always.

"And you still fit here just the same," he answers quietly.

She looks away for a second, but she doesn’t pull back.

Around them, their friends watch in silence. There’s no need for words to see the obvious—the way they look at each other, the gentleness in their movements, the way neither seems willing to let go. There is no tension, no resentment, only love wrapped in the careful restraint of what can no longer be.

"It was always them," someone whispers, with a hint of melancholy.

"It still is. They just… can’t be anymore."

"Look at them. If you didn’t know their story, you’d think they were still together."

"No, if you knew their story, you’d understand why it’s so heartbreaking to see them like this."

The murmurs reach their ears, but neither of them says anything. They simply keep moving, letting the music be the only one to speak.

Because, in the end, what else is there left to say?

As the song ends, their hands slip away slowly, as if letting go of each other is the hardest thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

The Third Reunion

She has a few days free from traveling and decides to seek peace where she once found it: a small coastal town in northern Spain. She walks through the same plazas as years ago, the same streets, the same ports. The restaurant is the same, but everything seems smaller now.

The last time she was here, it was with Carlos, and it was warm. It was summer, and he had made her promise not to work or think about the future—only about the days they had together. Now it’s winter, and the sea breeze drifting through the empty streets carries a feeling of emptiness, of something that once was and is now gone.

The restaurant remains a forgotten corner, with its dim lighting and the same wooden chairs that creak when you sit. She orders a glass of wine and lets herself be enveloped by nostalgia, by memories that shouldn’t hurt this much.

And then, she sees him.

Carlos is standing at the door, still wearing his coat, looking at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. As if time has played a cruel trick on them again.

“It can’t be…” he says, with a disbelieving laugh.

She blinks, shakes her head, and laughs too. There’s no other possible reaction. The coincidence is absurd, cruel, inevitable.

Carlos shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack before sitting across from her, without asking for permission. As if this place, this moment, still belonged to them and no one else.

“How long has it been since you were here?” he asks, resting his elbows on the table.

“Since the last time. With you.”

Carlos nods, and the silence between them is dense, heavy. They order their food without thinking, as if they were still the same as before. She still asks for the sauce on the side. He still orders the same glass of wine. Small habits that haven’t changed, even though everything else has.

“How have you been?” she finally asks.

Carlos looks at her, and in his expression, there are a thousand answers he will never say out loud.

“Good. Racing. Traveling. The same as always.”

“The same as always,” she repeats with a broken smile. “I figured.”

She doesn’t say it with resentment, only with a certainty that aches. Because she always knew Formula 1 was his life. She was only a stop along the way.

Carlos places his glass down and looks away.

“And you?”

She takes a moment to answer.

“Trying to live.”

Carlos looks back at her. It’s a simple response, but there’s something else beneath it. Something he doesn’t want to analyze too much.

“Are you happy?”

She holds his gaze, as if daring him to hear the truth.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Are you?”

Carlos wets his lips, hesitates.

“I don’t know.”

She gives him a sad smile.

“How ironic.”

Carlos wants to say something more, but instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds something. He sets it down on the table.

“Do you remember this?”

She frowns and picks it up. It’s a photo. The last one they took here, years ago. They’re sitting together at a table—the same table where they’re sitting now. She has her head resting on his shoulder, and Carlos is looking at her instead of the camera.

The love is evident.

She runs her finger over the screen delicately, as if doing so could bring her back to that moment.

“I never realized you looked at me like that.”

“I always looked at you like that.”

She lifts her gaze. Carlos doesn’t look away. It’s a punch to the chest.

“Why are you showing me this, Carlos?” she asks softly.

Carlos lowers his head, exhaling.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.”

She tenses. She sets the phone down carefully and pushes it away.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“No. It’s not. The truth is, you did what you had to do. What we always knew you would do.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“And what if I was wrong?”

She sighs and leans back in her chair.

“You weren’t. I never would have asked you to choose. And you never would have.”

Carlos feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“I loved you.”

She smiles sadly.

“I loved you too.”

“Then why are we here and not together?”

She leans toward him, resting her elbows on the table, and says with devastating calm:

“Because love isn’t enough when there’s always something more important.”

Carlos says nothing.

She shakes her head with a soft, trembling laugh.

“How am I supposed to forget you, Carlos? How am I supposed to move on when every turn I take, you’re there?”

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment.

“I can’t change the past.”

“No. And I can’t change how I feel.”

Carlos swallows hard.

“You were never my second choice.”

“Then why wasn’t I the first?”

Silence.

She smiles bitterly, running a hand through her hair.

“Tell me something. If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”

Carlos looks at her. The answer is in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

She nods before he can say anything.

“I thought so.”

And that’s when Carlos understands. This is the end.

Not because they don’t love each other. Not because they don’t want to be together.

But because he never would have chosen differently.

She stands up, leaving money for the bill on the table.

“Fate is cruel, isn’t it?” she whispers, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Carlos watches as she walks away. It’s like that day at the airport, but worse.

Because now, he knows he has lost her for good.

For the first time in years, he feels like the world is collapsing around him.

The Atlantic air is sharp, cutting.

She walks without looking back. But Carlos follows her. Because he can’t let it end like this. Not again.

The night is dark, and the waves crash against the rocks with fury. The wind hits them with the same intensity as the feelings they have repressed. There’s no one else in the street. Only them.

“Are you going to keep running from me forever?” His voice reaches her before she can walk any further.

She stops dead in her tracks. She doesn’t turn around.

“Running?” she lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t make me laugh, Carlos. If anyone has run away here, it’s always been you.”

He clenches his fists, walking until he’s standing right in front of her. The sea roars behind him, the wind pushes them, but the distance between them remains the worst storm of all.

“I didn’t run.”

She lifts her gaze, and her expression is filled with a sorrow that hurts more than any shout ever could.

“No. You just left me behind.”

Carlos feels like a dagger has been driven into his chest.

“You knew…”

“Of course I knew!” she bursts out, raising her voice for the first time all night. “I always knew. From the very first day, from the first time you said you loved me. From the moment you looked at me, and I believed we could find a way.”

Carlos takes a deep breath, the wind whipping against his face.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

She laughs again, without joy. Her eyes shine with a mix of fury and unbearable sadness.

“That’s the worst part, you know? That you didn’t want to. That you never meant to. But you did it anyway. And you keep doing it!”

Carlos takes a step forward, but she steps back.

“Do you want to know why I’m here?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Because I tried to move on. I tried. But here I am, standing in front of you, and I still feel the same. I still love you the same way, I still look at you as if you’re the only thing in this world.”

Carlos closes his eyes tightly, as if doing so could keep out the pain of hearing her words.

“Don’t say this…”

“Why not?” she whispers. “Because it hurts you?”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“You have no idea how much it hurts.”

She looks at him, the wind tangling her hair, the waves roaring behind her.

“Oh, don’t I? Do you have any idea what it feels like to always be the one left behind? The one who watches you go, who’s left with memories that are too heavy to carry?”

Carlos feels something inside him shatter.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. It always has been!”

“I loved you!” he yells, desperation burning his throat. “God, how I loved you. Do you know how many times I tried to forget you?” His voice breaks on the last word. “How many times I wanted to hate you? But I can’t. I can’t, because I love you with every fiber of my being, and that’s the cruelest thing of all.”

She laughs, a hollow sound.

“Fuck, it’s so fucking unfair.”

Carlos swallows hard.

“It is.”

She lifts her gaze, her eyes burning.

“You know what’s worse? That all this time, I’ve tried to convince myself I was wrong. That maybe I didn’t love you that much. But every time I see you, I know I was lying to myself.”

Carlos holds her gaze.

“I never stopped loving you.”

She smiles, and it’s a sad smile.

“I know.”

A silence falls between them, heavy, suffocating.

She wipes her tears away with the palm of her hand.

“But loving me was never enough for you.”

Carlos feels something inside him tear apart.

She takes a step back.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep seeing you and pretending I don’t still love you.”

Carlos looks at her, desperation in his eyes.

“Please…”

She shakes her head.

“Tell me how to move on. Tell me, Carlos.”

Carlos clenches his fists.

She laughs again, her laughter broken by sobs.

“You can’t, can you? Because you haven’t done it either.”

Carlos feels his throat close up.

She looks at him for a long moment, memorizing every detail.

“I loved you with everything I had. And I’d do it all over again. But I can’t keep choosing you if you never chose me.”

Carlos feels a knot in his stomach.

She walks away, her footsteps echoing against the wet stone of the promenade.

Carlos watches her go. And once again, he doesn’t stop her.

The Last Reunion

There is no noise in his head when he crosses the finish line for the last time.

No shouts, no euphoria, no deafening roar of the engine drilling into his ears.

Just calm.

The kind of calm he never imagined feeling in a moment like this—the kind of serenity one finds when, after years of fighting against the current, they stop rowing and simply let themselves drift.

He expected nostalgia. He expected emptiness. He expected fear. But he feels none of those things.

He feels peace.

The peace of someone who has given every last piece of himself to something and, for the first time, doesn’t feel like he’s leaving anything behind. He has given it all, with no regrets and no reservations.

He removes his helmet with steady hands, no hesitation. He hears his name chanted from the grandstands, feels the pats on his back from his team, the embrace of his engineer, the flashes of cameras capturing the end of an era.

But inside, everything is silent.

Carlos Sainz is no longer a Formula 1 driver, and the world keeps turning.

That night, while the echoes of celebration still hum through the streets, he is alone in his hotel room, staring at the open suitcase on his bed. For years, his entire life has fit into a single piece of luggage—race suits, boots, headsets, caps with the logos of Ferrari, Red Bull, McLaren, Renault, Williams. The stickers on his passport are the only proof that, for more than a decade, he never truly belonged anywhere.

Until now.

Carlos has never been one to hesitate, but still, when he books the flight, his fingers tremble slightly over the screen.

He doesn’t know what he expects to find on the other side.

He doesn’t know if she will want to see him, if she still feels the same, if she still thinks of him when a song plays on the radio or when she watches a race on a quiet Sunday.

He doesn’t know anything.

Carlos stands in front of her door, his heart pounding in his throat, and one unshakable certainty in his chest: he can’t spend the rest of his life without trying.

When she opens the door and sees him, her expression freezes.

And then, slowly, it crumbles.

Carlos doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at her. Just feels her.

Years have passed.

Years of trying with other people, of unintentionally searching for each other in different eyes, of accepting that what they had would never be repeated with anyone else.

Years of remembering.

But now they’re here. In the same time, in the same place.

And Carlos has never wanted anything more than this.

“Hi,” he says, with a tired smile.

She blinks, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Carlos…”

His name is a whisper. A plea.

He takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t come to ask for your forgiveness.”

She looks at him, saying nothing.

Carlos swallows, his voice softer than ever.

“I didn’t come to make promises either.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, as if the weight of everything unspoken is crushing her.

Carlos steps forward.

“I just want to tell you the truth.”

She trembles.

“Carlos…”

He shakes his head.

“Let me say it.”

Their eyes meet, and it’s like being back in that airport, at that wedding, in that small town where they unknowingly broke each other.

“If you ever thought you weren’t enough for me,” his voice cracks, “that I didn’t choose you, that you were always second place…”

He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You were so, so wrong.”

Her eyes shine with tears.

Carlos smiles sadly.

“You were always the only one that mattered.”

She exhales a shaky breath, as if the air has been stolen from her lungs.

Carlos takes one last step—without touching her, without forcing anything.

“But I chose you too late.”

His words land like a blow, an open wound.

She looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh.

“God… I spent so much time running from this. Believing I had all the time in the world. That loving you was enough, even if I always left you waiting.”

She looks at him.

And in a low, wounded voice, she says:

“But it never was.”

Carlos nods, his eyes glassy.

“It never was.”

Silence engulfs them. Everything they are, everything they were, hanging between them.

Until she, lips trembling, asks:

“What are you doing here, Carlos?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every last ounce of courage he has left.

“I left Formula 1.”

Her brows furrow, surprised.

“Why?”

Carlos takes a deep breath.

“Because I don’t want my life to keep racing past without you in it.”

She loses her breath.

Carlos continues.

“Because after all this time, after every goodbye and every reunion… I still love you.”

Her lips tremble harder.

“Carlos…”

He gives her a small, sad smile, holding her gaze.

“And this time, I’m not letting you go.”

The silence that follows is dense, heavy, filled with promises and fears and years of restrained love.

She doesn't answer right away.

Because this is real. This is everything.

When she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.

"I don't know if I can go through this again."

Carlos nods. "I know."

"I don't know if I can trust that this time you'll stay."

"I know."

She blinks, a single tear falling.

Carlos steps closer, his eyes burning with contained emotion.

"But I want to find out with you."

She looks at him, searching his face for something that will tell her this is just a fantasy.

But all she finds is truth.

Truth and love.

A love untouched. A love that never ceased to exist.

She closes her eyes and lets out a sob.

Carlos smiles softly.

"For the first time in my life, I don’t know what comes next."

She watches him, her heart pounding.

Carlos takes a breath, and with more sincerity than ever, he murmurs:

"But if you let me… I want to find out by your side."

She laughs through her tears.

And this time, when Carlos takes another step closer… she doesn’t pull away.

She stays.

The way she was always meant to.

@smoooothoperator

if you want to be part of my permanent taglist, just let me know :))

[smoooothoperator]

I'm not sick of you................ Anyway, be friends with her, she's cool. 🙃

the infallible man

a Carlos Sainz one-shot

Summary: forced into therapy after a not-so-fatal accident, Carlos expects to fix his fear, not fall for his psychologist, Silvia. As their professional line blurs, they ignite a forbidden romance, risking everything for a chance at a love that defies the high-stakes world of Formula 1.

Word count: 13k (at this point just burn me at the stake)

Warnings: emotional vulnerability, professional ethics, implied sexual and romantic tension

A/N: at this point I'm looking for a beta reader because my sister @smoooothoperator is sick of me. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it. If anyone wants to be my friend please???? I'm begging you????

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

The impact isn’t the worst part. Not the crash, nor the jolt that runs down his spine when the car hits the barriers. Carlos has had accidents before. He has felt the raw force of speed turn into chaos in seconds. This is no different. It shouldn't be different.

And yet, as he removes the steering wheel with steady hands and exits the car, something settles in his chest, something heavy and suffocating. He removes his helmet, but the feeling doesn’t fade. Around him, the race continues; the roar of the engines fills the air, and he stands there, watching as the marshals clear his wrecked car from the track.

He can’t stop looking. Something inside him stirs, as if a dark thought is trying to make its way through, but Carlos suppresses it. He clenches his jaw, forces a long exhale, and walks toward the assistance vehicle. He isn’t hurt. Not a scratch. He should be fine.

But he isn’t.

In the following nights, the accident returns to him in sporadic bursts, fragmented images that wake him in the middle of the night. It's not exactly fear, but something inside him trembles when he remembers the moment he lost control. On the track, he’s supposed to be in charge, to decide every movement with surgical precision. But there, in those seconds when his car became a missile with no direction, he felt something he doesn’t want to admit: vulnerability.

The following races are strange. There’s something in the way he drives that has changed, and although no one directly mentions it, he knows they notice. He’s not slower, but he’s not the same. He becomes more methodical, more cautious in certain maneuvers. His braking is a little longer, his overtakes less aggressive. Sometimes, when he’s alone in his hotel room after a Grand Prix, he remembers the exact moment his car crashed, and for some reason, he feels the air catch in his throat.

It bothers him. It shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s not the first time he’s crashed a car, and he knows it won’t be the last. But this time, there’s something different. Maybe because it wasn’t his mistake. Maybe because, for the first time in his career, he wondered if it could’ve turned out worse. If, in another circumstance, he might not have walked away.

The interviews become an awkward formality. The press asks what’s wrong, why he seems more serious, more quiet. He responds with empty phrases, with that neutrality he’s perfected over the years. But inside Ferrari, within the team, the glances persist. His engineer remains patient. Some mechanics try to joke with him as usual, but there’s something in the air, a lingering discomfort. And then there’s Vasseur.

Vasseur notices it. He says nothing at first, but Carlos sees the way he watches him during meetings, the way his eyes harden every time they review the data and see those small changes in his driving style. He’s not alarmed yet, but he’s attentive. And Carlos knows he can’t afford that kind of attention.

Then comes the conversation.

“Talk to Dr. Silvia Costa. I worked with her years ago, and she’s very good at what she does,” Vasseur says, with his usual pragmatic tone, straightforward, no room for discussion.

Carlos frowns, crossing his arms. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“Oh?,” Vasseur doesn’t flinch. He leans back in his chair, fingers interlaced on the table. “Then tell me, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Carlos responds too quickly, and they both know it. Vasseur watches him in silence, giving him space to correct himself and Carlos looks away. “I’m just… adjusting. It’s normal after an accident.”

“What’s not normal is that you’re still ‘adjusting’ so long after,” Vasseur rests his elbows on the table. “Look, Carlos, I’m not here to waste your time. But I’ve been in this business for years, and I know what happens when a driver starts to doubt. It doesn’t fix itself.”

Carlos exhales slowly, annoyed. “I’m not doubting.”

“Yes, you are.” Vasseur’s tone is direct, but not cruel. “I’m not saying you’re slower, or that you’ve lost your talent. But you’re driving differently. More cautious. With more margin than you usually give yourself. And that margin, sooner or later, is going to cost you positions. Do you know who else is going to notice? The people who make decisions in this team.”

Carlos grits his teeth. He hated when Vasseur was right.

“I’m not saying you’re going to lose your seat,” Vasseur continues, “but if this keeps up, we’re going to have a problem. And I’d rather avoid it now than too late.”

Carlos taps his fingers on the table, resisting. The thought of sitting in a room and talking to a stranger about whatever it is he’s feeling repulses him. He’s not like that. He doesn’t work that way.

“Listen,” Vasseur says, calmer now. “Do it. One session. If after that you still think it’s a waste of time, I won’t insist. But I doubt that’ll be the case.”

Carlos takes his time to respond. But deep down, he knows Vasseur isn’t giving him a real choice. And the worst part is that he is right.

“Fine,” he finally concedes, his voice tinged with resignation. “One session.”

“Good.” Vasseur nods with a slight smile. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

Carlos isn’t so sure.

Silvia Costa’s office isn’t what he expected. There’s no couch, no pristine white walls. Instead, there are shelves filled with books, a warm light, and a chair that feels far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t want to be there. Carlos feels out of place, with the sense that he should be anywhere else. Preferably inside a race car, at full speed, far from this room where the air is too calm.

Silvia smiles at him naturally as he enters, no trace of pity or judgment on her face. “Carlos, come in. You can sit wherever you feel most comfortable.”

He merely nods and sits in the armchair across from her, though comfortable is not the word he’d use. He crosses his arms and fixes his gaze on an indeterminate point on the table. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened.

“I guess you’re here because Vasseur insisted,” she says in a light tone, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Carlos lets out a brief, humorless laugh. “How’d you guess?”

“Because almost everyone comes in like that,” she replies calmly. There’s no pressure in her voice, no rush to make him speak. She just leaves the space there, available.

Carlos nods, not knowing what to say. Silvia doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t fill the uncomfortable silence with empty words. She just waits. And somehow, that’s more unsettling than any question.

He feels the urge to stand up and leave. To pretend this never happened. But something in the way Silvia looks at him, with that mix of understanding and patience, keeps him in his seat.

Carlos exhales slowly, feeling the weight of the silence between them. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s used to conversations having a clear purpose, to people wanting something from him: answers, statements, justifications. But Silvia just watches him, not judging, not expecting anything specific, and that throws him off.

“Tell me about the accident,” she says, finally. Her tone is neutral, with no trace of pity or morbid curiosity. As if she were asking about any other day in his life.

Carlos clenches his jaw. His first instinct is to respond with a dry “there’s nothing to tell,” but he knows that won’t work. He’s here now. It’s best to get it over with quickly.

“It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary,” he says, shrugging. “I lost the car in a corner, ended up against the barriers. End of story.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“No.” He forces himself to sound indifferent, but his answer comes out too blunt.

Silvia nods lightly, not questioning him.

“And what happened after?”

Carlos frowns.

“Nothing. I got out of the car. Walked to the assistance vehicle. Watched them remove my car, then went back to the paddock.”

“How did you feel?”

He presses his lips together, a subtle irritation flaring up in his chest.

“Fine.”

Silvia tilts her head slightly, as if analyzing his response.

“Really?”

Carlos exhales with frustration, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, I know where you’re going,” he says, not hiding his impatience. “But I’m not the first driver to crash into the barriers. It’s no big deal. It’s just part of the job.”

“I know.” Her voice remains calm, but not placating. “So why are you here?”

Carlos tenses.

“Because they’re making me.”

Silvia smiles faintly, without a hint of mockery.

“You already said that. But if everything was really fine, if it really wasn’t ‘no big deal,’ do you think Vasseur would’ve asked you to come here?”

Carlos feels the discomfort knot in his chest. He doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to admit there’s something still chasing him when he closes his eyes at night, something he can’t shake when he’s in the car.

He looks away, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, as his only concession.

Silvia doesn’t press. She just nods, as if that small crack in his defense is enough for today.

“That’s fine,” she says, her voice calm. “You don’t have to know right now.”

Carlos blinks. He expected her to insist, to try and get more out of him. But she doesn’t.

“We’ll leave it here for today,” she adds. “If you decide to come back, we can keep talking.”

Carlos doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. He just stands up, feeling a slight pressure in his chest that wasn’t there when he arrived.

And as he walks away from the office, Silvia’s words echo in his mind.

“If everything was really fine… why are you here?”

The simulator shouldn’t feel this real.

Carlos knows that. It’s a machine, a set of data and algorithms designed to mimic reality—but without the weight of true speed, without the roar of the engine vibrating in his chest. And yet, when his hands close around the steering wheel and the virtual track unfolds before him, his body reacts as if he were really there. As if everything truly depended on every turn, every brake.

He settles into the seat, adjusting everything without thinking too much about it. The simulator's cockpit is dark, enclosed, only the screens and projected data in his peripheral vision. One of the engineers says something over the radio, but Carlos just nods, letting the voice blend into the background noise. His focus is on the track. On the stopwatch.

First stint.

The virtual tires are cold on the first lap, but that doesn’t worry him. The simulator is fine-tuned to the millimeter, and Carlos knows every detail of the circuit. He has memorized it in his skin, in his muscles. Every braking point, every apex. His body acts before his mind, automated by years of repetition.

He releases the brake into turn four, letting the car settle on the front-left tire before opening the throttle. Precise. Fast. As always.

But then he reaches that turn.

It’s not the same one from the accident. He knows that. The incline is different, the angle less aggressive. But something about the way the car moves as he enters, at the exact point where he should release the brake and trust the grip, triggers an instinctive reaction.

A slight hesitation on the wheel.

A millisecond of doubt.

Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but he feels it.

It’s not the first time he’s gone through this turn. It’s part of today’s test program. And yet, this time, something is different. An echo of the crash slipping through the cold data of the simulation, through the precise calculation of the steering angle and brake distribution.

Carlos frowns, his jaw tight. No. It doesn’t make sense.

He presses the throttle more firmly on the next lap, forcing himself to ignore the feeling.

But there it is again.

His foot moves just a fraction of a second earlier before braking, anticipating something that doesn’t exist. His body reacts as if it’s expecting the impact, as if, deep down in his subconscious, that turn means danger.

The simulator engineer’s voice comes through the radio.

“All good, Carlitos?”

The question sounds casual, but Carlos knows he noticed the difference. The telemetry doesn’t lie.

He presses his lips together, jaw clenched. Everything is fine. It’s just that his heart is beating a little faster than usual.

“Yeah. Small mistake. Let’s go again.”

He tries again. And again. And again.

Every time he reaches that turn, his foot hesitates just before braking. It shouldn’t happen. Not in a simulator. Not when there are no real consequences.

But his body doesn’t seem to have received the message.

And the worst part is that the more he tries, the stronger the feeling becomes. He can’t ignore it. It’s there, like interference in a signal that used to be clear. An empty space between instinct and execution.

When the session ends, he steps out of the cockpit, frowning, discomfort knotting in his chest. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like that his own instinct—the one he has refined for years to react in fractions of a second—is failing him.

He feels restless, his skin stretched too tight over his muscles.

He walks down the hallway aimlessly, not even stopping to talk to the team. He doesn’t want to review the telemetry. He doesn’t want to confirm it in cold, precise data.

Carlos enters the locker room and leans against the wall, letting the silence wrap around him.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, what he sees in his reflection isn’t fatigue or simple frustration. It’s something deeper. Something that won’t go away, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

Before he can think too much about it, he pulls out his phone and dials a number he knows by heart.

It only rings once before the call is answered.

“Son,” his father says, with that unshakable calm he has always had. “How are you?”

Carlos wets his lips. His usual response—fine, all good—gets stuck in his throat.

“I had a session in the simulator,” he says instead.

There’s no rush in his father’s voice. No impatient “And? How was it?” Just silence, giving him space.

Carlos exhales.

“There was a turn that… I don’t know, it reminded me of that crash from months ago. It shouldn’t matter, but every time I got there, I braked early. A millisecond. But I felt it.”

On the other end of the line, his father sighs.

“That happens because you’re human, Carlos.”

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be human. He wants to be infallible.

“You crashed too,” he says, almost defiantly. “This didn’t happen to you.”

His father laughs, but not mockingly. It’s the kind of laugh that comes with understanding, with years of experience.

“And how do you know that?” he asks, calmly. “Because I didn’t say it in interviews? Because it didn’t show up in the telemetry?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about that.

“The important thing isn’t whether you feel fear, son. The important thing is what you do with it.”

The knot in his chest tightens a little more.

“Did you go see the psychologist Vasseur recommended?”

He clenches his jaw. “I went once.”

“And?”

“Nothing. It was… weird. She didn’t push too hard.”

His father lets out a soft chuckle.

“Smart move. Now you’re the one who can’t stop thinking about going back.”

Carlos tilts his head back, lightly knocking it against the wall. He hates him a little for saying that. Because it’s true.

“Listen, Carlos,” his father continues, his voice patient. “If you have a tool at your disposal, use it. There’s no point in fighting alone if there’s someone who can help you understand what’s happening.”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, his breathing slower now.

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.” His father doesn’t let him escape. “The question isn’t if you know. It’s if you’re going to do something about it.”

Silence.

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment. He hates himself a little for what he’s about to say next.

“…I’ll call her tomorrow.”

His father smiles on the other end of the line.

“Good decision.”

Carlos hangs up. He stays there for a moment, phone in hand, head resting against the wall.

Then, he lets out a brief, humorless laugh.

If only everything in life could be solved as easily as turning a steering wheel.

Carlos lowers his phone and places it on the locker room bench, next to his helmet and the gloves he still hasn’t put in his bag. He should feel better. The call with his father should have relieved some of that pressure in his chest, given him the certainty that what he’s going through is normal, that he’s not losing his mind. But it doesn’t.

The weight is still there, settled in his stomach like an anchor. It’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything. But the more he tries to convince himself, the more obvious the one truth he’s been avoiding becomes.

No, he’s not okay.

And if he knows it now, if he’s already reached that conclusion—why wait?

He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he reaches out and picks up his phone again, unlocking the screen and finding his chat with Vasseur. It’s there, in their conversation from days ago. A number, accompanied by a brief message.

"For when you’re ready. Call her."

Carlos exhales sharply, as if he needs to brace himself. His thumb hesitates over the screen for just a second before tapping the number.

The tone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A click on the other end. And then, a voice, husky from interrupted sleep.

“Mmm… yes?”

Carlos blinks.

It’s not a receptionist. Not an answering machine.

It’s Silvia herself.

Shit.

He freezes for a second—long enough for Silvia to make a quiet sound, shifting, as if sitting up in bed.

“…Carlos?” she asks, still drowsy but not surprised.

Carlos blinks again, his brain stuttering to start.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, too fast. “I thought this was your office. I didn’t mean—”

Silvia chuckles softly, cutting off his apology. Her voice still carries the lazy notes of sleep.

“It’s okay,” she says, a smile almost audible in her tone. “No problem. Though I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to call at this hour.”

Carlos pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and checks the screen.

00:37.

Fuck.

He closes his eyes briefly, cursing himself in silence. Of course, Vasseur wouldn’t give him a reception number. He gave him her personal one. And in his brilliant moment of clarity, he just called her in the middle of the night.

“Seriously, I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand down his face. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Silvia laughs again, softer this time.

“Carlos.” Her voice is patient, free of any irritation. “Breathe.”

And the worst part is—he does. Without thinking, he exhales in a long sigh.

“Good,” Silvia says, still relaxed. “Now tell me, did you call by mistake, or did you actually want to talk to me?”

Carlos swallows. A reflex of pride, of discomfort, tells him to hang up now and pretend this never happened. But it’s too late for that.

And more importantly… he doesn’t want to hang up.

He clenches his jaw, hating what he’s about to admit.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Silvia doesn’t tease him, doesn’t try to soften it with kind words. She simply gives him space to continue.

Carlos licks his lips, staring at the screen as if it might show him the right way to explain. He doesn’t know why this is so difficult. He’s done hundreds of interviews, talked to engineers about incredibly complex mechanical issues, spent hours breaking down every detail of his race performance. But saying out loud that something isn’t right? That gets stuck in his throat.

Silvia waits. She doesn’t rush him and somehow, that makes it easier to talk.

“Today in the simulator,” he starts, rubbing his thumb against his eyebrow, “there was a corner that… I don’t know. Something about it reminded me of the crash. It’s not the same, but the feeling was there. And I braked earlier than I should have.”

There’s a second of silence. Then, Silvia responds, as calm as ever.

“And that worried you?”

Carlos tilts his head back, staring at the locker room ceiling.

“What worries me is that I don’t know how to make it stop.”

It sounds more honest than he expected.

Silvia doesn’t tell him she understands. She doesn’t tell him it’s normal. She just responds with something that throws him off more than anything else.

“Then let’s talk about it.”

Carlos blinks. “Now?”

“You don’t have to do it right this second,” Silvia replies, “but if you’ve already taken the step of calling me, why wait?”

Carlos presses his lips together. Exactly.

Why wait?

Silvia lets him think. She doesn’t push. She lets him decide.

And Carlos, for the first time in a long time, chooses not to run.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Silvia sounds more awake now, and her voice carries something almost like satisfaction. “I’m guessing you’re not in Monaco right now. When you’re around, stop by my office, and I’ll make time for you. You’ve taken the first step already—don’t back out now.”

Carlos exhales.

“Yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Perfect. Get some rest, Carlos.”

She hangs up before he can change his mind.

Carlos stays there, phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen.

The pressure in his chest is still there, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.

The hallway felt longer than he remembered. Or maybe it was just that he was walking slower, carrying the weight of someone unsure if they really wanted to reach their destination.

Carlos adjusted the sleeves of his sweatshirt, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers. Not cold, not exactly fear, but something close to a restless unease he couldn’t shake.

He had barely slept. Another night spent tossing and turning, his mind trapped in a loop of thoughts that led nowhere. It had been like this for weeks—months, even—but it was getting harder to hide it. The exhaustion clung to him like an extra weight he couldn’t shrug off.

He sighed before pushing the door open and stepping into Silvia’s office.

The same room. The same scent of coffee and paper. The soft light filtering through the blinds. And Silvia, sitting behind her desk, wearing that same calm expression as always.

It should have felt familiar. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had walked into this office. But Carlos felt the same nervousness he had in their first session. Something about this space disarmed him, stripped him of his defenses before Silvia had even spoken a single word.

It was not a comfortable feeling.

He let himself drop into the chair with a heavy exhale, fixing his gaze on a random spot on Silvia’s desk.

"Alright. I’m not okay," he admitted, no pretense, no embellishment. "I can’t sleep properly, my foot shakes on the throttle in fast corners, and last night, I found myself watching a documentary about avocado farming at three in the morning."

Silvia glanced up from her notebook, raising an eyebrow.

"Avocados?"

"Don’t ask. It was just… hypnotic."

She gave a small, amused smile but didn’t say anything. She simply let him continue, and that unsettled Carlos more than if she had asked him something difficult. He cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest, as if trying to organize his thoughts.

"I realized that if I keep going like this, I’ll end up with a farm in the middle of nowhere instead of on the starting grid. And as tempting as that sounds, I don’t think people would be too thrilled to see me milking cows instead of driving a Ferrari."

Silvia tilted her head slightly, studying him with that gaze of hers that made him feel too exposed. Too transparent.

"It’s not just the accident, is it?"

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but Silvia spoke first.

"It’s the pressure of carrying your last name. The shadow of everything your father achieved. The obligation to live up to it. It’s what it means to drive for Ferrari, what it means to be Leclerc’s teammate, the uncertainty of not having a secured seat for next year. Nothing is guaranteed, and the accident was just the final drop that made all of this feel even heavier."

Carlos felt the air catch in his lungs. He froze, too still, as if any sudden movement would make Silvia’s words even more real.

He didn’t know what hit him harder—hearing out loud what he had never put into words or the fact that Silvia had broken him down so effortlessly.

Something inside him tensed. Was he really that obvious? That easy to read?

He looked at Silvia, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something he couldn’t immediately name.

"Wow," he muttered, half incredulous, half uneasy. "I don’t know if I should congratulate you or be worried that you can read me so easily."

Silvia rested her elbows on the desk, lacing her fingers together, her gaze unwavering.

"It’s not that you’re easy to read, Carlos. It’s that you’ve been trying to ignore it for too long."

A faint shiver ran down his spine. He ran a hand over his jaw, averting his eyes to the floor. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much those words had hit the mark.

Because that would mean accepting that all this time, he had been running.

From his name. From Ferrari. From the toxic competitiveness. From the uncertain future.

From himself.

For the first time in months, it felt like someone was putting order to the chaos inside him.

And that scared him more than any high-speed corner.

Carlos let out a slow sigh, as if hoping to exhale some of the weight pressing down on him. It didn’t work.

He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes before letting his arms drop onto his lap.

"Alright, let’s say you’re right…" His voice was lower, rougher, more tired than he would’ve liked. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Silvia looked at him with patience, as if she had been expecting that question.

"For starters, stop pretending everything is fine."

Carlos let out a humorless chuckle.

"Great, I’ll squeeze that in between ‘improving quali times’ and ‘not losing my mind over Ferrari’s strategy calls.’"

Silvia allowed a small smile, but she didn’t let him deflect with sarcasm.

"Carlos… I know you think it’s all about driving faster, about just pushing through as if nothing’s wrong. But how much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

Carlos narrowed his eyes, feeling a sharp pang in his chest because, as much as he hated to admit it, that was the question he feared the most.

"I don’t know," he murmured, staring at the floor. "I don’t know how much longer I can last."

And there it was. It had slipped out before he could think twice. A truth he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge.

Silvia didn’t respond right away. She gave him space, let him breathe.

The silence in the room felt heavy, but for the first time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded immediate answers—it was the kind that gave him permission to process.

Finally, Silvia took a deep breath and said, with that quiet certainty that always disarmed him:

"Then let’s start there."

Carlos met her eyes, with something that looked like surrender—but maybe, just maybe, it was the first step toward something different.

"Alright."

And this time, he meant it.

The weeks began to blur into a routine that, although intense, gradually stopped feeling like a burden for Carlos. Between endless simulations, training sessions that pushed his body to the limit, and races that demanded every ounce of his focus, there was always a spot in his schedule for his sessions with Silvia.

At first, he went out of obligation. It was what Vasseur expected of him. It was what, deep down, he knew he had to do, even if he hated to admit it. But over time, without realizing it, he started anticipating them in a different way. Not with reluctance, not with the feeling that he was walking into some kind of emotional interrogation, but with a strange curiosity.

Because Silvia had the patience of a saint. She never pressured him, but she never let him escape either. She knew exactly when to let silence do the talking and when to strike at just the right moment to make him see what he refused to acknowledge. As if she had a map of his mind that he hadn’t even been able to draw himself.

Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. His fear didn’t just come from the accident. It had been there long before. The fact that, despite all his achievements, his seat in Formula 1 never seemed fully secure.

And between sessions, travels, and races, something else found its way into his routine: humor. He discovered that Silvia shared the same dry sarcasm he did. That she had an almost unsettling ability to fire back at him with comebacks so quick they left him speechless. That somehow, in the midst of all those conversations about fears and anxieties, there was always a moment when they ended up laughing at something absurd.

Carlos hated to admit it, but he did. One afternoon, leaning back against the couch in his office, arms crossed with an expression of feigned indifference, he casually let it slip.

“Don’t get too excited, but therapy might be one of the best decisions I’ve made.”

Silvia merely raised an amused eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

Carlos tilted his head as if considering it. “I don’t know. Don’t get used to it.”

But deep down, they both knew the truth.

The weeks continued passing, marked by a whirlwind of flights, training sessions, and races that took him all over the world. However, between the adrenaline of the circuits and the constant pressure to prove himself, one thing remained constant: his messages with Silvia.

It wasn’t something he had planned, nor something he even stopped to analyze. At first, they were just reminders about their sessions, the occasional comment about his progress. But before he knew it, the texts became more natural, more frequent. A joke between races. A “Try not to crash” that always arrived before qualifying. A “You did well” after a podium finish—one that Carlos pretended not to care about but, for some reason, always made him smile.

And when he came home, exhausted after days of travel, Silvia was there. Not physically, but in that small corner of his routine that now belonged to her. In her office, with her notebook full of notes, with that gaze that seemed to see right through him, with the coffee that, at some point, she had started preparing exactly how he liked it.

“How do you know?” he asked one day, raising his cup with curiosity.

“Observing is part of my job,” Silvia replied simply, shrugging.

Carlos couldn’t help but smile. Because yes, Silvia observed him. More than he sometimes observed himself.

And the same happened in reverse. Because, without meaning to, Carlos started noticing things about her. Small details that lodged themselves in his mind without permission. That she always ordered her coffee from the same café. That at the end of the day, she had a habit of pulling her feet up on the couch while reviewing her notes. That when she was deep in thought, she absentmindedly twirled her pen between her fingers.

And that she liked jazz.

She had mentioned it once, offhandedly, while they talked about ways to unwind. Carlos hadn’t said anything at the time, but weeks later, when he stumbled upon an old vinyl in a tucked-away shop in Madrid, he bought it without thinking too much.

“For you,” he said, handing it to her.

Silvia looked at him in surprise, holding it in her hands as if it weighed more than it actually did.

“You bought this for me?”

Carlos shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know. I saw it and thought of you.”

Not much else was said. But when he returned the following week, the vinyl was playing in her office. And Silvia, with a book in her hands and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, looked up at him with a small smile.

“Good taste, Sainz.”

Carlos just let out a quiet laugh.

It was strange, how the boundaries between them had begun to blur. How, without meaning to, Silvia had become more than just his psychologist. She had become someone with whom he could share comfortable silences, someone with whom he could laugh at life’s absurdities.

And, without realizing it, someone he wanted to impress.

On the other hand, Silvia had always been good at keeping her distance.

Over the years, she had learned to build invisible barriers between herself and her patients. Not out of coldness, but out of necessity. Getting too involved meant losing perspective, and losing perspective meant not being able to help them in the right way.

But with Carlos… with him, those barriers didn’t always seem so solid.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, but little by little, the space between them had become less rigid. Their sessions were no longer just a process of analysis and therapy; they had turned into conversations where humor surfaced naturally, where Carlos lowered his guard, and where she found herself, unintentionally, doing the same.

And it was in a moment like that when everything became a little more complicated.

Carlos had just made a sarcastic remark—one of those that usually made her roll her eyes, but that lately, had been drawing genuine laughter from her instead.

"It must be exhausting for you to be this perceptive all the time," he had said, a lopsided grin on his face.

Silvia played along, responding with a joke of her own.

"Oh, absolutely. Every morning I wake up thinking, ‘How lucky am I? Another day of understanding the human psyche better than everyone else.’"

Carlos let out a laugh. But when Silvia looked at him again, something in her chest tightened without warning.

Because he wasn’t just laughing with his mouth—he was laughing with his eyes.

Because, without realizing it, Silvia was looking too much.

And the worst part was that she didn’t want to look away.

Carlos had the kind of laugh that made everything seem easier, lighter. It was real, untouched by the pressure of cameras, free from any need to put on a front. And for a fleeting moment, for just a single second, Silvia allowed herself to simply look at him, as if there were no reason to hold back.

But then Carlos turned his head, and their eyes met.

It lasted only a second. A brief moment, seemingly insignificant.

But Silvia felt it.

Because the way he was looking at her wasn’t casual.

It lingered just a little longer. Held just a little more weight. As if, for that one moment, he was seeing her differently too. As if he had noticed something in her expression that she hadn’t been quick enough to hide.

Her chest tightened. The feeling was so strong that Silvia almost frowned, as if the weight inside her was something tangible she could shake off.

No. No. Not this.

She looked away quickly, pretending to focus on her notebook, though she knew there was no point in writing anything now.

"Right, back to the topic…" she said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but her own voice sounded different.

Carlos didn’t respond immediately.

She felt him shift on the couch, probably leaning forward slightly. She didn’t look at him, but she could imagine the expression on his face. That mix of curiosity and something else she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.

But in the end, he said nothing.

And she forced herself to do the same.

Because nothing had happened. Nothing she couldn’t ignore. Nothing she couldn’t lock away in the same corner of her mind where she kept all the things she wasn’t supposed to feel.

And yet, when Carlos said goodbye and left through the door, when the office was left in complete silence, Silvia allowed herself to close her eyes and let out a sigh.

Because maybe—just maybe—she had just crossed a line from which there was no turning back.

Silvia finds out about the news like everyone else: with the headline flashing on her phone screen.

Carlos Sainz signs with Williams for 2025.

She knows it’s real even before opening the article. The weeks of rumors, speculation, and uncertainty are over. It’s official. And before she can stop it, a wave of relief and pride washes over her.

It shouldn’t feel personal. She shouldn’t feel this way. But she does.

Because she’s seen Carlos at his most vulnerable. She’s been in the room with him when the pressure made him doubt himself, when fear seeped into his voice in ways even he didn’t recognize. And now, here he is. With a secured future, with an opportunity he had been so afraid he wouldn’t get.

The first thing she does is smile. The second is buying a bottle of champagne.

It’s not a clinical or professional gesture, but she doesn’t think too much about it. She’s spent months watching Carlos carry the weight of uncertainty, and today, for the first time in a long while, she can picture him breathing a little more freely. She wants to celebrate that. She wants him to celebrate that.

Carlos, for his part, should feel lighter. The contract is signed, his future is secure, and for the first time in months, no one is asking him what he’s going to do next year. But when he steps into the office and sees the bottle of champagne on the table, something inside him cracks just a little.

Silvia is smiling. Not with the measured politeness of a professional, but with genuine happiness, with a sparkle in her eyes that leaves him disarmed. She’s happy for him. And that, for some reason, is what undoes him completely.

“Congratulations,” she says, a small smile on her lips as she raises a glass. “You did it.”

Carlos doesn’t respond right away. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move past that. His eyes remain fixed on the unopened bottle, on the way the light reflects off the glass. His throat bobs with a dry swallow. Suddenly, the relief he should be feeling turns into something heavy, something difficult to process.

“Come on, sit down,” Silvia tries, her tone light, steering the conversation forward. “This calls for a celebration.”

Carlos lets out a short, rough laugh.

“Did you really buy champagne?” His voice holds a hint of disbelief, like he can’t decide whether to tease her or thank her.

“Of course,” Silvia replies with mock indignation. “It’s not every day you land a Formula 1 contract. And I wanted to see if you finally have good taste or if you’re still ordering white wine like a British tourist in Ibiza.”

Carlos shakes his head, a ghost of a smile forming. But it doesn’t last. Because then, he feels the sting in his eyes. And before he can stop it, Silvia sees it too.

The tears.

Not sobs, not ragged breaths. Just a silent trail, tracing a path from his eyes down to his jaw.

Silvia feels her body tense. For a second, just one, she hesitates. Because she knows what it means to take a step closer. She knows what she’s supposed to do, and what she shouldn’t do. But then she looks at him again, and the answer is clear.

She moves. Slowly. Wordlessly.

When she places a hand on his arm, Carlos doesn’t pull away. When the other slides to his back, he closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest gently against her shoulder. His breathing is uneven, caught between restraint and collapse, and Silvia holds him.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the office, not the contract, not the lines they aren’t supposed to cross. Just this. Just him.

And in the midst of it all, in the trembling of his chest, Carlos has a realization as clear as day: what he feels for Silvia isn’t going anywhere. It can’t. Because this is what they are. This is what they’re supposed to be. And yet, here he is, burying his face in her shoulder like nothing else in the world matters.

When Carlos finally pulls away, when he looks up and their eyes meet, they understand.

What this means.

What comes next.

And neither of them moves to step back.

Silvia is the first to speak. Her voice is low, careful.

“Carlos… what’s wrong?”

He blinks, like he’s suddenly remembering where they are, like he’s realizing that Silvia is still looking at him with that patient, disarming gaze of hers. He rubs a hand over his face, as if he can wipe away what just happened, as if he can rewind to before crossing that line.

But he can’t.

And lying to Silvia… that has never been an option.

Because she always knows. Sometimes even before he does. But telling her the truth makes no sense either. What for? To tell her that he cares for her? That seeing her this happy for him shatters him a little? That the news of his contract feels distant, insignificant, when she smiles at him like that? For him?

Carlos swallows and lowers his gaze. He can’t say it. He shouldn’t say it. But he can’t find a lie that holds either.

So he just murmurs,

“I don’t know.”

And Silvia, with that damn patience, with that effortless understanding that strips him bare, nods like she gets it anyway.

And in that silence, in everything they don’t say, Silvia understands it all.

She realizes that the champagne was a mistake.

She realizes that pushing her own limits was a mistake.

She realizes that seeing Carlos cry was a mistake.

Because now, that tightness in her chest, that warmth when she looks at him, has a name.

And the worst part is—Carlos has just realized it too.

Carlos lets out a short laugh, a fragile sound that barely settles in his chest. He runs a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes with an open palm before letting it drop to his thigh.

“Well… that was dramatic.”

His voice is still a little raw, but he tries to mask it with lightness.

Silvia blinks, caught off guard by how quickly he’s trying to pull himself together, and lets out a small laugh. It’s instinctive, soft—an attempt to bring them both back to the normality they so desperately need.

“A little, yeah,” she admits, offering a half-smile.

Carlos exhales and sinks into the chair, dropping his head back, staring at the ceiling for a second before sighing again.

“I haven’t even started working with Williams yet, and I’m already crying about it. I’m going to be a mess.”

Silvia leans back against the desk and, absentmindedly, nudges the champagne bottle slightly to the side. Now, it feels out of place—like a joke told at the wrong time.

“If you cry every time someone congratulates you, then yeah, that could be a problem,” she teases, trying to lift the mood. “Maybe I should’ve brought tissues instead of glasses.”

Carlos drops his head to the side, giving her that signature look of exasperation that comes so naturally to him.

“Or maybe just never celebrate anything with me ever again. Clearly, I don’t handle it well.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

He laughs. A real one this time. But when he looks up, when his eyes meet Silvia’s, the sound catches in his throat.

Because she’s smiling too—but there’s something else there. Something in the way she looks at him, in the almost imperceptible pause before she looks away. Something Carlos feels like a weight in his chest, like an invisible thread pulling him toward her.

Silvia realizes instantly that she’s held his gaze for too long. She blinks, clears her throat, and straightens slightly in her seat.

“Well,” she says, like she’s trying to put an end to whatever this moment was, “should we pretend you didn’t just get emotional and start the session?”

Carlos sits up, adjusting in his chair, clinging to the opportunity to regain control.

“Yes. Good idea. Let’s pretend I’m a functioning adult and not someone who falls apart over a job contract.”

“Exactly. And I’ll pretend this wasn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

The silence that follows is devastating.

Carlos blinks. Once, twice. His breath catches, and it’s as if the air in the room has changed density. As if, all of a sudden, he doesn’t know where to place his hands, how to hold himself in this confined space.

Silvia feels it too. She sees it in the way Carlos looks at her, in the tension along his jaw, in the slight flare of his nostrils. And the worst part is, she can’t pretend she didn’t say it. She can’t take it back. She can’t make it so it never happened.

Because it did.

That thread between them, the one they had been stretching for months, has just snapped.

Silvia feels her own breath turn shallow, the skin at the nape of her neck tingling with the absolute awareness of what she has just done. The words still linger in the air, as if they haven’t quite settled, as if they’re waiting for one of them to deny them.

"I'm sorry," she says, too quickly. Too nervously.

Carlos doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know how. His mind is a whirlwind of tangled thoughts, none clear enough to hold on to. Just moments ago, he had been dealing with the weight of his new contract, the relief of securing his future, the vulnerability of having cried in front of her. And now, this.

Too much.

"I didn’t mean it like that," Silvia tries, running a hand over her forehead, as if she could erase the comment with a single gesture. "It was… I don’t know. Inappropriate."

Carlos swallows. He can’t look at her. Not yet. Not when his body is still reacting in ways he doesn’t understand, when his skin is still on high alert, when his heart is still racing for reasons that no longer have anything to do with Williams or his contract.

Silvia takes a breath and straightens her shoulders. She needs to pull herself together. She needs to put things back in their place.

"We can…" she starts, but the words die in her throat.

Carlos finally looks up, and when their eyes meet, there’s something there. Something big. Something impossible to ignore.

Silvia sees it. Carlos knows it.

But neither of them is ready to face it.

So she looks away, picks up the champagne bottle, and sets it aside.

"Do you want to start the session?" she asks, as if nothing happened.

Carlos nods once, slowly.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is lower than usual, as if he’s still wading through everything that just unfolded. "Yeah, let’s start."

And they do. They pretend everything is the same.

But they both know nothing is.

Silvia had been feeling the weight of this decision for days before she typed out the message.

Ever since that session, from the exact moment she crossed a line she never should have crossed, she knew this couldn’t continue. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things.

Because the thought of not seeing him anymore, of no longer being the person Carlos turned to in his most vulnerable moments, twisted her stomach in a way she didn’t want to analyze too deeply.

She had tried to lie to herself, to rationalize it. It was just an impulsive comment. Nothing more. But every time she thought back to the silence that followed, to the way Carlos had looked at her, to the way her own chest had tightened upon realizing what she had done...

No. She couldn’t keep ignoring it.

That’s why, when Carlos stood on the podium in Austin, when she saw him with that spark in his eyes, with the satisfaction of a job well done, she knew it was time. Because he was moving forward, rebuilding himself after months of uncertainty. And she couldn’t be the obstacle in his way.

Her hands trembled as she typed the message. She stared at the screen for too long, rereading every word, wondering if there was any way to say it without it hurting.

There wasn’t.

Pressing her lips together, she took a deep breath, and with a final pang in her chest, she hit send.

Then, she placed her phone face down on the table, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands.

She had just done the right thing.

So why did it feel like she had just made an irreparable mistake?

Champagne still soaks his race suit as Carlos steps into the motorhome room and collapses onto the couch. His body is exhausted, but the adrenaline from the Austin GP is still coursing through his veins.

A second place. Another podium in his career. And for the first time in months, the feeling that things are finally falling into place.

He grabs his phone with the intention of texting Silvia. It’s a habit he doesn’t even think about—just a simple "Did you see that?" or "You owe me a session just to talk about how good I was today."

She always replies quickly, with a dry but knowing remark. "Not bad for someone who still brakes earlier than necessary." Or, "Don’t let it go to your head, Sainz."

But this time, when he unlocks the screen, something is waiting for him.

A long message.

Silvia Costa:

"Carlos, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About our last session, about how I acted. About what I said. And I know we can’t keep ignoring it.

Please don’t misunderstand this. It has nothing to do with you or with whatever it is that you feel. But I am your psychologist, and I crossed a boundary I should not have crossed. I don’t want this to affect your career, my job, or what we’ve built over these past months. What we’re doing is not sustainable. It’s not professional. And the most honest, the fairest thing for both of us, is to end this here.

If you want to continue therapy, I’ll help you find another professional who follows my methods, someone I trust. I know you don’t like opening up to just anyone, and I know it has been a privilege that you trusted me enough to do so.

And I also know this won’t be easy. But it’s the right thing to do.

-Silvia."

Carlos reads the message once. Then again.

The tingling of celebration, the weight of the trophy in his hands, the euphoria of having driven a flawless race... it all vanishes.

All that remains is the sudden emptiness of what he’s just lost.

His first instinct is to deny it. His fingers are already moving, ready to type something, to call her, to tell her she’s overreacting, that this doesn’t have to mean what she thinks it does.

But then, the image hits him like a punch: Silvia, sitting in her apartment, phone in hand, hesitating, torn, realizing there is no other way out. That she has spent days thinking about this, that it has weighed on her just as much as it has on him.

And that’s when Carlos understands exactly what Silvia must have felt when she sent that message.

Because he feels it too—the crushing sense that he’s just lost something he can’t get back.

Carlos still has his phone in his hand when the door of the motorhome swings open.

"Carlos!"

Vasseur’s voice fills the room before he even has time to react. The team principal strides in, a wide grin on his face, enthusiasm radiating from every word.

"What a race, mate! Seriously, that was incredible."

Carlos looks up, blinking as if suddenly trying to remember where he is.

"Ah... thanks."

Vasseur drops into the seat across from him, still riding the high of watching both of his drivers deliver a spectacular result.

"Not just the race," he adds, pointing at him. "You look different. More solid, more confident. It shows in how you handle battles, how you keep a cool head."

Carlos tries to nod, tries to smile. But his mind is still trapped in the message. In Silvia. In what just happened.

And then, Vasseur says her name.

"You have to thank Dr. Costa for that, huh? I told you, didn’t I? Best decision you could’ve made."

Carlos feels the hit straight to his chest.

Silvia.

His throat tightens, his stomach churns. Suddenly, the room feels too small, the air too dense.

He doesn’t know what to do with his face, with his body. Should he nod? Should he lie? Should he laugh and say yes, that she’s been the key to everything? Because up until a few minutes ago, before he read that damn message, he would have said it without hesitation.

But now…

Now he doesn’t know what to say.

The only thing he does know is that he’s screwed.

Because out of all the people in the world, out of all the women he’s ever met, he had to fall for his psychologist.

The irony almost makes him laugh.

"Yeah," he manages to say, though his voice doesn’t sound quite like his own. "She’s been a huge help."

Vasseur nods, satisfied, oblivious to the storm raging inside Carlos.

"Well, keep this up, Sainz. This is the driver I want to see. This is the Carlos that wins races."

He claps him on the shoulder before getting up, still glowing with pride.

Carlos barely feels it.

All he can think about is the fact that, for the first time since he started working with Silvia, he’s going to have to do it without her.

The return to Monaco feels different this time.

It's not the first time Carlos has come home after an exhausting race, but he's never felt this restless before. There was always a rhythm to his post-Grand Prix routine—training, reviewing data, resting. And at some point during the week, a session with Silvia.

Now, that space is empty.

At first, he tries to ignore it. He convinces himself it's just a matter of time, of getting used to a new rhythm without her. He throws himself into training, into meetings with Ferrari, into preparations for his move to Williams. But no matter how hard he tries, there are moments when her absence slips into his day uninvited.

Like when he comes back to his apartment after a run and instinctively checks his phone for a message from Silvia. Or when, in the middle of a conversation with his engineer, he feels the urge to joke about what she would say to him at that moment.

Or when he sits on the couch after dinner, and without realizing it, his mind plays tricks on him—What is Silvia doing right now?

And that’s when he starts questioning everything.

Why does he feel this way?

Is it because Silvia was his psychologist and, for the first time in his life, he had someone who truly listened to him? Someone who didn’t just see him as a driver, as Carlos Sainz Sr.'s son, but as a human being with fears, doubts, vulnerabilities no one else knew?

Is that what he misses? The way she understood him, how she anticipated what he felt before he even realized it himself?

Or is it Silvia?

The woman, the person beyond her role.

Because if it were just about therapy, he would have found another psychologist by now. He would have moved on.

But he hasn’t.

Because no one else is her.

And then, amidst that tangle of thoughts, comes an even worse doubt.

What about Silvia?

Was it just work for her?

Was she simply good at what she did, and he made the mistake of confusing professionalism with something more?

Was everything he felt real, or was she just doing her job?

That thought sticks like a thorn in his mind.

And when he arrives in Mexico, about to race one of his last Grands Prix with Ferrari, he can’t stop wondering—If Silvia were here, if she were watching him, would she feel any of this? Or would she just see another driver, another patient?

He tries not to think too much. He focuses on the car, on the strategy, on doing his job. And for a while, it works.

Qualifying is solid, the start is clean, the race is intense. He has to fight for every lap, every corner, every strategic decision. And when he crosses the finish line in first place, when he hears his name chanted by thousands of Mexican fans, he should feel complete.

He should feel invincible.

But the moment he gets out of the car, as the initial euphoria settles into his exhausted body, his first instinct is to reach for his phone.

To text Silvia.

To say, “Did you see that?”

To read, “Took you long enough, Sainz.”

To hear her voice, even if just for a few seconds.

But he can’t.

Because Silvia is no longer on the other side of the line.

And so, as the press surrounds him, as the mechanics embrace him, as the Mexican crowd idolizes him like one of their own, Carlos feels something unexpected.

Loneliness.

It’s absurd, unfair, selfish. He’s surrounded by people who care about him, in one of the best moments of his career, and yet, as the red and green confetti explodes into the air and the crowd roars his name, all he can think about is what’s missing.

Who's missing.

How none of this feels the same without her.

Carlos holds on as long as he can.

He gets through the interviews, the photos, the congratulations. He endures the hugs from his mechanics, the cheers of the fans, the pats on the back from his father. He withstands the lights, the noise, the overwhelming energy of everyone around him.

But the moment he sees an opportunity, he slips away.

His team is still celebrating, the paddock is a chaos of people coming and going, journalists chasing statements, assistants rushing from one place to another. No one notices when he sneaks off, when he steps into a quieter hallway, when he opens the door to an empty room and closes it behind him.

His breathing is faster than normal. Not because of the race. Not because of the adrenaline.

Because of what he’s about to do.

Carlos holds his phone between his fingers, turning it absentmindedly in his hand as the echoes of the celebration still vibrate through the paddock. In the distance, he hears the laughter of the Ferrari crew, the sound of champagne bottles popping open again and again. The euphoria is still in the air, and yet, he feels completely detached from it all.

Winning in Mexico should have been one of the happiest moments of his career. He should be smiling, enjoying it, letting himself be carried away by the thrill of victory. But all he feels is a persistent emptiness.

And he knows exactly why.

He exhales slowly and unlocks his phone. His thumb scrolls through his contacts until it lands on the name he’s been trying not to search for these past few days.

Silvia Costa.

For a few seconds, he just stares at the screen, hesitating. For what? What does he expect her to say? But before his brain can convince him not to, his finger has already tapped the number.

The dial tone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

When the line finally opens, Carlos feels something tighten in his chest.

“…Carlos.”

She doesn’t ask why he’s calling. She doesn’t sound surprised. Just tired.

Carlos swallows and runs a hand down his face.

“I won.”

Silence. Long. Heavy.

Then, a barely audible exhale.

“I know.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“It doesn’t feel the same without you.”

Silvia doesn’t answer right away. And in that silence, he understands everything.

It’s not that she has nothing to say. It’s that she doesn’t know how to say it.

“Carlos…” she murmurs finally, and he closes his eyes, because he already knows what’s coming.

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have called you,” he interrupts, his voice low. “Don’t do that.”

Silvia lets out a shaky breath.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, feeling the dried champagne clinging to his skin.

“I don’t know. Just… tell me the truth.”

Silvia stays quiet.

Carlos wets his lips, inhaling deeply before voicing the question that has been eating away at him since he got her message.

“Is this real for you? Do you feel the same way I do, or are you just ridiculously good at your job and I’ve been fooling myself all along?”

Silvia closes her eyes on the other end of the line.

Carlos feels it. He doesn’t need to see her to know he just hit exactly where it hurts.

Silvia exhales shakily, and Carlos can hear the hesitation in her silence. He doesn’t push, even though everything inside him is screaming for her to just say something.

And then, finally—

“Carlos,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost resigned. “You have to understand that this isn’t just about what we feel.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“But it is,” he insists. “That’s the only thing that should matter.”

Silvia lets out a breath, and he can picture her running a hand through her hair, just like she does when she’s trying to find the right words.

“I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs. “I wish we could just… pretend like none of the rest matters. But it does. It has to.”

Carlos exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

Silvia hesitates.

“Because if this goes wrong, Carlos, it’s not just about us. It’s about my career, my credibility. You know what world we live in. People talk, they assume things, they twist narratives.”

Carlos swallows, staring down at the floor.

“You think they’ll say you took advantage of me?” he asks, voice quieter now, like the thought physically pains him.

Silvia shakes her head, even though he can’t see her.

“No,” she whispers. “I think they’ll say you took the risk, and I let it happen. That I blurred the line. That I became unprofessional. And then, what? Who’s going to trust me after that? Every athlete I work with knows someone in this world. You know how connected everything is.”

Carlos stays quiet, because as much as he wants to fight her on this, he knows she’s right.

Silvia exhales, softer this time.

“And it’s not just that.” Her voice wavers slightly. “I spent so much time convincing myself that this wasn’t real, that it was just… proximity, circumstance. And maybe at first, I even believed that.” She pauses, like she’s bracing herself for what comes next. “But I don’t anymore.”

Carlos closes his eyes.

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

Silvia lets out a small, breathless laugh, like she can’t believe he doesn’t see it.

“Because knowing that doesn’t make it easier.” Her voice cracks slightly, and Carlos’ chest tightens. “Because it scares the hell out of me.”

Carlos’ grip on the phone tightens.

“Silvia…”

“I don’t get to just feel things, Carlos. Not like you do. Not when it could cost me everything I’ve worked for.”

Carlos exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

For the first time since this conversation started, he understands.

Not just what she’s saying, but what it means.

She’s not pushing him away because she doesn’t want him. She’s pushing him away because she does. Because she feels it just as much as he does, and that feeling is a risk neither of them knows how to navigate.

Carlos leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I hear you,” he murmurs, and Silvia goes silent, like she wasn’t expecting that. “I don’t like it. I don’t agree with it. But I hear you.”

Silvia exhales, something unreadable in the sound.

Carlos waits a moment, then speaks again, softer now.

“But we don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

Silvia stays quiet, and he takes that as permission to keep going.

“I know you’re scared of what this could mean for you, for your career, for everything you’ve built. And I’m not asking you to risk all of that overnight.” He swallows, steadying himself. “But I am asking you to try.”

Silvia lets out a shaky breath.

Carlos grips his phone a little tighter.

“We can take it slow,” he continues. “We don’t have to tell anyone. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just… let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Silvia swallows audibly.

“Carlos…”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again, looking straight ahead as if she were in front of him.

“No one else gets to decide what this is except us.” His voice is firmer now, like he’s trying to anchor her to something solid. “We don’t have to make a statement. We don’t have to be reckless. We don’t even have to put a name to it yet.”

Silvia presses her lips together, thinking. He can tell she’s torn, that her brain is still trying to find a reason to say no.

Carlos softens.

“But we get to choose what this is,” he murmurs. “Not them. Not the media. Not the paddock. Us.”

Silvia closes her eyes, and for the first time in weeks, she lets herself imagine it.

A version of this that isn’t terrifying. A version where she doesn’t feel like she’s about to lose something. A version where it’s just them, learning how to be together without the weight of the world pressing in.

It’s dangerous. It’s a risk.

But so is not trying.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bigger mistake.

She lets out a breath.

Slow. Quiet. Just them.

“…Okay.”

Carlos straightens slightly, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“Okay?”

Silvia swallows.

“Yes,” she says, firmer now. “But slow. And private.”

Carlos’ lips twitch into a small, almost relieved smile.

“As private as it gets when I’m in a garage full of mechanics who have nothing better to do than gossip.”

Silvia groans, and Carlos laughs, warmth spreading through his chest for the first time in weeks.

And then, before she can start overthinking it again, before she can try to convince herself that this is a mistake, Carlos speaks again, his voice quieter, softer—almost pleading.

“Just let yourself be loved, Silvia.”

Silvia lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

It won’t be perfect. It won’t be easy.

But it’s theirs.

And for now, that’s enough.

Carlos had never been this impatient to get home.

The moment his plane touched down in Monaco, his mind was already ahead of him—tracing the familiar drive back to his apartment, picturing Silvia walking through his door. It had only been a few days since their call, since she agreed to try, but those days had stretched unbearably long.

Carlos checks the time again.

Five minutes.

He exhales, running a hand down his face, forcing himself to calm the restless energy in his body. It’s ridiculous—he’s been in countless high-pressure situations, faced the scrutiny of the world, handled races where milliseconds determined everything. And yet, standing in his own home, waiting for Silvia to arrive, he feels nervous.

Excited, but nervous.

The apartment is ready. He made sure of that the moment he got back from the race. Everything is set exactly the way he wants it—soft candlelight flickering on the table and along the shelves, filling the air with warm hints of vanilla and sandalwood. The kind of scent that lingers, that wraps around you like something familiar, something safe.

The kind of scent he hopes she’ll associate with him.

His stomach twists slightly at the thought, at the weight of what tonight means.

Because this isn’t just dinner. It’s the beginning of something neither of them knows how to define yet.

And then, the doorbell rings.

Carlos inhales sharply, running his palms down his jeans before moving to the door. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t give himself time to overthink. He just opens it.

And then he forgets how to breathe.

Silvia stands there, clutching her purse a little tighter than necessary, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the golden glow of the hallway lights. And God—she looks breathtaking. Not in the way that models on magazine covers do, but in the way that matters. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, that leaves you completely disarmed.

Carlos’ lips part slightly, but for a moment, no words come out.

Then—

"Joder."

Silvia blinks, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice.

Carlos shakes his head, exhaling a soft laugh as his eyes sweep over her again.

"You are beautiful."

Silvia lets out a nervous breath, her lips twitching.

“Carlos.”

It’s a quiet chiding, but there’s no real complaint behind it.

Carlos leans against the doorframe, eyes still fixed on her like he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“No, really,” he insists. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Silvia raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms in a half-hearted defense.

“Like what?”

Carlos tilts his head, his gaze softer now.

“Like you actually tried to impress me.”

Silvia exhales a breathy laugh, glancing to the side as if embarrassed.

“Maybe I did.”

Carlos’ stomach flips. He grips the edge of the door tighter.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice lower now, steadier. “It’s working.”

Silvia meets his gaze again, and something unspoken settles between them. Something new. Something electric.

For a brief second, neither of them moves.

Then, Silvia clears her throat, shifting slightly on her feet.

“So… are you going to invite me in, or are we just going to stand here while you stare at me?”

Carlos grins, stepping aside with an easy shrug.

“Oh, I’m definitely going to keep staring,” he admits, voice full of warmth. “Just from a more comfortable position.”

Silvia rolls her eyes, but the smile that curves her lips is undeniable. She steps past him, and as she crosses the threshold, something shifts.

The moment she enters his home, she realizes—

It doesn’t feel unfamiliar.

It doesn’t feel like stepping into someone else’s life.

It feels like she’s been here before, like she’s walked through this door a hundred times, even though this is the first.

The scent of vanilla and sandalwood lingers in the air, the candlelight casting soft shadows along the walls, the space so unmistakably Carlos—but somehow, not foreign to her at all.

Carlos watches as she takes it all in, the way her shoulders slowly relax, the tension in her grip on her purse easing.

And just like that, the nerves that had been tightening in his chest finally fade.

Because she’s here.

And it fits.

She fits.

He closes the door behind her, and when Silvia turns to face him, there’s something in her eyes—something hesitant, but sure all at once.

Carlos lets out a slow breath, smiling.

This is theirs.

The scent of garlic and simmering spices fills the kitchen while soft jazz hums in the background, wrapping around them like something tangible, something intimate.

Carlos moves around the stove with ease, occasionally bumping into Silvia as they navigate the space together. It’s effortless, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of for the first time.

They talk about everything and nothing.

Silvia tells him how she learned to cook at eight years old, not out of passion but out of necessity—because, according to her parents, “no daughter of ours is going to be a disgrace to Italian cuisine.”

Carlos laughs, shaking his head. Eight? He tells her that, by that age, he could barely make a sandwich. He learned how to control a clutch before he learned how to properly run. He grew up with the smell of gasoline instead of home-cooked meals, with long weekends at the karting track instead of lazy mornings in the kitchen.

Silvia listens, slicing vegetables with steady hands, occasionally stealing glances at him. He tells her about Mónaco, about Madrid, about how circuits feel like home to him—strange, considering they are nothing more than strips of asphalt in different places.

Silvia teases him for his predictable answer.

Carlos smirks. “I’m a simple man, Costa.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

The conversation flows, easy and unfiltered. She talks about the places she loves—Florence, because it looks like a painting; the ocean, because it always calls her back.

Carlos listens. Really listens.

And then, somewhere between the soft sizzle of the pan and the quiet melody playing through the speakers, he turns to her.

"Do you dance?"

Silvia blinks, caught off guard.

"What?"

Carlos gestures toward the music, the smooth rhythm of a saxophone weaving through the air.

"Do you dance?" he repeats, voice softer this time.

Silvia hesitates, fingers still curled around the knife handle.

"Here?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Carlos shrugs, stepping closer, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

"Why not?"

Silvia exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but she doesn’t say no.

Carlos takes the knife from her hand, sets it down on the counter, and offers his own hand instead. A warm glow flickers in her eyes as she hesitates for just a second—then, slowly, she slips her fingers into his.

The music sways around them, rich and smooth, curling into the small spaces between their bodies. Carlos leads them away from the counter with an easy pull, guiding her into the center of the kitchen.

There’s no rush, no urgency.

Just slow, deliberate movement.

Silvia’s free hand settles lightly on his shoulder; his drifts to the small of her back, barely pressing, just resting. They step in time with the music, close but not desperate, fitting together as if they’ve always known how.

Carlos has danced before—at parties, at family gatherings, in the middle of celebrations with his team. But never like this. Never in a kitchen filled with candlelight, with a woman who looks at him like she belongs there.

Silvia’s hair brushes against his cheek as she tilts her head slightly, adjusting to the rhythm. Her forehead is just at the right height—the perfect height—for him to press a kiss there without thought, without hesitation.

So he does.

Soft.

Barely there.

Silvia stills, just for a second. A breath caught between them.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Carlos closes his eyes briefly, letting himself memorize this—the warmth of her against him, the way she feels right in his arms. There’s no desperation in the way they hold each other. No frantic need, no urgency.

Just stillness.

Calm.

Something that settles between them, steady and unshaken.

Silvia exhales, her fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulder.

Carlos keeps leading.

The jazz plays on.

And then—

A sharp sizzle.

A crackle.

A burning smell.

Silvia stiffens. Carlos’ eyes snap open.

The pan.

The food.

The goddamn stove.

“Shit.”

Silvia barely has time to react before Carlos spins away from her, lunging toward the kitchen counter. A thin column of smoke curls toward the ceiling, the once-promising meal now a charred, unrecognizable mess.

She presses a hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Carlos, gripping the handle of the pan, turns to her with an expression somewhere between devastation and disbelief.

“DO NOT LAUGH!” He looks back at the pan, the smell making him gag. And with a resigned look on his face, he turns again back to Silvia. “What do you think about ordering sushi?”

The months pass in quiet certainty.

Their relationship is private, but not a secret. They never make a grand announcement, never feel the need to define things for the world. They simply exist together, moving in and out of each other’s lives with an ease that feels both inevitable and right.

And the world—their world—accepts it without question.

The paddock, a place where rumors spread faster than race strategy updates, doesn’t treat it as a scandal. There are no whispers of controversy, no raised eyebrows. If anything, there’s an unspoken understanding, a silent approval from those who have seen the change in Carlos firsthand.

Because every time Silvia is there, he is different.

Lighter.

Happier.

His team notices it first. The way his shoulders aren’t weighed down by pressure the same way they used to be. The way he walks into the garage with a quiet kind of confidence, his mind clear, his focus sharper. The way he looks toward the paddock entrance before every session, waiting, searching—

And then, the moment he sees her, his entire face changes.

It becomes impossible to ignore.

The cameras catch it. The fans notice it.

Every race weekend she attends, Carlos carries an extra spark—something undeniable, something warm. His radio messages are lighter, his post-session interviews filled with effortless smiles. Even on the tougher weekends, when things don’t go his way, there’s a steadiness to him that wasn’t there before.

And the fans—oh, the fans—they adore Silvia.

Not just because she’s with him, but because she doesn’t just stand in his world—she belongs in it.

She walks through the paddock with quiet confidence, not needing to prove herself. She chats with the engineers, with the mechanics, with the media personnel who remember her from before. When fans recognize her and approach, she meets them with the same warmth she’s always had, taking pictures, sharing inside jokes.

Carlos is fiercely protective of her, but it turns out he doesn’t need to be.

Because the world has already decided: Silvia Costa is one of theirs now.

And then, of course, there’s Vasseur.

If anyone thought Fred Vasseur wouldn’t take full credit for their relationship, they were very wrong.

Every time Carlos or Silvia posts something—an innocuous photo from a race weekend, a picture of Carlos’ hand resting near Silvia’s on a dinner table, even just a candid shot from the paddock where they’re caught laughing together—

Vasseur is there.

In the comments.

Fred Vasseur: “You’re welcome.”

or—

Fred Vasseur: “I will be expecting my invitation.”

or, Carlos’ personal favorite—

Fred Vasseur: “All great love stories start with therapy. Shakespeare said that.”

(Silvia is pretty sure Shakespeare did not say that, but she lets it slide.)

Carlos never replies.

Silvia, on the other hand, always does.

Silvia Costa: “I am raising your rates, Fred.”

But for all the teasing, for all the public amusement, the best moments are the ones that belong only to them.

The quiet mornings in Monaco, where Carlos wakes up to find Silvia curled into his side, her hair spread across his pillow, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains. The lazy afternoons where they cook together, where Silvia tries (and fails) to get Carlos to tolerate more than the mildest amount of spice.

The race weekends where Carlos, exhausted but glowing from another podium, finds her waiting for him in the motorhome, her arms already open.

The stolen moments between flights, between commitments, between the noise of the world—where it’s just them.

Because the truth is, everything in Carlos’ life makes sense when she’s there.

Everything fits when Silvia is beside him.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

He has already found it.

And he’s not letting go.

@smoooothoperator @anayaverse @gold66loveblog @freyathehuntress

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