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It’s fine. Don’t worry.
The words echoed in George’s mind like a mantra.
The same words Alex had said to him just hours ago, brushing off George’s concern when he insisted on riding the older bike. The one George had told him needed repairs. The one with faulty brakes.
They had wanted to go mountain biking to celebrate the start of summer break, to chase the sun and feel the wind tangle up their hair as they raced down forest trails. Just one carefree day to forget the weight of their responsibilities and enjoy each other's presence. Alex had been so excited, grinning like a kid as he tugged on his helmet, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"It’s fine," he had said, patting George’s cheek. "Don’t worry."
But now, those words weren’t reassuring. They were a desperate mantra George whispered under his breath as he frantically scanned the trail ahead and behind, his chest heaving.
They hadn’t realized the trail they’d taken was a horse track - not until it was too late. The tree trunk, thick and solid, loomed out of nowhere like an unmovable barrier. It was meant to be jumped over, a feature for riders, not cyclists. George had barely swerved to avoid it, skidding to a stop with a spray of dirt and pine needles. But Alex…
Alex’s bike didn’t stop.
The faulty brakes refused to engage, and George could only watch, powerless, as Alex was launched over the trunk like a rag doll, limbs flailing before he crashed to the ground.
"You good, mate?" George’s voice cracked as he called out, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.
No response.
Fear shot through him like ice. He flung his own - or rather, Alex’s - bike aside and scrambled over the tree trunk, falling to his knees beside Alex’s unmoving body.
The image would be scarred into George’s memory forever. Alex, sprawled out on the forest floor, his arm twisted unnaturally beneath him. His chest barely rising and falling, breaths so shallow George had to strain to see them. Dirt and pine needles clung to his skin, and a thin trickle of blood traced a path down from his temple.
George’s pulse roared in his ears. He wanted to gather Alex into his arms, to shake him awake, to do anything to break the unbearable stillness. But a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him not to move Alex - that he could make things worse. A broken spine. A neck injury. Things he couldn’t fix.
But another voice, louder and more desperate, overpowered the caution. The voice that couldn’t bear the sight of Alex lying so still.
With trembling hands, George cradled Alex against his chest, fingers threading through his hair, smearing dirt and blood all over the place. He pressed a kiss to Alex’s clammy forehead, his tears falling freely onto Alex’s face.
"It’s okay," George whispered, his voice shaking. "You’ll be okay. Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ve got you."
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, rocking Alex gently as if the motion alone could breathe life back into him. Time blurred into an endless stretch of panic and dread, and the forest around them faded into nothingness. There was only Alex.
Eventually, logic clawed its way back into George’s mind. He needed to call for help. He needed an ambulance. His fingers fumbled at his pockets, but before he could even pull out his phone, a darker thought wrapped around his neck like a nose.
What if Alex was already gone?
The thought hit like a sledgehammer, knocking the air from his lungs. His body went rigid. The world tilted.
What if he’d been holding his dead lopver this whole time?
George’s breath hitched, and slowly, painfully, he raised a trembling hand to Alex’s neck, pressing two fingers against the skin just beneath his jaw.
He held his breath.
One second. Two.
And then -
A pulse.
Weak, but steady.
A broken sob escaped George’s throat, and his body sagged with relief. He pressed his forehead to Alex’s, letting out a shaky laugh that was more tears than joy.
"Okay," he rasped. "Okay. I’m calling for help. You just hold on. Please, love. Just hold on."
With trembling fingers, he unlocked his phone and dialed emergency services, his voice raw as he relayed their location. And as he waited, George kept whispering promises to Alex, his words unwavering despite the tremor in his voice.
"It’s fine," he whispered. "Don’t worry. I promise you’ll be fine."
- -
The incident happened a week ago, but to George, it felt like a lifetime. Alex had been in the hospital ever since, confined to a sterile room filled with the constant beeping of monitors and the faint scent of antiseptic. The doctors had explained it all in careful detail - something about brain swelling and pressure, words like "induced coma" and "neuroprotection" that blurred into a meaningless hum against the roar of George’s panic. He’d barely registered the part about Alex’s fractured collarbone, though it lingered in his mind as a grotesque image: the unnatural angle of Alex’s arm as he lay limp on the forest floor.
George couldn’t let himself linger there. Couldn’t let his mind replay the moment he thought he’d lost him.
So instead, he stayed. He sat vigil by Alex’s bedside every day, his fingers curled around Alex’s hand as though holding on tightly enough could bring him to the world of the living. He whispered promises and apologies into the quiet room, voice cracking with the weight of words he wasn’t sure Alex could hear.
On the fourth day, Lando showed up. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway, a coffee in each hand and a strained smile on his face.
“How you holding up?” he asked, voice gentle.
George tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He just shook his head, swallowing down the lump that had been lodged there since the accident. Lando sat with him for hours, talking about anything and everything just to fill the silence. George appreciated it, even if he only half-listened.
Messages poured in - from family, from the paddock, from friends scattered across the globe. George wasn’t surprised when James Vowles texted. The man was a father figure to the entire team, always checking in, always caring. But it did catch George off guard when an unknown number buzzed his phone late one night.
Turns out it was Logan.
Or rather, Logan through a frantic, barely comprehensible string of messages. Oscar had apparently asked Lando for George’s number to pass it on, and Logan had wasted no time. The texts were chaotic - the grammar completely abandoned, sentences stitched together without commas or periods, each word tumbling over the next in a rush.
>>hey george i hope ur ok i heard abt alex and i just wanted to say im so sorry and im thinking abt u guys and if u need anything like literally anything pls tell me even if its dumb like snacks or something idk just hang in there ok <<
George let out a shaky laugh, the first in days. He typed back a short thank you, but the message stayed with him long after his phone went dark.
He wasn’t alone. People cared. People were waiting. Just like he was.
But no one more than him.
George wiped his eyes and refocused on Alex, brushing a thumb over the knuckles of his hand. He pressed a kiss to the back of it, voice soft, barely a whisper.
“I’m still here, love. I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t care how long it took. He’d be right there when Alex finally opened his eyes.
- -
It took a few more days before the doctors said the brain swelling had gone down enough to take Alex out of the coma. Another day passed as the medication slowly flushed out of his system.
And then, finally, after nearly two weeks of George sitting by his bedside, Alex opened his eyes.
It was subtle at first. His eyelids fluttered, barely lifting, but George noticed the faint crease between Alex’s brows as he winced at the stark white LED lights above.
Without hesitation, George stood and flicked the switch off, letting the room bathe in the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window.
"'Orge..." Alex's voice was barely a rasp, the syllables dragging over a dry, swollen tongue. His throat worked, but no other words came.
George nearly broke. Tears welled in his eyes, his heart thudding painfully as he clutched Alex's hand - the one that wasn’t in a sling - between his own.
"I’m here," George whispered. "It’s fine. Don’t worry. Everything is okay. You’re okay."
Alex blinked sluggishly, his gaze unfocused, pupils struggling to adjust. He looked around the room, disoriented, but his eyes kept coming back to George like he was the only anchor in a sea of confusion. The only thing Alex knew for certain.
“We’re in the hospital,” George explained gently, brushing a thumb over Alex’s hand. “You had an accident. We were out biking.”
Alex hummed in acknowledgment, though his face barely changed. He tried to shift, to sit up, but the moment he moved, pain lanced through his shoulder like fire. He sucked in a sharp breath, hissing as he froze.
“Your collarbone is broken,” George said, his voice thick with guilt, like he still blamed himself for what happened.
Alex grimaced, the ache radiating from his shoulder too loud to ignore. It wasn’t like he needed George to tell him something was broken, his body was screaming the answer loud and clear.
“I’m going to call the doctor,” George said quickly, already reaching for the button. “Maybe they can give you more pain meds.”
Alex just gave a small, exhausted nod. Pain meds sounded like a blessing right now.
The doctors arrived not long after, running Alex through a battery of questions - his name, his birthday, where he was, what he did for a living. George watched with bated breath, his hands twitching in his lap every time Alex struggled to answer. But he answered. He remembered. And the doctors reassured George that the memory lapses and exhaustion were normal.
The physical injuries would heal in a few weeks. The emotional ones might take longer.
George barely listened when the doctors explained the recovery timeline. Four weeks for the collarbone. A few more weeks of monitoring for potential post-concussion symptoms. All George cared about was getting Alex home, safe, and comfortable.
After one more night in the hospital, George drove Alex back to his apartment. It made the most sense - George still lived in London, and Alex’s place was already set up for him.
- -
The painkillers made Alex groggy, his head bobbing as he sank into the couch cushions like they were the only thing holding him upright. His arm, immobilized in a sling, rested awkwardly against his chest, and every movement pulled on the fractured bone, sending dull throbs through his body.
He was just about to drift off when George returned with a glass of water, sitting carefully beside him.
“Logan asked if he could come over,” George said, voice cautious, like he wasn’t sure if Alex was ready for visitors.
Alex cracked one eye open, squinting at George. He didn’t really get why George felt like inviting his friends over but whatever.
“Sure, man,” Alex muttered, already half-asleep. Maybe if George and Logan talked, he could catch some rest.
You’d think after two weeks of unconsciousness, he’d be wide awake. But it was the opposite. His body felt like lead, as if every part of him was fighting to recover, to put itself back together.
It wasn’t even half an hour later before Logan was at their door, but he wasn’t alone. He brought Lando and Oscar with him, the three of them bundled up like a little support squad. Logan barely muttered a rushed explanation, something about staying together for a bit, as they filtered into the apartment like they belonged there.
Alex watched them settle in with growing confusion. Logan flopped onto an armchair like he owned the place, Lando wedged himself next to George on the couch, and Oscar dragged over a chair from the dining table. George instinctively moved closer to Alex, his hand resting gently over Alex’s uninjured one as if grounding him.
Alex blinked at the group. Sure, make yourselves at home, why don’t you?
“You look like shit, man,” Lando blurted, because of course he did. It earned him a half-hearted smack to the shoulder from George, but it also made Alex huff a quiet laugh. The mood lightened a little after that.
They talked about mundane things - racing, team gossip, the latest simulator updates. Alex mostly listened, the low hum of their voices soothing. It felt normal, even if his body ached and his head buzzed.
But then something snagged his attention like a hook under his skin.
“I just think Carlos should take more responsibility,” Oscar said, arms crossed. “He pushed me off after all.”
“He’s just a bit hot-headed,” Lando tried to soothe. “He didn’t mean to-”
“Wait,” Alex interrupted, voice scratchy. “Is Oscar driving for me? Because I know the RB can be hard to handle when someone’s trying to pass you.”
The room fell silent.
The kind of silence that rang in Alex’s ears, sharp and deafening.
Everyone just... stared at him.
Alex shifted uncomfortably. “What?”
Logan leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Dude, what are you talking about?”
Alex opened his mouth, then shut it. His brain worked overtime to fit the pieces together. Maybe Oscar wasn’t subbing for him. Maybe Logan was driving as a reserve too. But why would Oscar be worried about Carlos? Nothing made sense and they are all just staring at him.
George’s hands suddenly cupped Alex’s face, turning him gently but firmly. His thumbs stroked along Alex’s cheekbones, and his eyes searched Alex’s like he was trying to crack a code. Like he was desperate to find something that wasn’t there.
“Mate,” Lando said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Oscar drives in the McLaren. He’s never driven for Red Bull.”
Alex’s chest tightened. That... didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense at all. Carlos drives for Mclaren-
“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Alex whispered. His vision blurred, and his head throbbed like someone was hammering against his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the world to right itself, but the more he tried, the worse the panic coiled in his gut. “I don’t know what’s happening, George. Nothing makes sense.”
A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a plea.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Look at me,” George said, voice steady even as his hands trembled. “It’s fine, alright? Don’t worry. You’re gonna be okay.”
Alex clung to the words, but they felt slippery, like trying to hold water in his palms. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, and George just kept talking, grounding him, soothing him, until the panic dulled to something quieter, but no less terrifying.
“I think we should go back to the hospital,” George finally said, not taking his eyes off Alex. “I’ll message you later.”
No one argued. Logan nodded, already pulling out his phone, and Lando helped grab Alex’s things. George never let go of Alex’s hand, even as he helped him into his shoes, even as he guided him carefully to the door.
And Alex didn’t want him to let go. Because right now, George felt like the only thing tethering him to reality.
The only thing that he felt like he really knew.
- -
“Yeah no, he doesn’t remember anything past mid-season 2019... It might come back, it might not... I don’t know, and the doctors don’t either... No, that was during summer camp... Yeah, okay. Bye.” George put his phone back into his pocket before Looking at Alex
Amnesia. Alexander Albon had amnesia. And he couldn’t remember the past three and a half years.
Yesterday, he had been complaining about losing two weeks to a coma. But now? Now he’d lost three entire years.
- -
Living with George in his apartment was surprisingly easy. George always woke up early to make breakfast for both of them, moving around the kitchen like he’d been living there for years. He knew where everything was - the coffee filters, Alex’s favorite mug, even the stash of cereal Alex kept hidden in the back of the cupboard.
“You know,” Alex started one morning, voice muffled by a mouthful of toast, “I don’t get why they won’t let me drive. Theoretically my collarbone will be fine by next week. I mean, yeah, I forgot some stuff, but I still remember how to race. I’m still a Red Bull driver, right? I should be training or something.”
George froze, the fork halfway to his mouth.
Red Bull.
Alex still thought he drove for Red Bull.
George swallowed hard, setting his fork down carefully as if any sudden movement might shatter Alex’s fragile reality.
“You don’t drive for Red Bull anymore,” George said gently, his voice low like he was delivering tragic news.
“Oh…” Alex’s face fell, his shoulders slumping. “Toro Rosso, then?” He perked up a little. “Still, I mean, I could probably get back in shape quick enough to-”
“Alex,” George cut in softly, “you’re not with Red Bull at all. You drive for Williams now. It’s your second season with them.”
Alex blinked, the gears in his mind turning as he processed that information. “Williams?” he echoed, like the word tasted foreign on his tongue.
George nodded, watching carefully for Alex’s reaction, ready to catch him if the weight of reality became too much.
“So… we’re teammates?” Alex asked, head tilting.
George’s heart twisted painfully. He hated this. Hated how lost Alex looked, like he was a stranger in his own life.
“No, mate,” George said, his voice cracking just slightly. “I drive for Mercedes now.”
Alex’s eyes went wide. “With Lewis?!” he gasped, lighting up like a kid who’d just met his hero.
George couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “With Lewis.”
“My best friend is teammates with Lewis Hamilton!” Alex practically shouted, his face beaming with excitement.
George laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at the sudden shift in mood. “I mean, yeah, I guess?”
“That’s insane,” Alex whispered, like he was in awe. “That’s so cool. Wait, do I know Lewis? Have I talked to him?”
George smiled. “You know him really well. He likes you a lot.”
Alex grinned, seeming to relax a bit. The happiness flickered in his eyes, though, shadowed by the lingering confusion of the past three missing years.
“Hey,” George said, reaching across the table to squeeze Alex’s hand. “Why don’t you come with me to the next race weekend? You can hang out in the garage, see everyone, maybe jog your memory a bit.”
Alex nodded, chewing on his lip. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”
George smiled, relief flooding his chest.
“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “Together.”
Alex squeezed his hand back, his fingers weak but steady.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Together.”
“Really,” George insisted. “It will be fine. Don’t worry so much.”
- -
And that’s how they found themselves at the Dutch Grand Prix after the summer break.
“So, like... do we talk? Me and Lewis, I mean,” Alex asked for what must have been the fifth time since they’d left the apartment.
“Yeah, of course,” George said, adjusting his cap as they walked through the paddock. “Whenever you’re in the garage or when we go out for dinner. You guys get on well.”
Alex chewed on the inside of his cheek, nodding slowly as they dodged a camera crew. “Man, I know it’s not my first time talking to him, but theoretically it is. What if he doesn’t like me?”
George chuckled, shaking his head. “Trust me, Lewis likes you. He always has.” He didn’t add that Lewis had made a point of reassuring George of that fact, especially after George had blurted out his feelings for Alex in a tearful breakdown in his driver's room two years ago.
Alex squinted up at the grandstands as they walked, the orange sea of Dutch fans already making noise even though FP1 hadn’t even started. “He probably just tolerates me because I’m your friend.”
George snorted. “Mate, Lewis once bought you a cake for your birthday. And he sang.”
“No way.”
“Swear down.” George grinned. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
It was good that the first Grand Prix Alex attended post-accident was Zandvoort, a track he knew from his junior days. George couldn’t imagine throwing him into the chaos of Las Vegas or the claustrophobia of Monaco in his current state.
George had given Toto a heads-up about Alex’s condition, but that didn’t stop the somber look the team principal shot them when they arrived at the garage. Alex couldn’t help but feel like Toto was looking at George more than him, like he was the one who needed to be handled with care. It was a bit rude, honestly, Alex wasn’t even being difficult. He was just... catching up.
Unsurprisingly for Zandvoort, the heavens opened before FP2, and the rain gave Alex the perfect excuse to wander around and talk to people he vaguely remembered.
Most of them were just like they were in 2019, though he supposed people didn’t change that drastically. Max, for example, was still Max - blunt, hyper-competitive, and perpetually annoyed at the media circus. Alex found comfort in that. Max treated him the same as always, no tiptoeing, no pitying glances. He even told Alex he was an idiot for not checking his brakes that day on the trail.
“Why would you take an old bike, anyway?” Max asked, frowning.
“I guess I thought it’d be fine,” Alex shrugged.
“It wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I figured that out when I woke up in the hospital.”
Lando flopped onto a chair next to Alex later, dripping wet and laughing about nearly aquaplaning through turn three. He treated Alex like nothing had changed too, even if the stories he told about recent races flew over Alex’s head.
But even with the familiar faces, there was an underlying ache. Alex felt like he was living in a ghost version of reality - like he belonged here, but only in fragments. Everyone knew him, talked to him like he was whole, but he wasn’t. He was stuck in a mental time capsule, three years out of date.
That’s what led him to Googling himself.
It felt weird, but what else was he supposed to do?
He curled up on the couch in George’s motorhome, phone in hand, scrolling through articles and Wikipedia pages like he was researching a stranger. He learned about his move to Williams, the Netflix episodes that painted him as the underdog hero.
Then he fell down the rabbit hole of memes. The entire internet seemed to have adopted him as some kind of chaotic, beloved figure. And apparently Toro Rosso had rebranded?
“What the fuck is an Visa Cashapp mastercard revolute amazon racing bull?” he muttered, brow furrowing.
George, toweling off his hair after practice, glanced over. “That’s what Toro Rosso turned into.”
“What, like a Pokémon evolution?”
George laughed. “Pretty much.”
Alex kept scrolling, stumbling across old podium pictures, random fan edits, and clips of post-race interviews. He looked happy in all of them. He looked... settled.
“Hey, George?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I liked my life.”
George set the towel down and sat on the couch next to him. “You still do, mate. You just need time to remember it.” And with that George left to talk to his engineer about tomorrows Qualifying.
Alex nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t sure if remembering would make things better or worse. But at least he had people around him who didn’t mind filling in the gaps.
- -
George was deep in conversation with his race engineer, both of them poring over data sheets, voices low but intense. They were arguing strategy, the best tire compounds, optimal pit windows, anything that might push George closer to the front row in tomorrow’s qualifying. His brows were knitted in concentration, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his crossed arms.
Then Alex stormed up to him like a thundercloud.
“When were you going to tell me?” Alex’s voice cut through the low hum of garage noise, sharp enough to turn a few heads.
George blinked, momentarily lost. “Tell you what? Alex, can this wait? I’m kind of-”
“No, it can’t wait!” Alex snapped, his voice pitching higher, strained. “When were you going to tell me Red Bull dropped me?”
George’s stomach twisted. He shot an apologetic glance to his engineer, quickly handing over the data sheets before steering Alex out of the garage. The Sky Sports cameras were already swiveling in their direction, hungry for drama.
“Not here,” George muttered, guiding Alex into the driver rooms, away from prying eyes and microphones. He shut the door behind them, the dull hum of the paddock fading to silence.
The laptop George had given Alex sat on the couch Alex has been laying on earlier, screen frozen on a YouTube video. The title hit George like a slap: “Alex Albon Crash Compilation — Career Downfall?”
George’s heart dropped. He looked from the laptop to Alex, who stood rigid, shoulders heaving, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes were glassy, the corners of his mouth trembling with the effort to keep it together.
“Alex, please. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” Alex’s voice broke. “I lost my seat. I was out of F1 for a year, George. I’ve been sitting here thinking I left Red Bull on my own to get a shot at the Mercedes seat, and I find out like this? From a bloody YouTube video?”
George exhaled slowly, kneeling in front of Alex like he was approaching a wounded animal. “I was going to tell you. I just... I wanted to give you time.”
Alex’s chest rose and fell, ragged breaths scraping against his throat. “I don’t get it. I was good. Not like Max but still good. How did I mess up so badly?”
“You didn’t mess up,” George said firmly, sitting next to Alex on the couch. “Red Bull’s system is brutal. They chew drivers up and spit them out. But you didn’t give up. You clawed your way back into F1. And you didn’t just come back, you’ve been dragging that Williams into places it has no business being.”
Alex’s hands twisted in his lap, knuckles white. “But a Williams, George. I went from fighting for podiums to... to hoping for P10. I don’t even remember getting there. It feels like my life just... disappeared.”
George’s voice softened. “I know. And I can’t imagine how terrifying that is. But I promise you, you didn’t disappear. You fought. You built yourself back up. You proved everyone wrong.” He nudged Alex’s shoulder with his own. “You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, mate. You just don’t remember it yet.”
Alex finally looked at George, eyes wide and searching. “Really?”
George smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You hold the record for driving 98% of a race on the same set of tires. You made people call you the tire whisperer.”
Alex blinked, startled. “What?”
George laughed. “Yeah. You did that.” He stood, snapping the laptop shut. “And no more of this rubbish,” he said, waving the computer like it personally offended him. “Those people don’t know what they’re talking about.”
George headed for the door, but Alex’s voice caught him.
“George... is there anything else I should know?”
George hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorknob. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something - something heavy - but then he swallowed it down.
“I’m sure it’ll all come back to you in no time,” he said, slipping out the door before Alex could press him further.
Alex sank into the couch, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. The room felt too big, too empty. His head throbbed with the weight of missing memories, and the pieces of his life that didn’t fit together.
He hated it.
He hated feeling like a stranger in his own skin.
But if George believed in him, maybe he could try believing in himself too.
- -
Qualifying on Saturday went better than anyone expected. George managed to snatch P3, out-qualifying Lewis, who landed down in P13. Alex watched it all from the Mercedes garage, and he couldn’t help the fondness that bubbled up as he saw George celebrating with the team.
He decided to wander the paddock, figuring he should at least try to reconnect with people and maybe get a better grasp of where he belonged. The fact that his teammate made it into Q3 felt like a good enough starting point.
“Hey, Logan! Amazing qualifying lap!” Alex called out, approaching the younger driver with a wide smile. Logan spun around, eyes lighting up before something flickered across his face, dimming the excitement.
“You remember me?” Logan asked, his voice laced with hope.
“Oh, uhm… you were at my flat the first day I came home from the hospital,” Alex said, scratching the back of his neck. “I just remembered that.”
“Oh, yeah,” Logan's shoulders dropped slightly, his smile wilting. “So, how’s the... you know?” He pointed vaguely at his own head.
“I still don’t know anything past 2019.” Alex debated for a moment, contemplating whether to tell Logan about the Red Bull discovery, but ultimately decided against it. Logan had better things to do than listen to him spiral.
“I could tell you a bit about yourself? I mean, I only know you properly since this season, but maybe I can help fill in some gaps?” Logan offered, his smile creeping back.
“You don’t need to,” Alex started, but Logan cut him off with a shake of his head.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. Really, I want to!” Logan bounced on his feet, radiating golden-retriever energy.
Alex couldn’t say no to that.
- -
They ended up in Logan’s driver room, Logan eagerly rattling off random memories. Stories about video challenges, pranks, and team dinners spilled out of him like he’d been holding them in for months.
“Sounds like I’m a proper grid dad,” Alex joked, laughing at Logan’s animated retelling of some chaotic karting excursion.
“Yeah, you and George both,” Logan said, fondness dripping from his voice.
“Does he come by often?” Alex asked, a pang of guilt tugging at him. George must have really loved Williams if he kept hanging around.
“Well, whenever you aren’t there, he’s here,” Logan cringed slightly. “Sometimes I prefer it when you’re not around though. The walls aren’t really thick, you know?”
Alex blinked. “What do you mean?”
Logan’s face went pale. “Man, how hard did you actually hit your head? You two fuck too loud.” He chuckled awkwardly, his cheeks turning pink.
Alex just stared. “What?”
Logan’s laughter died instantly. “He hasn’t told you?” Panic settled over his face like a shadow. “I thought you two live together?”
“He sleeps on the couch,” Alex said, defensive without really understanding why.
Logan’s eyes widened. “He sleeps on the - oh my god.”
“What?” Alex pressed, anxiety creeping in.
Logan swallowed hard. “You and George... you’re dating. Have been for years.”
The words hit Alex like a freight train.
He laughed, but it was a sharp, hollow sound. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m serious,” Logan insisted, voice softer. “He basically lived with you. And dude, he’s been glued to your side since the accident. I don’t think he’s slept properly in weeks.”
Alex’s stomach churned. His heart pounded in his chest like it was trying to escape.
George - his best friend, his anchor. They were together?
But George never said anything. Never hinted at it. He just cared for Alex like he always had, patient and steady.
“I need to talk to him,” Alex muttered, standing abruptly. His shoulder screamed in protest, pain flaring across his collarbone, but he ignored it.
He needed answers.
- -
George is exactly where Alex expects to find him - in the Mercedes garage, still in his racing suit, helmet under his arm, discussing data with his engineers. But the second George sees Alex, his whole demeanor shifts. He excuses himself without a second thought, hurrying over, concern written across every inch of his face.
“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” George’s hand hovers over Alex’s arm, careful not to touch his injured shoulder.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alex blurts out, chest heaving.
George’s brows furrow. “Tell you what?”
“That we’re dating.”
George freezes. His eyes widen, mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for words, but none come. The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.
“I found out from Logan,” Alex continues, voice shaking. “You’ve been staying with me, sleeping on the couch, acting like my worried best friend, but we’re not just friends, are we?”
George rubs the back of his neck, exhaling a shaky breath. “I… I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t remember, and I thought… I thought it would be easier to wait. To let you heal first.”
“Easier for who?” Alex snaps, hurt blooming in his chest.
George flinches like the words physically hit him. “For you,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I didn’t want you to feel pressured to remember something you can’t.”
Alex stares at George, the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion lining his face, the way he carries himself like he’s been holding the weight of the world. It clicks then, the heartbreak hidden beneath George’s unwavering care, the longing in his gaze, the way he clings to every interaction like he’s scared Alex might slip through his fingers.
“How long?” Alex’s voice wavers.
“Since 2020,” George says, stepping closer, like he’s testing if Alex will pull away. “We were together at a summercamp and we fooled around. You actually gave me a throat infection. We’ve been together ever since.”
Alex’s knees threaten to buckle. George steadies him instinctively, hands gentle as they hover around his waist.
“I’m sorry,” George whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I just... I thought I’d lost you. And when you woke up, and you didn’t remember me... us... I thought if I told you, it might feel like I was taking advantage of your memory loss.”
Alex swallows the lump in his throat, heart hammering. He doesn’t remember. He can’t. But looking at George, at the raw vulnerability in his eyes, something clicks. A feeling, not a memory. A pull, not a recollection.
He doesn’t remember loving George, but he feels it. In the way his body instinctively leans into George’s touch. In the ache he feels when George isn’t near.
“I’m not mad,” Alex breathes out, voice shaky. “I just... I wish you’d told me sooner.”
George’s face crumples with relief, and he nods, blinking back tears.
“I love you,” George confesses, voice breaking.
Alex squeezes his hand, feeling the warmth of George’s palm against his own, grounding him.
Alex whispers. “We'll figure something out, okay? I’ll figure us out. Don’t worry it will all be fine.”
George smiles through his tears, and for the first time in weeks, Alex feels like he’s finally found something solid to hold onto.
It’s fine. Don’t worry.