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——— Gabriel ———
The thing is — Gabriel really tries not to care.
He tries not to care when the snobbish sponsor list comes out and his name isn't on it.
Tries not to care when the invitees are read aloud in the Sauber hospitality like it's nothing.
Tries not to look when Kimi Antonelli — three months younger, one headline luckier — jokes about what tux he’ll wear.
Gabriel just nods and smiles. He even says “Have fun,” like he means it.
No one notices how tight he holds his water bottle. Or how quiet he goes after.
The paddock is a place of shining people. Marketable. Sharp-edged. Predictable. Gabriel, with his mouth too quick and his eyes too soft, doesn’t quite fit into the fantasy.
Especially not next to Nico fucking Hülkenberg.
Veteran. Clean cut. Blond, broad-shouldered, and stubborn as hell. The man walks like a storm about to break. He rarely talks to Gabriel outside the garage. Always polite. Always distant. And Gabriel —Gabriel tries not to have a crush.
He really, really tries.
But there’s something about the way Nico helps him adjust his gloves before getting in the car. The way he says “Good job,” low and almost reluctant after a good qualifying run. The way he looks at Gabriel like he’s dangerous.
That last one hurts the most.
They don’t talk much. Not more than necessary. But Nico lingers — sometimes.
When Gabriel’s stretching in the motorhome hallway. When he’s laughing with his race engineer. When he’s walking back from media in the rain, soaked to the skin and not even pretending to be mad about it.
Gabriel catches Nico looking, and Nico always looks away too fast.
Like there’s something there that he’s not letting either of them see.
And then the sponsor gala gets announced — black tie, strictly invite-only. “F1’s most polished and promising,” they say in the press release. Gabriel’s name isn’t on the list. Of course it isn’t.
But Nico’s is.
“Guess I’m not polished enough,” Gabriel jokes to his PR rep. She gives him a look and mumbles something about brand alignment that almost sounds like an apology.
That night, Gabriel eats dinner alone in his hotel room. Pasta from a plastic container. He doesn’t even bother heating it up. His phone buzzes with the official driver group chat, photos already rolling in of tux fittings and champagne menus.
He just stares at the screen. Screams at it.
Then he tosses the phone aside, curls up on the couch, and tells himself he doesn't care.
But later — long after midnight — someone knocks. Just once.
When he opens the door, there’s no one there.
Only a white envelope on the floor.
No name. No seal. Just thick cardstock and the faint scent of cologne that isn't his.
Inside —
You're invited to the Morini Grand Gala.
Black Tie Attire Required.
And in different lettering?
Arrive at 8. Leave at Midnight. Be unforgettable.
Gabriel reads it twice.
Smiles, slow and sweet and just a little wicked. “Unforgettable, huh,” he murmurs to the empty hallway. “Fine. Let’s give them a show they won’t forget.”
Gabriel’s never worn anything like this.
The shirt is thin and soft and clings like it’s meant to be peeled off. His trousers are perfectly tailored, hugging his hips in a way that feels deliberate. The jacket hangs off his shoulders like it was made for him — and it wasn’t. It was a borrowed piece from someone’s “fashion contact.” He never asked who.
He doesn’t want to know.
Because this isn’t him. Not exactly. It’s a version of him, sharpened and silhouetted and daring to be stared at.
The mask is lace — delicate black threads woven in elegant chaos, curling over his cheekbones and dipping over his brow. It’s just enough to blur the edges of him. Enough to make people pause.
Enough to make Nico Hülkenberg look his way twice.
He ties his hair back last. It’s an impulsive decision, really. Gabriel almost never does it — doesn’t like how exposed it makes him feel — but tonight, it feels right. He smooths it into something his mother would call a small bun, and uses the ribbon to hold it in place. Deep red. Faintly glossy. He ties it once, then twice. Tight.
He stares at his reflection and whispers: “Be unforgettable.”
The ballroom is glowing. Real candlelight. Polished floors. A sea of black and gold. Gabriel moves through it like smoke, silent and slow, one high-heeled foot ahead of the other.
Heads turn. Eyes follow.
No one recognizes him. That’s the best part.
He can hear whispers — “Who is that?” mixed with “Is he even a driver?” — but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer.
His target is across the room.
Nico.
Tall, elegant, old-school handsome in his midnight black tux. He’s laughing at something Fernando Alonso just said, but the moment Gabriel steps into his line of sight — he stops.
Eyes catch. Breath falters.
Gabriel doesn’t smile. Not yet.
He walks the last few steps slowly. Chin high. Pulse pounding. And when he finally reaches him, he leans in, voice low like a secret: “You have until midnight to figure out who I am.”
And then — just then — he smiles. All teeth and mischief and the faintest tremble.
“If you do, I’ll stay. If not… well.”
Nico stares at him like he’s trying to read through fog.
Gabriel’s heart is racing.
This is dangerous. This is stupid. This is perfect.
Because for once, Nico isn’t pulling away. He isn’t being polite. He isn’t ignoring him.
He’s looking. Really, really looking.
And Gabriel feels seen.
——— Nico ———
Nico isn’t sure why he came.
He hates these things. The pretentious champagne. The fake smiles. The way everyone’s trying to impress the same six billionaires. He’d rather be in the garage, helmet on, noise in his ears. But the team wanted representation, and he was the oldest name on the list. “Polished and promising,” the press release said.
He remembers scoffing at it.
Now he’s standing by the gold-trimmed bar, scotch in hand, pretending to listen to Fernando’s latest story about Monaco in 2005. It’s good, probably. Fernando’s stories are always good. But Nico’s attention drifts. It has been all evening.
He’s scanning the room without knowing what he’s looking for.
Or who.
Until the room shifts.
It doesn’t make sense. It’s not sudden. It’s not loud. But it changes. A hush without silence. A pull without gravity. And then —
He sees him.
Someone stepping through the doorway like a storm dressed in black. Tailored perfectly. Masked in lace. Shoulders back. Head high. Heels. Not high, but enough to click against marble, enough to add inches, enough to make him stand taller than Nico — and not just in height.
He’s beautiful.
God, he’s beautiful.
And Nico is fucked.
Because something about him feels like fire.
It’s the hair first. Pulled back, sleek, exposing his temples, his neck, his forehead. Nico’s never seen it like that. He’s seen that jawline, maybe. That mouth. But not the way it curves when it smiles like it’s hiding something.
He takes a sip of scotch and it burns.
The stranger walks like he knows exactly where he’s going. Through dancers, through models, through millionaires — straight toward him. Nico forgets how to breathe.
Fernando says something — a joke, maybe — and Nico doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even hear it. Because the stranger is in front of him now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. And Nico feels dizzy.
The voice is low, accented, like silk dragging across rough stone: “You have until midnight to figure out who I am.”
A smile, small and lethal.
“If you do, I’ll stay. If not… well.”
And then he walks away.
Nico doesn’t move.
He cannot move.
He watches the stranger disappear into the crowd like a ghost with perfect posture and ridiculous legs. His heart is doing something stupid in his chest. His palms are hot. His drink is forgotten.
He turns to Fernando. “Who the fuck was that?”
Fernando raises an eyebrow. “I was going to ask you.”
Nico looks back toward the crowd, searching.
He doesn’t know how, but he knows this: That’s not just some guest. Not just some model.
That’s a fucking driver.
He can feel it in the way he holds his body. In the way his eyes glittered like he had something to prove.
And Nico’s going to figure out who he is if it’s the last damn thing he does.
——— Gabriel ———
The gaze is exactly what he wanted.
Heavy. Intense. Hungry.
Gabriel pretends not to notice. Pretends he doesn’t feel the way Nico’s eyes burn through the crowd and land on him like a spotlight.
He sips champagne, twirls on his heel just to feel the way the floor moves beneath his heels. His mask is hot against his cheekbones. His skin buzzes — and not because of the intoxicating sparkling drink.
When he glances over again, Nico’s still staring.
Trying not to.
Failing.
Gabriel lets him.
He watches the tension coil in Nico’s shoulders. Watches the man bite the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking too hard. Gabriel grins, lazy and sharp.
“Got you,” he thinks.
Then he crosses the floor.
Not quickly. Not in a rush. Every step is chosen. Every sway of his hips intentional. And when he reaches Nico, he doesn't speak.
He just takes his hand.
Nico startles, just barely. But his fingers close around Gabriel’s without question. The skin under his fingers is calloused, tortured by years of gripping the steering wheel too hard. Gabriel’s pulse trips.
He pulls. Nico follows.
The crowd parts, barely aware of what’s happening.
Gabriel leads him to the center of the dancefloor, where the music swells — strings, piano, the faint thrum of something familiar in the instrumental that follows.
They start slow. A proper hold. Gabriel’s hand on Nico’s shoulder, Nico’s arm around his waist, like they’re doing this for show. Like they’re not both slightly off balance from being this close.
Like their hearts aren’t beating in sync.
Nico’s palm settles low. Too low. Gabriel shivers.
He doesn’t look at him yet. Not directly. He lets the closeness speak instead — the sway of their hips, the way their thighs bump on each turn, the way Nico breathes in like he’s trying to memorize how Gabriel smells.
Then the next song starts.
It takes three notes before Gabriel laughs. Loud enough to startle Nico, quiet enough to stay theirs.
Because it’s a string arrangement of Wildest Dreams.
Gabriel leans closer. Lets his lips hover just beside Nico’s ear.
Gabriel hums along to the melody like he knows it by heart — and he does.
Then, in a whisper that sends heat straight to Nico’s spine, he sings: “Say you’ll remember me, standin’ in a nice dress, starin’ at the sunset, babe.”
He pulls back to smirk, mask tilted just enough to show the gleam in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’re a Swiftie, old man.”
Nico blinks at him. His mouth opens. Closes. Gabriel can feel him trying to come up with something clever.
“Speechless already?” Gabriel teases, twirling them lazily — stealing the control from Nico just for a second. “You’ve still got time. Midnight hasn’t struck.”
Nico finally exhales a stunned laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No,” Gabriel says, tilting his head, “I’m unforgettable.”
Nico doesn’t answer. Just looks at him.
And it’s not a look of confusion anymore. It’s something deeper. Darker. Like he’s putting pieces together and doesn’t want to believe the picture they’re making. Or maybe he does.
Gabriel’s heart stutters. Just once.
Then he puts his chin up and says, airily: “I’d be careful if I were you. Getting attached to mysterious masked strangers? Sounds dangerous even for you, old man.”
Nico’s hand tightens slightly on his waist. “So is dancing with boys in heels who hum Taylor Swift at black-tie galas.”
Gabriel grins, all teeth. “And yet, here you are.”
——— Nico ———
He doesn’t need to be reminded of the time.
He feels it. The way it slips between his fingers, moment by moment. Every turn of the dance. Every step that brings them closer. Every sway that puts distance between them.
It’s past eleven. Not yet midnight.
But already too late.
Because Nico is fucked.
The boy in his arms — this stranger in heels, in lace, in black silk and want that tastes like danger — is getting to him. Not in the slow, careful way things usually go. Not in flirtation or familiarity. But in the way lightning finds dry ground.
There’s a hum in his chest that wasn’t there before.
A tension he hasn’t felt in years.
And yet… it feels familiar.
That laugh. That smile. That perfectly timed mockery — the kind that’s not meant to insult, but to invite. It lives somewhere deep in Nico’s brain, like a dream he forgot the second he woke up.
The boy’s hair is tied back. His voice is low and teasing. His fingertips press lightly at Nico’s shoulder, his body fitting far too easily against Nico’s own.
They move like they’ve done this before.
You’ve danced with him before.
No. Not danced. Not like this.
But Nico knows him.
He knows how his hands fit. How his voice curls at the ends of his words when he’s about to say something wicked. How he smirks like he’s been dared to smile.
The realization isn’t a lightbulb. It’s a slow burn.
A match that catches and won’t go out.
“I’d be careful if I were you. Getting attached to mysterious masked strangers? Sounds dangerous even for you, old man.”
Nico’s hand tightens slightly on his waist. He tries to deflect — “So is dancing with boys in heels who hum Taylor Swift at black-tie galas.”
“And yet, here you are.”
And Nico had nothing to say. Because it was true.
Here he is.
Drawn in. Hypnotized. Haunted.
He watches him now, this masked stranger, as the next song fades into something softer. Slower. The strings melt into each other like they’re made of candlelight.
The boy tilts his head — that signature angle, proud and curious — and suddenly Nico can see him.
This boy dances like he was born for the spotlight. Smiles like he has secrets. Every word is a tease, but none of it feels cruel. It almost feels like a game.
A game Nico is rapidly losing.
He doesn’t know who he is — and that’s maddening. Because his voice is too familiar. His laugh digs in like it’s been there before. And something about the way he called him old man —
No one says that to me. Not like that.
Nico finds himself asking, quietly: “Why me?”
The boy leans in, mouth brushing just behind Nico’s ear. “Because you never look at me until I disappear.”
Nico’s breath catches. That means something. It has to.
But before he can speak again, the boy pulls back with a half-step and a grin so wicked it borders on affectionate. “You’ve only got five minutes, by the way.”
“Until what?”
“Midnight.”
And just like that, the song ends.
Nico reaches out, reflexively — he doesn't even mean to, but the boy is already slipping away, fingers trailing from his hand.
He blends into the shifting crowd like ink in water.
And Nico — breathless and confused — doesn’t chase.
Not yet.
He’s still standing in the middle of the ballroom when he feels something against his hand. He looks down.
A ribbon.
Dark red. Soft. Slightly crumpled.
Left behind, looped carelessly around his fingers like it snagged there on accident.
But something in him knows — it wasn’t an accident.
The boy wanted him to find it.
To chase him.
To figure it out.
——— Gabriel ———
The paddock buzzes with its usual chaos — engines roaring, mechanics shouting, journalists scrambling for the next scoop.
But one thing is different.
One man is missing his footing.
Nico Hülkenberg — the stoic veteran — is a mess.
Gabriel spots him across the paddock before Nico even notices him.
There he is — running his hands through his hair like he’s trying to unravel a knot that’s tangled inside his brain. Eyes darting to every corner, every group of people, every driver who might be the one.
Gabriel leans against the garage wall, arms crossed, a slow, wicked grin curling his lips.
He watches as Nico approaches a cluster of drivers, tries to sound casual, but his voice is too sharp, too desperate. “Did any of you see who left that ribbon at the gala?” Nico asks, the word ribbon catching like a lifeline.
Drivers exchange looks, smirks, and vague shrugs. None of them say anything.
Gabriel’s amusement deepens.
He flicks a glance at the ribbon tied around his own wrist under his long-sleeved shirt — the same dark red satin that draped Nico’s hand the night before.
He taps his fingers on the garage door, enjoying the growing storm behind those German blue eyes searching for answers.
Later, when Nico finally locks eyes with him — wide, breathless, confused — Gabriel strolls over, slow and deliberate, heels of his heavy shoes clicking on the concrete. His voice is soft, teasing: “Still looking for your mystery boy, old man?”
Nico blinks, caught off guard.
Gabriel grins wider.
“You’re fucking hopeless.”
Nico’s cheeks flush, and for a second, he’s speechless.
Gabriel can’t resist.
He leans in close, voice barely above a whisper: “Maybe you should stop chasing shadows... and start paying attention.”
Nico swallows hard, eyes flickering with something Gabriel can’t quite name.
Gabriel winks and walks away, heels clicking like a heartbeat.
Because this? This is the best game he’s ever played. And that says something because one time — he even played Star Wars monopoly.
——— Nico ———
The paddock feels different today.
Every conversation, every glance feels like a clue — or a trap.
Nico’s eyes dart across faces, scanning for a sign, a flicker of recognition.
He’s asked around discreetly, but the question always lingers beneath the surface: Who was the masked boy?
Every answer is a shrug or a smile too knowing.
Fernando jokes about it being him. Pierre rolls his eyes. Max shrugs without saying a word. Goerge calls him delusional.
But his gut tells him he’s close. So close.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling under his calm exterior.
He’s cornered Gabriel by the team bus, the ribbon still faintly burning in his mind.
Nico shoots him a pointed look, half-exasperated, half-hopeful. “For all I know, it could have been you.”
Gabriel smirks, not missing a beat. “Oh, so I’m your prime suspect now? That’s adorable.”
Nico’s jaw tightens. “I’m serious.”
Gabriel tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, old man.”
Nico meets the tease with a tired smirk. “I’m desperate.”
Gabriel laughs, loud and free. “Well, don’t keep me waiting too long.”
Nico shakes his head, a small smile slipping through.
Despite himself, he’s captivated.
And dangerously close to the truth.
——— Gabriel ———
Gabriel can barely contain his grin.
Nico is hanging on every word, every little look, and it’s the most fun he’s had all season.
He’s leaning against the garage wall, flicking his fingers with that damn ribbon tied loosely around his wrist — the same one he accidentally dropped at the gala. He feels like a cat who caught the mouse but is letting it run just to see the panic.
Nico is pacing nearby, frustrated and curious, looking every bit the lost puppy he secretly wants to wrap up in his arms.
Gabriel steps forward, voice dripping with mischief. “You’re looking right at me, old man. What’s stopping you from saying it?”
Nico opens his mouth, but Gabriel cuts him off with a smirk. “Or are you scared you’ll fall for the wrong guy?”
Gabriel flicks his wrist, letting the ribbon catch the light just to test his luck — and he suddenly remembers.
Oh no.
He glanced at his reflection earlier. The ribbon tied back in his hair, the same one he dropped at the gala. He meant to take it out before he left the hotel room. He meant to —
A slow, wicked smile spreads on his face.
He tosses his head just slightly, exposing the ribbon perfectly wrapped around his loose bun.
Nico freezes.
Gabriel’s heart skips a beat — but he keeps up the bratty act. “Still clueless, old man?” He winks and turns, walking away with a sway in his hips.
Nico doesn’t move.
Because this time — the pieces are starting to fit.
——— Nico ———
He’s been chasing ghosts all morning, searching for shadows that dance just beyond his grasp.
Then he sees it.
A flash of dark red ribbon, tied just so around a messy bun.
It’s impossible.
Because that’s the ribbon.
The ribbon.
Tied carefully, perfectly, holding back the hair of the masked boy who vanished before midnight.
Gabriel.
His heart hammers loud enough to drown out the chatter and engines around them.
He stares, breath caught, as the truth crashes down in slow motion.
The cocky grin. The playful smirk. The eyes — sharp, defiant, full of secrets he’s been dying to know.
It’s all him.
Gabriel Bortoleto.
His teammate.
His mystery.
His.
Nico feels the weight of everything — the silence that fell the moment the boy slipped away, the ache of wanting to know and not knowing.
Now it all clicks.
He’s not just chasing a mystery.
He’s chasing Gabriel.
The world tilts.
Nico swallows hard, steps forward.
His voice is low but steady. “You’re not running away this time, Cinderella.”
Gabriel’s smirk falters.
For a second, the bratty mask slips.
And then he’s laughing, bright and loud. “Old man,” he teases, “midnight has already passed. You’re way too late.”
Nico shakes his head, heart pounding. “No. I’m exactly on time.”
They stand there, the noisy paddock blurring around them, the moment crackling with everything unsaid.
And then Nico reaches out.
Their hands find each other easily.
The chase is over.
——— Gabriel ———
He wants to be sharp.
To keep the game going.
To tease Nico like he’s done a thousand times before.
But when he whispers, voice low and barely steady —
“And what happened then, after prince Charming found Cinderella?”
— it sounds almost like a moan.
He swears he hears his own heartbeat.
Nico smirks — that slow, confident tilt of his mouth that always makes Gabriel weak in the knees.
Their faces inch closer, the heat between them thick enough to burn.
“Then the prince kissed her.”
The words barely leave Nico’s lips before they’re crashing together — lips meeting, urgent, soft, electric.
Gabriel’s breath hitches.
Nico’s hand cups the side of his face, thumb tracing his jaw like he’s memorizing every line.
The world falls away.
Just skin and lips and the taste of something new and right.
When they finally part, Gabriel’s smile is shaky but triumphant. “Took you long enough, old man.”
Nico laughs, and Gabriel knows —
This is only the beginning.
——— Gabriel & Nico ———
Gabriel pulls back just enough to catch his breath, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer underneath. “Took you long enough, old man.”
Nico smirks, brushing a stray lock of hair from Gabriel’s face, fingers lingering. “I was just waiting for the perfect moment.”
Gabriel arches a brow. “Is that so? And here I thought you were just scared.”
Nico laughs, low and warm. “Maybe a little scared. But mostly just... stupidly stubborn.”
Gabriel grins, voice dropping to a whisper. “Well, stubborn suits you.”
Nico leans in again, forehead resting against Gabriel’s. “So does being unforgettable.”
They stay like that for a moment — close, quiet, the noise of the paddock melting away until it’s just them.
And Nico knows, with a certainty that makes his heart pound —
This isn’t the end of their story.
Because this? This is just the beginning.
——— Gabriel ———
Gabriel sits quietly in the Sauber hospitality tent, a cup of coffee warming his hands. The paddock is alive around him — the usual hum of engines, laughter, and the chatter of reporters.
Then Sebastian Vettel slides into the seat beside him, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “So,” Sebastian begins, voice casual but eyes twinkling, “how was the gala?”
Gabriel smirks, eyes bright. “Unforgettable.”
Sebastian nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Glad the invite found the right hands.”
Gabriel looks at him, curious. “That was you?”
Sebastian chuckles softly. “Let’s just say I wanted to see if the little prince could dance.”
Gabriel laughs, warmth spreading through him.
——— everyone ———
