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They were somewhere over the Mediterranean, turbulence rattling plastic cups and sleep-deprived mechanics, when Gabi shoved an earbud toward Nico with the chaotic enthusiasm of someone who had not yet learned to let silence be sacred.
“You have to watch this,” he said, grinning like a man with terrible taste in content.
Nico raised an eyebrow. “Is it even in English?”
“Subtitled,” Gabi promised. “Mostly. Kind of.”
Nico sighed, took the earbud, and angled the screen toward himself. The video was already halfway loaded, buffering at 144p, full of jump cuts, yelling, and one very dramatic Portuguese man in a fake tuxedo.
Then came the line from one of the kind-of new, very famous Disney movies. “Can I say something crazy? Will you marry me?” Said with so much conviction it nearly overpowered the cheap mic and bad lighting.
The other guy didn’t blink. “Can I say something even crazier? Yes.”
Gabi lost it. Full-body laughter in the tiny plane seat, wheezing, practically hitting his head on Nico’s shoulder.
Nico didn’t laugh. But he did smile.
Small. Real. One of those rare ones, barely-there, but undeniably genuine. Gabi caught it — that split second of soft on a man who usually looked like he scowled in his sleep.
“You liked it,” Gabi said smugly.
Nico handed the earbud back. “It was idiotic.”
“But you liked it.”
Nico didn’t answer. But he didn’t stop smiling, either.
The next day, during media duties, someone asked about team chemistry.
Gabi, still riding the high of the joke and the laugh he'd dragged out of Nico at thirty thousand feet, leaned forward and said with zero shame: “Can I say something crazy?”
Nico looked up.
Just for a second.
A flicker.
But Gabi caught it — the surprise, the recognition — and more importantly, so did the cameras.
Nico smiled.
That same rare, quiet smile, softening every sharp edge of his face.
And that was all it took.
By the time the press conference ended, Twitter (well, F1 Twitter, which was worse) had gone completely off the rails.
@gabico_truther: “is this soft-launching or are we getting gaslit in real time?”
@maxverstappensleftboob: “NICO HULKENBERG SMILED. INVESTIGATE.”
@fernandoalonso_is_god: “are they—are they dating?”
Someone posted a blurry screenshot of Nico’s face mid-smile with a very red circle around it. Another account added captions. Fan edits were born before they even got back to the garage.
They didn’t clarify.
Not in the next interview. Not in the paddock. Not even in the team debrief.
Mostly because Nico didn’t say anything at all.
And Gabi?
Gabi just kept grinning.
It became a game, unspoken and increasingly ridiculous.
At the next Friday press conference in Austria, Gabi leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, and — in full view of every camera — winked at Nico.
Not a subtle wink. A theatrical one.
The kind of wink you do when you’re playing a pirates or trying to get someone pregnant with your eyes. He even clicked his tongue after.
Nico didn’t move for a second. Just stared at him with that deadpan, faintly exhausted look he’d perfected over nearly two decades in motorsport.
Then, calm as ever, he leaned over and adjusted Gabi’s microphone like a patient boyfriend fixing his idiot partner’s tie.
The entire press room snorted. Someone — probably a Ferrari comms guy — whispered Jesus Christ under their breath.
Gabi beamed like he’d just won something.
Nico didn’t smile. But he also didn’t say a word.
On Saturday morning, Nico posted an Instagram Story.
Just a photo. Two takeaway coffees from the paddock café, one with a heart drawn on the lid. The caption?
“his and mine <3”
No tags. No context. Just chaos.
The fandom combusted. TikTok was ablaze before FP3.
By race day, the "are-they-or-aren’t-they" debate had reached full fever pitch. Half the grid had taken sides. Valtteri Bottas allegedly created a PowerPoint presentation on his phone titled “They’re Definitely Banging And Here's The Proof.”
But the final blow came over team radio.
Lap 39, rain on the horizon, strategy call incoming.
Nico: “Box this lap.”
Gabi, cheerful as ever: “Copy that, amor.”
Silence on the radio.
Then: “...Say again?”
“I'll box this lap, amor,” Gabi repeated, giggling.
Back in the garage, someone dropped a wrench. The onboard footage captured the exact moment Nico’s expression went from stoic to —well. Something close to fond disbelief.
And they still didn’t confirm anything.
Not after the race. Not in the press pen. Not when Sky Sports asked, not when F1's official TikTok posted a slideshow titled “Five Times Gabi and Nico Broke the Internet.”
They just looked at each other. Shrugged. Moved on.
But Gabi noticed — and catalogued — that Nico didn’t flinch at amor anymore.
Didn’t correct the caption. Didn’t delete the story. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Gabi started stealing his water bottle mid-interview.
He just played along. Quietly. Willingly.
And that was even more dangerous than the winks and the coffee posts.
Gabi showed up to the Suzuka paddock wearing a hoodie two sizes too big.
Nico’s hoodie.
The old charcoal Haas one, the limited-edition run from pre-season testing a long time — soft from too many washes, sleeves pushed halfway down his hands, collar a little stretched from someone else’s shoulders.
He wore it like it was his.
Like it had always been his.
When a journalist pointed it out, Gabi blinked with the innocence of a cat caught on the counter and said:“Oh, I was cold.”
And then — for good measure — he added: “My partner doesn’t mind.”
The paddock lost its collective mind.
Yuki Tsunoda stopped in his tracks when he passed them near the motorhomes. “You’re, huh, you're wearing —” he gestured at the hoodie. “Wait. Are you guys —?”
Gabi just smiled, tugged the sleeves over his hands, and bumped Nico’s arm with his shoulder.
Nico, stone-faced as ever, didn’t deny it.
Didn’t even blink.
He just handed Gabi his lanyard from his other hand like it was something they did every day.
That night, the team posted a behind-the-scenes carousel.
Slide one: Gabi and Nico mid-laugh on the grid.
Slide two: Gabi holding Nico’s helmet.
Slide three: Nico standing behind Gabi, adjusting the drawstrings of his own damn hoodie on Gabi’s shoulders.
Slide four: The two of them walking down the pit lane, matching sneakers, too close, captioned simply: "Sauber boys ♥ #teamwork"
Comments went feral.
@noticemenico: “THE HOODIE THE HOODIE THE HOODIE”
@lestappenisreal_1633: “they’re literally married”
@give_bromance_a_chance: “this is not ally behavior, Mr. Hülkenberg”
@iconic_twinklaren: “nico’s in his romcom era and i’m here for it”
Later, back at the hotel, Nico tossed another hoodie at Gabi’s head. “You stretched the sleeves.”
“You literally gave it to me,” Gabi countered, muffled under the fabric. “In front of witnesses.”
Nico gave him a long, measured look. “You’re really committing to the bit, aren’t you?”
Gabi shrugged into the new hoodie — navy this time, with Nico’s initials and number embroidered near the hem — and flopped down onto Nico’s hotel couch like he belonged there. He grinned. “What can I say? I've always loved performance art.”
Nico rolled his eyes. But his mouth twitched.
Just a little.
Just enough.
They found out at the check-in desk.
“One room, double occupancy,” the receptionist said with a smile, passing over the keycard. “Under Hülkenberg.”
Nico blinked. “There should be two rooms.”
The receptionist double-checked. “Nope. Just the one.”
Nico turned to the team coordinator, who was still on her phone. She looked up, smiled sweetly, and said: “You two have been inseparable lately, so we figured you’d prefer it this way. Save the team some money.”
She winked.
She actually winked.
Nico opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Gabi took the keycard and patted Nico’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, amor, you know I don’t snore.”
The hotel room was far too nice.
Soft lighting. Big windows. One very large, very unignorable king-sized bed. It might’ve been romantic if Nico wasn’t standing just inside the door, looking mildly like he was being held hostage by a sitcom plotline.
Gabi, of course, immediately threw himself face-first onto the bed like he’d just won the lottery. “Comfy,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Good choice, partner.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“Sure, but your name’s on the booking.”
Nico sighed, running a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
“This whole thing.” He gestured vaguely — at the room, the bed, the vibe.
Gabi rolled over, propped up on one elbow, all smugness and zero shame. “What, pretending to be madly in love with me? Don’t act like you’re not enjoying it.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
Nico gave him a long, exasperated look. “You’re in my hoodie. In my hotel room. On my bed.”
Gabi beamed. “You see? I am your problem now.”
They ended up sharing the bed, of course.
There was no couch. No spare cot. Gabi offered to sleep on the floor on the spare blanket and Nico said: “Don’t be dramatic.” Like he hadn’t been tense all evening.
So they split the bed.
Strict middle line. Separate blankets. Absolutely no touching.
Until around 3:17 a.m., when Gabi rolled over in his sleep and mumbled amor against Nico’s shoulder.
And Nico didn’t move.
Didn’t push him off. Didn’t shift away.
Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, quietly losing the battle with himself.
It continued, as most terrible things did, with Charles Leclerc being nosy in Monaco.
They were in the paddock between sessions, Nico checking telemetry, Gabi picking at a fruity protein bar with the seriousness of a man performing heart surgery, when Charles wandered over.
“Salut,” he said innocently, which was suspicious in itself.
Gabi blinked. “Hey.”
Charles smiled, all dimples and charm, then said — like he was asking about the weather: “So. Are you two actually dating or just trying to break the internet?”
Gabi choked on his protein bar.
Nico didn’t even flinch. “What do you think?”
Charles narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re either in love or Oscar owes me twenty euros.”
Gabi coughed harder. “Why Oscar?”
“He bet it was fake. I said no one smiles at another driver like that unless it’s real.”
Nico glanced up from the tablet. “You’ve never even seen me smile.”
Charles nodded solemnly. “Exactly,” he says with a wink.
That shut them up for a moment.
Then Gabi, still red in the face, blurted: “It’s real!”
Charles blinked.
Gabi’s eyes went wide. “I mean — it’s fake. It’s a fake real thing. Or a real fake thing. For fun. Haha.”
Nico set the tablet down very slowly.
Charles looked between them like he was watching a slow-motion car crash. “…So it isn’t real,” he said carefully.
“Totally not,” Gabi said, way too fast.
Nico finally spoke. Calm, measured, terrifyingly casual: “I wouldn’t say totally.”
Charles’s eyes widened. “Oh my god,” he said softly. “It’s real!”
“It’s not!” Gabi squeaked.
“You said yes,” Nico added, not looking at either of them.
Charles made a noise like a kettle boiling. “WHAT?!”
Ten minutes later, the entire paddock was buzzing.
Because Charles, despite swearing on his life that he wouldn’t say a word, had immediately found Pierre.
And Pierre had told Yuki.
And Yuki had told literally everyone.
By the end of the hour, Sky Sports had a “relationship timeline” infographic ready to go.
And Gabi?
Gabi sat next to Nico in the motorhome lounge, still trying to catch his breath. “You just— you said I said yes.”
“Which you did.”
“That was two days ago,” Gabi hissed. “When you asked if I wanted some gum!”
Nico shrugged. “Still counts.”
“It wasn't even good,” Gabi whined. He looked at him. Really looked.
Because Nico wasn’t smirking this time.
He looked calm. Still. Maybe even... expectant.
“Oh my god,” Gabi whispered. “You like this.”
“I like winning bets.”
“Is this a bet?”
“No,” Nico said, and finally — finally — smiled. “It’s something crazier.”
It happened in Zandvoort.
Because of course it did.
Home race for Max, wild energy in the air, orange smoke everywhere — and somehow in the middle of it all, Gabriel Bortoleto found himself standing on a makeshift media stage next to Nico Hülkenberg, answering questions about tire strategy with far too much eye contact.
They’d been playing their game all weekend — sharing water bottles, Gabi in Nico’s hoodie (again, this one actually from Sauber), Nico handing Gabi a towel post FP2 like he always did it. Someone in the team printed them matching stickers for their helmets that said “#SauberSoulmates” as a joke.
They didn’t take them off.
So when the paddock media asked Gabi if he and Nico were official, Gabi laughed.
Hard.
“Define official,” he grinned, dodging.
The cameras laughed with him. He elbowed Nico, who stood beside him like a statue, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.
And then Nico asked: “Can I say something crazy?”
The laughter softened, just a little. Gabi looked up at him, something fluttering in his chest, something... dangerous.
Gabi blinked. “Always.”
Nico dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me?”
Everything stopped.
The air. The noise. The world.
Gabi laughed — loud, shocked, a little wild. Obviously still in on the joke. “Can I say something even crazier?”
Nico’s eyes were steady as he nodded.
“Yes,” Gabi said, laughing.
And that’s when Nico pulled out the little velvet box.
Not a prop. Not a joke.
A real ring.
A very real, very expensive ring — platinum band, subtle engraving, the kind of ring that didn’t come from a PR stunt but from a man who’d had it sized.
The silence hit before the second wave of screaming.
Gabi stared at it. Then at Nico.
Gabi blinked. “You— what?”
Nico was still looking at him. Steady. Quiet. Nothing performative about it. “Will you marry me?” he repeated, even though Gabriel already said yes.
Gabi laughed. It came out shaky. “Is this— are you still doing the joke?”
The paddock erupted.
Someone screamed. (Charles.)
Someone dropped a mic. (Lando.)
Someone yelled “HE HAS A RING?” (Pierre.)
And Gabi?
Gabi stared at the ring, then back at Nico.
Nico, who had kept the joke going just long enough for the truth to slip in quietly.
Nico, who had noticed his ring size.
Nico, who had waited for the right moment, and made it feel like the most absurd, perfect thing in the world.
“Will you marry me?” Nico asked, for the third time.
“Yes,” Gabi said. “Yes. Oh my god, yes, yes, yes.”
And Nico — finally — slipped the ring on his finger.
It fit perfectly.
Like the joke had never been a joke at all.
“How do you even know my size?”
Nico just smirked. “I pay attention.”
“My mum will fucking kill us for not telling her we are dating,” Gabriel laughed, with tears in the corners of his eyes.
Nico stood and kissed him — brief and soft — like it had always been real.
It had been. At least for Nico.
Gabi kissed him again, because — apparently — it was real for him now too.