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Chapter Text

The hum of Alpine’s headquarters carried a different weight than Mercedes’s had, Parisian polish traded for a quieter, sharper rhythm, where engineers murmured in accented French, footsteps echoed across metallic floors, and the air always seemed to carry with it the faint metallic tang of machines at work in the distance. It was not the confident hum of Alpha-led empires, not the kind of place built around dominance and command, but rather something more precise, measured, understated, and in its quietness Esteban felt both at home and reminded of the glass ceilings that followed him wherever he went, because no matter the office, no matter the title, he would always carry the weight of being Beta—respected for stability, overlooked for glory.

He sat now in his new office, still not fully used to the plaque with his name engraved neatly on the door. A Beta with a title. The staff did not say it aloud, but Esteban knew what they whispered, the same words that had followed him through the paddocks, through the endless corridors of power that smelled of musk and spice where Alphas gathered to make decisions and Betas quietly made them work. Too plain, too neutral, too forgettable. That was the judgment. Betas could organize, manage, and keep the gears turning, but rarely were they seen as the face of success. And yet here he was, and the brass plate gleamed back at him as if to prove that, despite everything, he had carved his place.

After years in Mercedes’s shadow, following Toto Wolff, the quintessential Alpha whose presence filled every room, whose sharp scent and even sharper authority carved silence wherever he walked, Esteban had learned how the machinery of motorsport worked, not the engines on track but the engines behind the scenes: contracts, sponsors, negotiations, the endless balancing act of careers. He had learned that Betas like him thrived not in the spotlight but in the shadows, where everything fragile was kept from breaking.

And yet today, even in this office he had long dreamed of, the air felt heavier, because a new client had been placed under his care. High-profile, whispered about in hushed tones by the staff, though no one dared say more. That was fine with Esteban; the unknown no longer rattled him. He had spent his whole life walking the razor edge of uncertainty, of doors half-opened only to be slammed shut when someone richer, louder, or more Alpha walked in. If anything, he welcomed the challenge. He adjusted his tie, inhaled deeply, and reminded himself of the path that had brought him here, a path that was never straight, never easy, always shadowed by the reminder that Betas could not simply exist on talent alone.

Dreams were strange things. Esteban never made it past the junior categories, not because he lacked speed—he had been quick, sharp in traffic, relentless over long runs, everyone said so—but because Betas were never meant to be the stars. The world wanted Alphas with their dominance and ferocity, Omegas with their marketable vulnerability or family-friendly image; a Beta could be skilled, disciplined, and burning with fire, yet remain invisible. The seats were taken, the doors closed, the dream splintered.

But before it broke, oh, how he had dreamed. His world was once measured in tenths of a second, in the vibration of the wheel through his hands, in the smell of fuel in his nose, in the tunnel vision of speed that made everything else disappear. He had dreamed of Formula 1 podiums, of standing beneath lights with the flag overhead, of showing the world that even a Beta could rise, even a Beta could shine.

And his parents—God, his parents. His father, an Alpha, shoulders bent with labor but eyes unshaken in their belief, his mother an Omega, gentle-voiced but unyielding when it came to protecting her son from the world’s cruelty. Together, they carried him through the impossible. They did not just sacrifice; they threw themselves into his dream with no safety net, they lived in a cramped caravan rattling down highways from Spain to Italy to Germany, chasing race after race with whatever money they could scrape together. His father pulled double shifts in jobs that drained his body, his Alpha strength spent not on dominance but on providing. His mother stretched every coin until it bent, quietly shielding Esteban from the whispers that followed him even then, whispers that said Betas could never lead, never inspire, never win. And Esteban carried the weight of their hope like a second skin. Every time he climbed into the cockpit, he drove not just for himself but for them—for their sacrifices, their belief, their hunger for a world that refused to give them more.

But motorsport was cruel, and cruelty in this world always fell hardest on Betas. Talent and devotion were never enough when biology itself was considered ordinary. When the funding ran out, so did the chances, and Esteban was left stranded on the sidelines, a boy with fire in his veins and nowhere to burn it.

He did not quit, though. With Toto’s quiet support—support laced with the Alpha condescension that Esteban had learned to accept as kindness—he studied, built connections, and slipped into the backstage world of motorsport where Betas were tolerated because someone had to keep the machine oiled. Over the years, he became a respected manager, a fixer, someone who knew how to place drivers into the right seats, how to stretch careers, how to balance chaos with composure. He wore professionalism like armor: sharp suits, calm tone, nothing personal, nothing vulnerable. He carved another path, one where his skill, his composure, his steadiness could thrive, one where he could fulfill his duty, if not his heart.

He had paid back every cent his family once bled for him, bought them a home in the French countryside, and secured a legacy with his own hands. He had given his Alpha father and Omega mother the comfort they deserved, proof that their sacrifices were not in vain, even if the world never acknowledged his victories as loudly as it would have if he had been Alpha. He had done everything right, everything expected, everything possible.

And yet when he looked inward, all he found was the echo of an empty heart.

Until today.

Until the door opened, and the name he had not dared whisper in years cut through the still air like lightning.

Pierre Jean-Jacques Gasly.

An Alpha. The boy he had once shared everything with, the boy whose presence had been a lifeline in a world that erased him, now a man standing across from him, older, sharper, achingly familiar.

The name hit Esteban’s chest like an old scar reopening, like the track lights flickering back on after years of darkness. For a heartbeat, the armor cracked. For a heartbeat, the carefully cultivated Beta composure slipped, and in its place came something dangerously alive, something he had long thought extinguished.

The reunion had come.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Ocon,” the Alpine boss said, voice clipped, formal, heavy with the weight of expectation. “This is Mr. Gasly. He will be the man you will manage for the future.”

And it hurt more than Esteban could ever admit, hurt in a way that went bone-deep, because there was no cruelty sharper than watching your best friend, your childhood partner-in-crime, the boy who once laughed beside you in rickety caravans and split stale sandwiches in the rain, step into the dream you had once shared, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces.

My name is Esteban Ocon. I’m twenty-eight years old. And I am my childhood rival’s manager.

—

Esteban had long since perfected the Beta art of masking his emotions. It came easier to him than it ever could have for an Alpha, who were expected to snarl or dominate, or an Omega, whose pheromones betrayed every shift of their heart. Betas, the invisible middle, were born to swallow and smooth, to temper themselves into neutrality. So his handshake with Pierre was firm, professional—barely trembling, even though the sight of him tore through old scars.

Pierre’s familiar blue eyes sparkled, a glint of recognition, of shared memory, as if to say without words: Can you believe this? And Esteban could only force a tight smile in return. He already knew what Pierre would say—he had always known. It was the same thing Pierre had whispered when they were children, sitting in the stands at Le Mans, drunk on exhaust fumes and dreams bigger than their bodies.

We made it.

Except they hadn’t. Only one of them had.

Toto Wolff had saved Esteban once, long ago, when his family’s caravan leaked in the rain and his shoes split open at the seams. Alphas like Toto were saviors and gatekeepers both; he had swooped in with promises of funding, of education, of a future, his Alpha presence filling every corner, his voice a command the world obeyed. And Esteban, Beta to his core, had been grateful. But even Toto couldn’t work miracles. Mercedes had no seat for him, no dream of racing, not for a Beta whose name was whispered with pity.

So instead, Toto had given him work. Work that was steady, practical, invisible. Paperwork, schedules, damage control. Fixing PR disasters when Alphas let their instincts run wild, smoothing edges when Omegas were mocked for being “too soft.” Esteban had never dreamed of this life—lugging briefcases, standing on the sidelines as others chased his dream—but it gave his family stability. His father, Alpha-proud but weary from years of sacrifice, no longer had to break his back in endless shifts. His mother, Omega-gentle but iron-strong, no longer had to stretch coins until they bent. For the first time, life wasn’t a daily fight to survive.

And yet, no amount of stability could silence the gnawing emptiness inside. No polished office could erase the shame of watching his childhood friend climb podiums while he smiled from the shadows. He hated himself for it, for the bitterness that clung to him in quiet hours, for the way photos of Pierre and Charles in their race suits felt like blades twisting in his chest. Alphas who had made it, while he was the Beta who kept the lights on.

By 2024, Esteban was no longer the scrappy boy Toto had taken in. He was one of the most respected managers in the paddock—calm, unshakable, invisible in all the ways a Beta was expected to be. He had built a reputation not for dominance but for stability, the kind of man who could handle the most volatile Alphas, the most overlooked Omegas, with an even hand. To some, it was admirable. To Esteban, it was just survival.

“Gasly,” Esteban murmured, the name catching on his tongue like a thorn, like the ache of an old wound that never healed. His voice didn’t waver, but his chest tightened until it felt like the air itself resisted him. Of all the drivers, of all the possibilities—why Pierre?

Pierre Gasly. His childhood best friend turned ghost. Pierre, the Alpha who had been his partner in chasing their shared dream, who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him against the world, until suddenly, one day, he hadn’t. Pierre, who had risen while Esteban was forced to anchor himself in shadows.

–

Pierre paused in the doorway of Esteban’s new office, the confident Alpha smirk he wore like armor slipping the moment his eyes landed on the man behind the desk. He hadn’t expected this. Of course, he’d heard of Esteban Ocon over the years—how could he not? The Beta manager who had become quietly indispensable in the Mercedes Motorsports scene, the one who made empires run without ever raising his voice, the one who could smooth the chaos of Alpha egos and Omega vulnerability into something controlled, respectable, presentable. A Beta who had mastered invisibility so well that people forgot he was the one pulling strings behind the curtain.

But Pierre had never imagined, not for a second, that their paths would cross like this—not here, not in Alpine’s offices, not with Esteban sitting where his old manager once had, the plaque on the desk freshly engraved, the shift of power made clear. His former manager had ended his contract, moving on to a different athlete, and now, somehow, impossibly, Esteban was the one assigned to him.

And yet, here they were.

Esteban didn’t flinch. He looked up from the folder in his hands, expression calm, professional, Beta-steady, betraying nothing even as Pierre lingered awkwardly in the doorway. “Mr. Gasly,” he said smoothly, his tone measured, practiced neutrality, as if the years between them had been nothing, as if Pierre wasn’t staring at him like the past had just walked back into his life.

“Gasly,” Esteban repeated, this time with a polite smile sharp enough to sting.

“Ocon,” Pierre replied, voice tighter than he meant it to be, Alpha cadence pressing instinctively against the silence between them.

He stepped forward, extending his hand, and Esteban rose to meet him, every movement deliberate, composed, untouchable. Their handshake was firm but cold, a professional exchange that could have been mistaken for indifference, yet Pierre couldn’t stop himself from searching—searching for cracks in Esteban’s carefully built façade.

There were none.

This man was not the boy Pierre had grown up with, not the childhood partner who had once split dreams and secrets with him in cramped caravans, not the rival who had burned with the same fire for F1. This Esteban was polished, distant, unreadable.

And somehow, that hurt most of all.

–

The tension between them was impossible to ignore, though Esteban carried it as if it didn’t exist, as if his steadiness could swallow the charged air whole. Pierre felt it pressing down like static, sharp, uncomfortable, but Esteban moved through it untouched, his face a mask carved from stone.

“I’ll be in touch with your PR team tomorrow,” Esteban said after their first meeting, tone clipped, precise, his words the language of professionalism. “I’ll need a detailed schedule, travel itineraries, all media obligations, and—”

“You’re really going to do this?” Pierre cut in, his voice low, sharp, the Alpha timbre breaking the practiced rhythm of Esteban’s speech.

Esteban paused, the faintest lift of his eyebrow the only crack in his composure. “Do what?”

Pierre’s jaw clenched, his hands curling against his thighs, his body language unconsciously radiating the dominance bred into him, the weight of an Alpha who had spent his life being obeyed, noticed, and taken seriously. “Act like we don’t have... history.” The word landed heavy, dragging with it years of unsaid things—shared caravans, split sandwiches, whispered promises in the dark.

Esteban’s expression didn’t change. His voice was smooth, quiet, Beta-neutral in a way that only made Pierre’s chest tighten further. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

It was a dismissal dressed in civility, and Pierre hated how much it stung. Because only a Beta could wield detachment like a blade, sharp not in aggression but in restraint, cutting not with force but with the refusal to yield even a flicker of vulnerability. Pierre, who had grown up certain that he and Esteban would stand side by side on podiums, suddenly felt like he was pushing against a wall that refused to push back.

Pierre’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, sharp and searching, as if he was waiting for something—anything—to slip. When Esteban gave him nothing, only silence polished into professionalism, Pierre exhaled through his nose, a tight sound that could have been frustration or resignation.

“Fine,” he muttered, straightening his jacket, Alpha confidence snapping back into place like a shield. “Text me the details. We’ll talk when you’ve got everything in order.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out, the door closing with a quiet, final click. His scent, sharp and clean—an Alpha’s aura that filled every space he entered—lingered long after his footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only then did Esteban let go of the breath he’d been holding. His hands, so steady during the meeting, curled against the desk until his knuckles whitened. The polished armor of composure cracked, and beneath it, his body betrayed him. A tremor ran through him, sharp and undeniable. He hated the way it felt—how his body reacted instinctively to Alpha presence, how Pierre’s pheromones still had the power to burn through his defenses, how the air itself seemed to hum with the memory of him.

He shivered once, twice, as if his skin remembered too much. It wasn’t just biology—it was history, it was memory, it was Pierre. And it terrified him how easy it was, after all these years, for one Alpha to make him feel things he had sworn he’d buried.

–

The weeks settled into a rhythm that left little room for anything but work. The calendar was merciless: back-to-back races, endless flights, sponsor dinners, autograph sessions, factory visits. Esteban lived out of a suitcase, his laptop balanced on his knees in transit lounges, his phone buzzing with updates from Alpine’s comms team. Sleep came in fragments, squeezed between long nights refining presentations and early mornings chasing down engineers for data.

It suited him. Work was safe. Work was controlled.

Conversations with Pierre rarely went beyond what was strictly necessary. Logistics, media obligations, performance debriefs—short, precise exchanges that left no space for anything personal. They spoke more through emails and calendar reminders than through face-to-face words, and when they did sit across from each other in meeting rooms or briefing sessions, the dialogue was brisk, professional, trimmed to the bone.

And yet, Esteban was not blind. Not stupid.

He felt it—Pierre’s gaze, heavy and insistent, burning into the back of his head during team meetings, sponsor shoots, even those quiet stretches of travel where silence lingered. Esteban never acknowledged it, never let his composure slip, but he sensed it all the same. The Beta in him had always been finely tuned to Alphas, taught to register their presence without drawing attention to it. And Pierre was impossible to ignore. His Alpha aura filled every space he entered—sharper in confined rooms, subtle in crowded paddocks, but always there, pushing against Esteban’s carefully maintained calm.

He told himself it was nothing. Just instinct. Just biology. Just something to endure, like jet lag or the endless media rotations.

So he buried himself deeper in work, clinging to precision, to control. Because acknowledging the weight of Pierre’s presence—even for a second—was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

Even if, sometimes, the silence between them seemed louder than anything else.

Until he came.

–

The Monaco Grand Prix was always chaotic. The streets swarmed with celebrities and sponsors, the harbor overflowed with yachts, and the air buzzed with noise and pressure. For Esteban, it was worse than most races—the scheduling tighter, the demands endless, every second accounted for.

He was wrapping up Pierre’s media debrief when he noticed the driver watching him too intently. Esteban kept flipping through his notes, assuming the inevitable question would come: what’s next, what time, where do I go?

Instead, Pierre said, “Dinner.”

Esteban’s head snapped up. “Dinner?”

Pierre leaned against the wall, deceptively casual, but his tone carried that Alpha weight Esteban always felt in his chest, even when he fought to ignore it. “Tonight. Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Esteban blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. Dinner wasn’t part of the plan. He had schedules to finalize, calls to confirm, another check-in with the comms team. It wasn’t his role to play dinner guests.

His mouth opened with a rejection ready, but Pierre cut him off, softer than expected. “Please.”

Esteban froze. Pierre never said please. Not when they were children racing toy cars, not as teenagers with the same dream, and certainly not now. The word cracked something open in him, his practiced neutrality flickering for just a second. Pierre’s eyes caught it, lingered, almost smug.

“You’ll like him,” Pierre added. “He’s been wanting to meet you anyway.”

Esteban should have refused. Professional. Neutral. Controlled. That was the line he had drawn, the line he had to keep.

But instead, he heard himself say, “…Fine. Dinner.”

Pierre’s smile was quick, victorious. “Good. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

-

The restaurant Pierre chose overlooked the glittering harbor, all glass walls and soft lighting, elegant without being overbearing. Monaco at night was too perfect, too polished, a city built to dazzle—and Esteban, walking in with his manager’s mask firmly in place, told himself he wouldn’t be dazzled. Not by the setting, not by the company.

Pierre was already there, his Alpha presence pulling at the room, sharp as ever. And beside him sat someone smaller, compact, with a sharp gaze softened by an easy grin.

“Esteban, ” Pierre said, rising. “This is who I wanted you to meet.”

Yuki Tsunoda stood and extended his hand. “Finally. Esteban Ocon. I’ve been curious.”

Esteban shook it firmly, his composure slipping into genuine surprise. “Yuki Tsunoda. I… didn’t expect this.”

He knew of him, of course—everyone did. One of the rare Betas in Formula 1, a Honda-backed talent who had proven himself against the odds. They’d crossed paths in the paddock, polite nods, brief exchanges, but nothing like this. Nothing that felt… intentional.

Pierre gestured for him to sit. “Now you do.”

“For who’s benefit?” Esteban asked lightly, sliding into the chair.

“For you,” Yuki said with a shrug. His smile tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth, a touch warmer, less biting than the smirk he’d worn moments ago. “Pierre’s been talking about you.”

Pierre almost choked on his drink. “Yuki!”

Esteban arched a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Talking?”

“Complaining,” Yuki corrected, grinning as he turned to Pierre. “Saying you’re stiff. Too serious. Like a robot.”

Esteban tilted his head, pretending offense, but Yuki’s expression was too open, too mischievous to sting.

Pierre groaned. “I said efficient. Professional. Not a robot.”

“Robot,” Yuki shot back smoothly, leaning an elbow on the table. “With extra settings.”

Esteban let out a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “I suppose that’s honesty.”

Yuki turned back to him then, gaze softening in a way Pierre didn’t catch, voice losing just a fraction of its sharp edge. “I think it’s a good thing. Consistency. Calm. People underestimate how important that is.”

Something in Esteban eased at that, just slightly, as if Yuki had pressed down on a pressure valve only he could see.

The rest of the night rolled in practiced ease. Yuki and Pierre bickered like they had a script—arguing over portion sizes, teasing about travel delays, needling each other about racing mistakes until Esteban was quietly smiling into his glass. With Pierre, Yuki was sharp and sassy, a little whirlwind constantly tugging at his Alpha edges.

But when he turned to Esteban, the rhythm shifted. His questions were pointed, but his tone was calmer—about management, about staying composed under pressure, about how Esteban carried himself when things went wrong. He listened, genuinely, whereas with Pierre he sparred. He offered quiet smiles in between the wit, softer than Esteban expected, like he saw through the armor and wasn’t mocking what he found there.

Of course, Esteban knew about their reputation. Everyone in the paddock did. Pierre and Yuki— Yukierre —the inseparable duo. The media loved them, the fans adored them. Their camaraderie was splashed across interviews and edits alike, a bromance wrapped in laughter, all sharp edges softened by humor.

But sitting here, watching them, Esteban couldn’t fool himself into thinking it was just friendship. There was something else—something binding and grounding, threaded too deep to be an act.

And instead, something sharp twisted in his chest.

Why?

It wasn’t just about Pierre anymore, Esteban realized with a quiet jolt. It was Pierre, yes—the Alpha whose presence still pulled something raw and uneasy from him, the boy who had once been his whole world. But it was Yuki, too—the sharp-eyed Beta who teased without hesitation, then softened in ways Esteban couldn’t explain when their eyes met.

And that was where the confusion hit hardest.

He shouldn’t feel this way. Not toward Pierre— not anymore . Not toward Yuki—who he barely knew. And yet… the warmth coiled inside his chest all the same, sharp and grounding at once, like a thread tugging him closer before he even understood what it meant.

He cared. He wanted.

Both of them.

The thought unsettled him, too clear and too impossible at the same time. Desire wrapped in contradiction, affection laced with something he didn’t dare name. It made no sense, and yet denying it felt even more impossible.

-

The rest of the meal passed in that same rhythm—Yuki pulling stories out of Esteban, Pierre alternating between irritation and amusement, the three of them weaving around each other in a way that felt oddly… natural. Too natural.

When the plates were cleared and the bill discreetly settled—Pierre insisting on covering it with a wave of his hand—Esteban rose first, adjusting the cuff of his jacket.

“Thank you. For the invitation,” he said simply, eyes flicking between the two of them. “It was… unexpected.”

“Good unexpected, right?” Yuki pressed, sharp-eyed as ever.

Esteban hesitated, then gave a small, careful nod. “Good enough.”

He left with that same guarded composure, slipping back into the Monaco night where engines still roared faintly from the harbor. The ache in his chest remained, quiet but persistent. He didn’t understand it, not fully—but it refused to let go.

Every step down the polished streets was measured, his shoes clicking against the stone. He told himself the feeling was nothing—just nostalgia for Pierre, just curiosity about Yuki. Nothing that meant anything. But when he caught the faint sound of laughter from behind the glass, quick and familiar, something in him twisted again. He didn’t even know which of them he wanted to turn back for.

–

Yuki is an Omega.
It was the one truth he carried like contraband, locked down beneath every sharp word and quick grin. In a sport ruled by alphas, where even betas were scrutinized, he had learned to bury it so deeply that no one—not the media, not the paddock, not even most of his closest rivals—ever guessed. Only his close circle knew. Pierre knew. Only Pierre ever would.

And maybe that was why he saw things others didn’t.

At the table, Yuki watched Esteban disappear through the glass doors. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze back to Pierre.

Pierre, for all his Alpha confidence, wasn’t looking back. His eyes were on the table, shoulders tense, the tips of his ears betraying a faint flush.

Yuki’s mouth curved into the smallest knowing grin, a glint flashing in his sharp eyes. He didn’t say anything—not right away. He simply leaned his chin on his palm, watching Pierre fidget in a way he never did in front of anyone else.

Finally, Yuki broke the silence, voice light but edged with meaning.
“You still like him.”

Pierre froze, eyes snapping up. “I—what? No. Yuki—”

But Yuki just tilted his head, grin widening. “Mm. Sure.”
He didn’t press further, didn’t corner him. That wasn’t how their bond worked. He teased, yes, but he never demanded. If Pierre wasn’t ready to admit it, Yuki wouldn’t force the words out.

Instead, he squeezed Pierre’s hand under the table, grounding him.
“Let’s go,” Yuki said simply, almost kindly.

Pierre exhaled slowly, relief flickering across his face, and allowed Yuki to lead the way out.

And Yuki? He kept the grin on his lips, the easy humor in his voice, the practiced calm of someone who seemed untouchable. But beneath it—buried so deep he’d never let Pierre see—there was a quiet tug.

Because he’d noticed Esteban too. Not in the way Pierre had, not in the way that carried years of history, but in something more unexpected, more dangerous.

The way Esteban’s composure cracked at the edges. The way his laughter, rare and unguarded, had felt like a small victory. The way he had looked at both of them, not with envy but with something softer, something almost longing.

But Yuki would never say it aloud. Not to Pierre, not to anyone. He wasn’t supposed to want more, not as an omega who had already won battles just to exist here.

So he buried it with the rest of his secrets, under layers of sarcasm and sass, and walked out into the Monaco night hand-in-hand with his Alpha.

And somewhere down the street, Esteban walked alone, replaying every glance, every laugh, every ache he couldn’t explain.

–

Esteban’s days at Alpine HQ had settled into a rhythm: work, eat, work, work some more. Lunch was never more than ten minutes, a tray balanced on the corner of his desk at 1:10 p.m., swallowed down between spreadsheets and calls. He never expected anyone to notice, much less interrupt it.

So when the knock came—light, casual—and Pierre walked in balancing a plate of pasta and a bottle of water, Esteban froze halfway through his forkful.

“…Why are you here?” he asked, suspicion threading his voice.

Pierre shrugged, closing the door behind him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Eating with you.”

Esteban blinked. “Eating with me?”

“Yes,” Pierre replied simply, sliding into the chair opposite his desk. He set down his plate, avoiding Esteban’s eyes as he twirled his fork. “It’s… Yuki’s idea. He said we should get close.”

There was nothing casual about the way Pierre’s ears burned red as he said it. Esteban caught the flush instantly, the way Pierre suddenly found the shape of his pasta very interesting.

For once, Esteban didn’t trust himself to speak. Heat rose to his own face, betraying him in silence. He looked down at his half-finished sandwich, suddenly unsure how to chew, and muttered only—

“…Alright.”

They ate in quiet after that. Not unfriendly. Not distant. Something in between.

-

The shift, once it started, was impossible to stop.

A week later, Esteban found himself in Milan for yet another sponsor meeting. He was used to traveling alone, used to returning to quiet hotel rooms or sterile serviced apartments Alpine arranged for him. But that afternoon, passing by a café tucked between narrow streets, something unusual caught his eye.

Yuki Tsunoda, leaning over a mug almost the size of his head, laughter spilling out as Pierre muttered something across the table.

Before Esteban could duck away, Yuki’s sharp eyes darted to the window. He blinked, then broke into a grin so bright it was disarming. Abandoning his seat—without his mug—he hurried outside.

“Esteban! You here?” Yuki beamed, bouncing slightly on his heels.

Caught off guard, Esteban gave a small, awkward nod. “Yeah. Meeting.”

“You staying around?” Yuki asked, eager as ever.

Esteban hesitated. His gaze flicked to the glass where Pierre sat inside, calm, unreadable, watching them both. Something in Esteban’s chest tightened. “…Since Pierre lives here, Alpine thought it easier to base me nearby too. Most of the meetings happen in the city.”

“I see.” Yuki’s grin widened. “Then you seem free. Come join us.”

“I don’t think—” Esteban began, but Yuki had already taken his sleeve in a surprisingly gentle tug, pulling him toward the door with no real chance to resist.

The café was warm, smelling of sugar and espresso. Yuki guided him to the empty chair opposite Pierre, then promptly sat down close to Esteban’s side, leaning in like they’d known each other for years. He didn’t pick his mug back up—just grinned as the waiter returned, rattling off an order that doubled their table’s desserts.

Pierre groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yuki, you’ll regret this in half an hour.”

“Don’t be boring, Pierre,” Yuki replied back giggling, before turning back to Esteban. His tone softened instantly. “You like cake, right? Try this one, it’s the best.”

Before Esteban could protest, Yuki slid a plate in front of him and pushed the fork into his hand, smile too earnest to refuse.

Pierre muttered something under his breath, but Esteban caught the twitch of his lips, the almost-hidden amusement.

And somehow—against his better judgment—Esteban found himself easing into it. The quiet flutter came when Yuki nudged a spoonful of tiramisu toward him, laughing when Esteban startled at the sudden sweetness, the kind of soft laugh that lingered.

It wasn’t just friendship, though. Not to him.

The longer he sat there, the more it struck him—the ease between them, the way Yuki alternated between teasing Pierre and being tender with him, the way Pierre looked both exasperated and impossibly fond. And Yuki… Yuki turned that sweetness on him too, unguarded in a way Esteban hadn’t expected.

It should have been simple admiration. But it wasn’t.

It was longing.

Longing to be inside that circle, not on the edge of it. Longing to feel that kind of warmth pressed close against him.

And he hated himself for wanting it—except, in that moment, with powdered sugar dusting the table and Yuki smiling at him like he belonged, he didn’t hate it at all.

–

The weeks slid by, the rhythm of travel and work consuming Esteban as usual. Yet the edges had softened; Pierre showing up at his office for lunch whenever he was around, Yuki pulling him into café visits, small threads weaving them closer without him realizing.

It was good.
Too good.
For the first time in years, Esteban allowed himself to feel part of something that wasn’t just the team, wasn’t just an obligation. With them, it felt easy, even natural.

And then the week break after the Spain GP arrived.

Esteban stayed in Milan. Alpine’s demands didn’t loosen just because the calendar called it a holiday. He told himself he didn’t mind—he was used to this. Work had always filled the gaps.

Until Pierre’s call came.

“Esteban,” Pierre’s voice was tight, hurried, nothing like his usual polished calm. “I need you to go to Yuki’s place. Now. He ran out of his suppressants—it hit suddenly. I’m getting what he needs, but I can’t get back fast enough. Please—”

The line cut before Esteban could ask questions. His stomach knotted, but his feet moved before his mind caught up.

Yuki’s door wasn’t locked. Inside, the air was heavy, suffocating, charged with something primal Esteban didn’t understand until too late.

“Yuki?” he called, tentative.

A sound came from the bedroom. Esteban pushed the door open—then froze.

Yuki lay curled in sweat-damp sheets, breath shallow and fractured, his fists twisted in the fabric as if sheer will could keep him together. His eyes cracked open, unfocused but pleading.

“Esteban,” he whispered, voice raw and broken. “Please… don’t leave me alone.”

And it clicked.
The weight in the air.
The crack in Yuki’s voice.
The truth Pierre hadn’t said.

Omega.

Esteban’s world stopped.

The air was heavy, pressing down on his lungs. He knew this feeling, knew the stories whispered in corners, the way society built itself on invisible hierarchies. But never—not once—had he expected to walk into it here. Not with Yuki.

“Yuki…” The name tore out of him, hoarse, unsure. He stepped closer, slow, careful. “Are you—are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Yuki’s breath hitched, uneven. His knuckles whitened against the sheets. “Being in heat sucks,” he muttered, voice cracking, eyes half-shut. “It—hurts. It’s messy. It makes me feel weak.” He swallowed hard, trembling. “Only my family knows. Honda… the higher-ups at Red Bull. Pierre, of course. No one else. No one can.” His laugh was hollow, bitter. “Now you too. Guess I’m finished.”

The words crashed through Esteban, louder than the thunder of any race start.

An omega.
On the grid.
Hidden in plain sight.

He thought of the system that had shut doors in his face for being a beta. The constant grind to prove himself, the subtle rejections, the way respect was rationed out depending on what biology had stamped into your body before you even had a choice. He thought of how impossible it had felt—yet somehow he was here.

And Yuki… Yuki was below even him in that brutal ranking. Omegas weren’t supposed to be strong, weren’t supposed to fight their way in, weren’t supposed to last. They were meant to be protected, contained, and sidelined. And yet here Yuki was—small, sweating, breaking apart under something he had been forced to face alone.

The ground shifted under Esteban’s feet. What did that make him? All his excuses about being a beta, all his resentment—Yuki had been climbing an even steeper mountain, with knives at his back every step. And still, he laughed, teased, raced with a fire that could scorch circuits clean.

Esteban’s chest ached. He sat on the edge of the bed before he even realized he’d moved.

“You’re…” His throat closed. He tried again, steadier this time. “You’re incredible, Yuki. Do you understand that?”

Yuki blinked at him, dazed, vulnerable. “Incredible? I’m pathetic. Can’t even handle this. Can’t even—” His voice broke.

Esteban shook his head fiercely. “No. You’ve been carrying this in a world that would tear you apart for it. Do you know how much strength that takes? To keep going, to still smile, to fight them all every weekend and still come back stronger?”

Yuki’s eyes shone wet, his hand trembling as it caught at Esteban’s sleeve. “…You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Esteban’s voice rang harder than he expected, like he was convincing himself as much as Yuki. “Every word.”

Yuki clung tighter, small but unyielding. “Stay. Please.”

Something cracked in Esteban’s chest. He wanted to give in, to let himself fall into that closeness that tugged at him like gravity. But he remembered. Pierre. The one who had called. The one who had trusted him to be here. The one who had always been standing between Yuki and the rest of the world.

Esteban’s hand rested gently over Yuki’s. “I’ll stay,” he said softly. “But remember—it was Pierre who asked me to come. He’s on his way back with what you need. Let’s wait for him together.”

The city buzzed faintly outside, but in the small room, time stilled. Yuki’s grip loosened just a little, eyes fluttering shut again. And Esteban stayed, steady, torn, caught in a shift he couldn’t undo—waiting for Pierre.

–

The silence stretched, broken only by Yuki’s ragged breaths. Esteban stayed beside him, steady, offering presence more than words, anything to ease the crushing weight in the room.

Then the door burst open.

Pierre strode in, damp hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising sharp with exertion, a small bag clutched tight in his hand. His gaze locked instantly onto Yuki—and softened, almost breaking.

“Yuki,” he breathed, moving across the room in quick strides. He sank onto the opposite side of the bed, opening the bag with hurried but careful hands. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. I’m here now.”

The air shifted—hard.
Esteban felt it before he even processed it: Pierre’s alpha presence flooding the room, no longer subtle, no longer restrained. It pressed against his skin like static, instinctive, protective.

And it was aimed at him.

Pierre’s eyes finally cut toward him, sharp, territorial. “Why are you here?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, low and edged. His jaw clenched, words bitten back, but the implication was clear. Too close. Too near his omega.

The sting was immediate. Esteban’s chest tightened, shame mixing with anger. He wanted to snap back—that he hadn’t asked to be here, that Pierre had called him, trusted him—but the words stuck in his throat. Because this was the hierarchy. Because Pierre was alpha. Because Esteban had always been reminded of where he belonged.

He started to shift back, to stand—

“Pierre.” Yuki’s voice cracked through the haze, soft but commanding in a way that made both men pause. His fingers clung tighter to Esteban’s sleeve. “Stop.”

Pierre froze. The feral edge in his aura faltered as he looked down, finding Yuki’s trembling eyes fixed on him. “He… he stayed. With me. I asked him to.”

The words cut sharper than any reprimand. Pierre’s gaze wavered, guilt threading into his expression. His aura pulled back, no longer oppressive but uncertain, almost ashamed.

Slowly, Pierre exhaled, pressing the suppressant into Yuki’s hand and helping him drink it down. His touch gentled, brushing sweat-matted hair from Yuki’s face, murmuring something soft in French. The roughness from moments ago seemed to dissolve into the tenderness Esteban had never thought him capable of showing.

When Yuki sagged against Pierre’s chest, calmer now, Pierre finally looked at Esteban again. Not sharp this time. Hesitant. Apologetic.

“…I’m sorry,” Pierre said quietly, the words awkward but sincere. “Instinct. I shouldn’t have—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Thank you. For being here.”

Esteban swallowed, the ache still raw in his chest. He gave the smallest nod, not trusting himself to say more.

And yet Yuki didn’t let go. One hand curled against Pierre’s shirt, the other still clinging stubbornly to Esteban’s sleeve.

So Esteban stayed.

The three of them sat in fragile silence—Pierre’s protective presence wrapping around them, Yuki nestled safely, Esteban tethered by nothing more than Yuki’s hand and Pierre’s uneasy trust.

He still felt like an outsider, not quite belonging. The divide was there, carved deep by instinct and memory.

But for the first time, the distance didn’t feel impossible.
For the first time, he felt closer.

–

Night week in Spain, lights glittered even brighter under the chandeliers of the hotel ballroom, glass clinks and polished laughter weaving through the air. The annual business gala was as much a part of race week as qualifying or strategy briefings—where teams courted sponsors, where deals were whispered over champagne, where the entire world of Formula 1 dressed itself in tuxedos and masks of civility.

Esteban stood with Pierre and Yuki, the three of them an unlikely cluster near the center of the room. Yuki leaned slightly against Pierre, a wine glass in hand, teasing him about his bowtie being crooked, while Esteban added the occasional polite smile to their banter. It was almost easy, for a moment. Almost.

Until a voice cut through the hum.

“Well. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Esteban turned, the polite smile already practiced. The man before them was a well-groomed businessman, one he recognized—connected to one of the sport’s bigger sponsors. His handshake was sharp, his expression polite, but the glint in his eyes wasn’t.

“Esteban Ocon,” the businessman said, voice lined with surprise that wasn’t pleasant. His handshake lingered on Pierre before his eyes slid to Esteban. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you here. Not in this circle. Quite a leap—from… what was it, again?” He let the pause hang, eyes gleaming with false politeness. “From failed prospects to holding a manager’s badge.”

It was a jab, dressed up as small talk. And Esteban knew it.

He kept his face neutral, polite. “Good evening.”

But inside, his stomach twisted. He knew that tone, that veiled disdain. He’d heard it a hundred times, from sponsors who never picked him, from journalists who’d written him off, from colleagues who only saw him as Pierre’s shadow now.

The man didn’t stop. “Of course, every empire needs a loyal lieutenant. You must be grateful to Pierre, hm? To still have a place in this world at all.”

Esteban’s jaw locked. He smiled—professional, measured—but it didn’t reach his eyes. He could feel Yuki shift beside him, tension in his small frame, but he said nothing.

Pierre, though—Pierre’s hand landed firm on Esteban’s shoulder. His voice was steady, but his words cut sharp enough to silence the air around them.

“Grateful?” Pierre repeated. “If anything, I’m the one grateful. Esteban is the reason I’m here, the reason Alpine even breathes in half these rooms. He’s one of the sharpest managers in this sport. Without him, I’d be ten steps behind.”

The businessman blinked, caught off guard, but Pierre didn’t give him space to recover. His smile was bright, disarming, but his tone left no room for doubt. “You don’t last in F1 without people like him. And some of us are smart enough to know it.”

Murmurs rippled among nearby guests, the scene noticed, absorbed. The man excused himself with a tight smile, retreating into the crowd.

Pierre still looked the part of a polished alpha, but Esteban saw the protective glint beneath. He’d defended him. Publicly. Fiercely.

And yet—Esteban felt hollow. He’d stood there, silent, letting himself be defended like a child. Like someone who couldn’t hold his own weight.

His professional smile crumbled into something blank, drained.

Pierre caught it, sharp as ever. “We’re done here,” he said, then placed a hand against Yuki’s back and motioned for Esteban to follow. They slipped from the circle, leaving whispers in their wake.

Outside the main hall, quieter now, Yuki touched Esteban’s arm. “Are you okay? Ignore him, Esteban. You’re better than what they said—”

But it was too late. The cracks had already split open. The words poured out before he could stop them.

“It’s not that simple, Yuki,” Esteban snapped, voice low but laced with venom. “You don’t get it. You’ve never had to get it. Everything for me has been a fight, every step a reminder that I don’t belong, that I’m the outsider. Do you think a few kind words fix that? Do you think—” He choked off, but the damage was done. His gaze cut to Yuki, who stood frozen, wide-eyed.

Yuki’s lips parted, as if to answer, but nothing came. His hand dropped from Esteban’s sleeve. His gaze lowered, shoulders curling in, a tremble running through him like a shutter about to break.

And Esteban realized.
Too late.

His stomach turned. “Fuck—Yuki, I didn’t—” His voice cracked, desperation clinging. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

But the look on Yuki’s face—the way his eyes shone, the way he looked down to hide the tears—shattered him.

Esteban stepped back, stumbling on the polished floor. “I’m so sorry.” His throat burned. He turned away, walking fast, then faster, weaving through the corridors as if he moved quickly enough, maybe he could outrun the wreckage.

He didn’t see Pierre until he was shoved.

The force sent him half a step back, nearly into the wall. Pierre’s hand was on his chest, his eyes blazing with something raw and dangerous.

“What the fuck did you say to him?” Pierre’s voice was low, trembling with restrained rage. His aura flared sharply, all professionalism stripped, only alpha instinct left. “What the fuck did you do to my omega?”

Esteban froze, breath caught, the words spearing straight through him. His mind replayed Yuki’s face, the tremble, the unshed tears. The truth in Pierre’s voice cut deeper than the shove ever could.

“Oh,” Esteban whispered. The world tilted. Memories of the quiet night in the hotel, of Yuki’s hand clinging to his sleeve, of Pierre’s reluctant trust—they all collapsed into ash. He ruined it. He ruined everything.

“He’s my omega, Esteban. My omega . You think I’d let anyone hurt him— you hurt him—and walk away?”

Esteban’s throat closed. His chest ached like the words had been branded into him. He couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet Pierre’s.

Because Pierre was right. He’d ruined everything.

Memories of laughter, of trust, of small, fragile bonds—they splintered in that moment, collapsing under the weight of his own bitterness.

Pierre’s jaw clenched hard, his nostrils flaring. For a heartbeat, Esteban thought he’d swing, that the fury would spill into violence. But Pierre only dropped his hand, stepped back, chest heaving, then turned on his heel without waiting for an answer. His aura retreated with him, leaving only the echo of his anger behind.

Esteban stood there, staring at the polished floor, his reflection fractured in the marble tiles.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice breaking, the weight of it all pressing down until he could barely breathe.

Fuck.

He’d destroyed it all.

–

The months between Spain and Zandvoort were a blur of silence.

Esteban kept his walls high—higher than ever. He didn’t just avoid Pierre; he avoided the entire Alpine garage when he could, working through intermediaries, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The staff noticed. Of course they did. The way conversations froze when he entered, how laughter dimmed and eyes flickered between him and Pierre like the air itself was brittle.

And Yuki…
Every time Yuki tried to approach, Esteban turned sharp, professional, gone before a word could be exchanged. He ran in the way only a man who knew how to survive inside systems colder than him could. He ran because he couldn’t risk what would spill if he stayed.

By the time Zandvoort came, the silence felt permanent.

But the Dutch crowd didn’t care about silence. The stands had been oceans of orange, engines screaming, hearts beating faster than the cars themselves. And when the flag fell, Max took second on the podium, but it was Yuki who carried the day in his own way.

P9.

After nine brutal races, nine weeks of watching bad luck and worse strategy strip him bare in front of cameras, he’d done it. Points. Real, undeniable points.

Esteban had seen the way the relief softened him in the media pen, how his grin cracked wide and genuine when the question came. No hiding. No bitterness. Just pure, earned joy.

And despite everything—despite the chasm he’d dug between himself and them—Esteban felt it too. That flicker of pride, sharp and unshakable. Because no matter how hard he tried to keep his distance, he couldn’t help but to care. Not about Yuki. Not when he’d fought this hard, bled this much, and finally tasted something sweet.

–

Esteban hadn’t planned on it. He never did.
For years, he’d skipped every after-race party, every half-hearted invitation, every chance to lose himself in the blur of lights and bass. That wasn’t his place, he’d told himself. Not anymore.

But tonight—tonight something cracked.
Too many weeks of biting his tongue, of swallowing the sharpness lodged in his chest, of feeling like the world had moved on without him. He told himself he just needed noise, distraction, somewhere to let the pressure bleed out before it ate him alive.

So, for the first time, he said yes.
He went with the Alpine crew, letting himself be dragged into a private club where music pulsed hard enough to vibrate bone. A drink in hand, the weight in his shoulders eased—just a fraction.

He didn’t know Pierre and Yuki would be there.
Didn’t know Yuki, flushed with victory and alcohol, would drag Pierre through the crowd and spot him like fate itself had been waiting.

Until Yuki found him.

“Este!”

The sound cut through the noise, bright, reckless. Yuki stumbled toward him, glass sloshing with the vivid orange-red of a Negroni, grin wide and glassy. He smelled it before he felt it—sweet, ripened peach tangled with amber root, blooming uncontrolled in the heat of the room. It slammed into Esteban’s senses like a punch.

He barely had time to set down his own drink before Yuki collided into him, light but certain, pressing that scent into Esteban’s shirt, his skin, his lungs.

“You’re so cute,” Yuki slurred, words heavy but not cruel. Honest in the unguarded way only alcohol and pheromones are allowed. “Prettiest beta I’ve ever seen.”

The world tilted. Esteban’s fingers tightened on Yuki’s shoulders, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His throat locked around words he didn’t have. Betas weren’t supposed to want this. They weren’t supposed to feel pulled under. But he was drowning.

And then—Pierre.

The alpha slid in close, steady as stone, hands firm at Yuki’s waist, pulling him gently back. Cinnamon hit the air, sharp and grounding, wrapping over Yuki’s sweetness until the room felt less like drowning and more like fire contained. Esteban looked up, expecting a smirk, a jab, anything sharp enough to slice him away.

But Pierre’s eyes were steady. Serious. Watching him.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, certain, the kind that cut through music and chatter alike. 

“I think we should go.”

Esteban’s chest caved in on itself. He couldn’t form words, as if he couldn’t even think.

He should have avoided them.

He’d told himself that for months now. That they had their lives, their circle, their world, and he had his. That nothing good would come of slipping too close again. He was supposed to stay away.

But instead, he only nodded.

Only nodded, too raw, too undone.

Yuki still clung to his sleeve, and Pierre’s gaze pinned him in place, silent, unreadable.

So he went.

–

The hotel room was quiet after the blur of lights and music, the silence so sudden it made Esteban’s ears ring.

Pierre guided Yuki inside with a steady hand at his back. Yuki was still flushed, his smile softened but not gone, scent spilling warm and thick into the space like it belonged there.

Esteban hovered by the door, uncertain, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. He hadn’t planned to follow this far, hadn’t planned to see this. But Pierre had glanced back at him in the hallway—steady, unreadable—and Esteban hadn’t been able to turn away.

“Sit,” Pierre said finally, not harsh, not a command—just certain, the way he always was.
And somehow Esteban listened.

The bed dipped as Yuki all but collapsed onto it, laughing softly to himself before curling up, face pressed to the pillow. His scent still poured into the room, peach and amber clinging to every breath Esteban took until his head spun.

Pierre pulled the covers over him with the ease of someone who had done this before. Then, after a moment, he sat too—on the edge of the mattress, shoulders heavy, exhaling like the night had taken more from him than he wanted to admit.

Esteban stayed where he was, stiff-backed in the chair, hands clenched in his lap. He felt out of place and yet… not unwelcome.

Yuki shifted, eyes half-lidded but clear enough to find him again.
“Este,” he murmured, voice softer now, words sticky with exhaustion. His hand fumbled at the sheets until it found Esteban’s sleeve and tugged. Not letting go.

The simple contact sent something sharp and fragile through him.
“I—” Esteban started, but his throat locked.

Pierre’s gaze caught his. Not sharp, not warning—just steady, weighted.
“We’ve been trying to find ways to get to you,” he said at last, voice low. “But you avoid us so well. Even when we’re close, you put up such a thick wall.” A pause, then the faintest curve at his mouth. “I guess Yuki had enough tonight. Drunk, but still smart—dragging you in while you were buzzed.”

Esteban blinked, breath caught. “…So you both don’t hate me.” The words slipped out, raw, smaller than he meant.

Pierre’s brows lifted faintly, almost offended. “No. We never hated you. Not once.” His tone softened, but it stayed firm. “But it’s best we talk in the morning.”

No schedule. No cameras. No team briefings. Just the three of them, in this quiet room heavy with unspoken truths.

Esteban swallowed hard. The tension in his chest ached, but for once, he didn’t pull away. He let Yuki’s fingers hold him there, let the warmth of his scent wrap too close, too deep.

The room dimmed to the soft hum of the city outside. Yuki’s breathing evened, caught between sleep and wake. Pierre stayed still beside him, shoulders steady, scent calm and protective.

And Esteban—sitting too close, too tangled to deny it anymore—realized he was no longer standing outside their circle.
He was inside it. Finally, dangerously, inevitably inside it.

Chapter Text

Esteban woke to weight.

At first it was only the hangover pressing down—dull pain at the base of his skull, tongue heavy, throat raw. The aftertaste of liquor clung to his mouth like regret, and his body ached with the aftermath of a night too loud, too blurred.

But then he registered the warmth.

Yuki was curled into his chest, small and solid, head tucked beneath Esteban’s chin like it had always belonged there. One arm was looped tight around Esteban’s waist, refusing to let go even in sleep. His scent had spilled everywhere—sweet peach and amber, ripened by the heat of the night, softened now into something warm and devastating.

And beyond Yuki, another weight.

Pierre’s arm stretched over Esteban, hand resting easily at Yuki’s hip, holding them together as though this shape was familiar, practiced. His scent lingered calm and grounding, protective in a way Esteban had always envied, always avoided.

Esteban froze. Panic surged sharp into his chest. He shouldn’t be here. He’d told himself that for years, built entire walls of distance on it. This knot of closeness wasn’t his. It couldn’t be.

But before he could even try to move, Yuki stirred.

A soft groan slipped from him, muffled against Esteban’s shirt. “Ugh… I shouldn’t have been drinking…” He shifted, pressing his face harder into Esteban’s chest like that would block out the headache.

The sound knocked the panic sideways, replacing it with something else—something fragile and dangerous.

Pierre’s voice followed, low and rough with sleep, scraping like gravel. “You say that every time.”

The sound ran through Esteban like a wire. He almost shivered, mortified at how it struck him.

Yuki huffed, eyes scrunching. “Doesn’t make it less true…”

Esteban’s hands twitched. He should move, he should run, but Yuki’s grip only tightened, refusing him that escape. And then—half-lidded, bleary eyes blinked up at him.

“Este,” Yuki murmured, voice scratchy-soft. “You’re here?”

The words cracked something open in him. He swallowed hard. “I… shouldn’t be.”

Yuki frowned, gaze steady even in sleep-heavy fog. “Why not?”

Esteban tried to form the words that had protected him for so long—because this isn’t mine, because you hate me, because I broke it all. But what came out, raw and uneven, was:

“I thought you hated me.”

Yuki blinked once. Twice. And then—shockingly—he laughed. Soft, incredulous, almost tender. “Hate you? Este…” His smile twisted, embarrassed, as if the thought itself was absurd. “I—ah.” His cheeks pinked, and he suddenly buried half his face into the pillow. “Shit. The negroni. After the race. God…” His scent spiked sharp with embarrassment, sweet and hot. “Don’t blame me, okay? I needed it. P9, finally, I just… celebrated too hard.”

Esteban’s pulse hammered. The memory burned back into him—Yuki at the bar, drunk but electric, leaning too close, hands cupping on his cheeks, the warmth still there to the morning, words spilling like sparks. Prettiest Beta—had thought he imagined it, blushing creeps in, not to mention the buzz, that it was just the alcohol clouding the moment. But Yuki’s blush told him it was real.

Pierre’s voice, steady and low, cut through the static. “He meant it. Drunk or not.”

“Pierre!” Yuki groaned, smacking weakly at him without looking up. “Don’t say it like that!” His face was crimson now, scent wrapping thicker around Esteban like heat.

Esteban could barely think past it, his body caught between running and leaning closer. His voice cracked when it finally slipped free. “I thought… It was too late. That I ruined it. That what happened—Spain, all of it—it broke everything.”

Silence followed. Heavy.

And then Yuki’s head lifted, eyes suddenly sharp awake despite the hangover. “No,” he said, firm, too certain to be anything but truth. “I never blamed you for Spain. Not once.”

Esteban flinched. The memory was still jagged—contracts, a businessman’s smile sharp as knives, the sudden split that had left everything bitter. He had worn Yuki’s anger in his head for years, convinced it was deserved.

But Yuki shook his head, fierce. “That businessman was shit. Everyone knew it. That was never on you. If anything—” His voice softened, raw around the edges. “That was the first time I finally saw you. The real you. Not the walls, not the polished lines, not what you thought you had to be. You were angry. You were hurt. You were honest. And I…” He stopped, cheeks flushing again, gaze dropping. “I wanted more of that. Of you.”

Pierre stirred then, his hand brushing over Yuki’s hip, grounding them both. He didn’t speak immediately, only looked at Esteban—steady, unreadable, but not unkind. Not once had he interrupted, and somehow that silence spoke more than words: he was here too. He had always been here too.

“I thought you hated me,” Esteban whispered again, smaller now.

Yuki met his eyes, steady this time. “Never. My feelings… they were never the reason to hate. If anything, they were the reason I—” He cut himself short, biting his lip hard. Then, quieter, a whisper: “They were the reason I never gave up on you.”

Yuki sat up a little, hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed from too much alcohol and too little sleep, but his gaze steady in the pale morning light. His voice trembled, but not with doubt.

“Este,” he said, deliberate. “Me and Pierre… we like you. Both of us. And if you wanted—if you’d let yourself—” He swallowed hard, cheeks hot again. “We’d like you to be with us.”

The words hung heavy, impossible, fragile.

Esteban’s breath caught sharp in his chest. For years, he’d buried every trace of that longing under practicality, under the brutal necessity of survival. He had told himself it was foolish, that Yuki hated him, that Pierre would never—could never—let him close again. He had starved himself of it until the ache became habit.

And now Yuki had said it. Out loud.

Not as a joke, not blurred in liquor, not implied in stolen glances. Said, real, undeniable.

He couldn’t speak. His throat burned with it, his hands shook with it. The longing he had carried all these years pressed hard against his ribs, desperate to escape.

Pierre shifted then, propping himself on one elbow, his arm still stretched easily over them both. His gaze met Esteban’s—steady, calm, patient. “We don’t need to decide everything now,” he said quietly. “No rush. We can take it slow. But… it’s real. You don’t have to wonder anymore.”

Something cracked in Esteban at that. The endless uncertainty, the constant second-guessing, the wall of distance he had built to keep himself from shattering—it all trembled, thin as glass.

Yuki leaned back against him, stubborn even in his hangover. “Don’t think too much,” he muttered, softer now. “We want you. That’s it. That’s all.”

Esteban shut his eyes. For the first time in years, the ache in his chest eased—not gone, but loosened, made breathable.

They weren’t asking him to leap. They weren’t demanding promises. Only opening a door, wide enough for him to step through when he was ready.

And Esteban, trembling, undone, let the truth settle inside him:

This was the beginning.

The beginning  he had ever dared hope.

–

For Pierre, Esteban had always been the boy with too much fire in his chest and nowhere safe to put it.

They’d grown up chasing the same dream on Norman backroads slick with rain, too wild, too young, always half a second from disaster. They pushed each other in battered karts and rusted cars, their rivalry toxic and electric all at once, each race a declaration of I can beat you, I will beat you, but also don’t leave me behind.

And then Esteban disappeared.

No phone call. No explanation. Just… gone. His family moved away, swallowed whole by the rumors of contracts and better opportunities, leaving Pierre staring at an empty garage, a missing voice in the paddock, a silence that rang louder than engines.

For years, he tried not to think about it. Tried to let the bitterness calcify into something he could laugh off. He heard things, of course—whispers of Esteban working under Mercedes, directly under Wolff, not as a driver but something else, something Pierre didn’t bother to chase down. A Beta manager with a reputation for smoothing chaos, handling egos, keeping entire programs steady without ever stepping into the light.

It wasn’t enough to spark his interest. Not compared to the hollow weight of being abandoned without a word.

Until 2025, after more than a decade, now in Alpine HQ.

“Mr. Ocon,” one of the higher ups who he followed to the manager's office said, voice clipped, formal. “This is Mr. Gasly. He will be the man you will manage for the future.”

Pierre had walked in wearing his Alpha mask like armor—shoulders squared, smirk set sharp, ready to charm or fight, whichever the room demanded. But it slipped the moment his eyes landed on the man behind the desk.

Esteban Ocon.

Older, polished, but unmistakable.

Pierre froze in the doorway, pulse stuttering.

Esteban didn’t.

He looked up from the folder in his hands with the kind of calm that didn’t belong to the boy Pierre remembered. Professional. Beta-steady. “Mr. Gasly,” he said smoothly, his voice even, untouched by surprise.

Pierre’s throat went tight. He didn’t know what he expected—anger, relief, recognition, anything—but not this distance. Not this performance so flawless it made Pierre’s chest ache.

“Gasly,” Esteban repeated, adding a small, practiced smile that was sharp enough to sting.

Pierre forced the word out. “Ocon.” His tone betrayed him, too tight, Alpha cadence pressing instinctively against the neutral calm.

He stepped forward, hand extended, and Esteban rose to meet him. Every movement was deliberate, precise, measured. Their handshake was firm, professional, utterly detached. Cold.

Pierre searched—desperately, against his will—for cracks. Some flicker of recognition, some reminder of the boy who once whispered plans into the night, who once smiled like racing was salvation instead of currency.

There were none.

This man was not that boy. Not the rival who had pushed him harder than anyone, not the friend who had once carried half his dream.

And that realization hit Pierre harder than any race loss ever had.

Because in that moment, staring into Esteban’s unreadable face, Pierre realized he cared. He cared that Esteban was untouchable now, that the fire had been hidden behind glass, that the past had been locked away somewhere he couldn’t reach.

And for the first time in years, Pierre felt the weight of what it meant to have lost him.

–

The confession was gone, now, back at Alpine, life fell into its rhythm again.

Race after race, meeting after meeting, everything slotted back into its grooves as if nothing had changed. Pierre trained, raced, smiled for cameras. Esteban drafted contracts, prepared brand strategies, and kept an endless web of logistics from unraveling.

Sometimes, he forgot how much of himself he had given to Pierre’s career. How every piece of scheduling, every negotiation, every brand opportunity passed through his hands. He was the stabiliser—not just a manager, but the constant that made sure Pierre’s orbit never slipped. And now, with the fragile shift in their relationship, it felt… different. Not heavier, not easier—just more theirs.

They never spoke of their past. Not yet.

But they didn’t need to. For now, they walked slowly, deliberately, letting things unfold.

Yuki, meanwhile, threw himself into work at Red Bull, his schedule brutal with simulator hours and factory sessions. His absence left a gap. On the days the three of them ate together, it felt effortless—Yuki’s chatter smoothing over every silence. But without him, Esteban and Pierre sometimes found themselves in quiet that was not uncomfortable, but… careful. Aware. They both knew the feelings were there, circling like a storm still far from shore. They both knew it would take more than a confession to rebuild what had broken once.

Singapore, humid and heavy, offered its own pause. The hum of the city is dulled by the hotel’s heavy air-conditioning. Yuki was swept away by fan events, his popularity rising in ways that neither of them begrudged. Pierre buried himself in training runs, sweat slicking his temples by the time he returned to the hotel suite. Esteban sat by the desk, headphones on, lost in spreadsheets, his laptop screen spilling light across his face. 

Pierre came back from training flushed, shirt sticking to his back, towel slung around his neck. Esteban hardly noticed—he was hunched at the desk, headphones on, eyes narrowed at spreadsheets and emails. He didn’t notice Pierre until something dropped onto the desk beside him. A small, crinkling packet.

Esteban blinked, tugged off his headphones, and stared. Taffy. The kind he hadn’t seen in years. A packet of taffy. Bright, expensive, imported—the kind that came from Europe, not the cheap knock-offs. when he was a boy living out of a caravan, had been an impossible luxury—something he’d catch sight of at markets, too expensive, too far out of reach.

Esteban’s breath hitched. “You—” He looked up sharply in shock, surprise expression openly shown on his face.

“Where did you find this?” His voice cracked sharper than intended.

Pierre shrugged, towel still slung around his neck. “Mall nearby. There’s an international candy store. Saw it in the window and thought of you.”

Esteban picked it up like it was fragile, like it might melt if he touched too hard. The memory hit sharp and sudden—Normandy, years ago, both of them kids with nothing but a racing dream and empty pockets. Pierre had been the one who sometimes found a way to get the good candy, passing it over without explanation, just a quick grin like it was nothing. For Esteban, it had been everything. He tore the corner of the wrapper open, the scent of sugar slipping into the room. And then—he laughed. A little startled, a little incredulous, his shoulders shaking as he tipped his head back.  Something in his chest tugged loose, soft and unguarded. He looked up, and for once, he didn’t hide the smile that broke across his face. Genuine. Wide.

“Pierre, you absolute idiot,” he managed between soft chuckles, pressing a hand to his face. “You don’t have to go buy this for me.”

Something inside him—something small and buried, something inner beta—lit up, warm and steady. His alpha, god, his alpha had thought of him. Had gone out of his way to bring him something as simple and as impossible as taffy.

Pierre shifted, uncomfortable in his own skin, but unable to hide the way his chest swelled at the reaction. His scent—calm and sharp after training—slipped, grew sweeter, richer, like honey warming in the air. His alpha pride flared, unguarded, soaking in Esteban’s laugh, his smile, the happiness he so rarely let anyone see.

Esteban blinked, nose twitching. He froze, wrapper still between his fingers. “…Wait. Why does it suddenly smell so sweet here? It’s not—” he waved the taffy at him, half accusing, half teasing, “—from this, is it?”

Pierre stiffened. Heat touched the back of his neck. He turned away, pretending to rummage through his bag. “It’s nothing,” he muttered too quickly.

Esteban’s eyes widened, then narrowed, lips parting in dawning realisation. He didn’t push, didn’t mock, not really. But his laugh came again, softer now, slipping out between words.

“You did,” he said, wonder slipping through. “You actually did. You’re—” He broke off, shaking his head, almost giddy in disbelief. “God, Pierre.”

He popped the candy into his mouth, letting the sugar melt thick on his tongue. The taste was sharp with memory, achingly sweet. And under it, layered and undeniable, was Pierre’s scent—sweeter than any candy could ever be.

Esteban didn’t call it out again. He just sat back, smiling in a way he hadn’t in years, something in him preening at the thought that Pierre, his Pierre, had given this to him. And Pierre, despite his embarrassment, sat taller, steadier, soaking in the glow like it was the only fuel he needed.

–

The next morning came too fast, sunlight sneaking through the hotel curtains in narrow bands. Esteban had managed a few hours of sleep at best, but he felt oddly lighter.

By the time he and Pierre made their way down to the paddock for media day, the buzz of engines and chatter of journalists had already started filling the air. Yuki was there first, perched on a folding chair with a coffee in hand, sunglasses too big for his face and a grin tugging at his lips.

He spotted them immediately.

“What were you two doing yesterday?” Yuki asked, voice sharp with mischief even through the yawn that followed.

Pierre stiffened beside Esteban, shoulders locking just enough to be noticeable. “Nothing,” he said too quickly, a little too firmly.

That only made Yuki’s grin widen. “Liar. You’re acting weird. Tell me!” He leaned forward, practically bouncing in his seat, whining like a kid being denied dessert.

Esteban couldn’t help it—his smile broke through before he could stop it, remembering the memory of the day before. Pierre and his candy, that sweet, unintentional slip of scent, the way it had knocked the air right out of him.

“Nothing important,” Esteban said, trying to maintain casual, though the curve of his lips betrayed him.

“Tell me!” Yuki whined again, stretching the word out, stomping one foot against the ground for emphasis.

Pierre turned his face away, the tips of his ears flushed red, clearly not about to offer anything. Esteban only chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, and Yuki groaned dramatically at being kept in the dark.

–

Milan always felt different after a race weekend. The air was calmer, the streets slower, the weight of performance left behind in Singapore’s heat. Yuki stretched out on the couch, legs kicked over the armrest, watching Esteban and Pierre in the kitchen.

It had been his idea, really. If we’re a couple, and Este is with us, then he shouldn’t keep staying in a hotel like some stranger. Simple. Obvious. Yuki wasn’t about to let Esteban keep hovering on the outside anymore.

So Esteban had started staying here too.

At first, it was awkward. Esteban moved like he was afraid to touch anything that wasn’t his. But slowly, little by little, he settled. His jacket found a place on the rack. His laptop charger stayed by the table. He’d even cooked a few times.

Yuki smirked at the memory of that first dinner—the house smelled faintly of dinner, Esteban’s latest attempt in the kitchen. Not terrible, not spectacular—just solid, which, of course, made Yuki puff up and declare his superiority as “real chef of the house.” Pierre had nearly choked on his wine laughing at how seriously Yuki took it, while Esteban only muttered something under his breath, ears tinged pink.

Now, though, they were sprawled in the living room after dinner, controllers in hand. Mario Kart blared from the TV, the three of them deep into a race, controllers clicked in frantic rhythm as Mario Kart filled the living room with shouts.

“Not fair!” Yuki yelped, glaring at the screen. “You targeted me!”

Esteban’s voice was level, but the little spark in his eyes betrayed him. “You were in first place. That’s the game.”

“Unbelievable.” Yuki slumped back dramatically.

Pierre was less vocal, but Yuki noticed the way his jaw clenched every time Esteban’s kart slid past his. Competitive streak, always. And Esteban—calm, ruthless, almost too focused—made it worse.

By the time they pulled out Monopoly, Pierre thought he was ready. Yuki thought he knew what was coming. Neither of them did.

Esteban played like it was war.

He didn’t just buy properties—he cornered them. He didn’t just collect rent—he milked it, every turn, every chance, as if the board itself bowed to his strategy. His voice never rose, but each move was precise, sharp, inevitable.

Pierre leaned forward, brow furrowed as Esteban placed a hotel with quiet satisfaction. “You planned that three turns ago, didn’t you?”

Esteban only shrugged, stacking his bills with unnerving neatness. “I warned you not to buy the railroads.”

Yuki groaned, throwing himself back onto the couch. “I hate this game. He’s evil. We’re living with a villain.”

But Pierre didn’t look away. He studied Esteban, really studied him—the careful mind, the edge of pride, the hint of satisfaction he didn’t bother hiding.

This wasn’t the lanky boy from Normandy he remembered. This was Esteban the manager, the one who sat in Alpine boardrooms across from men twice his age and didn’t blink, the one who’d carved a place for himself out of sheer force.

Pierre swallowed, feeling the sting of loss as Esteban bankrupted him with an almost apologetic glance.

“You’re relentless,” Pierre muttered, softer than he meant to.

Esteban hesitated, lips parting just slightly, before he leaned back and gathered his winnings. “It’s just Monopoly.”

But the air between them stretched tighter. Yuki caught it, watching from the corner of his eye—the tension, the awareness neither of them quite knew what to do with.

Later, when the game lay abandoned and they ended up curled together on the couch, Yuki pressed against Esteban’s side, Pierre close enough that his shoulder brushed Esteban’s. Pierre’s hand twitched once, like he wanted to move it, then stilled. Esteban’s breathing slowed, steady but too steady, like control was all he had left to hold onto.

Yuki buried his grin in his sleeve. Oh, he saw it. The way Pierre looked at Esteban like he was still trying to reconcile the man in front of him with the boy he’d lost. The way Esteban refused to meet Pierre’s eyes, but leaned infinitesimally closer anyway.

An idea bloomed, dangerous and sweet.

He pulled out his phone, muffling a giggle into his sleeve. Pierre and Esteban barely noticed, half-asleep already.

“Hey,” he whispered into the receiver when his friend picked up, voice gleeful. “Do you know any good places for a date? I wanna set some people up.”

His grin widened, eyes flicking toward the two men beside him.

No such thing as too many lovers when you can love more, Yuki thought smugly. And if it took a little scheming to make Esteban see he belonged here, fully, completely—well, he was more than up for it.

–

Two weeks before Austin, promotion week had them all scattered like chess pieces across the American south. Yuki was swallowed whole by Red Bull duties the moment they landed, pulled from fan signing to energy drink photo ops with barely time to breathe.

Which was why Esteban and Pierre found themselves standing in a hotel lobby when Yuki appeared with a grin too wide for his own good.

“Here,” Yuki said, shoving two slips of paper into their hands.

Pierre blinked. “Tickets?”

“Theme park.” Yuki crossed his arms, smug.

Esteban frowned. “Where’s yours?”

Yuki’s grin sharpened. “Oh, no. Not mine. Yours. Date.” He pivoted on his heel before they could protest. “Y’all go on a theme park date. Bye-bye!”

The glass doors slid shut behind him, leaving silence.

Pierre looked at the ticket in his hand, then at Esteban. “This omega…”

Esteban sighed, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. “We can’t say no. He’d sulk for weeks.”

So they went.

—

The park was loud, bright, sticky with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. Kids darted between stalls, teenagers shrieked on roller coasters, music thudded from tinny speakers.

Pierre tugged Esteban into line for the first ride, smirking when Esteban’s hand clenched the safety bar a little too tightly.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of heights,” Pierre teased, voice low in his ear as the coaster clicked upward.

Esteban shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but when the drop came he shouted louder than anyone else. Pierre laughed so hard his stomach hurt, tears running down his face.

Later it was Esteban’s turn, dragging Pierre into a haunted house where the jumpscares left Pierre swearing in rapid French. Esteban laughed until his sides ached, every sharp edge in him softening under neon lights and candy-sticky air.

By the time the sun dipped low and the ferris wheel loomed over the park, neither wanted to admit how much fun they’d had.

They climbed into the cabin, the door clanking shut behind them. The wheel jerked, then began its slow ascent.

For a while, silence. The city spread out beneath them, lights glittering like fallen stars.

Pierre broke it first, voice quiet. “You know… when you left. Back then. It hurt. My family, they… they didn’t understand why yours just disappeared. And I—” He exhaled, shaky. “I didn’t either.”

Esteban’s fingers curled on his knee, knuckles white. His throat worked before words finally came, low and rough.

“It wasn’t a choice, Pierre. You know how we lived back then. That caravan… it wasn’t some romantic racing story. It was damp, cold, falling apart. My parents, they—” He stopped, jaw tight, before forcing himself to go on. “We were at the brink. Every month was survival. No sponsors wanted me. No one wanted to risk on a kid with nothing behind him. The seat was gone before I could even dream about it.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “And then Toto… he saw me. Saw something in me. But he couldn’t give me a drive, not when everything was already decided. What he gave me was a different chance. He said, ‘If you can’t race, you can still be here. You can still belong in this world.’ So I moved. I studied under him. I worked with different teams, different people. I learned the business, the politics, the deals. I made myself useful, even if it wasn’t behind the wheel.”

His voice wavered but steadied again. “I did it all for them. For my family. To buy my parents a home. To give them security, dignity. None of it… none of it was for me. I didn’t think I deserved that. Honestly? I didn’t even see myself as worthy anymore.”

The cabin creaked as the wheel carried them higher, but Pierre leaned forward, eyes burning. “Stop. Don’t you dare say that, Esteban.”

Esteban blinked, startled.

Pierre’s voice sharpened, Alpha edge slipping through, not loud but commanding, a force that filled the small space. “You think being a driver is the only way to be worthy? Look at what you’ve built. Look at what you are. Business, management, strategy—you’re the best I’ve ever seen. My best manager. My anchor. You carried all of that weight and still kept going. That is strength, Esteban. That is worth it.”

Esteban swallowed hard, throat tight. He wanted to look away, but Pierre’s gaze pinned him in place, too intense, too much.

For the first time, Pierre’s Alpha aura wasn’t something that pressed down on him—it lifted him, like a hand pulling him out of the water. And something in Esteban’s chest cracked open, years of silent sacrifice laid bare under the glow of carnival lights.

Pierre swallowed, looking out the glass, jaw tight. “And for me? Did you ever think—” His voice cracked. “I missed you, Esteban. More than I ever admitted.”

He let out a shaky breath, then laughed once, bitter and soft. “For me, you were always the boy who is worthy. We grew up racing each other on those Norman backroads, slick with rain and mud. Half the time we were too wild, too young, one mistake away from killing ourselves, but it never mattered. Because you were there. We pushed each other in karts that rattled apart—that should’ve been in the scrapyard. Every lap was… a war. But… despite all of that, underneath it, it was also—don’t leave me behind.”

His hands clenched in his lap, nails pressing into his palms. “And then you did. You left. No phone call. No goodbye. Just gone. Your whole family vanished overnight, swallowed up by rumors of contracts, of promises, of some future no one could name. I went to the garage and it was empty. Your seat in the paddock was empty. And the silence—” His voice broke, softer now. “The silence was louder than any screams I’ve ever heard.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the city lights glittering beyond the glass. “I told myself not to care. I told myself to let the bitterness calcify, to laugh when people asked. To shrug when I heard whispers about you—working for Mercedes, under Wolff. Not a driver anymore, but as staff who work under this industry, smoothing chaos, handling egos, being the quiet backbone no one ever noticed. A Beta playing Alpha’s game.”

Pierre’s throat bobbed, and his eyes finally slid back to Esteban, softer, aching. “And I didn’t chase it down. Because chasing it would mean admitting that I cared. That I wanted to know. That I wanted to find you. And I couldn’t, because—” He stopped, exhaling shakily. “Because you already left once. And I didn’t think I could survive knowing you’d left me twice.”

The Ferris wheel creaked, swaying them higher, the lights of the theme park blazing beneath them. Pierre’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I missed you, Esteban. I hated you for it. And I miss you every damn day.”

Esteban’s eyes burned. He forced a breath out, shaking his head. “I thought about you every day. But I couldn’t—if I looked back, I’d break. And I couldn’t afford to break.”

Silence hung heavy, only the creak of the ferris wheel filling the air.

Then Pierre laughed, small and bitter-sweet. “Leave it to Yuki. His little attempt to get us close…” He gestured around them. “It’s working.”

The corner of Esteban’s mouth lifted, watery. “Yeah. It is.”

Pierre turned his head, watching the carnival lights blink below, before finally facing him. His eyes shone, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I mean it, you know. I want you with us. With me. With Yuki. I care. I… I miss you.”

Esteban’s breath hitched. His vision blurred as he blinked hard, shoulders trembling. For a heartbeat he couldn’t speak. Then, raw, he managed, “Me too. God, me too.”

The wheel carried them higher, the park small beneath, and for the first time in years, nothing between them felt small at all.

The Ferris wheel shuddered as it reached the top, the carriage rocking gently, city lights stretching like constellations beneath them.

Pierre’s words still hung in the air, heavy, raw, impossible to unhear. Esteban sat frozen, chest tight, every breath scraping against the years he’d buried. He wanted to say something—anything—but his voice had deserted him.

Instead, Pierre’s hand shifted on the bench between them. A subtle movement, almost unconscious, fingers edging closer. Close enough that Esteban felt the warmth radiating from his skin.

For a second—just a fragile, impossible second—Pierre’s fingers brushed against his. A ghost of a touch, so light it could have been accidental, but it sent a spark through Esteban’s whole body, straight down to the marrow.

Pierre froze. His hand lingered there, close enough to burn, before he drew it back sharply, curling it into a fist against his thigh. His jaw flexed, eyes darting away toward the glittering fairground below.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed, charged, thick with everything unsaid.

Esteban swallowed, staring at the space between them, at the phantom heat left on his skin. His heart screamed to reach across, to close the gap, to take what had always been his—but his body stayed perfectly still, locked in restraint.

When the Ferris wheel finally jolted and began its slow descent, neither of them spoke. They sat in silence, the world below rushing closer, as though the ride itself conspired to press their secrets tighter together.

And somewhere, busy with the Red Bull Programme,, Yuki would be excitedly waiting, smug in the knowledge that he’d given them the push neither had dared to take, eagerly trying to get through the programme before 6.

–

The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, soft thud of bag against the wall. Pierre was still flushed from the night air, Esteban too quiet, his shoulders stiff with all the things left unsaid on the Ferris wheel.

And there, sprawled on the bed like he’d been waiting the whole time, was Yuki. Pajamas rumpled, hair sticking up in tufts, hugging a pillow like a smug little king. His omega scent had bled warmly into the room, sweet and sharp like honey laced with claws.

He tilted his head at them, catlike, eyes glinting. “Soo… what happened?”

Pierre stiffened immediately, throat working, gaze darting anywhere but Yuki. Esteban, no better, suddenly found the carpet extremely interesting, jaw tight.

Yuki narrowed his eyes, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You’re both terrible liars.”

Neither answered. The silence only made it worse. Pierre tugged at his shirt collar, Esteban rubbed the back of his neck, and still—no words.

Yuki flopped onto his stomach, kicking his feet lazily in the air. “Come onnn. Don’t make me drag it out of you.” His voice dropped into a whine, sharp and petulant, the kind that could break stone. “Tell meeee.”

Two grown men—an Alpha and a Beta, both seasoned, both supposedly unshakable—looked anywhere but at their omega. Faces hot. Lips pressed tight.

Yuki buried his face into his pillow, muffling a snicker that was half a purr. When he peeked out again, his grin was all teeth. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out myself.”

And from the dangerous glint in his eyes, Pierre and Esteban knew he meant it.

–

The Qatar paddock heat clung like a second skin, heavy and merciless. Esteban had pushed through worse—meetings stacked one after another, flights that blurred together, living half his life in Milan, half in Enstone, half wherever Pierre or Yuki dragged him—but this time, his body simply buckled.

One second he was upright. The next—his knees gave out, his vision white.

“Esteban!”

The Alpine office erupted, panic sharp as engine backfire. Staff scrambled, voices overlapped, someone called medical. But Pierre was already there, shoving past everyone. “Move. Get out of the way—MOVE.”

He scooped Esteban up like he weighed nothing, carried him straight to his driver room, ignoring protests, ignoring the stares. Yuki, who was with Pierre as well, slipped in after him, face unreadable, voice tight. The door slammed behind them.

Esteban burned. His skin was fire, breath ragged, words spilling in broken pleas. “S-something’s wrong… I—please—” He arched against the sheets like his body was searching for something it couldn’t name, hands twisting into Pierre’s sleeve as if afraid he’d vanish.

Pierre’s jaw locked. His Alpha instinct screamed to do something, to fix it. He crouched by the bed, brushing sweat-damp hair from Esteban’s face, but every attempt at comfort only made Esteban cling harder.

Yuki hovered, masking his own omega scent with practiced precision, chest tight as he watched Esteban unravel. He knew what longing felt like, what need felt like, but Esteban was a Beta. Betas weren’t supposed to…

The door creaked. A woman slipped in—older, calm-eyed, one of Alpine’s Beta staff. Pierre rose instantly, shoulders squared, Alpha aura sharp and defensive. “Out. He doesn’t need—”

“I know what this is,” she cut in gently, unflinching under his glare. Her gaze softened on Esteban, trembling and overheated. “I’ve seen it before.”

Pierre froze. Yuki’s eyes narrowed, pillow-clutching posture all predator beneath his short frame. “…What do you mean?”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There are rare cases… Betas who meet their true mate. Their scent—normally dormant—awakens. It’s overwhelming the first time. Feels like an illness, sometimes worse. But it isn’t. It’s bond-triggered.”

Pierre’s heart stuttered. “Mate?”

“Yes.” She nodded, calm and certain. “He’s not sick. He’s calling. For you.”

Silence fell, thick as oil. Pierre looked down at Esteban—his Esteban, flushed and desperate, fingers fisted in his sleeve like he’d never let go.

Yuki’s pulse thrummed, eyes flicking between them. His omega instincts screamed yes, even as he kept his mask in place. He pressed his lips into a line, remembering to hold himself together, regard of people knowing his true identity.

If this Beta bond was true, if Esteban’s scent had awakened—

—then Esteban wasn’t just theirs by choice.

He was theirs by fate.

Pierre’s Alpha presence filled the small driver’s room, protective and restless. Esteban shifted against the sheets, whimpering in heat that wasn’t heat, body trembling like he was caught between fever and yearning.

The woman looked at him with quiet understanding. “There’s a medication. Only one brand makes it—it’s rare, but we keep some in storage for cases like this. It won’t erase the bond, but it will calm his body until he can manage it. I’ll fetch it.”

Pierre moved, jaw tight. Yuki touched his arm, subtle but grounding. “Let her,” he murmured. And Pierre—grudgingly, reluctantly—stepped aside.

The woman slipped out, leaving only the three of them. Silence lingered. Esteban stirred, head rolling weakly toward them, lips parting on an incoherent plea.

Pierre sat back down heavily, hand hovering inches from Esteban’s temple, not daring to touch. His throat ached with the weight of realization. “…He’s ours.”

Yuki curled into the arm of the sofa, pillow hugged to his chest, humming, processing the information.

Pierre turned sharply, eyes narrowing, looking at the door,  a knock came.

The door opened a crack. The woman returned, placing a single pill in a small plastic case and a bottle of water on the table. “This will steady him. Make him rest. Give it to him now, then let him sleep.” Her gaze softened once more. “He’ll be fine. Just… stay near when he wakes. Bonds don’t like to be ignored, he might pass out for a few hours, just make sure to get back here quickly after the race.”

She left them to it.

Pierre and Yuki moved together—Pierre coaxing Esteban up against his chest, murmuring low in French, Yuki unscrewing the water cap with steady hands. Between them, they pressed the pill to Esteban’s lips, encouraging him until he swallowed.

“Good,” Pierre whispered, brushing damp hair back. “That’s it. Rest now.”

Yuki tugged the blanket higher, voice low but firm. “Sleep, Este. We’ll be back before you know it.”

They stayed until Esteban’s lashes fluttered shut, until his grip loosened on Pierre’s sleeve. Only then did they rise. The weight of the race pressed in—responsibilities they couldn’t outrun—but their eyes lingered on Esteban a moment longer.

Neither said it aloud, but both thought the same thing: he’s ours.

Hours later, under desert lights and the roar of engines, Alpine and the second Red Bull  drivers stunned the paddock—Pierre taking P6, Yuki in P5. No one watching could know that the true victory had been claimed hours earlier, in a quiet driver’s room, where fate had quietly tied three lives together.

–

The suite was silent, insulated from the chaos of Qatar outside. Yuki’s hotel room, sprawling and discreet, had become their refuge—no cameras, no engineers, no media pen to plaster on smiles. Just the three of them in the hush of drawn curtains and air-conditioning that hummed like a heartbeat.

They hadn’t let Esteban leave. Not Pierre with his Alpha command, not Yuki with his loud, stubborn determination. Even Laurent Mekies had nodded once, solemn, when Yuki and Pierre pushed for it—an understanding in his eyes that some things were bigger than schedules and press.

So Esteban had let himself be folded here, into their orbit.

The bed was wide, but they lay tangled close. Pierre’s arm anchored him by the waist, solid and unrelenting, like he was afraid to let go. Yuki pressed against his chest, small hand resting right over his heart, his scent like honey and warmth, the kind that seeped deep and stayed.

And Esteban—Esteban finally cracked.

He had held on for too long. Years of silence, years of swallowing it all down until it turned sharp inside him—rivalry, bitterness, loneliness. Always the Beta, always steady, always the one who worked twice as hard for half as much. The invisible one. The one who left.

Now, with their scents wrapped around him—spice and sweetness, Alpha and Omega—the dam burst.

His chest heaved. His breath broke ragged, tears burning down before he could stop them. He tried to turn his face into the pillow, ashamed, but Pierre’s hand caught his jaw, steady, holding him there.

“Esteban,” Pierre said, voice stripped raw. “Look at me.”

Esteban tried and failed, his vision blurred, his throat locked. His voice tore out like shrapnel.

“I thought I was nothing.” His breath hitched, ugly and uneven. “I thought I’d never be enough. I wanted you both so badly it hurt, but I told myself it was impossible. That I didn’t deserve it. That I didn’t deserve you.”

The words gutted him. He shook with them, sobs wracking his whole body.

Pierre dragged him close, foreheads pressed together, their breaths colliding. His Alpha aura didn’t weigh heavy like before—it lifted, fierce and grounding, like hands pulling him out of the water.

“You idiot,” Pierre rasped, and his voice broke on the words. “You’ve always been enough. You were the only one I wanted—even when I was too proud, too angry to admit it. I need you, Esteban. I always did.”

Esteban’s sob hitched louder, body folding into Pierre’s chest like he was fifteen again and not a man who had spent years clawing a place in the sport. Yuki pressed tighter against his other side, voice soft but fierce:

“We need you. Both of us. Don’t you see? You’re not nothing. You’re ours.”

The words hit deeper than anything had ever reached.

And then—it came.

Esteban’s scent flared open, no longer muted, no longer suppressed. Rain after a storm, clean and grounding, sharp enough to make Pierre groan in relief, thick enough to make Yuki melt against him with a sigh. His Beta scent, dormant for so long, surged alive and filled the room until it wrapped all three of them in something whole.

Pierre shuddered, clinging tighter. Yuki’s fingers dug into his chest. And Esteban—Esteban sobbed harder, but it wasn’t grief anymore. It was release. It was truth.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, broken, choking on it. “Tired of pretending, tired of wanting from a distance. I thought if I buried it, it would go away, but—” His voice cracked. “I never stopped. I never stopped wanting you.”

Pierre’s thumb brushed the tear tracks off his cheek, his touch trembling. “Then stop running.” His forehead pressed harder against Esteban’s. “Stay. With us.”

Yuki’s breath ghosted against his skin, warm, sure. “We’ll carry the rest. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Something in Esteban’s chest finally gave way. The wall he had built, brick by brick, out of sacrifice and shame and stubborn survival—it collapsed.

His sobs shook him apart, but their hands held him steady, their scents wrapped him whole. He buried his face in Yuki’s hair, Pierre’s palm firm at the nape of his neck, and let himself be undone.

And in the hollow ache left behind, something new settled. Something solid.

“I’m yours,” Esteban whispered, voice breaking but certain now. “I’ve always been yours.”

Pierre’s breath caught sharp. Yuki exhaled soft, a sound that was almost relief, almost prayer.

They pulled him tighter, wrapped him in limbs and warmth and scent until there was no space left between them.

For the first time, Esteban felt it in his bones.

He wasn’t running anymore.

He wasn’t alone.

He was wanted.

He was needed.

He was home.

Esteban’s tears hadn’t stopped, hot and endless, soaking into Yuki’s hair, down Pierre’s shirt. But neither of them let go. Not for a second. They pressed tighter, closing in on him like they could hold him together by force of will alone.

His chest still shuddered, breaths ragged and broken, when Pierre shifted, cupping his face. His palm was warm, steady, his thumb brushing away the wetness on Esteban’s cheek as if every tear mattered.

“You’re ours,” Pierre whispered, and the words cracked, raw. His eyes burned bright, too wet, too honest. “Do you hear me? Ours.”

Yuki shifted too, his smaller hand sliding up the column of Esteban’s throat until it caught his jaw, tilting him down. His voice was a whisper against his skin, lips brushing his ear.

“Kiss us, Esteban. Please.”

The world fell silent.

For a moment, there was nothing—no engines, no desert heat, no years of walls and shame and running. Just the thrum of their heartbeats pressed into his, the weight of their hands holding him steady, the smell of them thick in the air. Spice and sweetness, pulling at something inside him he’d buried for too long.

And then he moved.

He leaned in first to Yuki. Their mouths met trembling, salt-sweet with tears. Yuki sighed against him, soft and unguarded, pulling him closer with both hands, as if he’d been waiting forever. It was tender, almost fragile, yet steady in its certainty.

Then Pierre caught him—rougher, desperate. Their lips crashed together with years of rivalry and longing and silence combusting at once. Every unsaid word, every unshed tear, every why did you leave burned between them, answered only in the way Pierre kissed him like he was starving.

Esteban gasped, dizzy between them, his lungs raw, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. Their mouths chased his, their hands tangled in his hair, their scents coiled tight around him, pulling him in deeper and deeper until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Spice, sweetness, rain.

Alpha, Omega, Beta.

A bond forming, weaving into something whole, something that couldn’t be broken.

When they finally tore apart, all three of them were panting, foreheads pressed together in the small space between breaths.

Pierre’s voice came hoarse, reverent, his lips brushing Esteban’s damp cheek.

“You’re everything, Esteban.”

Yuki’s smile was soft, watery, his eyes shining. He pressed his forehead harder against Esteban’s, whispering fierce and sweet all at once.

“And now you can never run. We won’t let you.”

A laugh slipped out of Esteban then—shaky, broken, but free. His lips brushed theirs again, a promise this time, steady even through the trembling.

“I don’t want to run anymore.”

And for the first time, the three of them breathed as one.