Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October, Year 1

Austin, TX

Sebastian did not come to Austin to think. 

That was, in fact, the entire point.

He came to Austin to race.To sweat through team kit in the Texas heat that felt aggressive in a way that felt borderline personal. To smile politely at microphones and pretend he wasn't vibrating with a mix of excitement and nerves about a promotion that had been announced almost three days ago and was definitely not still replying on loop in his head. 

Thinking--especially about anything that wasn't breaking points, tire degradation, or whether the brand new Circuit of the Americas was actively trying to kill him--was not on the agenda.  

And yet. 

Here he was anyway, weaving through the paddock on Thursday morning, already half-melting inside his shirt, brain bouncing between ‘new track’, ‘new expectations’, and ‘why the fuck does it feel like the sun is actively trying to crawl inside my skin?’ 

Austin was loud.

Not in the Monaco way—no yachts or champagne, not even the quiet, expensive menace energy it usually carried--but loud like country music bleeding out of somewhere it definitely shouldn't be this early in the day. Loud like laughter, like boots scuffing on concrete, like power tools whining in the distance as cars were checked, reassembled, and checked again.

The paddock felt looser, too.

Less stiff, less buttoned-up.

Like everyone had silently agreed this was the weekend to lean into the insanity a little. A new circuit for the calendar, brand-new excuses to pretend the humidity wasn’t slowly taking years off their lives.

Sebastian tugged at the collar of his shirt, already deeply regretting every life choice that had led to wearing jeans.

He’d barely been here an hour and he could already feel sweat collecting in places he seriously did not want to think about. 

Which, unfortunately, only made him think about them.

Great.

He sighed, passing a group of engineers arguing animatedly over a lighter, sidestepped a photographer crouched at an angle that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, and nearly tripped over a cable someone had definitely sworn was secured five minutes ago.

Everything smelled like dust, sunscreen, and something smokey that was either barbecue or a hallucinating brought on by early heat exhaustion.

Somewhere nearby, a Red Bull can cracked open with a sharp hiss and Sebastian briefly considered hunting it down like a retriever. 

Hydration sounded like the greatest luxury known to man at the moment. 

He ended up taking the long way around toward the hospitality, even if he was minutes from melting into a very german puddle. 

Not because he was lost--his sense of direction was fantastic, thank you very much--but more because there was something about this place that made him want to look.

The sky stretched unapologetically wide and endless above them, an almost painful shade of blue. The circuit sprawling instead of coiling, open in a way that felt unfamiliar but promising. 

Like it was daring him to be brave.

Or stupid.

Possibly both.

By the time he reached the hospitality building, his hair was damp with sweat and his patience with the sun was hanging on by a very thin thread. 

He ducked inside and let out a noise that might've been a sigh--or maybe a prayer as the air-conditioning hit him at full force. 

“Thank fuck,” he muttered under his breath, standing in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, letting the cool air peel the heat off him like a reset button for his soul. 

Inside, everything was already alive.

Staff moved with practiced efficiency he admired and wished he possessed. Drinks were being organized in the fridge. Laptops were already open on tables like they were part of the decor.

Somewhere behind the counter, espresso was brewing, which felt both generous and deeply cruel given the hellscape outside.

He made a quick trip to his drivers room, dropping his backpack on the sofa and stretching like that might reset his nervous system.

It didn't.

But it was worth a try anyway. 

His brain was still loud. Still buzzing with anticipation and the uncomfortable awareness that his entire career had just shifted up a notch and no one was going to let him forget that for the next...ever.

Which was fine, really.

Totally fine.

He liked pressure, thrived on attention.

He was being very normal about this.

Back downstairs, he snagged a can of Red Bull from a staff member restocking the fridge and downed half in one go. 

Cool and carbonated, like drinking from a tiny, sugary oasis.

He’d probably regret that in about twenty minutes, but that was a future Seb problem. Britta will probably comment, he will pretend not to hear her, and honestly, that was just tradition. 

Speaking of—he checked his phone, sent off a quick text to let her know he was heading out and mentally ran through the schedule for today: Interviews first, then a team meeting, and--if he timed it right or complained convincingly enough--a sandwich and maybe five blessed minutes before the next obligation swallowed him whole. 

He stepped back into the paddock, sunglasses on now, posture slipping into something familiar and automatic.

He scanned the sea of team kits, photographer vests, and lanyards, mentally trying to remember the way to the media pen.

The sun had not calmed down during in his brief absence—not that he expected it to.

If anything, it seemed offended that he dared to try and escape in the first place

Seb squinted up at it, like maybe if he glared hard enough he could summon a cloud through sheer spite.

Nothing happened of course.

Obviously. 

But what did happen was Sebastian walking directly into someone.

Not crashing into them—at least not exactly. 

Not a dramatic full-boy collision. No flailing limbs. No incident report. And certainly noting severe enough to warrant an apology involving a ukulele or a fine from the FIA

Just a solid, abrupt knock--enough to jolt him straight out of his own head like he'd run face-first into the human equivalent of a brick wall. 

“Shit—sorry,” Seb said automatically, already scrambling sideways to get out of the person's path.

The accent registered before anything else did. 

Low, even, worn at the edges and crisp around the vowels.

Like iron and snowflakes. 

“No worries.”

Seb blinked. 

He caught a flash of navy blue. The clean curve of a jaw faintly dusted with stubble, and the corner of a mouth just barely tipped upward.

Not a full smile—just, acknowledgement. 

Then the guy was already moving again, disappearing back into the chaos of the paddock with the kind of unhurried stride that suggested he hadn't even broken pace at all. 

Sebastian blinked again.

Then he shrugged it off.

Paddock collisions happened all the time. Too many people, too little space, everyone walking like they were late to something important. 

Which, to be fair, they usually were. 

He took a half a step back, adjusting his grip on the Red Bull can, and took a sip like that might wash away the weird little jolt that lingered in his chest. 

He barely even registered the guy beyond the impression of solid shoulders, easy balance, and the kind of presence that didn't announce itself so much as simply exist. Like he carried his own gravity without meaning to. 

Seb glanced over his shoulder, more out of reflex than curiosity, but the crowd had already swallowed him whole. 

Just another dark shirt in a sea of landyards and sponsor logos. 

Another accent filed neatly into his newest mental drawer labeled: Austin is kind of weird. 

He exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, and shook his head. 

Right.

Focus.

He checked his watch. 

Late enough that Britta would absolutely glare at him.

But he was early enough that someone would probably crack a joke about the Texas heat and ask how it felt to be heading to Red Bull next season--like it wasn't the only thing he'd been vibrating about since he signed that contract.

Sebastian rolled his shoulders, setting back into his usual groove, and headed toward the media pen with renewed purpose.

After all, Sebastian did not come to Austin to think.

And he definitely did not come to Austin to think about random collisions in the paddock. 

Sebastian escaped the media pen with that familiar, slightly dazed feeling that always followed a long stretch of interviews—like he'd just ran a race entirely with his mouth.

Which, honestly, wasn't the worst thing ever. He'd never really knew how to shut up on most days anyway, so he shook it off pretty quickly and kept moving. 

The rest of the morning blurred together the way Thursday always did. 

Team meetings in aggressively air conditioned rooms that somehow still felt too warm. Engineers walking through run plans and simulation with the quiet, focused intensity of people who had already accepted that this weekend was going to be a learning curve whether they liked it or not.

Austin, as predicted, did not care about anyone's spreadsheets. 

Seb sat through briefings, gave input on tire strategy, asked questions where they mattered and trusted the rest to muscle memory. 

He liked this part—the structure of it and the narrowing focus it came with.

The way everything, no matter how new or unfamiliar a circuit was, it always eventually came circling back to the same fundamentals: breaking points, grip, rhythm. Things he could hold onto--that made sense when the rest of his life felt like it was suddenly running two steps ahead of him.

Britta hovered in and out of his orbit, as she always did on days like this. Calm and efficient. Impossible to lose track of even when the schedule tried its best.

She updated him on timing, where he needed to be next, on who he still needed to smile for before he was allowed to disappear for five blessed minutes. 

Sebastian clung to that number like a damn lifeline.

And eventually--thank god--he was finally released into the relative safety of the hospitality area. Someone had laid out sandwiches on a table like an offering to exhausted team personal everywhere. 

He grabbed one immediately—turkey, something green, bread that was softer than it had any right to be right now—and dropped into a seat at the bar top. 

Half of it disappeared in under a minute, chased it down with water instead of another Red Bull. Mostly because he valued his time and because Britta shot him a look every time his eyes so much as drifted toward the fridge.

Those five minutes were sacred. 

He sat there, chewing slower now, letting the noise fade into a dull but comforting hum. The murmur of conversation, faint buzz of machinery outside, and the relief of not having a microphone pointed directly at his face.

For a moment, he didn't think about lap times.

Or expectations. 

Or the fact that his entire career trajectory had shifted in a matter of days—weeks, technically, but his brain refused to make that distinction.

Unfortunately, those minutes were gone in a blink. 

But--he had to admit—it helped reset his brain a little.

Not much, but enough. 

Britta found him again not long after, because of course she did, and gently but firmly steered him toward his final obligation of the day:

The Red Bull hospitality even.

Seb perked up almost immediately, not because it was surprising or anything.

Not really anyway.

With the promotion news still fresh, it made sense they wanted him there—visible, present, already being folded into the what came next. 

Still, hearing it said out loud sent a quick spark of excitement straight through him, sharp and bright, like someone had flipped a switch along his spine. 

The event itself was held in Red Bull's sleek hospitality space and buzzed in a way that felt different from the paddock.

Less rigid, more celebratory. 

Sponsors mingled easily, athletes from other sports dotted the room. The whole place carried the easy confidence Red Bull seemed to specialize in—effortless, unapologetic, and occasionally unhinged. 

Sebastian took a seat as the Q&A kicked off, listening as Mark and DC answered countless questions with the kind of ease that only came from years of being looked at. 

Mark was sharp and effortlessly sarcastic without even trying, pulling laughs from the crowd like it was second nature. DC filled the room differently--warm, expansive, talking about pressure and progression like they were old friends instead of things that sat on your chest at three in the morning.

Seb listened closely.

Partly because they were good at this. Mostly because this was the environment he was stepping into.

The expectations.

The energy.

The way ambition was spoken allowed to just exist, without being wrapped in careful language or managed into something smaller.

It lit something in his chest in the best possible way.

By the time the questions wrapped up, he felt lighter in a way. Grounded yet restless all at once.

Afterward, the space loosened.

The formal edges of the event softened, conversations breaking into smaller clusters that felt easier to slip into.

Sebastian drifted between them without much effort, talking with people he'd met over the years through Red Bull--faces familiar enough to be comfortable, different enough to remind him just how big the world really was outside the paddock.

He started with a snowboarder he vaguely remembered from an event in Austria a year or two back. 

They hadn’t spoken much beyond polite introductions and an equally dramatic exchange of complaints about early call times, but now the conversation settled into place.

The guy talked about chasing winter across the hemispheres, living out of suitcases and sleeping on planes like it was a skill rather than an unfortunate side effect of the lifestyle.

Seb had laughed, nodded along—it may have been a different sport but it had the same rhythm to it.

The constant movement.

The way time blurred into early mornings at airports, minimalist hotel rooms and places that never quite stayed around long enough to feel like home. 

Someone else joined them not long after—an Olympic runner from Canada—who joked about how crazy it was that Sebastian thought driving at three hundred kilometers an hour was normal, but silence stressed him out.

Seb countered that running at full speed without an engine sounded infinitely worse. 

They both agreed that adrenaline made people do stupid shit—which was exactly Red Bulls brand of crazy.

Nearby, a surfer from California leaned back against a high table, sun-bleached spikes of hair, drink sweating slowly in his hand. He complained—very passionately—about the heat, swearing he'd never felt anything like it, not even after spending his life on beaches. 

Sebastian immediately felt validated in every way possible. 

“See!” he said, gesturing vaguely at the air. “Its not just me.” 

The surfer laughed. “Nah man. This heat sticks like crazy. Follows you around.”

Seb groaned. “Amazing. Just what I needed before climbing into the car.”

They traded stories about early mornings and whether that never cooperated no matter how hard you tried manifesting it behaving.

About learning to work with conditions instead of fighting them. 

Seb found himself talking about Turn One, about the elevation and the blind crest, and how exciting but thrilling it felt to stare down something brand new with no real reference yet.

"Thats the fun part thought, isn't it?” the surfer replied. “First time you drop in somewhere new. Everything's instinct.”

“Exactly,” Seb grinned.

He drifted again after that, pulled into more conversations, accepting polite congratulations from people who followed his sport closely. 

At some point, he found himself listening to a motocross rider animatedly retelling a story involving a sketchy jump that went wrong but somehow still earned praise.

Sebastian was both impressed and mildly horrified.

Still, there was something quietly comforting about being surrounded by people who also lived on the edge of calculated risk—who understood that fine line between control and chaos. 

At some point, someone handed him another Red Bull and he accepted it without thinking, cracked the tab, and took a carbonated sip.

The room continued to hum--laughter overlapping, voices weaving in and out of his awareness. 

No one here was asking him serious questions about his future or poking at rivalries he hadn't even formed yet.

They just talked.

About travel, injuries, moments when things clicked and when they really, really didn't. 

Sebastian found he was genuinely enjoying himself. 

It was almost enough to forget that this was technically still work.

Almost.

Eventually, the conversation began to die down. People peeled away toward other obligations or simply headed out for the afternoon. 

Seb lingered at the edge of one last cluster, listening more than speaking, content to just let the noise wash over him. His energy was starting to dip again---heavy in that familiar drag that reminded him he's been up since the crack of dawn, running on nothing but adrenaline, caffeine and the lingering buzz of very good news.

Time for a refuel before he turned into a social crash. 

He slipped away before he could get tugged into another story, spotting the drinks bar set up along one side of the hospitality space. Cold bottles and cans lined up behind the counter, condensation beading on metal like they were ripped right out of a advert.

He beelined toward it, weaving through what was left of the crowd. The room felt warmer now, or maybe he was just suddenly aware that his body still hadn't fully forgiven him for walking around Texas all day.

His fingers drummed against his empty can as he waited, gaze flickering absently around the space, not really focusing on much of anything.

Then--

As if fate decided he seriously needed to work on his spatial awareness lately, Sebastian stepped sideways at the exact wrong moment--

—And ran straight into someone. 

Again.

Of fucking course he did. 

Sebastian barely had time to register the impact before his brain tried to eject itself through his ears.

It wasn't a hard collision—definitely not as bad as this morning—but it was just as solid enough to knock the breath out of him and send his empty can clattering against the bar with a dull metallic thunk. 

“Christ—sorry, I don't—” 

He froze mid-apology.

Because—you have got to be fucking kidding.

His brain did that thing were it stalled out completely, like someone had yanked the power cord and then just wandered off without plugging it back in.

It was the same guy.

The one from this morning—paddock collision, wintery accent, and a center of gravity so solid Sebastian had bounced off it once like a pinball before he disappeared into the chaos. 

Except now he was standing right in front of him.

Close enough that Sebastian could actually look, instead of filing him away as ‘Austin Weirdness, Exhibit A’.

Seb blinked.

Up close, they were roughly the same height--not tall but not exactly short. The difference was in how he was put together--how he carried himself. Compactly solid in a way that felt anchored, grounded. Like if you bumped into him, you would move, not the other way around.

Which Sebastian had now personally confirmed.

Twice.

The other details he half-noticed this morning slotted into focus—broad shoulders under the same dark shirt, arms relaxed at his sides, posture easy without being careless. Light stubble along his jaw, just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. Pale hair tucked mostly under a cap that--

Oh.

Ohhh.

Had a Red Bull logo on it.

Right.

Of course it did.

He was…attractive—objectively. 

In the same way a luxury car or a mountain range was attractive--impressive, nice to look at but not something Sebastian needed to unpack with his whole chest in the middle of a hospitality event.

He was tired, definitely mildly dehydrated and was absolutely not about to have a small crisis over a stranger in at the drinks bar.

The guy blinked at him, clearly just as surprised. His eyes--Grey? Blue? Kinda green-ish, honestly the lighting made it hard to tell--sharp but calm. 

For half a second, neither of them said anything. 

Sebastian opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then—because his brain had decided chaos was the only reasonable option—he laughed. 

“Oh my god,” he blurted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I promise I am not always this clumsy, I swear I usually have excellent spatial awareness.”

The words tumbled out faster then he could stop them. 

“I mean—clearly not today. Today I've apparently decided to walk directly into people like its my job. Which its not. And if it were, I'd probably be fired somehow.”

He gestured vaguely between them, then the bar top, then back at himself. As if mapping out the collision might help.

The guy just stared.

For a really long second.

Sebastian felt the heat creep up his neck.

Great.

This was it.

He’d finally lost it. 

“I'm Sebastian, by the way” he added quickly, because apparently that was what you did when you were rambling at strangers, or embarrassingly committed to the bit. “Or Seb. Either works.”

Another blink.

Then, slowly, the corner of the guy’s mouth tipped upward.

It wasn't a huge smile, but it was just enough to suggest amusement had quietly found him.

“It's fine,” he said, voice even. The accent clearer now—crisp but unhurried, like he didn't wasted words if he didn't have to. “You hit me harder this morning.”

Sebastian's jaw dropped. “You remember?” 

“I remember getting shoulder-checked by a Formula One driver,” he said dryly. “Hard to forget.”

Sebastian groaned, dropping his head for a second. “Right, sorry. I swear I don't usually make a habit of bodily assaulting strangers in the paddock.”

The guy huffed—a soft sound, but definitely a laugh. 

“It's okay,” he said again, and he sounded like he meant it. “I’m used to it.” 

Sebastians eyebrows lifted, “Oh?”

“Mm,” he hummed. “That one at least had no intent.”

“Great," Seb snorted despite himself. "Glad to know I'm not the worst collision of your life.”

The guy's mouth curved again, like he was trying very hard not to give a smile to someone he'd technically only met via impact.

He shifted his weight slightly, easy and unbothered, as if Sebastian hadn't probably given him a decent bruise twice in under twelve hours.

Another beat passed.

Cans cracked open behind them. Laughter drifted through the room, muffled and overlapping.

Up close, the guy's stillness was even more noticeable.

But it wasn't stiff, or closed off.

Just contained.

Like he didn't move unless there was a reason.

Sebastian clocked it—and, surprisingly, found himself adjusting without thinking about it. Dialing his volume down a notch.

Matching the pace.

“I should probably let you actually get a drink,” Seb said, glancing at the bar, where the bartender had paused mid-motion, clearly trying to figure out if they were ever going to order something. “Before I almost take out something else.” 

“Think you already did,” the guy said, nodding toward the empty can now partly crushed in Sebastian's hand. “Looks like it didn't survive.” 

Seb glanced down at it, then winced. "Tragic," he said solemnly, tossing it into the nearby recycle bin to put it out of its misery. "But it lived a good life. I'll...replace that."

“Smart.” the guy's mouth twitched. “Third time might start a pattern.”

Sebastian laughed. “Oh, please no. I don't think my ego can handle being known as that guy.”

He hesitated for half a second, then stuck his hand out again—more deliberate this time around. 

“Sebastian,” he said, “But Seb is fine. Though I think I panic-introduced myself already.”

The guy looked at his hand for a beat.

Then slowly, reach out to take it—his grip firm and warm.

Solid.

Like everything else about him.

“Kimi,” he said simply. 

Seb’s brain filed that away immediately.

Short, clean and somehow--exactly right. 

“Kimi,” Seb repeated, testing it out under his breath before looking back up. “Nice to meet you under less full-contact circumstances.”

Kimi gave a small nod, eyes flickering briefly past Sebastian’s shoulder and back again, taking everything in without seeming rushed. “You seem less dangerous when you’re standing still.”

"Ouch," Seb pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “But unfortunately not wrong.”

They shared a quick second of eye contact then.

Nothing heavy, just easy--amused even.

Like they were both quietly aware of how determined the universe seemed to be about throwing them into each other's orbit, and was probably not done yet.

“So,” Seb said, tilting his head, curiosity slipping into his voice like it lived there. “You're obviously not part of the usual paddock chaos.”

Kimi hummed, thoughtful. “What gave it away?”

“Well,” Seb gestured vaguely at him. “You don't look stressed out enough.”

That earned him a real smile.

Small, crooked and unmistakable. 

“Red Bull guest.” Kimi said. “NHL press stuff.”

“Oh,” Seb brightened. “You play hockey?”

Kimi nodded.

“Cool,” Seb grinned, which turned immediately sheepish. “I should warn you now though, I absolutely know nothing about hockey.”

Kimi shrugged, unbothered. “Most don't. Unless they follow.”

“I mean nothing,” Seb clarified, leaning an elbow on the bar. “Just that there's ice and sticks and teeth are…optional?”

Kimi snorted—like actually snorted—ducking his head for half a second. “Close enough.”

Seb’s grin widened, for some reason feeling the greedy need to hear that sound again. “Perfect. Now I won't embarrass myself by pretending I understand it.”

“I appreciate the honesty.” Kimi said, dry but amused. 

They paused long enough to actually order something. Seb opted for some aggressively neon electrolyte concoction--the bottle practically glowing in his hand--while Kimi stuck with water, bottle cool and clear in his hand.

“So,” Seb tried again, twisting the cap of his drink, settling all the way into this conversation he had absolutely not planned on having. “Where does one do hockey?”

Kimi raised a brow as he took a sip. “Canada. Finland. Cold places.”

“Well,” Seb pointed at him with his bottle. “That explains the accent.”

“Probably.”

“But you're here,” Seb pressed, glancing around. “In Austin. Where it feels like the sun and the air are actively trying to kill everyone.”

“I play for Dallas.” Kimi said simply. 

Seb blinked. 

“Still hot, though.” Kimi added, deadpan.

Sebastian huffed out a laugh. “Thats fair, I guess Texas heat isn't new to you then.”

“Summer is worse.” Kimi replied. “Can't escape it.”

“That's horrifying.” Seb grimaced. “So you're here for pre-season stuff?”

“Mhm. All weekend.”

“Well same—obviously.” 

And thats when it happened—that small, almost invisible shift. The conversation was tipping from polite to interesting in real time

Kimi seemed to notice it too, Seb was pretty sure of it. His gaze sharpened just a little, attention fully settling on Sebastian now.

“You drive for Red Bull,” Kimi said. “But not the main team. Yet.”

“That obvious?” Seb tilted his head, setting his bottle onto the bar top.

“I read things,” Kimi shrugged, “Sometimes.”

“Yeah. Toro Rosso for now. Red Bull next season.”

“Big step?”

“Yeah,” Seb said, though it came out a little softer than he meant. “Definitely is.”

Something flickered across Kimi's face at that--recognition, respect.

Seb liked that more than he probably should have.

They fell into conversation easily after that, bouncing between topics without effort. 

Austin.

Travel.

Weather that never seemed to behave.

The weird similarities between sports that looked nothing alike on the surface but felt eerily familiar once you got past that.

Seb found himself talking more than he meant to, hands moving as he explained the tracks first few turns and the way the elevation can mess with your instincts or the way specific winds could make the rear slide out from underneath you.

Kimi listened—like really listened—eyes steady, attention anchored. He nodded at the right moments, asked specific questions that showed he was genuinely interested instead of being polite. 

In return, Kimi talked about hockey the same way—not stats or records, but feeling. The rhythm of the game. The way teams moved together when things flowed. The quiet pressure of knowing people relied on you to be exactly where you needed to be at exactly the right moment.

Seb didn't understand the more technical parts, not really.

But that part?

He understood that.

“You are…very easy to talk to.” Seb said suddenly, and then his brain caught up with his mouth--immediately backtracking. “Wait, that came out wrong–”

Kimi only tilted his head, mouth twitching. “Nah. I got what you meant.”

“Good.” Seb said, exhaling “Because I was about to spiral.”

“You do that a lot?”

“More than I'd like to admit.”

“Noted.” Kimi said. 

Around them, the event began to thin. Background noise shifted as more people drifted out, voices fading, goodbyes beginning to overlap.

Sebastian glanced around, not even realizing how much time had passed.

“I guess everyones wrapping up,” he said, finishing the last of his drink.

Kimi scanned the room once and nodded.

There was a pause then.

Not awkward.

Just...suspended. 

Seb tapped his fingers against the plastic of his electrolyte bottle, feeling that familiar hum of ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn't I’ winding itself up in his chest. That old instinct to let conversations stay temporary, tidy, contained.

Because the thing was—despite how open he seemed—he didn't really do this often. 

Not outside the paddock or with people who weren't already orbiting the same tiny orbit of drivers, engineers, and occasional media personnel. 

Usually moments like this ended here—pleasant, fleeting, filed away as ‘nice’ before everyone spun back off into their own worlds.

And that would be fine.

Absolutely, totally fine.

Except for the fact it felt a little stupid to pretend he didn’t want more of this.

Talking about nothing important. About travel or Austin heat or ridiculous team names and why hockey players from cold places thought this weather was somehow survivable. 

About things that had nothing to do with lap times or standings.

Friends were allowed.

Even ones that didn't come with a super license. 

Sebastian exhaled, and made a decision in the way he always tended to—quickly, before he could overthink himself to death. 

“Okay, " he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hear me out,"

Kimi’s attention snapped back to him, brow lifting in question.

“Since we're apparently destined to keep running into each other—literally—it might be practical to exchange numbers.”

“Practical, huh?” Kimi repeated, slowly, clearly stuck between amused and a little unimpressed.

“Obviously,” Seb said earnestly, grinning. “You know, for safety reasons.”

Kimi looked at him for a beat, like he was reading some invisible report.

Then he pulled his phone out.

“Alright.”

Sebastian felt his grin widen immediately, relief blooming in his chest in a way that was almost ridiculous.

They swapped phones, thumbs moving quickly, easily. No ceremony or an ounce of hesitation. Just number, names, done.

When Kimi handed Seb's phone back, their fingers brushed--brief, accidental, enough to make Seb nearly fumble his grip. 

He covered it up—badly, sounding a little too cheerful. “Now I can warn you if I'm approaching.”

“How generous.”

They lingered for a second longer, both smiling now. the kind that felt...quiet.

Private, even

Sebastian's phone buzzed then—Britta, probably, signaling his escape window was open now.

He glanced down, sighing. “I should probably go” he said, stepping back a little. “Before I cause anymore bodily damage.”

“Try to keep it under two collisions tomorrow.” Kimi replied, smirk firmly in place.

Sebastian winked, smirking back just as smugly. “No promises.”

And as he walked away--phone warm in his palm, heat slapping him in the face as he stepped back into the paddock--Sebastian realized something small and stubborn.

Out of everyone he'd talked to today—every laugh, every congratulations, every story--

This one had been the easiest.

And that thought followed him a lot longer than the Texas sunshine did.

Later that night, Austin finally quieted down.

Or—more accurately—Sebastian escaped into the quiet of his hotel room, took a much-needed shower, and ordered room service for dinner.

Basically the same thing, right?

Now, he was sprawled across the bed, one leg bent, the other halfway hanging off the side like he'd abandoned his dignity somewhere around his tenth review of Sector Two. 

His notebook lay open beside him, pages filled with arrows and half-legible notes, the corners already curling slightly from how often he'd flipped them back and forth. 

Telemetry glowed on his laptop from an open email, lines and numbers blurring together in a way that strongly suggested his soul had officially left his body twenty minutes ago.

Seb squinted at the screen.

Then sighed, closing his laptop with a soft, defeated thud. 

He desperately needed a break. 

His eyes burned once the screen was no longer glaring—not painfully, just in that heavy, end-of-day ache that came from too much sun, too much focus and too much...everything.

The Texas heat still lingered in his bones despite being indoors for the past few hours, like it had snuck inside right behind him ad refused to leave out of spite.

Sebastian rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the low, steady hum of the air-conditioning. 

Even after a day of constant movement and noise, the quiet felt too loud for comfort.

He reached for the remote on the nightstand, flipping the TV on.

He needed something mindless, at least a little something to cut through the quiet.

He surfed through the channels lazily—late night news, reruns of some nineties sitcom he couldn’t name, some action movie halfway through a car chase, which felt a little too on the nose—before landing on a glossy commercial that made his thumb pause.

Ice.

White, clean, impossibly cold-looking.

Seb blinked, momentarily confused, until the familiar up-beat music of a sports promo kicked in. 

Sharp cuts.

Music swelling.

Players skating hard, bodies colliding, sticks cracking against the ice in a way that managed to look violent and weirdly elegant at the same time.

The NHL returns October 14th, the voiceover declared, as team logos flashes across the screen in quick succession.

Seb snorted softly.

Of course.

He watched for a second longer than he meant to, eyes tracking a player in black and teal flying across the ice--fast, effortless, controlled. There was something satisfying about the movement. 

The precision, maybe.

Or just the way momentum carried through each stride like a line being drawn. 

Sebastian's gaze drifted off the TV, to his phone lying face-down on the nightstand.

Silent.

Completely innocent.

He looked back at the TV, where a pair of sports reporters were dissecting highlights from last season.

Then back at his phone.

He did not have to text him.

They’d just met. They'd just talked, not even that long ago, and it was late--

Well.

Kind of.

Sebastian checked the clock on the nightstand, red pixels blinking back at him.

9:47 p.m.

Okay, so maybe not that late.

But still, it was late enough to be questionable. To be a little weird.Enough that any normal, reasonable person might think, ‘ill just text tomorrow’ and actually mean it. 

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately?—Sebastian was not always a normal, reasonable person.

He picked up his phone, unlocked it, and immediately hesitated as he tapped open his messages.

It was still there, obviously.

Kimi’s name.

Sitting in bold like it had always belonged in his contacts.

Sebastian stared at the screen for a beat, then clicked the screen off again. His own reflection looked back at him in the dark glass.

He exhaled, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall to his side.

Don’t overthink it.

Which, based on many, many past instances, never once worked.

His gaze flicked back to the TV, where the anchors were still talking, graphics flashing across the pixels. More stats. Highlights. Cold air and even colder arenas. 

This wasn't about anything—it was just...friendly. 

Normal.

People texted people all the time.

Especially people who had literally run into each other twice in one day and then talked for hours without noticing the time.

Sebastian didn't come to Austin to think, and yet here he was--overthinking texting a fucking hockey player he'd just met of all people.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, tapping his phone awake again as he muttered how ridiculous he was being under his breath. 

He clicked on Kimi’s name.

The blank text field stared back at him, thumb hovering. 

And instead of crafting something reasonable, normal, he did exactly what he always did when he tried not to think too hard.

He sent exactly what popped into his head. 

One message.

Then another.

And another. 

Another. Another—

Blue bubbles stacked up on the screen in quick succession, and Sebastian stared at them, heart doing something stupid and entirely unnecessary in his chest as he waited--

ding.

Sebastian stared at the screen for a second longer than strictly necessary.

Then he locked his phone and let it fall onto the mattress beside him, exhaling softly as his gaze drifted back to the TV—still tuned to that random sports channel, still talking about hockey like it had been penitently waiting to witness his spiral.

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

His brain—that over-caffeinated traitor—refused to shut off so easily.

There weren't any dramatic realizations or life-altering lightning bolts. Just a low, persistent hum of ‘that was nice’, looping quietly somewhere in the back of his head. 

Nice was allowed.

Nice was harmless.

Sebastian reached for his phone again, propping himself up on one elbow as he opened Google.

It wasn't creepy, he told himself.

It was just curiosity. 

Normal, reasonable curiosity. People Googled people all the fucking time, no big deal. Especially people who played sports you knew literally nothing about and casually admitted to losing teeth like it was a mild inconvenience. 

He typed ‘Kimi Dallas Hockey’ into the search bar and tapped the first result before he could overthink it.

That was his specialty after all--doing things quickly and only questioning them afterward.

The page loaded into a white wall of paragraphs and black text.

Hockey wiki pages, as it turned out, were extremely detailed.

Sebastian hummed under his breathe, thoughtful, then backed out of the page before he could start thinking too hard about the fact he was doing this at all.

Not creepy, he repeated.

Just...curiosity.

Which was fine.

Totally normal behavior.

One click led to another, and the next thing he knew he'd opened every social media app he felt morally comfortable admitting. 

Short clips on Twitter. Game highlights on YouTube. A couple Red Bull Ads he vaguely remembered scrolling past on their page, now suddenly different--less abstract, more 'oh, that's actually him,'

Kimi on ice looked different.

Sharper. Colder. Controlled in a way that felt oddly familiar--precise, exactly where he needed to be, like he'd already figured out the rhythm before anyone else realized it was there.

Seb watched one clip.

Then another.

Another.

and then he caught himself smiling at his screen like a complete fucking idiot at a random interview. 

He huffed softly, shaking his head at himself, more amused than alarmed. 

Okay, that's enough.

Probably.

The clock on the bedside table read half past eleven, and tomorrow was going to come far too early no matter what decisions he made tonight.

Sebastian sat up, plugged his phone into the charger, and set it gently back on the nightstand. He got up long enough to flip off the lights and slide his laptop into his bag, clearing the last remnants of 'functional human' from the bed. 

When he sank back into the mattress, exhaustion finally caught up with him--heavy and insistent, pulling at his limbs.

This probably won't stick.

He knew that.

People drifted in and out of each others lives all the time--especially in this world. Weekends will pass in blurs, calendars will shift and schedules will fill until there wasn't room for much of anything else that didn't revolve around the next event. 

Still.

He hoped it might.

It would be nice, he decided quickly, to have made a friend who existed entirely outside of motorsport. Someone who didn't know lap times or standings math or what it felt like to live your life chopped into tenths of a second.

Sebastian closed his eyes, sleep finally tugging at his thoughts before he could poke at that idea too much.

Or ask himself why the idea felt so quietly comforting.