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45 minutes in and it is not looking good for Williams' star rookie–She's knocked the Turn 1 barrier. Her front left had some advertising hoarding stuck to it, but her car's rear left is just at a completely skewwhiff angle here.
She's not caused a red flag this time, so that's… something”
“Fuck me! Sorry!” she groaned into the radio, words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“You alright?” she heard her engineer ask.
“Y-yeah” she winced, her jaw tightening as a dull throb flared behind her eyes. The helmet suddenly felt too tight, pressing down on her skull like a vice.
“My head just kinda… hurts…” she took in a deep, ragged breath, chest rising unevenly as the engine roared beneath her.
“But i’m sure it’ll be fine” she added quickly, forcing reassurance.
The pain sharpened without warning, pounding against the inside of her skull in uneven waves. She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second too long, a low whimper slipping out before she could bite it back. Her vision blurred when she opened them again, the track ahead smearing into a mess of colour and motion—kerbs, tarmac, barriers all bleeding together.
She knew this corner. She had driven it hundreds of times. Her foot hovered over the brake a fraction too long, and that fraction felt louder than the engine.
Her stomach lurched.
She jerked the wheel left instinctively, hands moving before her brain could catch up. The car snapped into a sharp turn, tyres protesting as her sight slowly dragged itself back into focus.
“Woah—what is she doing? Why’s she driving like that?”
“Hey! What was that?”
“Sorry… I think my head’s getting to me” Her voice came out smaller this time, breathy and strained.
There was a beat of silence—just static and the howl of the engine—long enough for her pulse to spike.
“Just hold on,” the engineer said, urgency creeping in now.
“A few more laps and you’re done.”
“Yeah.”
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening beneath the gloves. The laps dragged—not fast, not dramatic—just heavy. Every corner felt slightly off, like the car was half a second behind her thoughts. She focused on counting braking markers, on breathing evenly, on not thinking about the ache pulsing behind her eyes.
When the chequered flag finally waved, relief hit harder than disappointment.
She slowed the car, rolling back into the pit lane on muscle memory alone.
“Okay, bring it home,” the engineer said, gentler now.
She did.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
Getting out of the car felt stranger than crashing. Her legs wobbled when her boots touched the ground, and she steadied herself on the halo for a second longer than usual, waiting for the world to stop tilting.
“Good job,” someone said.
“Thanks,” she replied automatically.
She thanked the mechanics. She nodded at the engineer. She smiled when she was supposed to. Every word landed where it should, every gesture came out right—but it all felt rehearsed, like lines she’d memorised years ago and was reciting on instinct alone.
Then she slipped away.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
The quiet corner behind the garages smelled like hot rubber and warm metal, the air thick and still compared to the chaos she’d just left behind. She sank onto a stack of tyres, helmet resting beside her, and finally let her shoulders drop.
God. That was awful.
She replayed it all on a relentless loop—Turn 1, the barrier, the missed braking point, the way her vision had blurred and scared her more than the impact ever could. Rookie mistakes. Worse than rookie mistakes. She pressed her palms into her eyes, groaning softly as the dull ache behind them flared again.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she muttered.
“You didn’t do nothing.”
She looked up.
There stood Arvid a few feet away, arms crossed, worry written plainly across his face. He took her in for a moment—how she was slouched forward, how she hadn’t put her helmet back on, how her fingers kept rubbing absently at the side of her head.
“You disappeared,” he said. “Figured you’d end up here.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”
He didn’t smile. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out. “Here. Take this.”
She frowned. “What is it?”
“Painkillers,” he said. “Because you’re squinting like the sun’s trying to kill you, and you’ve been rubbing your head since I got here.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
“I’m fine,” she said eventually, though it sounded unconvincing even to her.
“Mm-hm.” He sat down beside her anyway. “You said that last time, too. And the time before that.”
She leaned back against the tyres, staring at the concrete. He was right. Annoyingly so.
“And I’m worried about you,” he added more quietly. “You’ve been working twice as hard as the rest of us. Extra sims. Late nights. You never give yourself a break.”
She let out a sharp breath. “Because I can’t afford to.”
He glanced at her. “You need to rest. At least for a little while.”
She let out a sharp, humourless breath. “Rest?” She shook her head, frustration bubbling up, hot and ugly. “—and then what? Fall behind even further?”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I rest and someone else steps up,” she continued, voice tight. “Someone faster. Someone safer. Someone who doesn’t put the car into the wall in practice.”
“Hey,” he said quickly. “You did great out there. And not just today. You’ve been doing great. Two podiums in your first seven races—that’s insane. One slip-up isn’t going to decide how good you are.”
Her head snapped up. “That one little slip-up dropped me from P8 to P15!” she shot back. “If I can’t even hold my stance in practice, how am I supposed to do it in quali? In the race? That one mistake could cost me an entire weekend.” Her voice cracked. “It could cost me my seat.”
He opened his mouth, but she was already spiralling.
“And it just proves them right,” she went on, bitter now. “That I’m just some diversity hire. A pity case.” She scoffed, the words left a bad taste on her tongue. “I’m only here because I’m a poor little girl and they needed to tick a box.” That’s what they say—what they all have been saying ever since she got there. Not that she deserves that seat, not that they admire her, no. They’re all saying she’s just some charity work. That’s all she is—that’s all she’ll always be to them.
“You know that’s not true,” he said firmly. “As much as they hate to admit it, everyone knows you’re talented. You don’t just get p5 in your second race because of luck. And it’s only been your first year. Besides, you’ve got the rest of the races to prove you deserve that seat.”
“It was just sheer dumb luck!” she exclaimed.
“The only reason I got p5 was because Verstappen retired and half of the grid DNF-ed! Not because I’m skilled. Not because I earned it.” Her hands curled into fists. “Definitely not because I’m good enough.”
“But you did deserve it,” he said, voice tightening now. “You still do. Strategy, pits, luck—none of that matters if you don’t have the skill to put yourself there in the first place.” He shook his head, frustrated. “You don’t just get p5 on your second race because of luck.”
She looked away, jaw clenched.
“And you’re more than enough—” he started, then exhaled sharply, words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“You’re more than enough to me.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything she’d said.
She swallowed, throat tight. For a second, it looked like she might say something—anything—but instead the words fell out in a rush, flat and tired.
“Yeah, but your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” She glanced back at him, not angry. Just exhausted. “Not to them.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
She stood before he could try again, grabbing her helmet.
She didn’t wait for his reaction.
As she walked away, each step was more uneven than the last, her pace faltering like the ground wasn’t quite where she expected it to be. Her shoulders sagged, and she had to correct her balance twice before reaching the end of the garage.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“Hey—”
Dark spots bloomed across her vision, spreading fast, like ink dropped into water. The edges of the world dimmed, the garages warping and blurring together. She blinked hard, once, twice, but it only made it worse.
“Hey, wait—”
Her footing slipped. The ground tilted.
“Hey, you alright?!” Arvid called, already moving.
He reached her just in time, fingers closing around her wrist as her knees buckled completely. She didn’t even have the chance to brace herself—her body just gave out, weight collapsing forward.
“Hey—hey!” he gasped.
She went limp in his arms.
Arvid swore under his breath, tightening his grip and pulling her against his chest before she could hit the concrete. For a terrifying second she didn’t respond at all, head lolling against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded.
“Shit. Shit—okay. Okay.”
He scooped her up without thinking, arms locking around her like he was afraid she might disappear if he loosened his hold. Her helmet knocked lightly against his shoulder as he turned and broke into a hurried jog back toward the Williams garage.
“Help!” he shouted as he crossed the threshold. “Someone—please!”
Heads snapped up. Mechanics froze mid-motion.
“We were talking and she was walking away,” Arvid said breathlessly, voice shaking now. “And then she just—she dropped. Out of nowhere.”
“Get her to her room,” her manager ordered instantly, already moving. “Someone call the medic—now.”
Arvid didn’t argue. He adjusted his grip and followed directions, carrying her through the garage and into the small, quiet room tucked behind it. He laid her down carefully on the narrow bed, easing her helmet off and setting it aside with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her face. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The medic arrived moments later, pushing past the door with purpose. Arvid stepped back just enough to give them space, arms folded tight against his chest like that might stop the adrenaline from spilling over.
The medic checked her pupils, her pulse, asked questions Arvid barely registered.
Finally—too slowly—he looked up.
“Will she be alright?” Arvid asked immediately.
“Yeah,” the medic said. “She fainted. Likely exhaustion, dehydration, and the knock earlier didn’t help.” He straightened. “She needs rest. Proper rest. I doubt she’ll be cleared in time for the next practice.”
Arvid nodded, jaw tight.
The medic left soon after, promising to check in again later.
The room fell quiet.
Her manager sighed, rubbing his temple. “You should head back to the hotel. I’ll call you once she wakes up.”
Arvid shook his head without hesitation. “No.”
The manager raised an eyebrow.
“I’m staying,” Arvid said, voice firm despite the tremor underneath. “I was the one who brought her here. I’m not leaving.”
There was a pause. Then the manager nodded once. “Alright. But if she wakes up confused or worse, you call immediately.”
“I will.”
The manager left, closing the door softly behind him.
Arvid sat down in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving her face. She looked smaller like this. Quieter. Nothing like the girl who’d been gripping a steering wheel at two hundred miles an hour just hours ago.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“More than enough,” he muttered under his breath, frustrated and scared all over again. “You just don’t see it.”
And this time, he stayed.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
Three hours later, she woke up feeling like she’d been hit by a truck.
Every part of her ached—head, shoulders, neck—like the pain had settled deep into her bones. She groaned softly as bright overhead lights bounced off the polished floor and straight into her eyes, making her squeeze them shut again.
“Easy,” a voice said.
She cracked one eye open.
“You’re awake,” her manager mused, standing near the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
“What… the hell?” she asked hoarsely, blinking hard as she tried to piece together where she was—and why he was there.
“You fainted,” he said simply.
“I don’t faint,” she cut in immediately, pushing herself up on her elbows.
“Now you do.”
She froze.
“Arvid was the one who brought you here,” he continued. “Wouldn’t leave your side. I had to practically force him to step outside and get some air. Told him I’d call once you woke up.”
She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
“You need to rest,” he went on, tone firm now. “You can’t keep overworking yourself like this. You’re skipping tomorrow’s practice. That’s final.”
“But—”
“No.” He cut her off without hesitation. “You either miss FP3, or you miss the qualifying and the race. Your choice.”
The words landed hard.
She stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening as the reality set in. Missing practice hurt—but missing the race would be worse. Way worse.
FP3 isn’t the end of the world, she told herself. The race is what matters.
“…Fine,” she muttered.
“I’ll call Arvid,” her manager said. “And I’ll get a cab ready later.”
He turned and headed for the door. “Get some rest.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
She exhaled slowly, sinking back into the pillows. After a moment, she reached for the bedside table, fingers groping for her glasses and her phone.
Her glasses were there.
Her phone wasn’t.
She frowned.
“No, no—” she muttered, pushing herself upright despite the protest from her head. She checked the table again. Then the drawers. The small cabinet. Under the pillow.
Nothing.
She groaned, running a hand down her face just as the door creaked open behind her.
“Hey,” Arvid said softly.
She looked up. “Hi.”
There was a beat. He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Uh—your phone’s with me,” he said, holding it out. “You dropped it earlier.”
“Oh.” She took it from him. “Thanks.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“Look—”
“I want to—”
They both stopped, then let out a small, awkward laugh.
“You go first,” Arvid said.
She swallowed. “I… wanted to apologise.” Her voice was quieter now, stripped of its edge. “You were just worried. I know you meant well, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just—”
The words caught in her throat, refusing to come out.
Arvid stepped closer before she could retreat. He lifted a hand, hesitating for half a second before gently brushing his thumb against her cheek.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re more than enough.”
Then he closed the distance completely, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened at first, then melted into it, forehead pressing against his shoulder.
“I’m just worried,” he murmured. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground since we got here. You’re my best friend, for God’s sake. We’ve known each other since F4.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “We made it all the way here together.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“All that hard work," he continued, voice steady, sure. “It mattered,” he said simply. “Every bit of it.” He pulled back, eyes steady on hers. “You don’t need to bleed for this anymore.”
Her chest tightened.
“I don’t deserve you,” she mumbled, staring at the floor. “Why would you even want to be friends with me? I’ve always been kind of an ass to you.”
Arvid blinked, then smiled faintly.
“You looked lonely,” he said simply. “And sad.”
She glanced up at him, surprised.
“You got second place,” he went on. “Everyone was talking, celebrating… but you were all alone.”
He paused, like he could still see it.
“You were standing there with the trophy in your hands, and it looked like you didn’t know where to put yourself. Like you’d rather be anywhere else even though you’d just won something huge.”
He shook his head softly.
“People kept walking past you. Not stopping. Not looking for you. And you just smiled anyway—this small, polite smile—like you were trying not to take up too much space.”
Arvid swallowed.
“It was supposed to be your moment. And somehow you looked like you were apologising for it.”
He glanced at her, voice quieter now.
“So yeah. I went over. Not because you needed saving or anything—just because no one should feel that alone after doing something that big.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“I found you sitting alone,” he added. “Pretty much like today, actually.” His smile softened. “I made you laugh. You looked so… carefree for once. And I don’t know—I guess I decided then that I wanted to be the person who made you smile.”
She snorted softly. “By leeching onto me?”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he shot back. “Now you can’t get rid of me.”
This time, when she smiled, it stayed.
——————————————————————————————————————
They stepped out of her room and into the paddock, the noise already quieter than before. She walked slower now, and at some point Arvid’s hand found the small of her back—not guiding, just there. She didn’t pull away.
They spotted her manager near the edge of the garage.
“Just in time,” he said, glancing up “I was about to call you.”
He gave her a once-over, eyes lingering a second longer than professional concern, then nodded. “Cab’s waiting.”
The car ride was quiet.
The hum of the engine and the steady movement of the road seemed to work faster than any medicine.
“You hungry?” Arvid asked
No answer.
Arvid glanced to his right. Her head had tipped gently against the window, lashes resting against her cheeks. Her brows were finally relaxed, her breathing slow and even.
“Figures,” he murmured, more fond than amused.
He smiled, careful not to move too much in case he woke her. He looked down at his phone, scrolling for a moment before placing an order. When the car hit a bump, she shifted—and without thinking, her head settled against his shoulder.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he angled himself slightly so she wouldn’t slip, resting his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
He gently shook her shoulder when the car stopped.
“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re here.”
She blinked awake, disoriented for half a second, then nodded and followed him into the hotel lobby. Arvid grabbed the takeout bag from the front desk, and they rode the lift up together.
She pressed the button for the 17th floor.
Inside the room, she dragged two chairs over, placing them instinctively close together. Arvid set the takeout down between them.
“What’d you get?” she asked.
He smiled, opening the containers one by one. First, lasagna. Then a pie.
“Lasagna and blueberry pie,” he said, setting them down. “Thought you’d like some.”
She froze.
Her eyes flicked between the food and his face, genuine shock written all over her expression.
“How did you—” She shook her head, laughing softly. “How do you even remember that stuff?”
She’d mentioned wanting lasagna months ago, barely in passing. And the pie—God, she couldn’t even remember when she’d said she’d never had one. Just that she’d always wanted to try it.
“You must really like me,” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Next you’re gonna pull out some ice cream or something.”
Right on cue—
Ding-dong.
They both paused.
Arvid blinked. “…Huh.”
He stood and went to the door. When he came back, he was holding another bag.
“What’s that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He winced slightly. “Okay, that was supposed to be a surprise, but you kinda ruined it.”
He reached into the bag and pulled out two tubs of ice cream.
Her jaw dropped.
The first was vanilla—simple, safe, something anyone who knew her even a little might pick.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Fair.”
Then he pulled out the second.
Rainbow sherbet.
She stared at it, then at him. “Wow,” she said. “You’re actually obsessed with me.”
Arvid gasped dramatically. “How did you find out?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Damn. I called it. You’re into me.”
He sank back onto the chair, studying her for a beat too long. “Guess now I just have to wait for you to like me back.”
She snorted, but her ears burned slightly, and she focused very hard on her food.
Arvid noticed.
Of course he did.
—————————————————————————————
After they finished the lasagna, Arvid gathered the empty containers and set them aside. When he turned back, she was already standing, moving toward the bed without saying anything.
A moment later, he followed.
They ended up sitting against the headboard, the TV murmuring softly in front of them. At first there was space—polite, habitual—but it didn’t last. Arvid flicked through channels until something mindless stuck, the kind of show you didn’t have to pay attention to.
He opened the first tub of ice cream and handed it to her.
She looked up at him, amused. “You know you’re setting a precedent, right?”
He shrugged. “Worth the risk.”
She took a bite, eyes closing briefly as if she’d been waiting for it all day. When she opened them again, some of the tension had finally drained from her shoulders.
They ate in quiet, the room lit by the TV and the city glow leaking through the curtains. She curled one leg beneath her, ice cream balanced dangerously on her thigh.
“You’re living dangerously,” Arvid said, watching the tub tilt.
“Relax,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
She did not, in fact, have it.
Ice cream slid toward the edge.
Arvid reached out automatically, steadying the container before it could fall. His fingers brushed hers. He didn’t pull away right away.
Neither did she.
For a second, they both froze—like they’d realized something at the Arvide time. Then he let go, slow, careful.
She didn’t say anything. Just took another bite, lips curving slightly.
They traded tubs a little while later, wordless. Their shoulders bumped during the switch, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through his sleeve. This time, neither of them shifted apart.
The show droned on in the background—some overdramatic plot twist that made no sense if you thought about it for more than two seconds.
She did think about it.
“That would never happen,” she said suddenly, scooping another bite of ice cream. “Like, in what universe does anyone survive that without even a scratch?”
Arvid hummed, amused, eyes still on the screen. “Maybe it’s an alternate reality.”
She snorted. “Yeah. The laws of physics just took the night off.”
He laughed quietly—not at the show, but at her. The way she talked with her spoon, the way her brows furrowed like this was a personal offense. He found himself watching her more than the TV.
She kept going, commentary slipping out between bites. Complaints about the dialogue. About the acting. About how unrealistic all of it was.
“You’re impossible,” he said, fond.
“You love it,” she replied without missing a beat.
He did.
She leaned forward to grab another spoonful—and that’s when he noticed it. A faint smear of ice cream at the corner of her mouth, just along her cheek.
He hesitated. “Hey—”
“What?” She paused, confused.
“There’s—” He gestured vaguely toward his own face.
She immediately wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, embarrassed. “Oh. Wow. Great. Very dignified.”
He smiled. “You missed a bit.”
Before she could react, he leaned in, lifting his hand gently to her face. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, slow, careful, like he was giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
Her breath hitched. His thumb lingered.
The space between them felt charged now—different. Heavy.
She tilted her head up without thinking.
Arvid didn’t realize he was moving until he already was.
Their lips met softly, almost tentative, like they were both checking to see if this was real. Then she leaned in, closing the distance fully, and the kiss deepened—still gentle, still careful, but certain.
When they pulled apart, it was only by inches.
She looked at him, eyes searching his face.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Arvid exhaled, smiling just slightly. “Guess I don’t need to wait any longer.”