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Suzuka. A circuit that drivers either respected… or feared.
The flowing esses of sector one punished even the slightest miscalculation. The Degners demanded commitment. Spoon corner tested patience. And 130R—flat out, terrifying, legendary—was a place where bravery and precision blurred into one.
It wasn’t just a track.
It was a test.
A test of control, of awareness, of restraint.
Because Suzuka didn’t forgive desperation.
It exposed it.
Sure, history had its moments. Fernando Alonso once threw his car around the outside of Michael Schumacher in a move that people still replayed years later. It was bold, calculated—perfect.
Others had tried similar moves.
Some even pulled them off.
But those moments weren’t reckless.
They were rare.
And most importantly—
They were controlled.
That didn’t mean anyone could try it. It didn’t mean everyone should.
Suzuka had a way of reminding drivers of that.
Harshly.
But someone did try.
And it ended badly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Kimi had won.
Again.
For the second time in his career. For the second time this season. And just a week after his previous victory, he had done it again—clean, precise, almost effortless.
People had already started talking.
“The prodigy.”
“The future world champion.”
“Mercedes’ golden boy.”
And honestly… they weren’t wrong.
He wasn’t just fast—he was intelligent. His overtakes weren’t desperate lunges; they were calculated strikes. He knew when to wait, when to attack, when to back off.
Even when things didn’t go perfectly—like Qatar, where a defensive mistake had cost Max Verstappen the championship—he learned quickly.
That’s what made him special.
And today?
Today he had been flawless.
But even flawless races had moments outside a driver’s control.
Lap 22.
Yellow flags.
A brief message over the radio.
No details.
No explanation.
Just slow down.
At the time, Kimi didn’t think much of it.
He couldn’t afford to.
He was focused.
Locked in.
But now?
Now the race was over.
And the answers were coming.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The cooldown room was quieter than usual.
Kimi walked in, placing his helmet down carefully, almost absentmindedly, before dropping into the middle of the sofa. The adrenaline was still there, but it was fading—replaced by that strange emptiness that always came after a race.
To his right, Oscar took a long sip from his water bottle, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp.
To his left, Charles ran his hands through his hair, exhaling slowly, replaying moments in his head.
The TV flickered to life.
Replay.
At first, it was the usual.
Overtakes, pit stops, radio snippets.
The usual highlight reel.
The drivers talked over it, casually.
“I lost time in sector one…”
“My tyres dropped off earlier than expected…”
“I should’ve defended more into Spoon…”
Normal conversation.
Normal race.
Then—
The crash.
Everything in the room went quiet.
Ollie’s Haas appeared on screen.
The Brit was flying.
The car looked slightly unstable—but fast.
Too fast.
In front, Franco Colapinto was managing his pace, filling his battery, unaware of just how quickly Ollie was approaching.
Ollie knew.
He could feel it.
The car wasn’t slowing the way it should.
The braking zone was rushing toward him, the corner tightening, the margin disappearing.
He pressed harder.
Nothing.
The car roared forward, stubborn, unresponsive.
His mind raced.
Options.
There were only two.
Stay on line—
And risk slamming straight into Franco.
Or turn—
And hope for the best.
He turned.
For a split second, it looked like it might work.
The car darted left, narrowly avoiding Franco.
But the speed—
The speed was still there.
Too much of it.
He tried to correct, to bring it back, to regain control.
But Suzuka doesn’t forgive hesitation.
And it certainly doesn’t forgive mistakes.
The car slid.
And then—
Impact.
Violent.
Sudden.
Unforgiving.
The Haas slammed into the barriers, the force launching it slightly upward before it crashed back down, debris scattering across the track.
Back in the cockpit, everything blurred.
Ollie didn’t understand what had happened.
Not immediately.
There was just noise.
And then—
Pain.
Sharp. Immediate. Radiating through his knee.
He tried to move—
And that’s when it hit him.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Yellow flags waved instantly.
Marshals sprinted toward the wreck, their movements urgent, practiced—but faster than usual.
Because this wasn’t minor.
This wasn’t just a spin.
The marshals made it to the car.
Voices.
Hands reaching in the cockpit.
Careful.
Controlled.
“Stay still.” one instructed.
“Don’t move your leg.” another one added.
“We’ve got you.” The other one tried to reassure him.
Ollie nodded, though his jaw tightened.
Every movement sent another wave of pain through him.
They helped him out slowly.
One arm over a marshal’s shoulder.
Weight shifted carefully.
But the moment his foot touched the ground—
He couldn’t hide it.
The limp.
The way his leg refused to cooperate.
The way he winced, just slightly, trying not to show it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
In the cooldown room there was silence.
Kimi stared at the screen.
Oscar had stopped drinking.
Charles’ hands had frozen mid-motion.
No one said anything.
Because they all understood.
That wasn’t just a crash.
That was what Suzuka did when something went wrong.
Kimi leaned back slightly, exhaling, but his eyes stayed locked on the screen.
Lap 22.
Yellow flags.
Now he knew.
And somehow…
The win didn’t feel quite the same anymore.
The screen went back to highlights.
More overtakes more pit stops, crowd shots.
Anything but that moment.
But the atmosphere in the cooldown room had shifted.
It was subtle—nothing obvious, nothing anyone would point out—but it was there.
Heavier.
Quieter.
Kimi hadn’t moved.
He was still sitting in the middle of the sofa, elbows resting on his knees now, hands loosely clasped together. His gaze stayed fixed on the screen, but it wasn’t really following what was playing anymore.
His mind was somewhere else.
Far from the replay.
To his right, Oscar Piastri glanced at him briefly.
Just for a second.
It was the kind of look that didn’t need words. A quick check. A silent question.
Kimi didn’t respond.
Didn’t look back.
But Oscar didn’t press.
On his left, Charles shifted slightly, leaning back into the sofa. He exhaled, dragging a hand over his face before letting it drop to his lap.
He knew too.
They all did.
Not the full story—no one ever really did—but enough.
Enough to understand why Kimi had gone so still.
The TV volume seemed louder now, filling the silence that none of them were willing to break.
A commentator’s voice echoed faintly through the room, talking about strategy, tyre management, championship implications.
None of it felt important.
Kimi swallowed, his jaw tightening for just a moment before relaxing again.
He reached for a water bottle on the table in front of him, unscrewing the cap with steady hands.
At least, they looked steady.
He took a sip.
Another.
Anything to give himself something to do.
Something normal.
He waited for someone to come in
Or see it in the TV
If Ollie was doing good
Cause he didn't want to belive that anything bad happened to him.
But he pushed those thoughts away.
Because he already knew.
If there was something—anything serious—the team would have told him by now.
That’s how it worked.
That’s how it had to work.
Still…
His brain drifted back there again, involuntary.
Just for a second.
Then back to the screen.
“You drove well.” Oscar’s voice broke the silence, casual, like they were just continuing the usual post-race talk.
Kimi nodded once. “Yeah.”
Short.
Automatic.
Charles tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“You controlled it very well,” he added. “Not easy here.”
Kimi let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I had the pace.”
Another short answer.
Another deflection.
Neither of them pushed further.
Because this wasn’t really about the race.
Not anymore.
A knock echoed faintly from outside the room.
A signal.
Podium soon.
Kimi leaned back against the sofa, finally shifting his posture. He ran a hand through his hair, slower than usual, like he was trying to ground himself.
Focus.
He needed to focus.
Just a few more minutes.
The podium.
The interviews.
The cameras.
Normal.
Everything had to look normal.
He stood up when they were called.
Expression composed.
The same calm, almost relaxed look he always carried.
No one watching would have noticed anything different.
But as they walked out—
As the noise of the crowd started to grow louder—
His composure slipped.
Not enough for anyone to see.
Not enough for anyone to call it out.
But enough to remind him—
That the moment this was over…
Nothing else would matter.
The roar of the crowd hit them the moment they stepped out.
It was loud. Overwhelming. Alive.
Suzuka always was.
Kimi walked ahead, shoulders straight, helmet tucked under his arm, his expression carefully neutral. The cameras followed instantly, flashes going off, capturing every angle, every movement.
To everyone watching, it was simple.
Another win.
Another brilliant performance.
Another step toward something way bigger.
But inside?
It didn’t feel like that.
He stepped onto the podium, the noise swelling even more as his name was announced. A wave of cheers rolled across the grandstands, flags waving, people standing, shouting.
Kimi lifted his head slightly, acknowledging them with a small nod.
That was expected.
That was part of it.
Beside him, Oscar adjusted his cap, glancing briefly toward Kimi before looking out at the crowd again.
On the other side, Charles rolled his shoulders back, already slipping into that familiar post-race composure.
They were all playing their roles.
The national anthems for the winner and the winner's team began.
Kimi stood still, eyes forward, hands behind his back.
Normally, this was the moment he let it sink in.
The moment where the noise faded, where everything narrowed down to just this—the result of everything he’d worked for.
But not today.
His thoughts kept drifting.
Uncontrolled.
Unwanted.
He forced his focus back.
Forward.
Still.
Both of the anthems ended.
Applause followed.
Then movement again.
Trophies handed out.
Hands shaken.
Photos taken.
Everything went normal.
Kimi stepped forward when his name was called, accepting the trophy with both hands. It was heavier than it looked—solid, real.
Proof.
He lifted it briefly for the crowd.
More cheers.
More flashes.
He set it down carefully.
The champagne came next.
Normally, that would’ve been the release.
The moment where everything loosened, where the tension broke and the celebration took over.
Oscar popped his bottle first, spraying it outward with a grin.
Charles followed immediately after, aiming across the podium.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Kimi joined in a second later.
The spray arced through the air, catching the light, scattering into droplets that soaked his race suit, his hair, his face.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
He let himself move with it.
Laugh, just slightly.
Play the part.
But it didn’t reach his eyes.
It didn’t stay.
Because even as the celebration continued.
Even as the crowd cheered.
Even as everything looked exactly how it was supposed to.
There was something missing.
Something pulling at the back of his mind.
And the moment it ended—
The second it ended.
Kimi didn’t lingered.
The smiles faded as soon as he stepped off the podium.
The noise dulled behind him.
The cameras turned elsewhere.
He handed the trophy off to a team member without a second thought, barely slowing his pace.
Someone called his name—
He didn’t stop.
He got his phone in his hand now after a mechanic gave it to him.
Screen lighting up as he finally unlocked it.
Notifications flooded in.
Messages.
Team updates.
He didn’t read most of them.
Didn’t need to.
He was already moving faster.
Down the corridor.
Past people who tried to get his attention. Past voices that blurred into the background.
Focused.
Locked in.
Because now—
Now he wasn’t the race winner.
Wasn’t the prodigy.
Wasn’t anything they were calling him.
Now—
He was just Kimi.
And there was only one place he needed to be.
The corridor curved, leading him exactly where instinct wanted to take him—
—but a hand caught his arm before he could go any further.
“Kimi—media.”
Of course.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Eyes closing briefly as he exhaled through his nose.
Reality settling back in. He couldn’t just walk off. It didn’t matter what he wanted. It didn’t matter what was running through his head.
There was a system.
And he was right in the middle of it.
Kimi gave a small nod.
“Yeah.”
The phone disappeared back into his pocket.
The urgency didn’t.
Minutes later, he was standing in front of cameras again.
Bright lights.
Microphones pushed toward him. Voices were overlapping.
“How does it feel to win back-to-back races?”
“Did the yellow flag affect your strategy at all?”
“You’re being called the title favorite—your thoughts?”
He answered.
Of course he did.
Calm.
Measured.
Professional.
“It feels good. The team did an amazing job.”
“The timing worked in our favor, but the pace was there.”
“It’s too early to think about that. We take it race by race.”
The same answers.
The expected ones.
No hesitation.
No cracks.
Only once—
just once did he falter.
A question came from somewhere to his left.
“Were you concerned when the yellow flag came out?”
Kimi paused.
Barely noticeable.
A fraction of a second.
Then—
“A little, yeah. But I trusted the situation was under control.”
And just like that, it was gone.
Buried again.
More questions. More answers. More cameras.
Then the interviews ended.
“Pen.”
He was moving again before the word fully registered.
The paddock felt louder now.
Busier.
Chaotic.
People everywhere—engineers, media, team members, guests.
Voices layered over each other.
Kimi walked straight through it.
Focused.
Scanning.
His eyes moved quickly, searching faces, uniforms, anything familiar.
Anything Haas.
Nothing.
He turned another corner.
Faster now.
A group of team members passed him, congratulating him as they went.
“Great drive!”
“Incredible pace today Kimi!”
He nodded automatically.
Didn’t stop one bit.
Another turn.
Another corridor.
Still nothing.
His jaw tightened slightly.
He reached for his phone again, pulling it out as he walked.
Unlocked it.
Messages still flooding in.
His thumb hovered for half a second—
then tapped.
The call rang.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
Kimi swallowed, ending the call before it could go any longer.
That didn’t mean anything.
It didn’t.
He kept moving.
The medical center.
That thought hit him instantly, shifting his direction without hesitation.
Faster now.
Ignoring the looks.
Ignoring the people trying to get his attention again.
He didn’t care.
The closer he got, the quieter it became.
The noise of the paddock fading behind him, replaced by something more controlled. More contained.
He slowed slightly as the medical center came into view.
Not stopping.
Just slowing.
For the first time since the podium
Since the interviews.
Since all of it.
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Because this—
This was where it became real.
His hand tightened slightly around his phone. His chest rising and falling a little heavier now.
Then—
He stepped forward.
And pushed the door open.
The door shut quietly behind him.
And just like that—
everything changed.
The noise from outside disappeared, replaced by something controlled. Muted. Clinical. White walls. Soft voices. The distant beeping of machines.
Kimi barely took two steps forward before someone intercepted him.
A member of the medical staff.
Calm. Professional.
Blocking the way without making it obvious.
“Sorry,” they said gently. “You can’t go through right now.”
Kimi stopped.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Just—
stopped.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
“I just need to—” he started, voice lower than before.
“I understand,” they cut in, still calm, still steady. “But he’s being checked. No one’s allowed in at the moment.”
He.
The word settled heavily.
Kimi’s jaw tightened slightly.
His grip on his phone shifted, fingers pressing a little too firmly against the edges.
“How long?” he asked.
“A bit,” came the answer. “We’ll let you know.”
A bit.
That meant nothing.
Kimi nodded once.
Because there was nothing else he could do.
He stepped back.
Just enough to not be in the way.
But not enough to leave.
The door behind the staff remained closed.
Unmoving.Silent.
And suddenly—
there was nothing to do.
No steering wheel to hold. No radio to listen to. No lap times to chase.
Just waiting.
Kimi leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms loosely, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t match the casual posture.
His eyes stayed fixed on the door.
Unblinking.
Time felt strange.
Too slow.
Too loud.
Every small sound became noticeable.
Footsteps down the hall. Muffled voices behind the door. The faint rustle of movement somewhere deeper inside.
He tried not to think.
Didn’t work.
Because his mind kept going back—not to the race, not to the win.
But to Ollie.
To quiet moments no one else saw.
Late nights after long race weekends.
Short conversations in empty corners of the paddock. The way everything outside of racing seemed to fade when they were alone.
It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
And yet—
here they were.
Hidden in plain sight.
Careful.
Always careful.
Kimi exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the wall for a brief second before straightening again. Still watching the door.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
A message.
Another one.
He didn’t check.
Didn’t care.
Because none of it mattered right now.
Another few minutes passed.
Or maybe longer.
It was hard to tell.
At one point, someone walked out from deeper inside.
Kimi straightened immediately. Eyes sharp.
Hope—quick, instinctive—flashing across his expression before he could stop it.
But they walked past him.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t say anything.
And just like that—
it was gone again.
Kimi looked away briefly, jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.
This—
this was worse than being in the car.
Worse than any pressure.
Any fight.
Because there was nothing he could control.
Nothing he could truly do.
Just stand there and wait.
His fingers tapped once against his arm.
Then stilled. Another glance at the door which was still closed.
Kimi shifted his weight slightly, pushing himself off the wall for a moment before settling back again.
Restless.
But contained.
Because no matter how much he wanted to—
no matter how strong the urge was to just walk through that door and ignore whatever rules were in place—
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
So he stayed right there, just outside, waiting.
And hoping—
that the next time that door opened
it would finally be for him.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Minutes felt like hours.
Kimi stayed just outside the medical area, pacing slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of his race suit. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked toward the door. Every faint sound of movement made his stomach twist.
Then finally, the door opened.
It was Ollie.
He was walking slowly, supported lightly by a marshal, his race suit slightly disheveled, helmet under one arm. Kimi’s eyes locked onto him instantly, heart tightening.
Ollie gave him a small, tired smile. “Hey.”
Kimi didn’t respond at first. He just took a step closer, letting his relief and worry pour into that single movement.
“Just your knee,” a medic said, noticing Kimi’s gaze. “Nothing serious. You’ll need some rest, five weeks or so. So you won’t miss any races.”
Ollie nodded, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I’ll manage. Team’s got me covered.”
Kimi exhaled sharply, almost letting himself smile, though he kept his expression neutral.
“Don’t overdo it,” he said. Voice low, controlled—but there was a clear undercurrent of concern.
Ollie smirked faintly. “You worried about me?”
Kimi’s lips twitched. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the small gap between them, careful not to draw attention but close enough that Ollie could feel it.
The rest of the paddock faded. The cameras, the flashes, the cheering—they all disappeared from his focus. It was just them.
“You’ll be fine,” Kimi said finally. “And you’ll be back in the car before anyone even notices a gap.”
Ollie chuckled softly. “You’re watching me like a hawk.”
Kimi’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Somebody has to.”
For a long moment, they just stood there. No words, just quiet and the soft hum of the hospital lights. The tension from earlier, the panic, the fear—it all seemed to settle, replaced with something heavier but calmer: relief.
Finally, Ollie reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from Kimi’s forehead, a private gesture that made Kimi’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t hide.
“Five weeks of rest,” Ollie murmured. “Not ideal, but I’ll survive.”
Kimi’s hand found Ollie’s, holding it just a moment longer than necessary. “You’d better,” he said simply.
No one else needed to see. No one else needed to understand. For now, it was enough that Ollie was okay. That he was here. That Kimi could finally exhale.
The paddock outside continued its chaos, but they didn’t move. They didn’t need to. Not yet.
For the first time in hours, they were just Kimi and Ollie. Alone in the middle of it all.
The paddock was slowly settling as the sun started to dip toward the horizon. The frantic energy of post-race celebrations and interviews had begun to fade, replaced by the quieter, methodical rhythm of teams packing up, engineers walking back to their trucks, and the last waves of fans leaving the stands.
Kimi moved first.
He stepped out of the medical area, letting the brief tension in his shoulders ease slightly as he made his way back to the Mercedes garage. The corridors of the paddock were quieter now, but every footstep still echoed, a subtle reminder of the constant activity that never truly stopped here.
His mind was not on that. It wasn’t on the race, not on his podium, not on the cameras that had followed him since the cool-down room.
All that mattered now was Ollie.
The garage was calm in comparison to the chaos of the track. Engineers and mechanics were cleaning up, storing tools, and debriefing quietly. Kimi made a brief nod to a few familiar faces, but he wasn’t stopping for conversation. He had just one goal: get changed, get out, and find Ollie.
He entered the drivers’ room. The familiar scent of electronics, sweat, and tyre rubber was present but muted compared to the frenzy outside. Kimi moved directly to his locker, helmet still under one arm, and pulled out his spare merch and clothes, clean and folded neatly.
He changed quickly, methodical as ever. Every movement was precise—zip here, strap there. His mind, however, was racing. He thought about Ollie’s smile, the way he’d looked when he’d come out of the medical center, the subtle limp that Kimi had tried not to focus on too much but couldn’t.
By the time he was fully changed, Kimi was breathing a little heavier than usual—not from the exertion, but from anticipation. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the exit. Outside, the paddock had changed again. Shadows were lengthening, the lights of the garages beginning to glow against the approaching evening.
Kimi’s car was waiting. He didn’t drive himself. He had been too keyed up for that. Instead, one of the Mercedes staff offered him a lift in a small electric cart. They drove through the paddock, Kimi silent, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other carts, the team trucks, the remnants of the day’s chaos.
Meanwhile, Ollie was in the Haas garage. He had returned from the medical center with a supportive team member walking beside him, helping him navigate the small limp that lingered in his knee. He moved into his drivers’ room, where everything was familiar and controlled.
His locker was neat, his spare clothes waiting. The team had been careful, making sure he had everything he needed to be comfortable, to change without strain. Ollie carefully removed his race suit. Every movement was cautious but controlled. He had been through crashes before; this one had left a mark, but nothing permanent. His mind kept replaying Kimi’s face—the worry, the relief, the way he had stayed outside the door the entire time.
Ollie changed into comfortable clothes, loose and soft, everything a contrast to the tight race suits they’d both spent the day in. He flexed his knee slightly, testing it, making sure the muscles weren’t too stiff. The pain was there, but manageable. He could walk. He could race. He could recover.
Once he was dressed, Ollie picked up his phone. A brief message from Kimi was waiting: I’m on my way.
His lips curved into a small, tired smile. It had been a long day. But Kimi hadn’t left his side, not once, even when he had to follow protocol and step away from the medical area. That had meant more than Ollie could put into words.
The corridors of the paddock were emptying as they both made their way toward the exit. Kimi had parked discreetly near the access road to Ollie’s hotel, and Ollie moved with steady, careful steps, limping slightly but controlled, toward him.
When they met, there was no fanfare, no dramatic gestures. Just a simple, grounding moment: Kimi’s hand brushing against Ollie’s as he reached for the door handle of the car. Their fingers intertwined instinctively, comfortably.
“Pain?” Kimi asked, voice low, controlled.
“Minor,” Ollie replied, managing a small grin. “Not enough to stop me.”
Kimi’s jaw tightened slightly. The words were reassuring, but he didn’t let go immediately. He needed to make sure Ollie was steady before they moved.
The concern in Kimi’s gaze wasn’t for show; it was raw, real, and only Ollie could see it.
The ride to the hotel was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Kimi drove with careful precision, every motion controlled, his eyes flicking to Ollie every few moments. Ollie leaned back in the passenger seat, relaxed but attentive.
They didn’t need to talk. Words weren’t necessary. The quiet between them was comfortable. Even in silence, there was understanding, trust, and the weight of everything they had just gone through.
The hotel loomed ahead, a familiar place for them both on race weekends. Kimi parked in the underground garage, and they moved inside together. The elevators were empty, giving them a brief sense of privacy that they rarely had.
Ollie pressed the button to his floor. Kimi’s hand never left his.
When the door to Ollie’s suite opened, the first thing they noticed was how quiet it was compared to the paddock. The sounds of the track, the teams, the cameras—they were all gone. It was just them.
Ollie sank into the sofa, his knee bent slightly, and let out a quiet sigh.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” he said.
Kimi knelt in front of him, careful with the injured leg. “I’m not letting you sit here alone,” he said softly. “Not after today.”
Ollie’s lips twitched. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”
Kimi’s hands moved instinctively to Ollie’s knee, checking gently, making sure the brace or support was positioned correctly, the swelling not too bad. Ollie flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. Kimi’s gaze was sharp, attentive, concerned. It wasn’t just about the injury; it was about Ollie, about keeping him safe.
“Five weeks,” Kimi said quietly, almost more to himself than Ollie. “That’s all you need. Then you'll be just fine.”
“I know,” Ollie replied. “I’ll rest. Don’t worry.”
Kimi didn’t immediately respond. He didn’t need to. His presence, his gaze, the subtle squeeze of Ollie’s hand was enough.
They stayed like that for a while. The room was filled with quiet—the soft hum of the air conditioning, the faint sounds of the city outside, the occasional creak of the building settling.
Ollie finally leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, and let out a slow breath. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there today,” he admitted quietly.
Kimi’s hand stayed on his knee, brushing lightly, grounding him. “You won’t have to find out,” he said. “I’ll be here. Always.”
Ollie opened his eyes and looked at him, expression soft. “Always?”
“Always,” Kimi confirmed, voice low, steady.
And for the first time that day, they both allowed themselves to relax. Not entirely, not fully—Suzuka had a way of leaving its mark—but for now, in this quiet hotel room, it was just the two of them.
No cameras. No interviews. No podiums.
Just Kimi and Ollie.
And the sense that no matter what happened next—five weeks of rest, recovery, race weekends, crashes, victories—they’d face it together.
They didn’t speak for a long time. Words were unnecessary. Kimi remained by Ollie’s side, steady, protective, and Ollie leaned back, trusting him completely.
The hotel room was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt like a protective bubble around them. Outside, the city hummed and glowed, but inside, the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Ollie sank further into the sofa, letting out a soft sigh as Kimi remained kneeling beside him, fingers still brushing lightly over the brace and wrapping of his knee. The pain was dull, manageable—but the emotional weight of the day, of the crash, of Kimi’s constant presence, was heavy.
“You don’t have to hover,” Ollie murmured, voice low, teasing, but carrying the fatigue of the day.
Kimi didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. “I’m not hovering,” he said, calm, almost neutral. “I’m making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Ollie smirked faintly, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Oh please, I would do anything.”
Kimi’s lips twitched. He didn’t respond verbally, but his hands lingered on Ollie’s knee, thumb brushing over the fabric lightly, a constant reassurance.
It was quiet for a long moment.
Then Ollie shifted, turning slightly to look at him. “You’ve been… everywhere today. Podium, interviews, post-race… all of it. And yet… you stayed with me. Even when you weren’t supposed to.”
Kimi finally lifted his gaze. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened slightly as they met Ollie’s.
“I’m not letting you deal with it alone,” he said simply. “Not today. Not ever.”
Ollie’s lips curved into a small, tired smile.
“You really care, don’t you?”
Kimi’s expression didn’t waver, but the subtle tension in his jaw, the lingering touch of his hand on Ollie’s leg, said more than words ever could.
“Of course I care,” he said quietly. “You’re… important.”
Ollie’s smile widened, a hint of relief breaking through the exhaustion.
“I’m not used to people saying that,” he admitted. “Especially not people like you.”
Kimi raised an eyebrow, unamused but attentive. “People like me?”
“You know,” Ollie said, voice soft, almost conspiratorial. “People that are full of energy, or at least show like they are. Most of the times they dont show their true feelings about others.”
Kimi’s lips twitched ever so slightly. No response. Just a glance that carried everything he didn’t say.
Ollie shifted carefully, testing his knee. “I guess five weeks of rest won’t be so bad,” he muttered, though his tone was half-joke, half-serious. “Especially if I get company like this.”
Kimi’s hand lifted slightly, brushing over the side of Ollie’s arm. “You’ll have more than enough company,” he said simply.
The words hung in the air. The air was warmer now, more intimate, but still careful, still measured.
Ollie leaned back, closing his eyes again. “I hate that you’re always so… responsible,” he murmured, voice half-laughing, half-sighing. “Makes me feel… weak when I’m supposed to be the driver.”
Kimi’s gaze softened, and he finally sat down on the sofa beside Ollie, keeping a careful distance but close enough that Ollie could feel the warmth and weight of his presence. “You’re not weak,” he said quietly. “Crashes happen. Injuries happen. Being human isn’t weak.”
Ollie’s lips twitched, and he let out a small laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds like I’m supposed to be brave or something.”
“You are brave,” Kimi said, voice steady, calm. “But bravery doesn’t mean being reckless. It doesn’t mean ignoring what your body needs. That’s stupid bravery.”
Ollie turned slightly toward him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought you were the stoic one.”
Kimi tilted his head, expression unreadable. “I’m stoic,” he said. “But I’m also real. And right now, you need someone real.”
Ollie’s hand found Kimi’s, fingers brushing and intertwining. For a moment, they just held each other’s hands, the simple contact heavier than words.
“You don’t need to say it,” Ollie whispered. “I already know.”
“I do,” Kimi said quietly, voice low. “Because I can’t not.”
The honesty in Kimi’s tone was disarming. Ollie shifted slightly, leaning against him just enough to feel the strength in his presence, without breaking the careful boundary they always kept in public.
They stayed like that for a while. No words, just quiet companionship. The kind of quiet that only came after adrenaline, after fear, after relief.
Ollie finally broke the silence. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted softly. “Today… yesterday… I don’t know. You’re always there.”
Kimi’s hand squeezed his gently. “You’d be fine,” he said simply, though he didn’t sound entirely convincing. “But I’d rather be here. With you.”
Ollie tilted his head slightly, resting it against Kimi’s shoulder. “You’re impossible,” he said with a small laugh. “I mean… seriously impossible.”
“I know,” Kimi replied flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
Time pasted and the room grew darker as the sun almost dipped below the horizon, the city lights outside casting a soft glow through the curtains. It was intimate, quiet, safe.
Kimi leaned slightly closer, his hand never leaving Ollie’s. “You’ll rest tonight,” he said, voice low. “I’ll make sure of it. Then tomorrow, we dont have to worry about anything. But I have to admit, 4 weeks of no races will be boring. At least I'll be with you, taking care of you."
Ollie chuckled softly. “I suppose that is a benefit for me at the moment.” he said. "But still, you dont need to guard me"
Kimi’s lips twitched faintly. “I don’t guard you because it’s convenient. I guard you because you matter.”
Ollie’s chest rose and fell, the tension from the day finally easing slightly. “You’re annoying when you’re honest,” he muttered, though his tone was soft, affectionate.
Kimi didn’t respond, just leaned back slightly, keeping the contact, keeping the presence.
Hours passed. They didn’t speak much. Just quiet words here and there, small touches, the reassurance of being together after a day that had nearly broken them both.
Ollie finally rested his head fully against Kimi’s shoulder. “Promise me something?” he whispered.
Kimi tilted his head slightly. “Anything.”
“Don’t ever stop being like this,” Ollie said, voice soft. “Even when we’re back in the car, even when the season gets crazy. Don’t stop caring. Don’t stop…” He trailed off, letting the words hang.
Kimi’s hand squeezed his again. “I won’t.”
They stayed like that, the world outside fading completely, the chaos of Suzuka and the paddock reduced to a distant echo.
For now, there was only them, only the quiet intimacy that no one else could see, only the unspoken understanding that they would face everything together, no matter how fast, dangerous, or unpredictable the world became.
By the time the lights dimmed and the night fully settled, Ollie was resting, knee elevated, breathing steady, comforted by Kimi’s presence beside him. Kimi sat quietly, alert, protective, unyielding. They didn’t need to speak. They didn’t need to move.
The world could wait.
For tonight, they had this.
And that was enough.