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Reading had never been high on Oliver Bearman’s list of priorities. In fact, it usually ranked somewhere between sitting through data telemetry meetings and watching paint dry. If things got boring, his immediate reflex was to look for a steering wheel, a simulator, or at the very least, a video game controller. Pages of dense, unmoving text just couldn't compete with a life lived at two hundred miles an hour.
But then, the universe decided to shift gears during the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.
The Haas garage was its usual symphony of controlled chaos—air guns whining, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, and engineers staring intensely at banks of monitors. Yet, tucked away in the furthest, quietest corner of the garage, sat an entirely unfamiliar face. You were completely oblivious to the high-stakes madness around you, your knees tucked up to your chest, your nose buried so deeply in a paperback book that the rest of the world might as well not have existed.
As it turned out, your mum was one of the senior trackside engineers, and you had tagged along to visit her at work. Ollie had spotted you the second he walked into the garage, and for a moment, his racing brain completely locked up. You looked so entirely peaceful amidst the roaring machinery. When you finally left later that afternoon, you accidentally dropped your bookmark—a simple, slightly frayed piece of cardstock covered in little painted wildflowers.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and just handing it to your mum to give back to you, Ollie had been stubbornly persistent. He tracked your mum down under the guise of "just being a helpful, polite guy," asking around for your contact information or if you'd be coming back the next day. Your mum, utterly charmed by his polite, boyish demeanor, assumed he was just being an extraordinarily friendly driver welcoming a colleague's family. She had absolutely no idea that Ollie had been completely captivated from the exact moment his eyes landed on you.
It took a year of slow-burning text messages, shared book recommendations that Ollie secretly struggled through just to have something to talk to you about, and a patient, quiet courtship. He waited for you to see him as more than just her mum's polite young driver. He waited until you finally loved him back.
Now, a year into being yours, the fast-paced world of his felt miles away from the quiet sanctuary of his apartment. The rain was drumming a soft, rhythmic beat against the windowpanes, matching the low hum of the city outside, but inside, everything was warm.
You were both squeezed onto his too-small couch, tangled together in a messy, comfortable heap. You were lying on your side, the heavy hardcover book propped up in your hands, while Ollie was molded perfectly against your back. His long arm was draped heavily over your waist, anchoring you to him, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin exposed by the hem of your sweatshirt. His chin was resting right on top of your head, his dark curls mingling with yours, his eyes tracking the lines of text simultaneously with yours. He was supposed to be reading along, but his focus kept fracturing, slipping from the printed words to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, to the soothing cadence of your voice vibrating against his torso.
“You’re not even processing what we’re reading, are you?” you accused him softly, pausing mid-sentence. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him with a knowing, playful smirk.
Caught red-handed, Ollie didn't even try to deny it. A sheepish, boyish smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You were right, of course. The last three paragraphs had been a total blur of syllables that meant absolutely nothing to him. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The sound of your voice reading aloud was a melody he never wanted to turn off; it was a gentle, grounding anchor that could effortlessly send him straight to cloud nine after a grueling week on the track.
“I love your voice,” he reacted, his voice dropping into a calm, quiet register that felt almost foreign compared to his usual upbeat, energetic tone. It was a soft, vulnerable admission, heavy with the comfort of being entirely at ease.
“Just my voice?” you teased, a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest as you nudged his arm with your elbow.
Ollie’s smile softened, turning into something profoundly tender. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer against him, solid and real. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss into the crown of your head, letting his lips rest there for a quiet beat before he spoke.
“I love you. You know that.”
The tease melted away from your expression, replaced by a warm, private sweetness that only ever bloomed when it was just the two of you in the quiet spaces of his home. You rested your hand over his where it lay on your stomach, your fingers interlacing with his.
“I know,” you murmured softly, turning your head just enough to catch the edge of his jawline with a tender smile. “I love you, too, Mr. Bearman.”