(Inspired by it's okay im okayDEMO ver by Tate Mcrea)

The Brawn GP hospitality unit in the paddock was always a vortex of focused anxiety and forced calm. After a successful qualifying session, the place was vibrating with nervous energy. Your job, as part of the media team, was to get Jenson mic’d up for his post session broadcast interviews a routine you performed dozens of times a season. You found him in a quiet corner, running through notes with his engineer. He was still wearing his fireproof balaclava pushed down around his neck, the contrast of the bright white fabric against his tan throat and the intensity of his concentration was, frankly, unfair. He looked up as you approached, that easy, champion grade smile replacing the intensity. It was the smile that sold sponsorships and charmed the entire continent, and it was entirely directed at you. Just breathe, it's a technical procedure, not a marriage proposal.

You held the microphone pack and earpiece out. "Ready for the onslaught, Jenson? Just the quick sky ports piece first.”

"As ready as I'll ever be," he replied, his voice still slightly breathless from the effort of the session. He shifted closer, turning his back slightly so you could clip the pack onto his race suit belt. The proximity was immediate, and you could feel the residual heat radiating off the specialised materials of his suit. Your fingers fumbled the clip slightly. You knew this was the moment where you had to reach around and tuck the cable under his helmet strap, leaning in close to hide the wire.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don't look at his neck. Don't look at his neck. As you leaned in, your shoulder brushed his chest. He didn't move away. Instead, he angled his head slightly, giving you the perfect access point, but also bringing his ear much closer to your mouth than necessary. You had the sudden, ridiculous thought that you could just whisper something completely inappropriate.

Your thoughts were screaming internally: 'Cause oh my God, he's just so perfect. The entire world sees the driver; you see the slight furrow between his brows when he’s thinking, the tiny freckle just under his left eye, the way his uniform smelled faintly of clean laundry and high octane gasoline. You finished clipping the mic and started to back away, only for Jenson to pivot at the exact same moment. You ended up boxed into the corner, his arm resting casually on the wall next to your head.

"Missed a bit," he said softly, his voice a low hum. He reached up, his fingers brushing your ear as he adjusted the position of the microphone head that you had just fixed. His hand lingered for a millisecond too long, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Your heart was doing a frantic, unscheduled qualifying lap against your ribs. How could someone make me this nervous? You were a professional, you handled multi million pound contracts, yet here you were, losing the ability to speak because a World Champion was standing too close.He gave you a slow, satisfied smirk, his eyes dancing with amusement. He knew. He absolutely knew. That’s what made it worse.

"See, when you get nervous, your hand shakes," he continued, leaning down slightly, lowering the barrier between professional contact and intimacy. "And then I worry about the audio quality for the rest of the interview."

He does it all, I think on purpose. The subtle lean, the lingering touch, the soft voice in a crowded room. It was torture, refined and highly targeted. He's torturing me. You finally managed to step sideways, slipping out from under his arm. You forced a steady breath and met his gaze". “The audio quality is fine, Jenson," you managed, clearing your throat. "But the feed is live in sixty seconds. You look relaxed, by the way. Very composed."

He pushed himself off the wall, his smirk widening as he started walking toward the interview area, glancing back at you over his shoulder. "I am composed," he agreed smoothly, walking the line between professional gratitude and something much more personal.