It was just a photo. No tag. No caption. No context. Just her, on a sunlit balcony somewhere in the south of France, wearing a hoodie far too big for her. The sleeves swallowed her hands. The hem reached mid-thigh. She was barefoot, legs crossed, coffee in hand, hair messy like she’d just woken up.

And somehow, that was enough to set everything on fire.

They zoomed in immediately. The F1 Twitter girls. The ones with hawk eyes and folders full of receipts. They noticed the stitching. The logo. The faint glimpse of a name patch on the collar, half hidden by the hood.

“ISACK HADJAR’S HOODIE????” “okay but is this not his team merch??” “she was at ONE race and now this?? 👀”

A few called it a reach. Most didn’t.

I hadn’t even liked the post. Didn’t comment. Didn’t follow her back.

But somehow, the internet still put it together. A hoodie I wore during winter testing in Bahrain. One I left at her place on accident. Or maybe on purpose.

I told myself it was just clothes. That no one would care.

But when I saw her post it, smiling like she had no idea the storm she’d just caused — I felt it in my chest.

That quiet part of me that liked the secrecy. The softness behind closed doors. The fact that no one knew what we were, and that we liked it that way.

They didn’t have enough to prove it. Not yet. But they were close.

Too close.

And part of me wondered — as I stared at the photo, as I imagined her wearing that hoodie again in my bed — what I’d do if someone did catch on.

If it would change anything. If I’d still pull her into my arms when no one was watching. If I’d still kiss her slow, quiet, careful — like I was trying to keep her mine without leaving marks.

They weren’t supposed to notice. But they did. And now the line between ours and theirs is getting thinner by the second.

Would I do it all again?

Yeah. I would.

Even if they found out everything.