You were more than old enough to choose the kind of relationship you wanted. Independent, capable, and no stranger to making your own decisions. And yet, here you were — stealing a kiss with George in the shadows of the paddock, moments before the race began, like two teenagers hiding from the world.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. There was nothing wrong with your relationship, nothing scandalous or forbidden… except for who your father was. Toto Wolfe. The man who trusted George to race under his name — and who would absolutely lose his mind if he knew his child was wrapped up in something more than friendly banter with one of his drivers.

You could go public. George had said so more than once, in that gentle, reassuring tone that made your heart ache with how easy he made it sound. He wasn’t ashamed of you — not even close. But you were terrified. Terrified of the moment your father’s expression would shift from surprise to betrayal. For him, you were just the supportive child in the stands, not the person who had been sneaking into George’s hotel room for months.

"Are you still up for that date after the race?" George’s voice was low, warm against your ear as he rested his hands on your lower back, grounding you.

You looked up at him, your heartbeat half from nerves and half from excitement.

“Only if you win,” you teased, trying to mask your anxiety with a playful smile.

He smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then I guess I better drive like hell.”