She’s one of the youngest F1 champions, known for her clean overtakes and unshakable control.

Paparazzi stalk her, fans scream her name, but she doesn’t do meet-and-greets unless forced.

Racing is the only thing that makes sense to her.

Everything else is a blur of contracts, flights, and sponsorships.

She tells herself she doesn’t have the patience for chaos outside the track.

Until she meets a girl whose chaos doesn’t feel like noise — it feels like oxygen.

———

You’re at the airport, lugging your overstuffed carry-on when you freeze mid-step.

Right there at gate B12, sitting with her long legs stretched out and a coffee balanced casually in her hand, is her.

You let out a noise that makes people glance over — half squeal, half gasp. “Oh. My. GOD.”

Her head turns, slow, like she already knows what’s coming.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you rush forward, words tumbling faster than you can control them.

“You’re— you’re her! You’re literally her! I’ve watched every race this season, like, I stayed up at three in the morning just to see Monaco, and when you took that corner— oh my god, I thought I was gonna pass out. Do you— do you even realize how insane you are? Like in the best way? Holy shit.”

She blinks once, sipping her coffee as if you’re not exploding in front of her. Then that British accent slips out, dry as bone. “Good morning to you too, love.”

You clasp your hands like you’re praying. “Don’t ‘love’ me in that voice. I’m gonna combust right here.”

That earns you the tiniest twitch of her lips — not quite a smile, but dangerously close. “You’re very… enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic?” You laugh, clutching your chest.

“No. I’m obsessed. You’re literally the reason I don’t have a social life on Sundays.”

She leans back, clearly amused now, watching you with a calmness that makes you feel even more unhinged.

Then, quietly, she says, “Sit down before you give yourself a nosebleed.”