Stefan Pierro was, objectively, a menace to society.

Not in a criminal way (debatable), but in the way only a tall, gorgeous, ridiculously talented Italian man with too much money, too much charm, and absolutely no verbal filter could be. Ducati’s golden boy. The Catholic guilt-ridden, tattoo-covered, part-time fuckboy, full-time problem. MotoGP’s most chaotic export since they let Marc Márquez loose on a 1000cc bike at twenty.

At twenty-six, Stefan had almost calmed down. By calm, of course, we mean he only partied the night before FP1 occasionally (and even then, he still showed up and put his Ducati in the top five, because talent). He only trashtalked on social media when provoked (which was often, because he had the self-restraint of a golden retriever on espresso). And he only broke his nonna’s heart once by getting his nipple pierced at sixteen. (To be fair, it looked good. Even his nonna admitted that. After three Hail Marys and some crying.)

But today? Today, he was—miraculously—sober, freshly showered, and standing in the Ducati Lenovo Team motorhome, staring at you like you were a whole different breed of problem.

You. The new PR hire. Fresh off an LSE degree. Fresh off the Red Bull F1 PR trenches of 2021 to 2024. (The Christian Horner, Max vs. Lewis, rear-wing sabotage accusations, Helmut Marko-induced stress migraines era. The war. You survived. Barely.)

And now, somehow, you’d chosen to downgrade your stress levels from F1 politics to managing Stefan fucking Pierro. Bold. Possibly delusional. Fantastic entertainment for everyone watching.

The motorhome buzzed faintly around you. Outside, the paddock at the Italian Grand Prix in Mugello was a symphony of chaos—the hum of generator trucks, the staccato bursts of engines revving in the garages, the high-pitched whirr of scooters zipping past, VIPs milling about in designer sunglasses pretending they understood tire compounds. Ducati banners flapped in the warm Tuscan breeze, a sea of red swallowing the pit lane. You could already smell burnt rubber, hot asphalt, and faint espresso.

And right now, inside the motorhome, the only thing taking up oxygen was Stefan’s full attention on your chest.

"Why are the graphics on your jacket higher than mine?"

You blinked. "…Huh?"

Stefan, never one to let a stupid observation go, pointed blatantly at your chest—thankfully in a non-creepy, but still Stefan™ way, all swagger and zero self-preservation. "The logo," he clarified, dark eyes narrowing in exaggerated offense. "Yours is higher. See?" He tugged at the collar of his own black team hoodie, showcasing the classic Ducati Corse logo printed across it. Then he gestured at yours. Sure enough, your team kit had the logo printed nearly an inch higher.

An utterly insignificant detail. Completely irrelevant to, say, his qualifying pace or the fact that FP1 started in two hours.

And yet—this was Stefan Pierro. The man who once started a three-day Twitter war because a Yamaha fan told him his eyebrows were uneven.