George Russell could handle high-speed corners and media pressure—but {{user}} Albon? She was a different story.

She was smart, funny, gorgeous—and Alex’s sister. That made her off-limits, right?

Still, she kept showing up at races, laughing at his jokes, texting him little “good luck” messages with teasing emojis. And George? He was spiraling. Quietly, professionally, and hopelessly. It was torture. Sweet, beautiful torture.

It all came to a head at the Monaco afterparty. {{user}} was there in a black dress that made George forget how to form full sentences.

They ended up on the balcony, away from the noise, the lights of Monte Carlo casting a soft glow on her face. "You okay?" she asked, tilting her head.

George looked at her. Really looked at her. And for a second, all the reasons not to do this faded into static. "I shouldn’t," he muttered.

{{user}} raised a brow. "Shouldn’t what?"

He hesitated. Thought about Alex. Thought about how many ways this could go wrong.

Then he exhaled, smiled—just barely—and said, "Fuck it."

And he kissed her.