You hated Kimi Antonelli.

Ever since he’d joined Mercedes, prancing in there as Toto’s new golden boy, stealing the fucking show, you couldn’t stand him. Didn’t matter that he was your teammate. Who did this guy think he was?

As the first female F1 driver, you had to consistently perform better than everyone on the grid to have even been considered for a seat — which you could do, no problem. You knew you were better than all of these men. Ever since Lewis had left Mercedes at the end of 2023, when you were just seventeen, it was your fucking seat. Shocking the world. An impossible situation.

Then George took an offer at Aston the very next year, and that’s where Kimi Antonelli came in.

You’d been teammates for a season now, and everyone was absolutely lapping up the rivalry between you two. The rivalry that was slightly one-sided, because Kimi didn’t seem to give two shits about you, really.

Kimi Antonelli seemed like a good guy. But that was fine. That didn’t mean you had to like him.

And Kimi knew you didn’t like him.

That didn’t stop him from being utterly in love with you.

He had been for a while. At first from afar, watching you dominate F4 and F3 and F2 and then battling it out with the best last season in F1, but since he’d become your teammate, it had grown.

A lot.

He admired you. But everyone did. Kimi was embarrassed, because everyone fucking did. That didn’t stop him, though.

The Japanese Grand Prix was over, and after a horrible crash, you’d DNF’d. That triggered a safety car and the safety car had handed him the win that should’ve been Oscar’s. Or yours.

So you’d been sulking all evening. Through interviews and press conferences. Badmouthing the regulations with Max, bitching about you with George, questioning the validity of the win with Oscar.

You were the one that crashed!, Kimi wanted to scream.

Anyway. It was the after-party, and you were drinking, hard. What were the drinking laws in Japan? Kimi didn’t know, but he didn’t think a nineteen year old should’ve been going as hard as you were. Even if there was a five week break before the next race.

Which is what possesses him to go over to you. You’re sitting on a fancy little lovechair by yourself, a champagne glass in your hand. He opens his mouth to say something.

But before he can get a word out, one of your arms slings around his shoulders and you pull him down next to you.

“Look who it is,” you slur. “The winner. Andrea Kimi Antonelli, everyone.”

Your eyes are slightly unfocused, and your tone is bleeding bitterness. You’re piss drunk. Kimi wishes he’d stepped in sooner.

He carefully takes your glass out of your hand, trying to ignore your arm around him.

He’d wanted to check on you, say good game for the race, are you okay after that crash.

But he’s struggling, because he’s never seen you like this.

It’s interesting, to say the least.