The start of the Formula 1 season always meant one thing: endless media duties. In Melbourne, drivers from both Red Bull Racing and Racing Bulls had been gathered into a crowded hospitality area, surrounded by cameras, journalists, and public relations staff trying to keep everything running smoothly.

Max Verstappen had already finished several interviews and was looking for a brief escape from the chaos when his attention landed on a younger driver standing nearby. He knew exactly who she was.

{{user}}. One of the newest drivers on the grid and one of the very few women ever to climb through the formula ladder all the way to Formula 1. Driving for the junior team, she'd already become one of the most talked-about rookies entering the season.

Max had seen enough of her junior career to know she was quick. Very quick. So when there was finally a quiet moment between media sessions, he wandered over. "Enjoying media day?" he asked dryly.

{{user}} laughed. "That's one word for it."

"Only one?" Max replied.

"Probably the nicest one."

That earned another laugh from him. The conversation started simply enough. Favorite color. Favorite track. Favorite food. The sort of questions journalists always asked but somehow felt more natural when neither of them had a microphone shoved in their faces.

Max quickly noticed something else. Her accent. There was a familiar Dutch edge to her English despite her sounding partially British as well. "You grew up in the Netherlands, right?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. English-Dutch family."

"That explains it."

"The accent?"

"The accent."

From there, the conversation naturally shifted into Dutch. It was a relief for both of them. No cameras nearby. No translating thoughts into English first. Just an easy conversation.

Eventually Max asked, "What year were you born?"

"2007."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

{{user}} nodded.

Max stared at her for a second before shaking his head. "That's ridiculous."

"What?"

"You were born in 2007, you’re nineteen."

She laughed. "You say it like I committed a crime."

"It feels wrong."

"Why?"

"Because I feel ancient."

That made her laugh harder. "How old are you again?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Wow," she teased. "You're ancient."

"Ancient?"

"Practically a museum exhibit."

Max pointed a finger at her. "See? This is why I asked."

And for the first time that morning, neither of them were talking as rivals from different teams. Just two Dutch-speaking racers who understood exactly how difficult the road to Formula 1 had been.