Chapter 2: Close to Breaking
Qualifying had been a beast. The car danced on a knife-edge of oversteer, every corner exit a calculated rebellion of rear tires fighting for grip. Kimi finished P5, a respectable result for a rookie on the daunting Barcelona track, but his mouth still tasted of bitter adrenaline and the phantom sting of not making the front row. The team was upbeat, slapping his back, talking about race pace. He nodded, gave the right answers, but his mind was a locked box, and the key was back in his driver’s room.
The walk felt eternal. The paddock was in its late-afternoon lull, the chaos between sessions replaced by a strained, industrious quiet. He punched in the code, the lock clicked with a heavy thud, and he shouldered the door open.
The room was dim, the only light a pale blue wash from the laptop screensaver cycling through circuit maps on the desk. The air was cool, smelling of the citrus-scented diffuser the team always provided and something softer underneath. Vanilla. Her shampoo.
Then he saw her.
Alessia was curled on his narrow bed, asleep. She lay on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. She was wearing nothing but his Mercedes team polo shirt—the one he’d worn in the post-practice conference, damp with nervous sweat, which he’d discarded on a chair that morning. The dark blue fabric, emblazoned with the silver star, swamped her. The hem hit her mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one smooth shoulder. The diamond ’12’ necklace rested in the hollow of her throat, rising and falling with her slow, deep breaths.
His own breath stopped.
Her dark curls were a wild spray across his pillow. One long, toned leg was bent, the other stretched out, bare foot peeking from the covers she’d half-kicked off. The shirt had ridden up slightly in the back, exposing the delicate dip of her lower spine. She looked utterly at home, claimed his space as her own with a natural ease that sent a violent surge of possession through him.
He stood frozen just inside the door, his race suit still zipped to his chest, the fireproof material suddenly suffocating. He could hear the distant whine of a forklift, the murmur of voices from the hospitality suite below. But in here, there was only the sound of her breathing and the frantic drum of his own heart.
He should wake her. He should throw a blanket over her. He should walk right back out.
He didn’t do any of those things. He toed off his shoes, the movement silent on the plush carpet. He unzipped his race suit with careful, deliberate slowness, shucking the top half and letting it hang at his waist. The cool air kissed his sweat-damp t-shirt. He padded over to the bed and sat on the very edge, the mattress dipping under his weight.
Up close, he could see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the soft part of her lips. The team polo was thin cotton, and in the dim light, he could just make out the shadow of her body beneath it. His throat went dry.
He reached out, his fingers hovering an inch from her cheek. He didn’t touch. He just watched her sleep, the war inside him a silent, screaming thing. This was wrong. It was so profoundly wrong it felt like a sickness. And yet, it was the only thing in his life that had ever felt completely, terrifyingly right.
Her eyelids fluttered. A soft, sleepy sound escaped her lips. She stirred, her body stretching slightly before her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and unfocused. They found him immediately, and a slow, unconscious smile spread across her face, so full of pure, unguarded affection it was like a physical blow.
“Hey,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “How’d it go?”
“P5,” he said, his own voice rough.
“That’s amazing.” She blinked, her awareness sharpening. She pushed herself up on one elbow, the collar of the shirt slipping further. She didn’t seem to notice. “I watched on the screen in the hospitality. You looked so good through turn nine. Everyone was impressed.”
“Yeah?” He couldn’t look away from her. The laptop on the desk chose that moment to chime softly, the screen lighting up with a notification. It was her message, still open from the night before, the words glaring in the dark room: "You’re not just my best friend . You’re my race."
She followed his gaze, saw the screen, and a faint blush coloured her cheeks. “Oh. I sent that last night after you fell asleep. I meant it.” She said it simply, as if stating a fact about the weather.
Something in Kimi’s chest, something already strained to its limit, snapped.
“Lessia,” he breathed, the word torn from him.
In one fluid motion, he leaned forward, hooked an arm behind her knees and another around her back, and lifted her off the bed. She let out a small, startled gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he settled back against the headboard, pulling her into his lap. He arranged her sideways, her legs draped over his, her back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her middle. It was a position from their childhood, a hundred movie nights, a thousand moments of comfort.
But they weren’t children anymore.
She fit against him perfectly, the curve of her back slotting into the planes of his chest. He could feel the warmth of her skin through both layers of clothing, the steady beat of her heart against his forearm. Her hair, a tangled mess of curls, smelled like heaven and tickled his chin.
“Kimi?” she whispered, confused but pliant, melting into his hold as she always did.
“Just… be quiet for a second,” he murmured into her hair, his eyes squeezed shut. He was holding onto his control by a thread so thin it was vibrating. Every point of contact was a brand. The soft weight of her in his lap. The way his hand splayed across her stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall. His other arm held her securely, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own shirt on her body.
He was the doting big brother. The protector. The one who carried her when she was tired, who held her when she was sad. The narrative was a cage, and he had built every bar himself.
“You’re sweaty,” she said after a moment, but she didn’t pull away. She nestled closer, her head finding a comfortable spot in the crook of his neck.
“I just qualified a Formula 1 car. What’s your excuse?” He forced a lightness into his tone he didn’t feel, nodding at the shirt.
“Mine was clean. Yours smelled like you.” She said it without a hint of subterfuge. “It’s comforting.”
His arms tightened reflexively. God.
“You can’t sleep in here wearing just that, Lessia. Someone could walk in.”
“No one walks in. They know it’s your cave.” She tilted her head back to look up at him, her dark eyes searching his. “Are you okay? You seem… wired.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “Wired. Yeah. That’s one word for it.” He looked down at her, at the trust written so plainly on her face. The war inside him raged. One part of him screamed to push her away, to create a safe, cold distance. The other, louder part wanted to crush her against him and never, ever let go.
He compromised by lowering his head until his forehead rested against her temple. “Just needed this,” he whispered, the confession dragged from some deep, hidden place. “After today. Just needed to know you were here.”
She turned her face, her nose brushing his cheek. “I’m always here.”
Her breath was warm against his skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, so close. The world shrank to the space between them, charged and impossible. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of want and guilt. He could feel the slightest tremor in his own hands where they held her.
He was going to break. He was going to cross a line there was no coming back from.
A sudden, sharp vibration against his thigh made them both jolt. His phone, in the pocket of his race suit bottoms, buzzed insistently. Team notification. Debrief in ten.
The spell shattered.
Kimi exhaled, a long, slow release of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The moment passed, leaving him trembling in its wake. He gently shifted her off his lap and onto the mattress, swinging his own legs off the bed. The distance felt like a chasm.
“I have to go,” he said, not looking at her, his voice unnaturally flat. “Team debrief.”
“Okay.” She sat up, pulling the shirt down over her thighs, watching him. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. He looked back. She was kneeling in the center of his rumpled bed, bathed in the electronic glow of the laptop, his shirt hanging off her frame, her hair a beautiful disaster. She was a vision of everything he couldn’t have, and everything he would ruin himself trying to keep.
“Wear your own clothes,” he said, and it came out harsher than he intended.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He stepped out into the bright, noisy corridor, closing the door on the sanctuary and the temptation. He leaned against the wall for a moment, his head tipped back, trying to steady his breathing, to force the feel of her from his arms.
The message on the screen burned behind his eyelids. You’re my race.
She had no idea what she was saying. No idea that he was in the car, yes, but she was the track. She was every corner, every straight, every ounce of grip and every terrifying lapse. She was the reason he went out there, and the distraction that could wreck him completely.
He pushed off the wall and headed for the debrief, the ghost of her weight still warm in his lap, the scent of vanilla clinging to his skin.
He pushed off the wall and headed for the debrief, the ghost of her weight still warm in his lap, the scent of vanilla clinging to his skin. The meeting was a blur of telemetry graphs and tire delta projections. He gave monosyllabic answers, his mind replaying the feel of her breathing against his chest, the way his own shirt had draped her body.
The debrief ended. He lingered, asking unnecessary questions about brake cooling just to kill time. He needed the distance to solidify, to let the cold professionalism of the garage seep back into his bones. When he finally returned to the driver’s room, he found her dressed in her own clothes—jeans and a simple black top—sitting quietly on the now-made bed.
She looked up, her expression expectant, a little wounded. “I changed.”
“Good.” He walked to the mini-fridge, grabbed a water, and leaned against the desk, putting the solid weight of it between them. He didn’t sit next to her. He took a long drink, his eyes fixed on a schematic on his laptop screen.
“Are you mad at me?” Her voice was small in the quiet room.
“No. I’m not mad.” He finally looked at her. He kept his posture loose, casual, but every muscle felt locked. “You just can’t be in here like that, Lessia. It’s not appropriate.”
The words landed with a dull, sickening thud. She blinked, her dark brown eyes widening as if he’d slapped her. She physically recoiled, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Not appropriate?” The confusion on her face twisted into raw hurt. “Since when? I’ve slept in your room a hundred times.”
The silence that followed her words was thick enough to choke on. Kimi watched the hurt solidify in her eyes, watched her arms wrap tighter around her knees, making herself smaller.
He wanted to tear the words back. Instead, he pushed off from the desk,
“Yes. You have. And ten years ago, you were eight, and you’d had a nightmare about monster trucks.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls in frustration. “It’s different now. Everything is different.”
“Why? Because you’re famous now?” She spat the word out like it was toxic. “Is that it?”
“That’s part of it!” He didn’t mean to shout. He lowered his voice, forcing it through gritted teeth. “Cameras are everywhere. The paddock is a fucking fishbowl. People talk.”
She shook her head, stubborn, disbelieving. “Let them talk. We’re family. Who cares what they think?”
He crossed the room in three strides, looming over her where she sat on the bed. He didn’t touch her. He just leaned in, putting his face level with hers, his voice dropping to a raw, urgent whisper. “That’s the thing, Alessia. You’re not a little girl anymore.”
She stared back, unblinking, but he saw the first crack in her defiance.
“People who don’t know us—” he continued, the words feeling like broken glass in his throat, “—will make assumptions. Bad ones. If they see you coming out of my room, half-dressed in my clothes, with your hair a mess…”
He trailed off, the vivid, damning image hanging between them. He saw the moment she finally understood. Not the full, ugly truth of his own feelings, but the periphery of it; the worldly consequence.
Her lower lip trembled. The sharp anger drained from her face, replaced by a dawning, vulnerable awareness. The kind that hurts.
“Oh,” was all she said, a tiny, broken sound.
Seeing her like that, fragile and reeling, snapped the last of his resolve to keep his distance. The protector in him, the one that was real and twisted together with everything else, surged forward.
“You have to be careful now, little one.”
In one smooth motion, he bent down, slid his hands under her arms, and lifted her from the bed. He sat on the edge where she’d been and settled her onto his lap, her legs instinctively straddling his hips. She came easily, pliant with confusion and hurt, her arms immediately winding around his neck, her face pressing into the space between his shoulder and jaw.
He held her there, one broad hand splayed against the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her dark curls. The other arm locked around her lower back, pressing her securely against him. She felt impossibly small and warm. He could feel the damp heat of her silent tears through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“I just want to keep you safe,” he murmured into her hair, the words a shaky vow. It was true. It just wasn’t the only truth.
She nodded against his shoulder, a quick, jerky motion. He could feel the shuddering inhalation of her breath. She didn’t speak. She just clung to him, her fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders.
He closed his eyes, drowning in the feel of her. The sweet, clean scent of her, the solid weight of her in his lap, the way her body aligned with his. This was worse, so much worse, than having her asleep and unaware. This was conscious, mutual holding, a seeking of comfort that blurred every line he was desperately trying to redraw.
He knew he should set her down. Create space. Teach the lesson he was supposedly trying to impart.
His arms tightened.
His arms tightened, a reflexive press of his palms against her back as if he could absorb her hurt straight through his skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words hot and muffled against her temple. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Lessia. I had a shit day. A really fucking shit day.”
He pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumbs coming up to catch the warm tears tracking down her cheeks. She blinked, her dark lashes clumped together, watching him with a devotion that made his chest ache.
“I’m taking it out on you and it isn’t fair,” he continued, his voice cracking. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He swiped at a tear with his thumb, his touch gentling. “I just want to keep you safe. And happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
She sniffed, a small, shaky sound, and then she melted. Her whole body seemed to loosen as she surged forward, burying her face against his neck. She nuzzled closer, her nose cold against his pulse point, her arms locking tighter around him. He could feel her breath, damp and warm, on his collarbone.
He held her like that for a long minute, just breathing her in, letting the frantic energy from the track and the panic from their argument bleed away. Slowly, his hand came up from her back. His fingers found the chain of the necklace, the one he’d bought with his first podium money.
He traced the cool, hard line of it with his fingertip, following the loop until he found the diamond-set number twelve pendant. He toyed with it, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger, feeling it rest in the hollow of her throat.
“Okay?” he murmured into her hair.
She nodded against his neck. Her own hands began to move, one sliding up into the messy curls at the nape of his head. Her fingers started carding through them, slow and methodical, scratching his scalp in the way she knew he loved. Her other hand drifted from his shoulder to his jaw, her thumb tracing the stubbled line of it with a tenderness that unspooled him completely.
“Your face is all tense,” she whispered, her voice still thick. Her thumb swept over his cheekbone, then his brow, as if trying to smooth the stress away. “You need to sleep before tomorrow.”
He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. “You’re telling me what I need?” He tilted his head back to look at her, a weak smile touching his lips. Her eyes were soft, concerned, utterly clear of the understanding that had just gutted her minutes before. The whiplash was dizzying.
“Someone has to,” she said, her thumb resting on the corner of his mouth. “You just drive the car. I manage the manager.”
Her sweetness was a physical ache in his ribs. She was so naive. So pure in her belief that this—the hugging, the hair-playing, the shared bed—was just what best friends did. That his desperation was simple protectiveness. It was going to ruin him. It was going to ruin everything.
“Yeah,” he croaked, his throat tight. “You’re the boss.”
He didn’t let her go. He shifted them both, turning and leaning back against the headboard, pulling her with him so she was settled more comfortably against his chest, her legs still draped over his. She adjusted without question, a perfect fit, her head finding its home on his shoulder. Her fingers resumed their journey through his hair.
He stared at the ceiling, one hand still absently fiddling with the necklace, the other resting on the curve of her hip. The room was quiet. The distant sounds of the paddock were a dull, forgotten hum. Here, there was only her rhythmic breathing, the scent of vanilla, and the terrifying, blissful peace of having her exactly where he wanted her.
He had a race in fifteen hours. He had a million things to think about. Strategy. Starts. Tire management.
All he could think was that he would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping this.
The thought was a coal in his stomach, glowing with a destructive heat. He let it burn there, his fingers still tangled in her necklace, her body a warm, trusting weight against him. Time slipped, measured only by the slowing cadence of her breathing and the gradual loosening of her limbs in sleep. She was exhausted, emotionally wrung out by his own making.
He couldn't let her stay.
With a regret that felt physical, Kimi shifted. "Hey," he murmured, his voice low. "Sleepy time."
She nodded, her eyes heavy. She allowed him to guide her to her feet, her body swaying slightly with exhaustion. He kept a steadying hand on her elbow as he grabbed his phone.
He sent a quick text to Leo, his trainer, asking him to drive Alessia back to the rented villa in Sitges. He included the gate code and a request to make sure she got inside. Then he turned back to her, smoothing her tangled hair.
“Leo’s gonna take you home. I want you to sleep, okay? Actual sleep. In a proper bed.” His voice was soft but firm. “I’ll be back for dinner. We’ll order that terrible paella you liked last time.”
Kimi guided Alessia to the door, handing her the small backpack she’d arrived with. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “I’ll be home before you know it”
He leaned in and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. He felt her relax under the touch. When he pulled back, she was beaming at him happily, all earlier hurt forgotten. “Go on. Get out of here.”
He watched Leo lead her down the corridor, her small figure disappearing around the corner. The silence she left behind was a physical weight. He grabbed his team jacket and headed out, needing to walk, to let the cooling evening air scrub the clinging feel of her from his skin.
He took a circuitous route behind the hospitality units, past the quiet engineering trucks. The shadows were long now, the paddock in that brief, muted lull before the evening’s corporate events began. He turned a corner near the driver’s fitness truck, the rubberized asphalt quiet under his shoes.
The voices reached him just before he saw them—a cluster of drivers and a couple of junior engineers, leaning against a stack of tire-warming blankets. He recognized Stroll’s lazy cadence, the sharper tone of Zhou. They hadn’t noticed him, obscured by a parked Mercedes sprinter van.
“—no, seriously, the little sister is next level,” a voice said. It was one of the engineers, a guy from Alpine. “Did you see her in the paddock today? In that white top? I swear, it should be illegal.”
Laughter. Kimi froze, his blood slowing to a cold crawl.
“Forget the top, man. It’s the way she looks at Antonelli,” Stroll said, a chuckle in his voice. “Like he’s God. You just know she’s the type that’s never been touched. Probably still has that sweet, innocent vibe everywhere.”
Zhou said something low and quick in Mandarin that elicited another round of laughs. The Alpine engineer picked it up, his voice dropping to a graphic, crude whisper. “Imagine being the one to ruin that. Teaching her what all that worship is really for. Getting her to make those big eyes even wider.”
The description that followed was explicit, a brutal dissection of imagined sounds and acts, of her body treated as a conquest. Each word was a lit match dropped into the gasoline pool of Kimi’s rage. His vision tunneled. He could taste copper where his teeth ground into the inside of his cheek.
His hand clenched at his side. Every instinct screamed to step forward, to drive his fist into the engineer’s grinning mouth. The scene played out in an instant—the shouting, the scandal, the headlines. ‘Mercedes Prodigy in Paddock Brawl Over Best Friend .’ Toto Wolff’s icy disappointment. Alessia’s horrified face when she found out why.
He didn’t move.
He stood there, a statue in the gathering dusk, and listened. He listened until they’d exhausted their fantasy, until the conversation shifted to car setups with unsettling normalcy. He finally backed away, his steps silent, retreating into the shadows from which he’d come.
He walked without seeing, the metallic taste of fury filling his mouth. They saw her as a toy. A virgin fantasy. A sweet, naive thing to be corrupted. They didn't see her strength, her wit, the quiet steel underneath. They just saw a body and an opportunity, and they thought they had a shot.
The heat in his veins was no longer panic or guilt. It was a cold, clarifying fire. She was his. His to protect, his to hold, his to want in ways that terrified him. His, even if she didn’t know what that meant yet. His, even if the world saw a flag they could try to capture.
He wouldn’t cause a scene. Not here. Not now.
But as he pushed back into the bright light of the Mercedes garage, nodding blankly at a mechanic, the resolution hardened inside him, solid and lethal as carbon fiber. They would never touch her. He would make sure of it.