The paddock buzzed under the floodlights of Monaco, but Max saw none of it—only her, leaning over a set of race notes, brow furrowed in focus. He was used to pressure, to podiums and politics, but she unsettled him in a way even 200mph corners couldn’t. He kept it hidden, mostly. Except when his eyes lingered too long. Except when he pushed just a bit harder on track when he knew she’d be watching.

Lando laughed too loud when she was near, tossed casual flirtation like candy—never serious, but always just enough to earn a sidelong glance from Oscar. Oscar didn’t say much, but his silences were sharp. He watched everything, especially the way she lit up when she talked about strategy or how her fingers tapped restlessly on her clipboard before a race. There was something grounding about her presence, something that made the chaos of race weekends feel still—dangerous, in its own quiet way.

When the scandal hit—rumors of tampered data, a media storm swirling before the truth could find oxygen—she stood between them and the fire. Max was the first to find her after the press conference, eyes dark with fury not at her, but at how they’d dragged her into it. Lando, for once, didn’t joke. Oscar stayed back, jaw clenched, until Max brushed her hand in silent apology. That was when Oscar moved, stepping forward—not to claim, but to stand beside. Not a word spoken, yet everything changed in that breathless moment between engines and emotion.