Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the Red Bull garage hummed like an engine strained to the breaking point — vibrating, heavy, charged with adrenaline, the sharp smell of burning rubber and sweat. Everyone was holding their breath. The last lap. Yeonjun’s heart wasn’t beating in his chest anymore — it was pounding somewhere in his throat. The steady roar of the car was the only sound left in his vacuum, swallowing everything else: the whistle of the wind, the distant cacophony of the crowd, the voice of his engineer in the earphones.

This was it. The grand finale. Here, in Abu Dhabi’s sweltering inferno, where late autumn felt like high summer, where the sun scorched thought from the mind, and on the blistering asphalt, the cars flew down the track so fast their shadows could barely materialize before they were gone. Here, fate had played out. His RB19 — that fierce, unstoppable beast — crossed the finish line. That lap wasn’t just driven. It was taken. Ripped raw from the track with that ruthless and therefore beautiful grace that separates a true champion from a pay driver whose rich daddy bought his seat on the grid.

Cheers. Fireworks. Embraces.

All at once, sensation flooded back — a crashing wave of feeling after moments of numb suspension. He felt it all… the deep, radiating ache of muscles pushed past their limit, the tremble in his hands he no longer had to fight, the raw, oxygen-starved burn in his lungs.

But one feeling cuts through everything else.

The taste of victory.

⟡

The press conference hall was a blur of camera flashes, the air itself feeling dusty and thick. It was stifling, heavy with the cloying smell of expensive perfume and the anticipation of scandal. The AC was fighting a losing battle against the packed room.

Yeonjun, however, didn't feel the stuffiness at all. After the brutal 60℃ cockpit heat, this was practically refreshing. He flicked a strand of hair, the color of faded ash, from his forehead with a light, effortless motion. The Miu Miu outfit from the new collection clung to his skin with a silent, intimate familiarity, highlighting every line and muscle carved by years of training. His sponsors would be thrilled. Every fashion house dreams of dressing a champion, and he was victory incarnate — the perfect mannequin for their vanity, and they paid dearly for the privilege.

He sank into his chair, head tilted back, and watched through half-lidded eyes as the team principals — men in sharp but conservative suits — parried questions, weighing every word with surgical precision.

He could hardly blame them. Their driver, their star asset, their walking investment had just clinched his second world title. But the season was over. The next few months meant boardrooms and closed-door meetings, not racetracks. Their image, their ability to keep old sponsors and lure new ones — all of it would dictate next season's budget. And that budget would determine if they could build a car to beat the competition. Talent gets you far in Formula 1, but after all… money decides everything.

"So, why is your second driver not here today? Does this mean Steven Wilson's contract won't be renewed?"

Ah, right. Steven Wilson… Yeonjun’s gaze drifted past Kim Namjoon, the Red Bull Team Principal, to the shadows backstage. He could make out a few key team figures, but Steven Wilson was conspicuously absent. What a shame.

Wilson was in his fifth season in Formula 1, but his first with Red Bull. An alpha — not tall, but broad-shouldered, almost too big for the cockpit — he was exactly the type of alphas Yeonjun couldn't stand. The spoiled son of wealthy parents, ambitious, and convinced he was better than everyone. Especially any omega. Well… who could blame Yeonjun for forgetting the man existed?

Kim Namjoon’s face was a perfect mask of polite neutrality. "We're evaluating all our options for next season. It's too early to be discussing driver line-ups."

"Your strategy clearly focuses everything on your lead driver, Choi Yeonjun. Yet Red Bull hasn't scored highly in the Constructors' Championship for quite a long time. Is improving your team standing a priority for next season?"

"Winning is a complex equation," Namjoon deflected, smooth and polished as ever. "It requires a talented driver, a competitive car, and flawless teamwork. Our goal is to excel in every single area."

Yeonjun observed the elegant little farce playing out before him, a picture of bored condescension. His fingertips tapped a soundless, restless rhythm against the table, disrupting the perfect symmetry of the sponsor water bottles. His gaze drifted to the press attaché, Yuna, seated slightly apart. He saw the silent admonishment in her eyes, mixed with a kind of fatigue. He answered with a flicker of a wink. She looked away immediately, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.

"Yeonjun, how do you comment on the fact that you took your teammate out of the race on the very first lap? He failed to finish and scored zero points for the team."

Yeonjun feigned a slight frown. He took Wilson out on Lap 1? Sure, he'd probably seen it happen, had definitely heard the engineers' frantic updates in his ear — they reported every little thing on that track — but… did he really need to clutter his mind with that nonsense?

He leaned into the microphone with deliberate, almost lazy slowness.

"Yas Marina is famous for its tight first-lap battles… I wasn't required to yield the position. It's a race. These things happen," he said flatly, recycling the standard, neutral response that works for ninety percent of all racing incident inquiries.

The reporter wasn't finished. "Your teammate has publicly called you an 'unbearable show-off,' stating you're actively blocking his ability to compete for wins. Do you believe your conduct is ultimately harmful to the team?"

The corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk that didn't quite touch his cold, dark eyes.

"I'm holding Steven back?" His voice was a drawl, dripping with mock surprise. "I thought the only thing holding him back was a simple lack of talent."

A ripple of laughter spread through the media pen. Journalists are like hyenas; they perk up at the scent of blood. And Yeonjun loved playing to a captivated crowd. Some rational part of him, buried deep, whispered to stop now, but something far more primal took over: when you get bitten, you bite back. He couldn't resist adding:

"Maybe he should go back to karting. My five-year-old nephew could overtake him on a bicycle."

The chuckles around the room grew louder. But he knew the next question was coming. He always knew. It was the real punch, and no matter how many times he braced for it, it always managed to land.

"He also alluded to your… emotional volatility. He claimed, and I'm quoting him directly here, that the team constantly has to 'manage your omega episodes'."

The word ‘omega’ hung in the air, ugly and heavy with humiliation. Here, it was never just a statement of fact; it was a diagnosis. Unstable. Emotional. Weak.

A cold tremor traced his spine beneath the designer shirt, but Yeonjun’s smirk remained frozen in place, a perfect mask of indifference. He refused to give them the reaction they craved.

This was the brilliant, cutthroat world of Formula 1. Perhaps it was the whole world, but here it was amplified, stripped of all pretense, down to the raw nerve. You could feel it, a visceral pressure like a knife-edge on a fresh scar. The so-called pinnacle of motorsport. A rich gentleman's club that traditionally belonged to alphas. Raw strength, endurance, reflexes, ice-cold composure, mental fortitude — these were the non-negotiable qualities of a top driver. How could an omega possibly exist under such conditions?

And yet.
Choi Yeonjun could.

From the moment he’d first presented, he was different. He was not the fragile creature of porcelain and softness they expected to see in omega. His body — lean, hardened, and strong — was a deliberate provocation, a challenge to their entire world order. He could physically match any of his alpha peers. And from that very first time he’d felt the pure, unadulterated rush of adrenaline that only comes from dancing a car at the limit through a high-speed corner, he’d been consumed by one glittering, obsessive dream: to race. He could never let it go. Not even after biology had handed down its life sentence, branding him with that single, limiting word: omega.

The ultimate joke, right? Why did some get to choose their destiny, while others had the door to theirs bolted shut before they could even touch the handle?

And yet.
Choi Yeonjun had chosen his destiny.

His entire existence was proof. Not proof that he was the best omega driver. Proof that he was simply the best. The best among alphas, betas, omegas — the categories were irrelevant. All that mattered was the stopwatch, the cold, hard data on the timesheet. The only justice was a world that saw him for what he was: Choi Yeonjun. A person. A Formula 1 driver.

The press room waited, the silence deafening, poised for his answer.

"You only hear that kind of talk from alphas with a superiority complex who are overcompensating for their own insecurities. It's usually to make up for… " Yeonjun paused expertly, holding the room in suspense. "... let's call it a significant shortage in another department. I say this because I once made the mistake of walking in on him in the drivers' shower room and..." He spread his hands theatrically, raising his eyebrows. "But no. I shouldn't say more. I'd hate to disappoint his loyal fanclub."

The room exploded with laughter. Camera flashes went wild, firing like frantic strobes. Namjoon massaged his temples while Yuna hid her face behind her binder. Yeonjun sat back, thoroughly pleased with himself.

But deep beneath the performance, under all the layers of sharp edges and defiance, something old and familiar twisted in the darkest, most fragile part of him. Bitterness. It tasted like the ghost of his own scent, the one he could almost no longer recall, muted daily by suppressants — that deceptively sweet almond note, followed by the lethal, sharp tang of poison.

Once again, they had reduced him to this. To biology. His brilliance, his win, his title — all of it vanished, erased by one word.

He made himself smile wider, brighter, feeding off the crowd's amazement and delight. This was how it would always be. He might have convinced the public that he was king of the pinnacle of motorsport. But to most here, he’d always be the one who didn't belong — the omega who refused to play by nature's rules.

⟡

Silence.

It hit him first as a deafening pressure, then a high, nerve-jangling ring in his ears. After the piercing howl of the V6 hybrid turbo tearing through the air at over 300 km per hour, after the roar of the crowd, the blaring paddock music, the endless stream of questions and congratulations… this quiet felt unnatural. Wrong.

Yeonjun tossed the keys to his Aston Martin into a glass vase on the console. The clatter of metal on crystal was absurdly loud, shattering the heavy, artificial silence of his penthouse.

Two solid weeks of this: first the celebrations with his Red Bull Racing team, then the glitzy FIA Prize-Giving Gala, then a blur of interviews, photo shoots, and parties. He’d been the center of the racing world, with planets of hype and envy and corporate interest spinning around him. And now, just like that, they’d let him go. Pulled the plug.

Off-season.

He dragged a hand across the flawless surface of the designer kitchen island. Not a single speck of dust. It was like a showroom model — meant to be admired, not used. He yanked open the fridge — a matte white panel that blended seamlessly into the wall. Inside: a few bottles of fancy water, a full crate of that energy drink — fifteen cans bearing his own smiling face staring back — and a small box filled with protein shakes. No actual food. Nothing that suggested a human being lived here.

He wandered into the living room. Sterile, all cool grays and blacks. Bookshelves stocked with designer knick-knacks, not a single book he’d chosen. Art on the walls some decorator had picked. No photos. No souvenirs. Nothing that said “Yeonjun” lived here. At all.

This wasn’t a home. It was a high-end hotel suite. A luxury pod for a world champion to crash in between flights. A beautifully designed tomb for his exhaustion.

And that’s when it finally caved in on him. A sudden, silent collapse deep in his chest, crushing every support he had left. The thing he’d been holding back all season. All year. He’d locked it down with a stone face in press conferences, a cocky smirk for the cameras, and pure, burning aggression on the track. He’d been a wall. A fortress. For everyone.

The wall broke.

The first tear felt like acid on his skin. It was hot and brutally honest. Then another. And another. They came silently, washing the lies right off his face. Yeonjun slid down onto the kitchen tile, his back thumping against the cold cabinets. He pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them tight. He felt weak. Exposed. An image that he never, ever let anyone see.

Then a sound ripped out of him. A choked, ragged gasp like a wounded animal. Everything he’d held in for years, for months, for every punishing lap, came pouring out in raw, shaking sobs. He cried like a kid, curled up and alone after a fight he’d won but that had cost him every ounce of himself. Everything except this raw, screaming nerve.

Right then, he would have given anything for someone to just ask if he was okay. To have someone to say "I'm home" to. But this wasn't home.

He had no idea how long he sat there before the sobs finally subsided into shaky, hitching breaths. In the dead silence of the apartment, the sound of his own breathing seemed foreign. He wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his silk shirt, smearing tears and what was left of his makeup.

He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for his phone. The screen blazed to life in the dim room. Zero notifications. He swiped through them blindly, his fingers trembling and clumsy over the glass.

But one number was muscle memory. His lifeline. He tapped it.

It didn't even ring once.

"Dad?" His voice was a wreck. A rough, broken whisper, strangled by the knot in his throat.

A beat of silence on the other end. But not the heavy kind from before. This was a warm, patient silence.

"Yeonjunie?" His father’s voice crossed an ocean, from San Jose to Seoul, and went straight to the core of him, to that raw, exposed place. It was the middle of the night in Korea. Early morning there. His dad’s voice held no trace of sleep — just immediate, deep concern.

They’d wanted to come. His dad, his sister. For the final race, for the big ceremony, for all of it. To be there for him. And Yeonjun shut them down. Hard. He couldn't let them see it, see him like this. The guy who made sarcastic jokes and shook hands with people he didn't respect. This polished, empty doll, stuffed with other people's expectations. He was terrified they’d see a crack. Hear the fake note in his laugh. Realize what he’d had to become just to stay in that car. The worst would be seeing it in their eyes — the only honest ones left — seeing their pain. He couldn't handle that. It was better this way.

And right there, on the cold floor, he finally got it. He couldn’t stay in this sterile, soulless box. The only place his defenses could ever come down was home. His real one. The imperfect house in California that smelled like old wood and gasoline, where his first, hard-won karting trophies were still sitting on a shelf in the garage.

He had to go. Now.

"I… I'm coming home," he breathed out. It wasn't a question. It was the only thing left.

"Of course, son. We're here. We're always here waiting."

⟡

The café was quiet, a rare lull after the Christmas storm. All that remained were a few frayed garlands in the windows and the weary, last-minute rush of Seoul before the New Year. People blurred past the glass, lost in their own worlds, distant and disconnected.

Choi Soobin sat by the window, his fingers absently gliding over his laptop's trackpad. The screen was a mosaic of open tabs — dozens of articles all circling the same looming question: “Analysts Weigh In: Is Choi Soobin Headed for Red Bull Racing?” Most were filled with shots from his latest Formula 2 season — podium finishes, post-race interviews.

But one image kept reappearing. He paused on it. An old photo, five years gone. Soobin himself: a 17-years-old awkward alpha, gazing with pure admiration at his idol. And there he was — Choi Yeonjun. Not yet a double world champion, just a rookie, but already a thunderous presence in motorsport. Not the first omega on the grid, but the first who refused to bow to Formula 1’s alpha-dominated order. That debut season, he fought straight into the points, finishing in the top ten at nearly every Grand Prix. Some mocked him. Some pitied him. Most dismissed him as a flash in the pan — a lucky boy in over his head, whose early success was just a fluke.

He became a lightning rod for controversy, both in the media and among the sport’s powerful old guard. The decision-makers, the ones in boardrooms — almost all conservative alphas. They hid behind fake concern for “safety for omegas”, using it to preserve their inner circle from outsiders.

No one at the top had believed in Choi Yeonjun. Results that would have sealed an alpha’s reputation, he had to prove again. And again. And again.

But he did more than prove it. He conquered. He became champion — twice.

The thought brought a faint, proud smile to Soobin’s face. He couldn’t look away from the younger Yeonjun in the photo. He remembered that day clearly — the warm, firm grip of Yeonjun’s handshake. He seemed different then. Softer around the edges, with fuller cheeks and slightly messy hair. His smile was open, genuine, and his eyes held a kindness as he looked at the starstruck teenage Soobin.

He kept scrolling until his finger paused abruptly. This was the Yeonjun of today — featured in articles about his legendary final win in Abu Dhabi. Every headline with his name was a clash of contradictions: “unbearable,” “aggressive,” “lone wolf,” but also “genius,” “king,” “unstoppable.” Soobin’s eyes fixed on one of the photos. A ruthless, predatory stare that seemed to look right through the screen. A smirk of pure arrogance. Yeonjun had grown into his features — sharper, more striking and intimidatingly magnetic. Soobin hardly recognized him. It was the same face, but something in the omega racing legend’s presence felt completely altered.

Soobin removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes with a tired pressure. Maybe it was just his own nerves. Of course your perception changes when you compare a Formula 1 rookie to a two-time world champion, even if it’s the same person. But something deeper, something instinctual in him felt unsettled. Did the real Choi Yeonjun truly match his reputation?

Soobin’s strong results in his latest Formula 2 season had put him in a solid position for his F1 debut. His agent said a seat at Haas was practically his, if he was interested, maybe even a chance at McLaren. But he’d also mentioned that Red Bull was, once again, looking for a new second driver. A controversial spot, right next to the current champion. The idea was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

He was just getting in his own head. He reached for his coffee cup — long forgotten and cold on the table. He tried to focus on the people walking outside, but he’d barely caught a glimpse of a familiar leather jacket when a whirlwind of energy dropped heavily into the seat across from him.

"Hyung! Sorry, did you wait long?"

Huening Kai's voice cut through the quiet café, too loud and sudden, popping the calm atmosphere like a bubble.

"Don't worry about it. Kept myself busy. Hey, Kai."

Soobin reached out and ruffled the younger alpha's already messy hair without thinking. The gesture was familiar, comfortable.

"Busy?" Kai snorted, nudging the laptop away. "Let me guess — reading what those vultures are writing about you again? Hyung, I told you, it's pointless. They're all so… toxic. Just a bunch of armchair experts sitting on their couches acting like they know who's gonna be champion. If it's so easy, let's see them get in a car and drive."

Soobin offered a faint smile. There was some bitter truth in what Kai said. But there was another side to it, too. Fans want drama, sponsors want screen time, teams want funding. Everyone's a cog in the machine, looking out for their own interests. And each voice, even dissenting ones, had its role. He didn't bother arguing.

"How's the Mercedes deal going?" he asked, shifting the subject. Kai's expression immediately brightened, excitement flashing in his eyes.

"Almost there. Call it the final straight," Kai said, grinning at his own joke. He was the only one laughing. "Contract's basically mine. What about you and Red Bull? It's pretty much confirmed, yeah?"

"Should be announced soon. They've already invited me to the factory for prep."

"Soobin-hyung!" Kai almost launched out of his seat. "You're gonna be teammates with Choi Yeonjun! That's literally what you dreamed about!"

A cold, uncomfortable shiver traced Soobin's spine. His palms felt damp again.

"That was when I was a kid… Now, I don't even know what he's really like."

"A champion's a champion," Kai said, still beaming, oblivious to Soobin's tension. "Next thing you know, Ferrari's gonna pick us both up in a couple of years. Can you imagine? Both of us in red, spraying champagne on the podium…"

Soobin actually laughed at the thought. "What, you think you're gonna break the Ferrari curse and bring home their first title in 15 years?"

Kai laughed with him. "Who else? Kai Kamal Huening — future five-time world champ, the one who'll restore the Scuderia's glory. Even Choi Yeonjun will be eating my dust!"

He said it with such a bright, believing smile, it was almost convincing. But both of them knew how ridiculous it sounded. They were just rookies — they had a long, hard road ahead. Even with good teams and strong teammates, talking podiums and champagne was way too soon. This year, their only job was consistency: finish races, score points and gain experience.

"Anyway, I'm seriously so happy for you. For us! We totally earned this. We have to celebrate!" Kai declared, clinking his iced frappe a little too hard against Soobin's cup. "Wait... should I even ask how you spent Christmas?"

"In the sim."

"Oh my god," Kai groaned, dragging his hands down his face in exaggerated despair. "That is the most you thing ever."

"What's wrong with spending the day doing what I actually enjoy?" Soobin countered, but Kai was already shaking his head vigorously.

"It's not about that! It's about the atmosphere! Christmas is meant to be magical. You're supposed to be on some cute date, holding hands while it snows, stealing a kiss under the mistletoe, and... you know, wrapping your scarf around your significant other..."

Soobin gave him a look that was equal parts skepticism and mild disgust.

"Even if I hadn't already known, I'd definitely know now that you're a certified virgin."

"It's called being a romantic!" Kai shot back, looking offended.

Soobin just sighed, his eyes drifting toward the window. Not a speck of that perfect, movie-style snow anywhere.

"Whatever. Not really what I'm focused on right now."

"Okay, fine. Christmas is for family time then —" Kai cut himself off abruptly, noticing the subtle tension that tightened his friend's expression. "— I mean, for, like... cozy vibes..."

An awkward pause hung between them. Soobin looked down, focusing intently on his cold coffee. Kai knew he'd stepped in it and scrambled to recover.

"Look, forget it. No point dwelling on a holiday that's already over. Let's just make New Year's good! Let's go to the Alps. Skiing. Me, Lea, Bahiyyih, and you. Something's gotta pry you out of that simulator before you become one with it. Once pre-season testing starts, we're both going to be living in that cockpit seat for a year straight. Let's enjoy our last bit of freedom properly."

Soobin was quiet for a long moment, then finally gave a slow, silent nod. Kai was right. He needed to try and enjoy this break. Somewhere out there a new life was waiting. A new team. And him — the living legend. The man whom that starry-eyed kid in the photo had once idolized. The man whose eyes now felt like they could cut glass. He took a sip of the bitter, chilled coffee, and its taste was the very essence of the unknown future that lay before him, cold and unwelcoming.

Chapter Text

Just over a month into the new year, and for Choi Soobin, time had already blurred into a continuous, intense whirlwind. He’d seized his opportunity from day one. Two weeks living out of the Red Bull Racing HQ in Seoul were swallowed by an endless cycle of simulator sessions, engineering debriefs with faces now more familiar than his own reflection, and the involuntary shiver that ran down his spine every time he passed the the factory floor — the smell of race fuel and fresh carbon fibre hanging thick in the air.

Late February loomed: testing in Bahrain, the final prelude to the relentless grind of the Grand Prix season, packed into a tight, back-to-back schedule. The thought of swapping the cold simulator seat for the actual cockpit of an RB20 made his blood hum.

But today hung heavy with a peculiar tension. The final briefing. And — most importantly — Choi Yeonjun’s first appearance.

The reigning World Champion already knew Red Bull Racing like the back of his hand. He could afford to skip the two weeks of adaptation Soobin desperately needed — a privilege of his status, not a sign of neglect. According to the media, he hadn't been seen in Seoul in quite some time, having been entirely preoccupied with sessions on private simulators at the team's American HQ instead. Their paths had never crossed.

Now, pacing nervously across the concrete slabs of the team’s inner courtyard, Soobin felt less like he was preparing to meet his teammate and more like he was awaiting judgment.

In his earphones, a bright, cheerful song from IU’s new album pulsed, but it couldn’t drown out the tremor inside. How should he act? What should he say? He’d imagined this introduction dozens of times — reserved, professional, full of mutual respect. But the closer the moment got, the more foolish those fantasies seemed.

Turning to start another lap of his pacing, he suddenly felt a dull thud as his shoulder connected with something — no, someone. There was a short, surprised gasp, and Soobin froze. Sitting on the ground before him, bracing himself with one hand on the concrete, was a young man, two dark puddles spreading beside him with unintended artistic intent: one of spilled black iced coffee, the other of a milky, caramel-hued drink, their streams merging into an abstract, bittersweet mosaic on the stone. As one of the team assistants rushed over, already on her headset and summoning a cleaner with practiced efficiency, Soobin could only stare, mortified.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Soobin’s voice sounded unnaturally loud, rough with shame. He automatically reached out a hand to help the stranger up. The other took it, his grip slender and cool in Soobin’s palm.

The guy lifted his head, revealing huge brown eyes framed by fluffy, doll-like lashes. And then it hit him — a wave, delicate and sweet, like cherry blossoms carried on a spring breeze. The scent of an omega. He was incredibly handsome, with a perfectly straight nose and a flawless brow line. He looked like a 3D character come to life from one of those dating sims teenagers were obsessed with (a deeply mortifying fact that Soobin would rather vanish from the earth than admit to another living soul, though he’d certainly hidden under the covers playing them more times than he’d ever confess).

“Well, hyung won’t be thrilled,” the guy said with a grimace, looking at the brown puddle.

“I’ll get you new ones right now, sorry, I really wasn’t looking…”

The stranger waved him off with an elegant flick of his wrist, a light, almost impish smile tugging at his lips. “Forget it. Serves him right for being late. Do you believe in karma?”

Soobin, still flustered, shook his head. "Not really. I mean, athletes can't afford to think like that," he mumbled, trailing off as a cleaner hurried over with a mop and bucket. "If you start blaming fate for bad results, you're just making excuses. It's always about your own effort..." His words were cut short as he suddenly lunged for the mop. "Here, I've got this— it was my fault—"

The cleaner, a man with a weary but stubborn look, reacted like Soobin was trying to steal his firstborn child. He yanked the handle back, engaging in a brief, silent struggle while his eyes scanned the area nervously. You could practically see the tabloid headlines already forming behind his panicked expression: "Red Bull Humiliates New Driver: Reduced to Janitor Duty." The whole scene was so ridiculous — the driver wrestling for a mop while philosophizing about spiritual concepts — that the stranger couldn't help but let out a choked snicker, quickly covering it with a poorly disguised cough.

“Huh. I like your mindset… You’re the new one, right? Choi Soobin?” The stranger’s eyes slid over him with curiosity, head to toe.

Finally giving up his losing battle with the cleaner, Soobin sighed with defeat. "Yes. And you are…?"

“I’m Choi Beomgyu. You’ll be seeing a lot of me. For better or worse.” His grin widened into something angelic, all bright charm and innocence, yet with a subtle, devilish gleam in his eyes that promised just enough trouble to make things entertaining.

“Do you work here?” Soobin asked, unable to place him based on his refined look.

“Not exactly. More like… not at all. Though I wish I did!” Beomgyu sighed wistfully. “I’m damn good with all this stuff; my dad worked in racing. But I guess I’m better suited to being a sports journalist.” He ran a melancholic hand through his long chestnut hair, which fell almost to his shoulders. “But, as you know, F1 team work is strictly confidential. And no one at Red Bull would hire a boyfriend of a Ferrari driver.”

Soobin’s brain stuttered. “So, you’re dating…”

“Kang Taehyun,” Beomgyu nodded.

Kang Taehyun. Driver for Scuderia Ferrari. Not the flashiest, but a stable and reliable racer. An alpha with a reputation as a dry, reserved professional, known for his high intellect and cold calculation. Ferrari, after all, did not hire inexperienced drivers; their second seat was occupied by the famously passionate and emotionally-driven Jeon Jungkook, creating a perfectly balanced pairing of ice and fire. It was a combination that, on paper, should have been formidable. Yet, for all their contrasting strengths, it had not been enough to secure a single championship in recent years. The failure, as most knew, rarely lay with the drivers themselves, but festered higher up — in the baffling strategic calls from the pit wall, a sometimes hesitant management, and in a car that was simply not up to the task. But none of that truly mattered. To drive for Ferrari was to touch legend. Every racer had dreamed of it since childhood, weaned on the iconic red cars and the mythic victories of Schumacher.

“How on earth do you have access to the Red Bull garage, then?” Soobin couldn’t help but ask, his voice instinctively dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone as he leaned in slightly.

Beomgyu’s fingers deftly spun the plastic card on its sleek silver lanyard. He flashed it just long enough for Soobin to make out the cheerful photo of Beomgyu himself, but the name printed boldly beneath it wasn’t his. It read Jeong Jaehyun – Engineering Intern. A sly smile played on his lips.

“I have my ways,” Beomgyu murmured back, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game. “But let’s keep this our little secret, yeah? Between us.” He said it like a playful invitation, though the relaxed way he held himself — no nervous glances, no attempt to truly hide — suggested that someone higher up absolutely knew. Perhaps it was even quietly approved, one of those open secrets that hummed beneath the official surface of the paddock, never acknowledged aloud.

Then Beomgyu glanced at his phone, and his face lit up. “Alright, gotta run. And good luck. Don’t let him eat you alive.”

With that, Beomgyu turned and disappeared around the corner, leaving behind nothing but the faint, sweet trace of cherry blossom and a lingering, dreamlike unreality.

Another half hour dragged by. Engineers glanced at their watches; team managers nervously tapped their tablets.

Then, the atmosphere in the garage shifted in an instant.

Choi Yeonjun had arrived.

Soobin froze mid-step. Usually, cover stars looked worse in real life — a little duller, a little more ordinary compared to their photoshopped images. But Yeonjun was the exception. In person, he was… more. His hair fell like perfect silk, framing his cheekbones before brushing lightly against his cheeks. Every movement was silent and fluid, with a feline grace that suggested he wasn’t late — he’d simply chosen to appear. He wore a flowing cream silk blouse, unbuttoned at the collar, and loose linen trousers gathered at his slender waist by a Gucci belt with a gleaming gold buckle. Thin, unmistakable Cartier bracelets glinted on his delicate wrists.

Soobin’s eyes dropped involuntarily to his own simple navy team shirt and training pants. He’d never felt so underdressed next to someone who looked like they’d stepped off a runway, even though there was no actual dress code.

Right on cue, Kim Namjoon, the team principal, and technical director Jung Hoseok rounded the corner. They moved toward Soobin just as Yeonjun drifted over, offering his bosses a nod.

“Not the best start to the year, being late, Yeonjun,” Namjoon remarked, his tone matter-of-fact. Then he gestured toward Soobin. “This is our new second driver, Choi Soobin.”

Yeonjun’s gaze slid over to him. It was as if he’d only just noticed Soobin was there. His eyes were piercing, coolly assessing, and Soobin had to force himself not to look away.

“Choi Yeonjun. A pleasure,” the champion said, his voice completely even. His handshake was brief, almost perfunctory — quick and so devoid of interest it felt like he was afraid of picking up Soobin’s scent.

And from Yeonjun himself, there was no scent at all. Nothing. Soobin might have mistaken him for a beta, or even an alpha. His well-defined yet graceful features and lean driver’s build only muddled the picture further. All that lingered was a faint, artificial hint of perfume, clean and empty. It was a little bit strange. Suppressants weren’t banned, but they weren’t common either — not in the safe hyper-professional environment of F1: if anyone consciously crossed personal boundaries, tried to dominate or provoke others, they’d face strict punishment. It could get you fined, suspended, or worse. So why would Yeonjun feel the need to hide his scent so completely? It’s not like anyone didn’t know he was an omega, he was too famous.

Namjoon quickly moved on, outlining the day’s schedule and key discussion points. Soobin listened, nodded, trying to look engaged. After about ten minutes, Namjoon and Hoseok excused themselves to speak with the sporting director. The moment they were gone, Yeonjun wordlessly retreated to a nearby chair and sank into his phone, his entire posture signaling that the interaction was over.

Soobin was left alone with the silence stretching between him and his teammate. He stood hesitantly for a moment, then, gathering his courage, cautiously took the seat beside him.

“We’ve, um… actually met before,” he started, his voice sounding too loud and strained in his own ears. “Your first season — you came to congratulate the F2 podium. I was a big fan. I rooted for you.”

Yeonjun slowly looked up. His expression was heavy, bored, as if Soobin hadn’t uttered one sentence but had been rambling for an hour. Heat rushed to Soobin’s face, but he forced himself to continue. “Not that I’d expect you to remember, of course, it’s just—”

“Do you want a signed cap or something?” Yeonjun cut in. His tone was still flat, but each word was biting.

Soobin blinked. “Wh-what?”

“If not, then why are you telling me this?”

“I just thought…” Soobin stumbled, feeling foolish.

“You thought what?” Yeonjun’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Nothing. Never mind,” Soobin mumbled, dropping his eyes.

Yeonjun let out a quiet, airless laugh. “What are you even doing here with a backbone that weak? At least learn to finish your sentences. Or don’t start them at all.”

The words, delivered with icy calm, hit harder than a splash of hot oil. Soobin hadn’t done anything wrong, yet he felt like an annoyance.

“Well, sorry for trying to make friendly small talk,” Soobin shot back, a sharp edge of irritation in his voice.

“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but this isn’t a place for making friends or talk. What is this, a playground to you?” Yeonjun’s eyes were cold and dismissive. “Your only job is to drive, stay out of my way while I win, and pick up the points. If you’re even capable of it.”

A wave of scalding shame washed over him. He glanced around — the garage was full of people, engineers, mechanics — but no one met his eye. They were all pretending not to listen, but Soobin knew they’d heard everything. He could feel it — the hot sting of humiliation threatening to leak into his scent. Jaw tight, he stood and walked toward the farthest corner of the garage, trying to pull himself together.

A moment later, Namjoon approached him, his expression unreadable. “Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice flat and even.

Soobin braced himself for the usual reassurances — He’s under a lot of pressure, or It takes time to warm up to people — the kind of comfort people offer when they have nothing real to say.

But Namjoon just glanced over at Yeonjun, who was absorbed in his phone again, utterly detached, and added with almost philosophical weariness, “You’ll get used to it.”

There was something frightening in that honesty. No sugarcoating, no false hope — just the raw, uncomfortable truth.

Soobin’s eyes drifted back to Yeonjun just as a familiar figure slipped into view. Choi Beomgyu tiptoed up behind the driver’s chair with exaggerated, almost childish stealth, then covered Yeonjun’s eyes with his hands.

“Guess who?” his playful tone sounded starkly out of place in the serious garage.

What happened next caught Soobin completely off guard. Yeonjun laughed — a light, quiet chuckle. Nothing like the cold scoff he’d aimed at Soobin. This was real, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Hmm, I wonder,” Yeonjun mused. “Couldn’t be Choi Beomgyu, who’s been blowing up my phone all week about how much he misses me and how he’s coming to Korea to ‘support’ me.”

“You could’ve played along for, like, two seconds,” Beomgyu fake-pouted, releasing him and gracefully dropping into the seat Soobin had occupied just minutes before. “And I am your most devoted fan.”

“I thought you were a Ferrari fan,” Yeonjun shot back, a lightness in his tone Soobin hadn’t heard before. “Where’s my iced americano, most devoted fan?”

Beomgyu’s eyes swept across the room until they landed on Soobin — as if he’d known he was being watched all along. He offered a small, secretive smirk — not mocking, but conspiratorial. “Sorry, I forgot,” he said innocently, turning back to Yeonjun.

Yeonjun shook his head, but the amused curl of his lips didn’t leave his face. His sharp, confident features had softened, turned almost human. Watching them, Soobin felt a bitter twist in his chest. It would’ve been easier if Yeonjun was equally poisonous to everyone. Something you could just write off as a bad personality. But seeing that icy exterior melt for someone else… that wasn’t just unpleasant. It felt deeply unfair. He’d done nothing to Yeonjun. And yet, the verdict had already been delivered.

The two chatted quietly for a few minutes about something unrelated to racing — easy, calm — but soon enough, the drivers were called into the briefing. The mood shifted instantly from casual to strictly business. Both Soobin and Yeonjun filed into the closed conference room, finally diving into what mattered: data, graphs, and the cold, hard math of speed.

The next several hours flew by in a blur of intense discussion — car performance, race strategy, tire wear, fuel loads. By evening, theory turned to practice, and they moved to the simulators.

Yeonjun, as expected, was a natural. His driving was decisive and uncompromising — an extension of his will. Each lap was met with quiet approval from the engineers and clipped, professional praise.

When it was Soobin’s turn, the team was encouraging, patient with the rookie. His final lap time, while still behind the champion’s, wasn’t disastrous. The engineers studying his telemetry murmured among themselves. The difference wasn’t only raw speed — it was style. Where Yeonjun attacked the track with fury, biting into every corner, Soobin achieved similar results a different way: his lines were smooth, precise. He didn’t fight the track; he negotiated with it, finding alternative, less taxing paths for the tires and fuel. It wasn’t brute force, but pure, refined skill. A quiet but confident statement: this wasn’t just some placeholder driver Red Bull had hired.

⟡

It was late, the long and exhausting day finally over, as Soobin walked through the deserted corridors of the Red Bull headquarters, bathed in the harsh glow of LED lights. He held his phone to his ear.

“So, how’d the main briefing go?” his agent, Jihoon, asked, his voice a mix of professional interest and genuine curiosity.

Soobin caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the dark glass of an office door — hair a mess, eyes tired — and let out a short laugh.

“Went according to plan. The car is impressive; the team has high hopes.”

“And the living legend? Choi Yeonjun?” Jihoon probed gently.

Soobin hummed, stalling for a second. “Let’s just say we’re not exactly best buddies yet. But it’s fine.” He’d boiled down the entire humiliating exchange to that single dry, understated line. But Jihoon, who’d known him for years, immediately caught the tightness in his voice.

“Just don’t rise to his provocations, Soobin,” the voice on the speaker became instructive, firm. “Remember, all omegas are emotional by nature. He’ll try to pressure you, test your limits, use his tactics. You are an alpha. Your place is to be in charge. Don’t let him forget that.”

Soobin slowed his pace, his gaze in the reflection turning hard and clear. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly calm and steady, devoid of any doubt or deference.

“My place is wherever I cross the finish line. Whether he’s an omega or not has nothing to do with it.”

A brief silence hung on the other end — a moment of consideration and reassessment. Then, his agent gave a quiet, approving grunt.

“Alright then. Goodnight, racer. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“Goodnight,” Soobin replied automatically, ending the call.

The silence of the corridors swallowed him once more, but now it felt different. Not oppressive, but… promising. As he walked toward his temporary lodgings, his mind wasn’t replaying his teammate’s hurtful words. Instead, it was filled instead with perfect, smooth racing lines through Bahrain’s corners.

After all, it was the only thing that mattered. The reason he was here. For the race.

⟡

"Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on him?"

Yeonjun didn't process the question at first, his focus entirely consumed by a far more critical mission: trying to tear open a stubborn packet of instant ramen seasoning with his teeth. The plastic was already slick with his spit and refused to yield. Finally victorious, he watched with satisfaction as the fiery red powder dissolved into the bubbling water, filling the kitchen with an irresistible rich aroma.

There was at least one undeniable perk to being back in Seoul — only in Korea could you buy ramen this good. And even though he’d be heading back abroad in a couple of weeks, he was determined to shove as much of it into his stomach as humanly possible before he had to leave.

He stood in Beomgyu's spacious, clean kitchen, soaking in the coziness and the special kind of warmth that only exists in a real home. These moments were rare. For both of them to be in Seoul at the same time was a minor miracle, making these minutes priceless — just him and his childhood best friend, together like old times.

"Huh?" he finally grunted, stirring the pot with his chopsticks.

"Well, I mean the new driver. Choi Soobin. He doesn't seem like a bad guy. Give him a chance," Beomgyu repeated.

Yeonjun snorted, not looking up from the pot.

"I don't give chances. They're taken. That's how it works, Gyu."

"In my opinion, chances should be given by default, until someone proves they don't deserve one."

Yeonjun exhaled slowly, feeling a familiar irritation prickle under his skin.

"I'm not planning on making his life hell. We'll work together, get through the season, and go our separate ways. It's simple."

"I have a hard time believing you'll keep it that simple," Beomgyu chuckled humorlessly.

"What, are you his lawyer now? Why are you suddenly defending some random alpha? You don't know him, I don't know him. Just drop it," His movements turned jerky, sloshing water over the rim of the pot.

"Even if I don't know him, I know you. And I know you're making assumptions about him just because he's an alpha."

"So what?"

"Not all alphas are jerks, hyung! Look at Taehyun!"

"And not all alphas are Kang Taehyun, Beomgyu! You have no idea how this world works — the paddock, the politics, what it takes to survive here — but I do!" Yeonjun's voice rose to a shout, turning strange and sharp even to his own ears. "What's even your fucking problem? Do you want me to cozy up to some alpha, buy a beach house, and get a cat? Not everyone wants to give up their career for some sappy pink dream like you did!"

A heavy silence settled over the kitchen, broken only by the quiet bubble of the pot. His appetite vanished instantly. Yeonjun didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to see Beomgyu's face. He knew he'd just crossed a line, said something unforgivable. Beomgyu didn't deserve that.

But he turned anyway, meeting his gaze — shiny, hurt, but not angry.

"Sorry," Yeonjun exhaled, the fight draining out of him. "I don't know what came over me. You know I don't actually think that."

Beomgyu looked at him, his expression clear and sincere, eyebrows drawn together in pain.

"But some part of you must believe it to say it."

The truth was a painful, old, and deep wound. It was always there, but they both preferred to pretend it wasn't.

Yeonjun's dream of becoming a F1 driver was born because of Beomgyu. His best friend's father was a former racer, and his son dreamed of following in his footsteps. As kids, they karted together in California and later in Korea, dreaming of sharing a podium one day. But after Beomgyu presented as an omega, his interests and priorities gradually shifted. He didn't want to fight the whole world for that path.

Yeonjun did. And he was left to do it alone.

At first, he’d carried their shared dream like a bittersweet inside joke, texting Beomgyu from the podiums around the world with a sarcastic "wish you were here." But as the years bled into a relentless career, the loneliness set in — a profound isolation that no trophy could fill. The memory of their promise, once a fond nostalgia, curdled into a quiet, constant ache.

The rational part of him, the man he had become, understood it wasn't a betrayal. It was Beomgyu choosing his own happiness, building a life that felt authentic to him, and Yeonjun was genuinely glad for his friend's contentment. But the boy who still lived in his heart, the one who had shared that dream and built it into his very foundation, that boy couldn't help but feel abandoned.

It had become a shard of glass embedded in his heart, a pain so intimate and precise that giving it words would have made it real, and unbearable.

He sighed heavily. "It’s not like that, I just... I'm really sorry."

He turned off the stove and walked over to Beomgyu, who was sitting on a chair behind a kitchen island. He wrapped his arms around Beomgyu, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, and buried his face in the softness of his chestnut hair. The tense line of Beomgyu's shoulders began to relax under his touch, and Yeonjun breathed in deeply, feeling the way his friend's sour, anxious scent gradually softened back into its usual soothing notes.

It was an apology spoken in the only language he had left to explain himself, when words were too cruel to voice.

Beomgyu hugged him back, clutching his shirt tightly. He nuzzled his neck in a familiar, comforting gesture, then frowned.

"I can't smell you at all," he commented quietly.

"Upped the dose of my meds," Yeonjun replied.

Beomgyu pulled back carefully, giving him a worried look. "Hyung…"

"I know what you're going to say. Don't. It's all cleared with my doctor. It's safe, I promise."

He wasn't lying. But his concern for safety wasn't out of tenderness for his body or his hormonal balance. His body was his tool, his weapon. In a sport like Formula 1, impeccable physical condition was everything. He could do whatever he wanted to it, as long as it was capable of winning.

Beomgyu sighed but relented. "Okay." He glanced at the pot, where the noodles had surely turned to mush. "Maybe we should just order something. Chicken?"

Yeonjun laughed, feeling the weight on his shoulders finally lift. "And hotteok."

"And bingsu!" Beomgyu perked up immediately.

"Korean food is the best, after all," Yeonjun agreed, a warm, lively note returning to his voice.

And like that they silently agreed to preserve this fragile, unspoken truce — a final island of calm before the storm of the F1 calendar would pull Yeonjun into its vortex of flyaways and time zones. It was a delicate thing, this peace between them, easily shattered. But for now, in this quiet kitchen, it was a sanctuary.

Chapter Text

That morning, Silverstone was alive with sound. Not the roar of the grandstands — those were still sleeping in the early haze — but the metallic clatter of racing tyres being unloaded from trucks, the rumble of generators, and sharp commands called out in a dozen languages. It was a symphony of controlled chaos, one that Soobin watched, trying to sync his own rhythm with what lay ahead. His eyes were tired of screens; he’d spent all night in the simulator, and now he craved something real.

Five Grand Prix weekends were now behind him, marking over two months since his F1 debut. Each was an explosion of adrenaline that left him utterly drained, and yet — from Friday practice to Sunday’s checkered flag — each one also filled him with an unwavering certainty: this was exactly where he was meant to be.

For his first races, he fought in the midfield's dirty air, learning the car's limits through the sheer vibration in his hands and its unpredictable nature, while facing the brutal challenge of stepping up to F1. Though he’d scored points in each round, he hadn’t yet stood on the podium — a reality that could have dented his confidence. But instead of letting frustration take over, he focused. He picked apart every mistake, every tiny handling flaw, every millisecond lost on the radio.

Slowly, the chaos began to make sense. It became a pattern. A structure.

That structure was where Soobin found comfort. The strict schedule, the repetitive training routines, the bland taste of airport coffee — it all merged into a ritual. Something steady. He learned that repetition could turn the most intimidating tasks into instinct.

And yet, even as it all started feeling routine, the thrill never faded. It hit him just as hard as the first time he’d touched the RB20.

He was captivated by all of it: the flashy events, the silly shoots for F1 official TikTok account, even the relentless journalists with their tricky questions. It all buzzed with the energy of one world now in his blood. He'd catch himself grinning like a fool, signing autographs for Red Bull fans, seeing the awe in fellow geeks who had come to witness these iron monsters flash past the stands in the blink of an eye. He saw himself in them — the same wide-eyed wonder he’d had as a child. He loved the inside jokes with the mechanics, their own language of humor, and the quiet nod of respect from the chief engineer when Soobin suggested something unexpected.

But the real magic — the heart of it all — was the race itself. Those moments when time compressed, thinking stopped, and instinct took over. The total exhaustion afterward, every muscle burning, and the strange emptiness when he climbed out of the car. That feeling of being completely alive only happened in the cockpit, fused with the machine, riding right on the edge.

That was it. The essence. The point of it all.

And not even his strained dynamic with Yeonjun could ruin that.

To be fair, the reigning champion hadn't been openly hostile since their tense first meeting in Seoul. Perhaps because Soobin had wisely maintained a professional distance. 

Yeonjun shouldered the weight of his championship titles with fierce determination. He missed no meetings and neglected no important engagements, expertly balancing his role as the ‘face’ of Red Bull — starring in ads and on magazine covers — all while logging endless hours of training.

Ironically, Soobin actually got along better with his rivals than with his own teammate. He was especially grateful to have Huening Kai, a friend from their Formula 2 days, learning alongside him. Kai was that rare friend Soobin could be completely open with, sharing his frustrations and mistakes without a hint of shame. Furthermore, Kai’s teammate, Armo Marotta, was a true F1 veteran and something of a gentle giant. Incredibly kind, he patiently brushed off Kai’s rookie errors and was always willing to share his experience with both of them, treating the pair like the new kids on the grid.

The Scuderia Ferrari duo, Jungkook and Taehyun, brought their own vibrant energy. Despite Taehyun’s intense, hyper-focused race-day persona, he was surprisingly lighthearted. Together with Jungkook, they made the drivers’ rivalry feel less like a competition and more like a shared obsession. It was a stark contrast to the tense silence that hung in Soobin's own garage — a contrast that made him feel profoundly lonely sometimes.

He still felt the bitter aftertaste of disappointment — his interaction with Yeonjun was nothing like the secret dreams of his seventeen-year-old self, who had imagined them standing side-by-side in matching team colours. 

But he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. The initial bitterness, born of his idol's image clashing with reality, had gradually cooled into a detached respect for the man's skill. Soobin couldn't deny the obvious: Yeonjun on the track was a god. His season had started as befitting a defending champion: dominant, snatching poles and finishing on the podium — most often on the top step. Flawless. Aggressive. Unstoppable.

It was the same here at Silverstone. Yesterday, Yeonjun took the pole yet again. Soobin would start P11 — a result the team had called promising for a rookie. His goal for today was simple: break into the points, and the chances were good. For Red Bull, this season was already looking brighter than the last; Soobin was clearly a step up from the previous second driver. The bosses never missed a chance to remind him — their support was genuine, and it fueled him.

Silverstone.

This was the hallowed ground where it all began — where the very first Formula 1 World Championship race roared into history back in 1950. There's a weight to this place, a sense of legacy that every driver feels the moment they step onto the track. To succeed here, a car needs perfect aerodynamics, and a driver needs something deeper than skill — almost a kind of instinct. 

The May sky hung heavy and leaden — classically British, threateningly so. The air grew thick with the threat of rain. In the final briefing, they’d gone over the wet-weather scenarios again and again, picking apart the tactics of their rivals. In the rain, every detail matters. One misstep with the tyres, and it’s over.

With the practiced ease of a ritual, Soobin ran a gloved hand over the embroidery on his firesuit, his fingertips tracing the distinct, sharp raised threads of his initials — SBN — stitched in crisp white against the team's signature navy. Next came the balaclava, then the helmet. The mechanics helped him settle into the cockpit, their quick, precise hands working in unison to buckle his harness and connect his radio.

He closed his eyes for a second, shutting out the world. This was his space. Only him, the wheel, and fifty-two laps ahead.

The race settled into a predictable rhythm from the start. Soobin fought his battle in the midfield, sticking dutifully to the plan — clean and risk-free. The car beneath him felt good. Responsive. And ahead, as always, Yeonjun was already soaring, mercilessly stretching his lead.

Then, halfway through the race, the sky delivered on its threat.

The rain. 

The pit lane erupted into action. Almost in unison, engineers and mechanics scrambled to switch to wet-weather contingencies. Inside the cockpit, Soobin’s world narrowed to the voice in his ear — calm and clear —as his race engineer walked him through the rain plan. Gripping the wheel a little tighter, Soobin could already feel the car growing nervous beneath him, the rear growing light under braking as traction bled away with every lap.

The race wore on. Then, an update crackled over the radio: Yeonjun was boxing for an unscheduled stop. There’d been contact with the Mercedes of Armo Marotta into Turn 3. A damaged front wing had sent him tumbling down the order.

Soobin pushed the thought aside; he was locked in his own battle. His smooth, calculated style — the one they’d noted even in the sim — was perfectly suited to the slick track. It was a constant, draining fight for control, but the car answered his inputs with a fierce, predictable honesty. He kept his head down, his focus absolute, and he kept overtaking.

Tenth… eighth… fifth…

As the rain eased and the track began to dry, Soobin found himself — unexpectedly for everyone, and perhaps even for himself — in fourth place. Behind him, Yeonjun was charging back through the field like a force unleashed.

Soobin’s heart hammered against his throat. There it was: his first podium. He could almost touch it. The orange glint of the McLaren was just ahead — he could attack.

Then, his engineer’s voice cut in:
“Soobin, we are swapping positions.”

His mind went blank for a second. His grip tightened on the wheel.

A moment later, the explanation:
“Let Yeonjun through. He’s on fresher tyres. Let him fight for the podium. Acknowledge.”

The adrenaline high was replaced by an icy weight in the pit of his stomach. In his mirrors, Yeonjun’s car was closing in with terrifying speed, roaring like it was angry. He felt like prey, though seconds ago he had been the hunter.

“Understood,” he forced out, and moved off the racing line, letting Yeonjun blast past.

Yeonjun finished third, fighting his way back onto the podium in the final laps. Soobin finished fifth — nonetheless, the best result of his season.

⟡

As Yeonjun stood on the podium, his smile — dazzling and perfectly polished for the cameras — didn't reach his eyes. A storm was raging behind them. He was furious. He performed the rituals by rote: the back pats, the champagne spray aimed at the McLarens, the cap tossed into the roaring crowd. He thanked the team, his voice a smooth, professional cadence, but his gaze never once found Soobin.

That anger stayed with him. Through interviews, through a quick shower, all the way back to the hotel. It wasn’t about third place — he’d lost wins before. 

It was how he got it. Handed to him. Like a favour.

The shame burned. None of this should have happened. He knew this track like the back of his hand — how could he have been so stupid? To need help, to make such a basic, amateur mistake... It was unforgivable. His inner voice was merciless: Weak. Pathetic. Without the team, you're nothing. Look how the alpha rookie pities you.

Something felt off this season. Yes, he was still winning, but every pole and every victory was clawed back at the last moment — each one hard-fought in a way that was unfamiliar and unsettling. By this time last year, he had six poles and six wins. No one could touch him.

Had the McLarens really changed the game? The pre-season predictions of their fierce competitiveness were proving brutally accurate. Or was the problem not in his car, but in himself? A cold doubt snaked its way into his mind. He could feel it — his rhythm was off. His concentration flickered like a bad signal, and in the moments demanding absolute strength, his grip felt fragile.

No. He couldn’t afford this uncertainty. It was just the pressure feeding his imagination.

Tension hung thick in the air during the next day's debrief. Running on maybe thirty minutes of sleep, Yeonjun sat slouched, arms crossed, enduring the criticism as if he hadn't already torn the incident apart in his own head a hundred times.

When the discussion turned to Soobin’s telemetry, he snapped.

“Good job out there, Soobin,” his voice was a blade. “Very confident. Especially when I went for the move at turn six. You had a very… convenient little lift. Just enough to break my rhythm.”

A heavy silence swallowed the room. All eyes flicked to him, then to Soobin.

Soobin looked back, confusion written plain across his face. "I didn't lift," he said, voice quiet but steady. "I was fighting for a podium. I was defending my position. Why would I lift?"

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” Yeonjun’s patience snapped. “You saw me coming and closed the line. You almost cost me the podium.”

“Yeonjun,” Namjoon started, but Hoseok was already moving. He pulled up the data from both cars on the main screen without a word.

The graphs were irrefutable. There was no spike, no drop. Nothing. Soobin’s throttle trace was a perfect, unwavering line. His telemetry showed consistent driving.

“The data from the laps in question is clear,” Hoseok’s voice was neutral, precise. “Soobin did not lift. He was driving defensively, but within the rules. Your mistake on lap twenty-seven with Marotta cost you fifteen seconds. That’s why you were behind him. That’s why you needed the team order. The rest…” he paused, letting the immutable numbers on the screen speak for themselves, “…is a consequence of your own incident, not his driving.”

Namjoon sighed heavily, looking at his lead driver with open disappointment.
“Yeonjun, I don’t recognise you. Rivalry is one thing. But your personal issues stay outside this garage.”

Yeonjun didn’t wait for another word. He shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, and walked out without a second glance.

Of course Namjoon didn’t recognise him. He only recognised the version of Yeonjun that won with boring, machine-like predictability. The ghost who was fused with his car, for whom a mistake was as absurd as for a human forgetting to breathe. The leader of every race who never needed to be let through.

And he didn't want to recognise the man stumbling out of that room — a man whose hands wouldn’t stop trembling, clenched into fists to cage a shame so thick he could taste it.

⟡

Sleep was a lost cause — his only hope was passing out on a flight to Spain for the next Grand Prix. He’d spent the entire evening in the simulator, replaying Silverstone, until the track was burned into the back of his eyelids. His mind was trapped on a loop.

Well past midnight, he headed to the garage — ostensibly to check on the car data, but really just to escape the track map scrolling behind his eyes.

The building was empty and dark. But some muffled voices came from the slightly open door of the engineering office. He followed the sound.

Soobin and Hoseok were hunched over a monitor, their faces lit by the glow of the data. Soobin was talking animatedly, tracing lines on the screen with his finger. Hoseok listened, his expression unreadable, simply nodding.

“…see, the loss of traction was minimal here on the exit," Soobin said, his voice charged with intensity. "I got on the power earlier because I could feel the tyres had finally switched on…”

Yeonjun froze in the doorway. The rookie and the Tech Director, listening with genuine interest. A sight that was wrong on so many levels. Hoseok never lingered in the garage this late — not unless it was a crisis. That was a job for the mechanics, not a man of his rank. But there he was, leaning against a monitor like any other engineer, utterly captivated. Apparently, all it took was a bit of Soobin's wide-eyed charm to rewrite the team's unwritten rules.

The humiliation from the debrief surged through him once more, now laced with a fresh, bitter sting. He'd been publicly shamed in front of the entire garage, and now this rookie was holding a private masterclass.

He took a step forward, the scuff of his shoe on the floor giving him away. They both turned. Hoseok offered a respectful but wary nod. Soobin just looked at him with that typical expression of his — with those clear, round eyes — that made Yeonjun's blood boil.

“Yeonjun,” Hoseok said, his tone diplomatic. “Everything alright?”

Yeonjun remained silent, not knowing what to say. The silence stretched uncomfortably, until Soobin broke it. 

“We were reviewing the inters data from yesterday,” he offered. “Forecast says Spain might be wet, too...”

His voice trailed off, but the unspoken invitation hung in the air between them — an open, patient silence. Without a word, Yeonjun stepped closer, his eyes already scanning the screens.

They discussed tiny details; Soobin shared his intuitive feel for the car on a wet track, and Yeonjun had to admit some of his observations were damn sharp. Choi Soobin had instinct. He actually got it.

Drawn in against his will, Yeonjun sensed the professional in him taking over, his mind offering up hard-won insights almost reflexively. The urge to launch into a full story, to explain the why behind the data, was there — but he bit it back, hard. He wasn't here to mentor. This wasn't a partnership.

So he held back, offering only short, clipped comments. The occasional nod or shake of his head was his most generous contribution. He would engage with the data, but he would not give himself.

Finally, Hoseok stretched and called it a night, advising them both to get some rest. The garage emptied, leaving the two Red Bull drivers alone in the dim, electric glow of the data monitors.

The silence that followed was just that — empty. Yeonjun stared blankly into space, seeing nothing but the ghost of his own mistakes staring back from behind his eyes. And he felt it all curdling back again — the familiar anger at himself, at the rain, at Namjoon's disappointment, at this alpha rookie beside him.

It choked him, thick and acidic. He had to let it out.

"Just say it," Yeonjun rasped, the words raw and strained.

Soobin, who was zipping up his comically large backpack, turned slowly.

“Say what?”

"Whatever you're thinking," Yeonjun turned to face him, eyes flashing with a challenge that demanded an equal reaction. He was braced for it — craving the brutal, humiliating honesty he knew he deserved. "I know you're pissed. That they told you to move. That I came at you in debrief. Just say it. I can't stand this… this saintly act of yours."

But the blow never came. Soobin looked at him, not angry or mocking. That same infuriating composure he’d held all day. He offered a simple, unforced shrug.

“I trust the team. They see the bigger picture. It’s not just me or you out there. Hundreds of people are giving their all for our success.”

He said it without a hint of accusation. Just a simple fact. 

And in the span of a single, heart-stopping second — that’s all it took — Yeonjun felt the pathetic, childish pettiness of his own rage collapse inward. How could he have forgotten? His entire career was built on trusting the team's strategy, their data, their calls. To doubt them now was to doubt everything that had ever made him great.

Perhaps from the outside it seemed like he was a total egotist. But he did love Red Bull. He loved this team. The mechanics who poured everything into his car, the medics who checked on him, the PR people who managed the public image. He loved Namjoon, who believed in him when no one else did. 

And now, whether he liked it or not, that included Choi Soobin too.

Something released inside him. A wave of tiredness hit — real, physical exhaustion his anger had been masking. He remained motionless, listening to Soobin’s footsteps heading out.

“Ah, one more thing,” Soobin said, turning from the doorway. Yeonjun looked up.

“One day,” Soobin said, his tone not mocking but deadly serious, his eyes burning with quiet intensity, “I’ll be faster. I won’t need to move for anyone.” He held Yeonjun’s gaze for a heartbeat longer. “You’re not the only one who’s here to win.”

⟡

The weather forecast for Barcelona had proven wrong. A scorching sun had chased away the promised rain and baked the asphalt — a welcome relief for every engineer and driver in the paddock. Yesterday’s tests had gone smoothly, and expectations for today’s qualifying session were just as high.

Soobin took a long swig from his electrolyte bottle, the cool liquid a temporary relief against the sweltering heat. The fireproof suit was stifling, but morning promotional duties meant he had to be in full kit.

“Can’t believe it’s not even mid-season and I’m already sitting on eight penalty points.” Huening Kai’s voice was a perfect blend of drama and self-pity.

Soobin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eight? Seriously, Kai?”

Eight points were no joke. Twelve meant a race ban — a nightmare scenario for the team. Even if Kai wasn't fighting for the drivers' title, his penalty points were a direct threat to Mercedes' campaign for the constructors' crown.

“You need to be more careful,” Soobin continued, keeping his tone neutral. “I thought the team had warned you about closing speeds?” He couldn’t help but feel for Armo Marotta, Kai’s unflappable teammate, who had to endure the rookie’s mistakes with saint-like patience.

“Yeah, yeah. But not everyone follows the team’s every word like you do,” Kai snorted. He pushed off from the stack of tires and fell into step beside Soobin as he headed toward his driver’s room. The dig about Silverstone was unmistakable. For two weeks now, Kai had been teasing him about the team order, just like the journalists who wouldn’t let it go.

Soobin knew his friend meant no real harm, but the comment irked him all the same. His only real recourse was to wait for Kai to find a new joke to latch onto — he was like a child, his attention span for mischief frustratingly short, and he’d discard any bit the moment something newer and shinier caught his eye.

“It was the right call for the team. And you sound like a wannabe rebel from NASCAR. What’s the plan, turning your car into scrap metal?”

Kai cut him off, pulling off his cap and running a hand through his hair with a mocking grin. “Oh, is that the official statement? Seems to me you just like following Choi Yeonjun’s orders. Got a real puppy crush on him, hyung. What’s he feeding you? C’mon, Soobin-hyung, fetch!” He mimed throwing a ball with a sharp, barking laugh.

“I’ll show you fetch, you little shit,” Soobin shot back, swinging a lazy arm out to catch him. Kai danced back with ease, already waving him off with a grin. “Alright, alright, chill! Just messing with you. Good luck in quali!”

“You too. Drive safe,” Soobin said, the irritation already fading into sincerity. He meant it. Kai disappeared around the corner toward the Mercedes garage.

Soobin continued the other way,  trying to shake off Kai’s words. It was a joke, obviously. But there was always some truth buried in them, and this one stuck in his gut. He hated feeling like a subordinate — the perpetual second driver living in someone else’s shadow. He wasn’t weak. He was a Formula 1 driver, one of twenty in the world. But the confidence he projected still felt like a performance. Something was missing.

And then there was Yeonjun. There was something about his attitude… something controlling. It was in the way he commanded a room, how the mechanics would snap to attention when he spoke. And the worst part was, Kai's childish jabs — though he couldn't possibly know the full picture — occasionally struck a nerve, hitting closer to home than Soobin wanted to admit.

As he got closer to the Red Bull garage, he spotted two familiar figures near the paddock entrance. Kang Taehyun was munching on a protein bar, his wide eyes missed nothing, taking in the scene with their usual calm, and next to him — Choi Beomgyu, phone in hand, narrating something to his camera.

Soobin ran into Taehyun often — they were 'colleagues', after all — but Beomgyu, who’d declared at their first meeting that he’d make a point of finding him, had only kept that energy early in the season. He’d been a no-show for the last few weekends, and Soobin was surprised to realize he’d actually missed the vibrant, mischievous chaos that seemed to follow in his wake.

Beomgyu swung his phone toward Soobin. “Hey everyone, look who it is — our very own survivalist, Choi Soobin! How’s life on the Yeonjun reality show treating you?”

Taehyun answered before Soobin could. “No one survives Yeonjun. But this guy’s lasting longer than most. Rooting for you, Soobin-hyung.” He gave Soobin’s shoulder a sympathetic pat, grinning.

Beomgyu cracked up, and they exchanged a look of pure delight at the idea of Soobin’s suffering.

“Maybe save your rooting for your own team in quali today,” Soobin fired back, a light taunt in his voice.

A rising wave of squeals erupted from the fan zone. Soobin turned. Choi Yeonjun was cutting a path toward them. As always, he looked picture-perfect — Red Bull suit fitted perfectly, cap pulled low, only the glint of silver in his ears catching the sun. Soobin gave a slight nod in greeting.

Yeonjun didn’t say a word. His eyes swept over Soobin, then narrowed at something behind his shoulder. With a quiet tsk, he reached out and peeled off a bright Ferrari sticker from the back of Soobin’s race suit. He smacked it squarely onto Taehyun’s chest.

“Don’t turn your back on the red devils,” he said to Soobin. “They’ll mark you when you’re not looking.”

So that pat on the back earlier hadn’t been innocent at all, huh.

“Hyung! You’re breaking the sacred sticker war rules. You can only remove it if you spot it yourself! ” Taehyun fake-protested. “Or what, is the lone wolf getting territorial?” He glanced meaningfully at Soobin.

“Yes. Red Bull is my territory. This team is me.” Yeonjun shot back, a sharp smirk playing on his lips. Taehyun’s jab didn’t seem to faze him, but Soobin could feel a hot flush threatening at his collar. “I’m not having some prancing horse on my logo.”

“What, is the little bull scared of a proper stallion?” Taehyun shot back, not giving an inch.

“In your wildest dreams, Kang Taehyun,” Yeonjun laughed, short and dismissive, like the idea was absurd. “What did you want?”

“Jungkook-hyung’s looking for you. We’re trying to film some content while we have time. You in?”

Yeonjun nodded and started following Taehyun. But then he paused at the barrier where fans were packed tightly, a sea of the team's signature blue, red and yellow. A man held a little girl on his shoulders. Yeonjun leaned over, and his whole demeanor shifted. The champion’s edge melted away. He took off his cap and gently placed it on the girl’s head. She squealed, delighted. He smiled softly, patting her cheek, and when she reached out, he lifted her into his arms without hesitation. Her father tried to apologize, but Yeonjun shook his head, whispering something that made the girl giggle.

Soobin watched, completely captivated. It was so genuine, so at odds with the untouchable champion he knew. Seeing Yeonjun, always so sharp, hold a child with such natural tenderness struck something deep and primal within Soobin. His chest tightened, his instincts stirring with a sudden, startling protective warmth that felt both foreign and overwhelmingly intense.

Yeonjun handed the girl back, waved to the cheering fans, and turned to catch up with Taehyun. Soobin’s eyes followed them.

Apparently, something in his expression hadn't gone unnoticed. His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice beside him.

“You know, he wasn’t always like this.”

Soobin turned. Beomgyu was watching him, gaze thoughtful and a little too knowing.

“What do you mean?”

“Yeonjun-hyung. I know it’s hard to believe when he’s being… well, like that with you. But under all that, he’s actually really soft. A total sentimentalist. Big heart. He just loves driving — more than anything.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly the vibe I get,” Soobin said, irony heavy in his voice as he thought about the last three months.

“This world forced him to build armor. Because it hurt too much otherwise.” Beomgyu’s smile faded slightly. “And now… it hurts me now, to watch it. I miss the friend who used to laugh so easily. He hardly shows that side to anyone now.” He paused, letting out a soft, humorless laugh. “If he finds out I told you this, he’ll actually murder me.”

Soobin studied him, trying to figure out why he was being trusted with this.
“If it’s such a secret, why tell me?”

“Because I like your scent,” Beomgyu said simply.

Soobin's gaze flickered away for an instant, being caught off guard, even though he knew Beomgyu’s words held no hidden weight. It was just how direct he was.

“You smell like a forest. Like… a childhood memory. It’s sunlight through leaves, looking up at giant trees when you don't have a single worry in your head. You know that feeling? That’s what you remind me of.”

Soobin did know. People sometimes told him his alpha natural cedar scent was calming, but Beomgyu's description resonated differently. For a moment, it felt less like a compliment and more like being truly seen, and it created a sudden, unexpected connection between them. It was an understanding that was both surprising and, in a way he couldn't immediately explain, deeply reassuring.

“And… call it intuition,” Beomgyu added, as if his metaphor wasn’t enough. “You feel honest. Steady. It’s the sort of intuition Yeonjun-hyung would tell me to ignore.”

Soobin fell quiet, carefully turning over the weight of Beomgyu's words about Yeonjun. It was raw, personal — a side of the story he'd never considered. It made him wonder if he understood the man behind the championship titles at all.

Then Beomgyu’s expression shifted. “But listen, Soobin. If my intuition is wrong… if you ever use any of this against him… if you ever hurt him…”  His voice stayed calm, but all the warmth vanished, replaced by a flinty seriousness that seemed to alter the very air between them. This wasn't the playful, sometimes dramatic omega Soobin was used to seeing — this was something else entirely, something that spoke of a steel core beneath the surface. “I will end your career. Believe me, I can. Your father’s connections won’t save you.”

Soobin stared, stunned. The threat was so alien to his own nature — the idea of causing anyone harm hadn't even crossed his mind. Yet for a second, despite knowing his own intentions were clean, a cold sliver of fear pierced through him. 

He knew Beomgyu wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

“So!” Beomgyu’s face snapped bright again, as if someone had flipped a switch. “I know you can’t even think about food now. But listen — after the race tomorrow, me and Taehyun are going to this fancy place he found. They serve the actual best gazpacho in Barcelona, I’m not even joking. You should come. My treat, to make up for…” he waved a hand vaguely, as if to shoo away his earlier intensity, “…all that. Deal?”

Chapter Text

The white Honda NSX hummed steadily as Soobin navigated the winding Italian provincial roads. His hands rested lightly on the wheel — a world away from the white-knuckle intensity of piloting the RB20. Still, this car was built for speed too, it was yearning for an open highway to really unleash its power.  Here, hemmed in by slow-moving Fiats and lumbering trucks, it felt unnecessarily confined. The flow of traffic was a cage.

In the passenger seat, Kai was singing along with full enthusiasm to the Jujutsu Kaisen opening track playing loudly from the speakers. He clearly knew the melody perfectly, but his made-up lyrics bore no resemblance to any known language.

Kai had talked him into driving — again — using his usual excuse that city driving was “beneath his talents,” a claim Soobin had never bought. They both knew the real reason: Kai would happily avoid the headache of confusing Italian traffic for twenty extra minutes of zoning out to music.

For a guy who crashed out on the first lap, Kai was in a suspiciously good mood. Just yesterday he'd been a picture of absolute frustration — stomping around the garage, giving terse, clipped interviews. But that was him — he could shut it off completely, leaving the driver's mindset behind with his helmet. The crushing early retirement didn't seem to be weighing on him at all.

Yesterday's race had been legendary, even by Monza's storied standards. The lead had changed hands a half-dozen times in a relentless, wheel-to-wheel battle that left the spectators breathless. The air at the Temple of Speed always felt different — alive with history, giving Soobin the sensation that the track itself had absorbed decades of roaring engines and feverish cheers, weaving them into another layer of myth. You could find passionate F1 fans anywhere, but the tifosi, Ferrari's faithful... they were something else entirely. It was a religion. And yesterday, they had been blessed with a masterpiece — the weekend melting into one loud, chaotic, beautiful celebration.

Yeonjun had taken the checkered flag, but the real story was unfolding right behind him. The Ferrari drivers —  Jungkook securing P2 and Taehyun right there in P3 — had given the home crowd a double podium. A wave of rosso corsa euphoria swept through the grandstands. And while it wasn't quite the victory they'd all been praying for, the earth-shaking roar was proof enough. The spectators live for the sport — the raw emotion, the theater of it all — and seeing two scarlet cars fighting at the front was enough to make it feel like a win.

Still, nobody could deny Yeonjun's drive had been something special. And while the tifosi's hearts belonged to Scuderia, even they could respect a perfectly executed strategy, brutal pressure, and a killer instinct. He'd truly earned this one.

The celebrations had followed the usual script — the Ferrari team's glamorous party at a predictably opulent villa in Maranello, the team's spiritual home. Taehyun had made an appearance, fulfilling his obligations, but the endless photos and small talk with sponsors had drained him. He'd stayed just long enough to be seen before quietly slipping away. What he truly wanted was something real: a quiet dinner with a few close friends to properly celebrate. To share the particular magic he felt in Italy.

That's when Soobin's phone had buzzed with an address — a family trattoria on the outskirts of Maranello, a place owned by a friend of a friend, a man named Fabiano.

Soobin's attention drifted from the road ahead toward Kai. Shadows from the cypress trees flitted across his passenger's face. He, too, had received the same invite, extended personally by Kang Taehyun himself. As for Soobin, he had a hunch Beomgyu was behind his inclusion. The two of them had been hanging out more lately, a pair of introverts who had unexpectedly bonded over League of Legends. For Soobin, the game had always been a form of relaxation, a way to unwind. But ever since Beomgyu jumped in, casually outplaying him with infuriating ease, he wasn't so sure he'd call it relaxing anymore.

What really caught him off guard, though, was how tight Taehyun and Kai had gotten. When did that even happen? They were the definition of an odd couple. Ferrari and Mercedes were archrivals — a battle of red against silver that the fans lived for. But Taehyun and Kai didn't seem to care. It felt as random as kids becoming best friends on a playground, two people from totally different worlds. Maybe some connections just… click.

The NSX turned off the main road, the street narrowing into a cobblestone artery barely wide enough for the car. For a heart-stopping moment, Soobin was sure the GPS had led him astray. Then they arrived.

The building was unassuming, more like a private guesthouse than a typical dining spot, with a quiet, residential charm that spoke of generations tending to travelers. Parked outside were two hypercars. Soobin immediately recognized Yeonjun's Aston Martin Valkyrie — its reptilian curves and aggressive vents made it look like an alien spacecraft that had landed in the Middle Ages.

He killed the engine.

The illusion of having traveled back in time solidified inside. The air hung thick and warm, an edible blanket woven from garlic, rich Parmesan, slow-cooked tomato, and the scent of a wood-fired oven. Underfoot, the floorboards creaked a familiar complaint, while the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen sounded less like a restaurant service and more like a family preparing a dinner.

A silver-haired Italian man, all animated hands and booming laughter, had Taehyun locked in a bear hug, showering him with rapid-fire Italian and kisses on both cheeks. And Taehyun — usually so composed, so meticulously in control — was simply beaming. He was laughing, trying to keep up with a broken, heartfelt mix of English and Italian that made the older man clasp his face and exclaim even louder. This wasn't the Scuderia of corporate sponsors and PR events. This was its heart.

Kai breezed past Soobin with a loud “Ciao, Fabiano!” and was immediately absorbed into the chaos, embracing the owner like a long-lost son. The Italian — who might have recognized him from race broadcasts but had certainly never met him — returned the embrace with equal fervor, greeting him like family.

Feeling like an abrupt spectator and far too introverted to insert himself into such an effusive display, Soobin slipped away. He left Taehyun to deal with not one, but two overwhelmingly expressive people, retreating deeper into the house.

He found them in a chamber that felt like a living room, bathed in the soft, golden glow of a single lamp. Beomgyu was slumped on a spacious, well-worn velvet sofa, its cushions embracing him. On the floor, cross-legged on a faded rug before a low wooden table, sat Yeonjun.

He was hunched over a sketchbook open before him, his posture relaxed. The same hands that could wrestle a thousand horsepower into submission now moved a pencil with a light, delicate grace. An open beer sat beside his elbow, and a faint flush high on his cheeks told Soobin it wasn't his first — a small, deliberate rebellion now that the race weekend was effectively over, the strict no-alcohol rules feeling instantly distant in this intimate haven.

Soobin sank into a low, plush armchair opposite him. The seat sighed under his weight. 

“Didn't know you could draw,” he said, his voice softer than he'd intended, almost afraid to break the spell of quiet concentration.

Yeonjun's pencil didn't pause. “These aren't drawings,” he replied simply, still focused on his sketchbook. “Just rough concepts for Dior.”

Of course Soobin had heard about the Dior collaboration — it had been impossible to miss, with Yeonjun's face staring down from billboards in every city they'd raced in this season. But he'd assumed it was just another celebrity endorsement deal: Yeonjun showing up for fittings, maybe approving a final design or two. The possibility that he was actually involved in the creative process, sketching out ideas himself... that thought had never crossed Soobin's mind. His furrowed brow and the prolonged silence must have betrayed his surprise.

Yeonjun's eyes flicked up to meet his, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. 

“What, you thought I'm just a pretty face for their campaign?”

The immediate, unspoken answer that flashed through Soobin's mind was a resounding yes. Especially the 'pretty face' part. Instead, he aimed for a neutral tone, trying to keep his expression blank. 

“I just figured someone like you wouldn't have the time to get this deep into the process. Isn't your schedule insane enough as it is?”

Beomgyu reached out and ran his fingers through Yeonjun's hair, like he was petting a large, temperamental cat. And like a cat in a rare mood for affection, Yeonjun allowed it, even leaning slightly into the touch. The strands, once cool ash at the season's start, had faded into a wheat-like shade. They looked impossibly soft.

Soobin was hit with a sudden, strange urge to know what they felt like — a phantom sensation of silk seemed to whisper against his own fingertips, and the sheer inappropriateness of the thought sent heat flushing up his neck.

“You're pushing too hard, hyung,” Beomgyu murmured, his voice low and fond. “You don't have to carry everything yourself. Let people help you sometimes.”

“Maybe I could,” Yeonjun conceded, his hand continuing its fluid motion across the page. “I just hate that feeling of not being in control. Not knowing if it'll turn out how I see it in here.” He paused, a faint smile on his lips as he glanced back at his sketches. “Besides... I kind of enjoy it. Really. Stop worrying — I know my limits.”

Soobin leaned in for a closer look. The confident lines and bold ideas were a perfect reflection of Yeonjun himself. Where the other drivers were stuck in their polo shirts, Yeonjun stood out with his striking, unconventional outfits that were always perfectly put together.

“I don't know much about fashion,” he started carefully. “But this looks... really sharp.” He winced internally at the clumsy word, hoping it didn't sound as hollow and generic as it felt.

Yeonjun's gaze swept over him, head to toe, and that familiar feeling washed over Soobin again: the acute consciousness of his simple white shirt and jeans, which suddenly felt too casual, almost careless in comparison.

“Right,” Yeonjun said, his tone even. “Fashion isn't really your world, is it?”

Soobin's face grew hot. But just as the embarrassment began to settle, Yeonjun added, quieter now, almost like an afterthought: “Shame, though. You've got the frame they like. Could've been a good hanger for the clothes.”

The words hung in the air — was that an insult or a compliment? Soobin hesitated, mentally flipping through the possibilities before settling on compliment, though it definitely came with Yeonjun's usual sharpness.

A an awkward half-laugh escaped him. His ears still felt warm.

There was something different about Yeonjun tonight. He seemed… looser. More talkative. Less like he might tear you to pieces for a misplaced breath. Was it the alcohol? Or maybe the company — the quiet presence of Beomgyu, his close friend, whose omega scent seemed to wrap around Yeonjun like a calming blanket, softening his usual intensity?

Or just the high from yesterday's win? The thought led him back to Beomgyu's words — that Yeonjun only really lived for racing. Apparently, his mood rose and fell with the race results.

It was not the healthiest mindset for a sport like theirs, where a champion could be taken out by someone else's mistake in Turn 1. Luck mattered as much as raw talent. A rookie could stumble into points because of a perfectly timed safety car, while a title contender might see their race end from a stray carbon shard or a sudden hydraulics failure. Nothing was ever guaranteed.

Maybe a win didn't just mean another trophy; it bought Yeonjun a moment of peace, enough to sit on the floor, sketch in a notebook, and almost — almost — be friendly.

The echo of Yeonjun's attention still felt like a physical weight. Needing to break it, Soobin grasped for a lighter tone.

“So, if you ever get tired of driving in circles, I guess you've got a solid backup plan as a fashion designer?”

He bit his tongue the moment the words left his mouth, half-expecting a venomous retort. But Yeonjun just snorted, his focus still on the sketchbook.

“Fashion? Please.” His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. “Racing's in my blood. This is just... a creative itch.” He finally glanced up, an arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “Why would a living legend need a backup plan?”

Then, Taehyun leaned into the doorway, a bottle of wine swinging lightly from his hand — clearly a gift from Fabiano.

“Living legend?” he called out, a grin tugging at his mouth as the bottle met the wooden table with a comfortable knock. Right behind him, Kai glided in, smiling widely before folding himself neatly onto the floor next to Soobin — a wordless declaration of solidarity as he joined Yeonjun's floor club.

Taehyun scanned the room, lingering just long enough to catch Soobin's almost imperceptible head shake. Answering with a subtle tilt of his chin, he placed only three glasses on the table. Some rules were made to be bent, sure — but not by Soobin. Not even for a sip.

Then he turned to Yeonjun, lifting a stern eyebrow that didn't quite hide his amusement. “You know how it works here, hyung. While we're on the sacred Italian ground, there's only one legend — and it's not you. It's Ferrari.”

He dropped onto the sofa next to Beomgyu, slotting into place like it was his natural habitat.

Yeonjun finally put his pencil down and leaned back on his hands, a challenge in his eyes. “You mean the sacred ground that was shaking for me yesterday? I could barely hear my own anthem.” A look of triumph flashed across his face. “Maybe your holy ground needs a new patron saint.”

Beomgyu rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

Taehyun poured the wine with ceremonial slowness, first handing a glass to Beomgyu, then offering one to Kai.

“They cheer for the show, hyung. But they worship Ferrari. It's not the same.” He held Yeonjun's gaze, voice dropping into something solemn. “Like the saying goes: there are two religions in Italy: there's the Catholic Church and there's Ferrari.”

“Spare me the Ferrari sermon,” Yeonjun said, his tone dry as dust. “Temple, religion… If the crowd's your congregation, then the winner is their god. Simple as that.”

“A win is temporary,” Taehyun answered, and now his voice warmed with real devotion. “This season, next season — it all passes. But faith... that comes from everything that came before. From history.”

“So what you're saying is… Ferrari's wins are history?” Yeonjun's eyebrow lifted. “Ancient history?”

Kai burst out laughing — a quick, unfiltered sound of unbridled delight — clapping his hands together like an enthusiastic audience member at a stand-up show.

Taehyun's smile was a hint too strained, yet his voice held not a flicker of annoyance.

“Say it's ancient all you want. It's still a legacy, not an energy drinks commercial.”

“So that's the problem?” Yeonjun cut in, not missing a beat, his voice dripping with mocking sarcasm. “Too much legacy, not enough energy?” His mouth curved into a wicked line. “Should've had a can yesterday, might've helped you keep up.” Then, switching seamlessly into a pitch-perfect imitation of a Red Bull ad, he added: “Red Bull gives you wiiings.”

A full-bodied laugh burst from Kai now, and even Soobin let out a soft chuckle — the whole exchange was too absurd not to find funny.

“For god's sake,” Beomgyu groaned, dragging his palms down his face as if to physically wipe away the exhaustion of witnessing this same debate countless times. “Taehyun, I'm begging you, do we have to do this every time? Your inner superiority complex kicks in the second we set foot in Maranello. Just let it go.”

“Why don't you ever call him out?” Taehyun shot back, tipping his glass toward Yeonjun. “His superiority complex is global.”

Yeonjun's grin was all sharp edges, but his eyes were bright with something warmer than arrogance. He wasn't even pretending to be serious anymore.

“It's not a complex when you're actually superior.”

Soobin watched them, captured by the lack of real tension in the room. No one was actually offended; this was just their way — a rivalry that served as a second language for their friendship. They teased like they breathed: easily, naturally, without real intent to draw blood.

The easy truce held for maybe a second — just long enough for Beomgyu to think they were finally done and let out a quiet sigh of relief — before Taehyun piped up again.

“Seriously though, hyung,” he pushed. “Don't try to tell me you've never imagined it — in the red suit. If you showed up in Ferrari colors, people would literally throw themselves at you.”

Beomgyu's head turned quickly, his eyes narrowing. “Do you often imagine people throwing themselves at you?”

The question was direct, carrying a faint but unmistakable hint of jealousy. Taehyun laughed, finally realizing the trap he'd walked into.

“It's a figure of speech, you know? I'm just trying to win a stupid argument!”

“Fine, that particular figure of speech is officially banned now,” Beomgyu announced.

In one swift motion, he threw his arms around Taehyun, pulling him close. He pressed his face into the curve of his mate's neck, and the air around them shifted. The light, sweet scent that usually surrounded him intensified, thickening into something richer, more possessive. The move was deliberate — a clear attempt to wrench Taehyun's focus away from the debate and entirely onto himself. It wasn't defensive; it was claiming.

The previous back-and-forth died instantly, though the room wasn't completely quiet — Kai was still chuckling softly to himself, thoroughly entertained. But a distinct, intimate bubble had formed around Beomgyu and Taehyun, a space so self-contained that Soobin suddenly felt like he was witnessing something private, not meant for outsiders.

His eyes, desperate for a neutral place to land, found Yeonjun again as if drawn by a magnet. Unlike Soobin, Yeonjun didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable. He was simply observing the couple, a soft, almost tender smile gracing his features — an expression of pure, unshielded happiness for his friend. It was such a rare, open sight on Yeonjun's usually guarded face that Soobin found himself unable to look away, captivated.

Then, as if sensing the weight of his stare, Yeonjun's head turned. His eyes found Soobin's, pinning him in place with an electric intensity.

The breath hitched in Soobin's throat. His heart gave a frantic lurch against his ribs, and the room seemed to sway. Shit. Feeling utterly flustered and exposed, he jerked his head away, turning so quickly toward Kai that the motion felt clumsy and obvious. Kai, meanwhile, was just beaming at the affectionate chaos, utterly delighted and completely unaware of the quiet earthquake that had just shattered Soobin's composure.

His smile softened into something more thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his glass.

“You know what?” he said, voice cutting through the afterglow of their banter. “In the end, it really doesn't matter who wins. Well, maybe a little,” he corrected with a quick, honest grin. “I wouldn't say no to a Mercedes win. But mostly… I'm just happy to be on the track. Especially when I get to share it with drivers as incredible as you guys.”

Taehyun, still wrapped in Beomgyu's arms, nodded along. Then he added with deadpan delivery, “The real hero is Armo. Man deserves a bonus just for sharing a garage with you.”

Laughter swept through the room again — easy and loud this time — and right on rhythm, the owner stepped in, arms laden with three enormous, steaming homemade pizzas. He came back once, twice, until the table could barely hold all the plates of crispy arancini, rich pasta, and grilled vegetables. No one hesitated; hands reached for steaming slices, forks clinked against plates, and the conversation melted into the warm, contented buzz of a shared meal, all rivalries left forgotten at the door.

⟡

The night had settled into the deep, quiet hours — the kind of late that feels both earned and a little stolen. The whole evening had an unreal quality to it, the sort of unscripted, genuine connection that rarely found its way into their world of PR-managed events and sponsor-filled paddocks. They were used to a life that looked like a magazine spread — all gloss and perfect lighting. This was different. This had soul.

And Soobin hadn't even known he was craving it until now.

He sat on an aged metal bench, its paint slightly chipped, soaking in the quiet. The night air was warm, carrying the day's dry dust and the faint, mineral smell of stone cooling after the heat. Beneath it all drifted a savory aroma of herbs and wood-smoke from a nearby kitchen.

He was trying to freeze the moment in his mind — the warmth of the laughter still echoing in his chest, the way the yellow light spilled from the trattoria's windows. Soon enough, he'd have to leave — not just this place, but Italy itself. Another flight, another hotel, another circuit in a different part of the world.

There was a quiet sadness to it, this life of constant motion, where entire realms of feeling were compressed into brief, intense stops before inevitably moving on. He was half-afraid this night, so real and vivid now, would feel like something he'd dreamed up later — just another beautiful, fleeting moment lost to the non-stop schedule.

He was waiting for Kai, who was — true to form — probably caught in another twenty-minute goodbye with Fabiano inside. With everyone else staying at a nearby guesthouse, only he and Kai were heading out. Tomorrow, Taehyun would slip back into the Ferrari fold, and Yeonjun would be off to Milan for his fashion work.

A low hum broke the silence — the Valkyrie's door unlocking. Yeonjun leaned into the driver's side, emerging a moment later with a white charging cable coiled in his hand. The door shut with a soft thud. Then he turned, his eyes finding Soobin hunched on the bench nearby.

“Kai's maniac laugh finally drive you out?” Yeonjun asked, his voice cutting easily through the quiet night.

The question hung in the air, stretching between them for one long moment before Soobin's thoughts rushed in. He couldn't help but notice how easily Yeonjun joked with Kai after just one evening, when usually they barely spoke at races. The difference was stark. Kai respected Yeonjun as a champion, but he wasn't intimidated. He didn't treat him like some untouchable legend. They'd even bonded over their rocky starts, though Yeonjun admitted his early crashes came from his ego, while Kai's were just… too much enthusiasm.

And then there was Soobin, stuck in his own head as usual, treating every word around Yeonjun like it was a test he was about to fail. He probably came off as so pathetic, a bundle of nervous energy strung too tight. No wonder Yeonjun seemed so comfortable around Kai — even though he was an alpha — who wouldn't prefer that kind of easy, uncomplicated confidence? It was a kind of charm that made you let your guard down. Something Soobin, tangled up in his own doubts, could never pull off.

The social clumsiness settled into a familiar ache, one he knew from the track all too well. It was that same feeling of being solidly mediocre — putting in the work while others operated on a level of brilliance that seemed to come naturally. Here, his awkwardness was just an extension of his racing: stuck in midfield, his dependable but utterly unremarkable drives always overshadowed by Yeonjun's flashy wins and Taehyun's relentless, perfect form.

Pulled back to the present, Soobin let out a weak chuckle. “Something like that.” He leaned against the railing, the cool metal a welcome distraction. “Just needed some air.”

His self-conscious tension must have been obvious in his voice, because Yeonjun picked up on it right away. “You good?”

“Yeah, fine,” he tacked on, the words tasting empty. “This season's just… a lot.”

Yeonjun was quiet for a long moment,  his eyes fixed on the dark shapes of the trees. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Soobin expected.

“Yeah, I get it.”

The understanding in his tone sounded genuine — or maybe that was just the night making Soobin hear what he wanted to hear. Briefly, so briefly he might have imagined it, he could almost believe Yeonjun recognized the weight because he carried something similar himself.

Then, just as Yeonjun turned to leave, he paused. He didn't fully face Soobin again, just tossed the words back over his shoulder like a careless gift.

“You can call me hyung, by the way.”

It was so sudden, Soobin could only stare, his mind racing to catch up. He was utterly speechless.

Yeonjun glanced back, catching his expression. “What's with the look? You could've asked sooner. I don't bite.”

The lie was so blatant it broke the spell on Soobin's tongue. The reply slipped out before he could stop them, hushed and uneven. “That's not the impression I got. You bite often enough.”

Yeonjun turned. Slowly. His entire focus sharpened to a single point — Soobin. Looming over the bench, he took a small step that sucked the air from the space between them.

“You have no idea,” the words were low, almost a hum, “what my biting habits are like.”

His eyes — dark and intent, holding a dangerous glint in the faint light — drifted down to the side of Soobin's neck, lingering there for a heartbeat too long.

The breath rushed from Soobin's lungs. He felt like a toy in Yeonjun's hands — jerked between indifference and his magnetism, an omega's allure that felt like a physical force. Tomorrow morning, this entire exchange would be gone from Yeonjun's memory. But Soobin? He'd remember. He'd turn every word over in his mind until they were worn smooth, finding meaning where there was none. He could see it now — misreading a casual glance, treasuring some throwaway compliment, only to realize it was all just part of the game. And that game — where only one of them knew the rules — he couldn't do it.

He shot to his feet so fast the bench shuddered. “I should— I'll wait for Kai in the car,” he managed, already backing away. “Good night!”

An amused chuckle escaped Yeonjun as he watched Soobin leave, his eyebrow quirking. "Drive safe," he called after him, a thoughtful look in his eyes before disappearing back into the warm light of the trattoria.

Chapter Text

The air filled his lungs, but there was no oxygen in it. Just a thick brew of adrenaline, tropical humidity, and exhaust fumes. It clung to his skin, a leaden weight, denying him a single clean breath. Every sound — the metallic clang of tools, the engineers' commands, the muffled beat of music from the waterfront — lanced into Yeonjun's mind with painful clarity, a dissonant orchestra against the deafening cicadas. Even the neon lights, reflecting off the wet asphalt, seared his eyes, burning halos into his vision. Every nerve was a live wire, stripped bare. A single misstep — and he'd combust right there on the spot.

What was wrong with him?

His mind, usually as precise as a memorised racing line, was a scrambled mess. His weeks were a rollercoaster, swinging from euphoric highs to a rage sparked by the smallest thing. He could wake up with crystal-clear, aggressive confidence, only for it to curdle into a dull, inexplicable ache by afternoon, leaving him in a sleepless stupor by night.

He’d thought he was getting a grip after Monza. That victory, clawed back with everything he had, had felt like a turning point. But the foundation had crumbled again. He packed his schedule to the brim: shoots, interviews, sponsors, charity events, punishing training. Any idle moment was an invitation for the thoughts he was desperate to avoid. But for all its intensity, the constant noise couldn't fill the void. 

His thoughts were just scattered images now, refusing to form a coherent picture. He couldn't focus on the car. The RB20 had always felt like an extension of himself; he could sense its every vibration, anticipate its every twitch. But now, his intuition — his greatest weapon — was failing. An invisible wall stood between him and the machine. Since the last upgrades, the car had become twitchy, unpredictable, and he couldn't find the words to explain it to the engineers. He’d point at telemetry graphs, mumble about a lack of rear grip on corner exit, but it sounded vague, even to him. The engineers nodded, but their eyes asked for data, for a fact he couldn't give.

The results did the talking. And they were merciless. In Austria, he’d barely scraped through qualifying, managing only P3. The entire race was a war of attrition with McLaren's James Floyd, who defended with pure aggression, swerving under braking, forcing him to yield. Yeonjun reclaimed the lead through sheer force of will, but the gap was gone. On the final laps, having saved his tyres, Yeonjun closed the gap and went for a lunge up the inside. Floyd moved late to defend, swerving to block the inside line. Yeonjun had nowhere to go. His front wing kissed the orange McLaren's rear tyre, and both cars slammed into the barrier. Did Not Finish. So close to the end.

The stewards’ ruling was salt in the wound: they laid the blame squarely on Yeongjun, dismissing Red Bull's appeal and stating he was at fault for not being far enough alongside. A few days later, the penalty was confirmed: a ten-place grid drop for the next race in Singapore.

His strong qualifying performance yesterday — so fast, so close to pole — should have been a redemption. Instead, it meant nothing. The penalty shoved him down to P11 before the race even began. Eleventh. For a driver who lived at the front, it was a slap in the face.

Tonight's task was simple: win from eleventh. Was it possible? For most, no. But he was Choi Yeonjun. He’d done the impossible before.

Leaning against the cool garage wall, a futile attempt to leech some cold into his overheated skin, he watched Soobin. Surrounded by a hive of mechanics, Soobin was laughing, his face lit by an easy, relaxed smile that felt out of place, almost like a personal insult in the oppressive atmosphere. Was he pleased? Yeonjun's struggles were a gift for him. If not for his own car's failure last race, with the two favorites crashed out, Soobin would have strolled to an easy podium, maybe even a win. His results were a steady, upward curve, his confidence growing.

Yet something was missing. A fire, maybe. An edge. The arrogant posturing Yeonjun despised was nowhere to be found, and he was starting to find Soobin… intriguing. He was calm. Professional. There was no suffocating ego, no desperate need to dominate the room. He didn't feel like a threat off the track. Beomgyu was absolutely charmed, and Yeonjun was beginning to see his best friend’s point. Soobin seemed soft. Perhaps too soft for their world.

But he was still an alpha, scoring points while the omega floundered — the exact picture the world was so eager to paint. A narrative Yeonjun refused to accept. Fuck them. He would remain champion, no matter the cost.

But the thought shattered as a sharp, aggressive smell of smoke hit him a second before the voice did — cutting through the garage noise and yanking him back to the present.

“Good luck climbing out of the gutter, champ.”

James Floyd stepped into his space, invading the small pocket of quiet he’d carved out. The driver’s orange race suit was shoved down to his waist, his undershirt soaked with sweat. 

A cold tremor skated down Yeonjun's spine. His body moved on instinct — shoulders snapping back, spine straightening in a forced attempt to match the alpha's height, but the muscles in his back screamed in protest, locked rigid with fatigue.

“Try playing fair for once. Consider the red carpet rolled up.”

The wet air thickened, turning viscous and dark. A bitter taste coated Yeonjun's tongue. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails carving half-moons into his palms.

Floyd’s eyes tracked the movement, the tension in Yeonjun's frame, and a slow smirk spread across his face. 

“Looks like the pressure's getting to you,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

Before he could take a single step, a shadow fell between them. Soobin was just there — an impenetrable, sudden presence that cut Floyd off from Yeonjun. He must have seen it coming and reacted without a second thought. Now he stood a head taller, looking down at the other alpha, his gaze utterly impassive.

“Win the race first,” Soobin's voice was low, a flat and measured plane of sound. He didn't need to raise it; the words cut through the din with the finality of a slamming door. “Then talk.”

Floyd froze, his head snapping back as he let out a short ugly sound that was more bark than laugh. His eyes, brimming with contempt, slid from Soobin to Yeonjun.

“What's this, your guard dog? New team orders? Send the number two to do your dirty work?”

Heat exploded across Yeonjun's face. His heart hammered in his throat, a violent drumbeat in his temples. He lunged forward, his vision narrowing until all he could see was the sweat on Floyd's skin. He could almost feel his knuckles connecting with that jaw, the crunch of bone, the choked gasp.

But his eyes found Soobin. His teammate stood perfectly still, expression calm to the point of blankness. It wasn't a plea or a challenge. It was a simple fact. A fight meant a scandal. A black mark on the team. His team.

“Don't take the bait, hyung,” Soobin said, his voice even. The most infuriating part was how completely unaffected he seemed by Floyd's venom. “Please.” The word was softer, meant for Yeonjun alone.

Yeonjun forced his jaw to unclench, a ragged breath escaping. The anger didn't fade, just condensed into a hot, sick weight in his stomach. Usually, provocations like this would roll right off him. He’d counter with a scathing remark or icy silence — anything but this raw, simmering aggression he could barely contain. He turned and walked away without a word, the unfinished confrontation clinging to him like a defeat.

Getting into the race suit was a fresh trial, a special kind of torture against his damp, feverish skin. The pre-race rituals — checking his gloves, the minutes of meditation — felt like a pathetic pantomime. His hands were clumsy, his breath hitched. He tried to visualise the track, Marina Bay's famous night-time twists: the blinding transition from floodlights to shadow under the grandstand, the punishing, rhythmic G-forces through the Raffles Boulevard complex... but all he saw was a distorted, shimmering smear of neon.

Settling into the cockpit, he let the mechanics strap him in. The tight space, usually his sanctuary, now felt like a coffin. The helmet shut out the world but amplified the turmoil in his head — the doubts, the recriminations, louder than any engine. 

He searched for the focus that made him Choi Yeonjun, the racer.

But there was nothing. 

He was off-balance. And he had no one to blame but himself — a bitter punchline to some cruel joke his own body was playing on him.

The lights went out, and no adrenaline came — just a heavy, paralyzing fog. On a track that forgave nothing, his reactions were slow, his movements clumsy. The car was an alien thing. Sweat stung his eyes inside the helmet, and his gloves stuck to the slick wheel as if welded there. His own body wouldn't listen. The throttle felt dead. A tide of static filled his head, drowning out the radio — just a meaningless crackle now, swallowing data until he was driving through a void, one endless loop.

In his mirrors, the red and white of a Williams and black of a Haas slid past. Backmarkers, treating him like a stationary obstacle. With every panicked brake, the harness straps sawed into his shoulders — a brutal anchor, the only thing holding him together.

His world shrank to the glowing screen of the steering display. Pit lane. Boxes. The mechanics moved in a slow, disjointed ballet around him. He gripped the wheel, staring at the timer. Each second burned. A total disaster.

All he could think about was the smell of oil, exhaust, and the acid of burnt brakes. 

Why is it so strong?

The checkered flag was a shock. The last lap — gone from his memory. As the car coasted to a stop, the engine's scream faded into the crowd's dull roar, replaced by a final, definitive click in his ears.

“Hard race, well done. P8.” The engineer's voice was distant, then it was gone, swallowed by a rising, absolute silence.

He couldn't hear. His vision blurred, spotting with yellow. A cold sweat iced his skin. The carbon-fibre monocoque, his safe shell, now felt like a living thing, the walls constricting, crushing his chest. A primal, strangling fear seized him. He was trapped. Strapped into the safest place on earth, having a meltdown.

“Yeonjun? You okay?” The chief mechanic's voice was right there.

Caged in his cockpit, Yeonjun’s body rebelled: a sharp shake of the head, a jerking hand that both pleaded for release and pushed everyone away. Through his visor, the team doctor drew closer — a white-coated shadow he couldn’t escape.

“I’m fine! Everybody, just back away,” his voice scraped raw over the radio. But the humiliation cut deeper than the fear, a more profound and total ache.

He staggered away from the car, his shoulder clipping the garage wall as he stumbled over a coiled hose. A mechanic reached for him — “Hey—!” — but Yeonjun shoved the hand away, his panic so stark, so feral, that the man froze where he stood.

He practically fell into the narrow alley between the team's hospitality and engineering transporters, his hands flying — one tearing at his helmet's clasp, the other clawing at the neck of his race suit. The helmet came off first with a furious crack against the pavement, quickly followed by the sweat-soaked balaclava he ripped from his head. He tore his gloves off, not even noticing where they fell. 

The air hit his skin but couldn't loosen the tightness in his chest. Two-time world champion. The title felt like a sick joke now, a brand of failure seared straight to the bone. Breathe, damn it. Just fucking breathe. But his lungs were stone, his throat a locked vault. Why can't I do this? What is wrong with me? The questions dissolved into a silent scream as another wave of suffocation crashed over him.

“Yeonjun-hyung. You alright?”

The voice cut through the ringing in his ears. Yeonjun didn't turn, just leaned harder against the cool metal of the transporter.

A figure in team blue shifted cautiously in his periphery. Soobin. His own race suit was peeled down to his waist, hair dark and matted with sweat, but his eyes were fixed on Yeonjun, wide and unnaturally still.

“They're calling for weigh-in,” Soobin said, his voice deliberately even, each word measured. He took a half-step closer, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach out, then aborting the movement. “Forget it. Go to medical. Now. I'll handle the officials.”

“Just... fuck off,” Yeonjun rasped, a frantic, final shake of his head. “And tell them I said no.”

The words were meant to be a weapon, to build a wall before Soobin could notice the full truth of the breakdown. The last thing he could ever stand was to become an alpha's pity project.

Soobin didn't argue. He simply took a deliberate step back, giving Yeonjun space, and turned. His voice, when it came, was clipped and carried the clear weight of command, aimed at someone over his shoulder. “Give us ten minutes. No one comes down here.”

Footsteps retreated, the sound swallowed by the distant hum of the garage. Only then did Soobin turn back. He uncapped a water bottle with a sharp, efficient crack.

“Drink,” Soobin said, pressing the cold plastic into Yeonjun's hand.

The chill was a shock against his skin. Yeonjun took a sip; the water slid down his throat like a shard of ice. He threw the rest in his face, but the heat beneath his skin didn't break — if anything, it burned hotter. The bottle clattered to the ground. His legs buckled.

Soobin’s hand was under his elbow instantly, a firm brace against the collapse. Yeonjun gripped his arm, fingers digging into the sweat-damp fabric. Then, pride gone, he dropped his forehead against Soobin's chest. The last of his resistance shattered. His neck gave out, and his knees folded, his full weight surrendering to the unwavering warmth in front of him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe, and a new scent filled his lungs. Cold cedar. Wet wood after rain. Soobin's scent. Woodsy. Deep. Soothing. It pulled him away, to a quiet forest with no noise, no eyes on him.

Why can I smell him so clearly? The suppressants... Something's wrong. The thought was a jolt of alarm, then it was gone.

Shame forgotten, he pressed closer, his face buried against Soobin's chest. The frantic drum of his heartbeat pulsed against Yeonjun's cheek — as wild and unsteady as his own. He inhaled desperately, his nose smudging the wet fabric, chasing the forest, the silence, the fleeting sense of safety — anything to escape the ruin of himself.

And… it worked. He didn't know if it was the steadying influence of Soobin's alpha scent or just his own exhausted desperation, but it worked. The shaking in his hands began to quiet, the iron band around his chest loosening its grip. As the fog in his head cleared, a cold, devastating clarity washed over him.

Disgust — at his own weakness, at the need he'd just shown — was a cold sludge in his veins. He shoved himself away, staggering back, eyes fixed on the ground. He couldn't look up. He was terrified of the contempt he'd see, a reflection of his own. He sees it all. Every pathetic, broken piece.

The world seeped back in slowly, details sharpening into focus: the distant, tinny music and the weight of his own suit. 

The race. It was over.

His question was a raw scrape of sound, barely audible. “Your result?”

“P3.”

Yeonjun forced his head up, his shoulders tense. He expected a knife-twist of a smile, anything but this… this steady, unwavering focus. The simple, uncomplicated concern in Soobin’s eyes was somehow harder to bear than any mockery.

“You should be up there,” Yeonjun choked out, the words ash in his mouth. “Not down here in this… shit.”

Soobin didn’t react to the muffled roar of the podium crowd. “The ceremony won't start without me.”

“Just go,” Yeonjun shot back, the admission clawing its way up his throat. “You earned it.” It was the truest, most painful thing he’d said all night.

Soobin held his gaze, unflinching. “Doesn't feel right to celebrate.”

The words twisted the knot of self-loathing in his gut tighter. Of course. His failure couldn't just be his own — it had to spill over and ruin this, too. Soobin's first podium. That perfect moment should have been about pure triumph, not… this. 

Why did he have to be so damn decent about it? That was the worst part. The guy should be securing his own lead, thinking about himself for once.

He wasn't just a failure; he was a stain on his junior's achievement. That podium would forever be tied to the memory of finding him broken in some alley. I did that. I made his victory about my meltdown. The humiliation was now a shared thing, a debt he could never settle. 

Yeonjun shook his head, a tight, frustrated jerk, then turned and walked unsteadily toward medical. He didn't need to look back to feel Soobin watching him go.

He passed screens still showing highlights from the race — a lifetime ago. Every step dragged, as if through deep water. The ghost of Soobin's touch still hummed on his skin, the scent of cedar clinging to him like a shameful secret.

⟡

The plane hadn't even finished rolling to the gate at Incheon before Yeonjun called a cab to the clinic. He didn't need to look up the address — it was burned into his brain. No time to second-guess. This couldn't wait.

He hadn't slept a wink on the flight, despite being completely wiped out. Not that he could have raced off right after his disastrous performance anyway. The debriefs and mandatory media sessions had seen to that. His only victory had been making sure nobody suspected a thing. In the end, they'd all written his episode off as simple heat exhaustion — a predictable outcome in Singapore's oppressive climate.

The press, however, was already moving in for the kill. The headlines wrote themselves: the champion was losing his edge. They could smell the blood in the water, but they had no idea what was truly devouring him from the inside. No one knew. Only he did, and the man who had held him together.

Jung Wooyoung. Yeonjun trusted him with his life, but more importantly, he trusted him with his instincts. They'd been kids scraping knees together; now Wooyoung was the elite endocrinologist who had spent years perfecting the delicate chemical balance that kept Yeonjun's nature from interfering with his driving. He was the one who had built the dam, carefully regulating the flow. 

And now Yeonjun was showing up on his doorstep because he could sense the whole structure threatening to burst.

The panic attack in Singapore had been the final, undeniable symptom of the collapse, but the warning signs had been there for weeks. The scents were the biggest one. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. The suppressants turned smells down to background noise — faint traces, vague emotional hints. It was all distant, like watching a silent film. The way he was experiencing them now — sharp, painfully intense — meant only one thing: the protocol was destabilizing.

“Choi Yeonjun. The doctor will see you now.”

His name echoed in the tired quiet of his mind. He stepped inside, and the door hushed shut behind him, cutting off the outside world completely.

Jung Wooyoung rose from his desk. He didn't speak — just pulled Yeonjun into a brief, tight hug. His hand patted Yeonjun's back in that same, familiar rhythm from failed exams and his first big karting crashes. There was no pity in it, only a solid, unshakable support.

“Finally,” he said as he stepped back, his eyes doing a quick, clinical scan of Yeonjun's face. “After your call... I was worried. Damn glad you're here, Jun.”

Wooyoung settled back into his chair, turning the laptop to show the glowing charts. “I've got your labs. Honestly, the numbers are about what I'd expect with the pace you've been keeping.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent but not unkind. “So talk to me. What's really happening?”

Yeonjun sank into the chair. The soft leather swallowed him. 

“Can't sleep,” he muttered. “I wake up feeling worse than when I went to bed. And during the day...” He ran a hand over his face. “Everything's grating on me. Every noise, every look — it's like sandpaper on a raw nerve. And then... nothing. Just this empty feeling. But in the car—” His throat tightened. “That's where it all falls apart. The track is just... numb to me. Wooyoung, I've never felt like this.”

He fell quiet, gathering the shattered pieces of his composure.

“And the smells,” he finally forced out. “They're... everywhere. Too much. The fuel, the grease, the rubber... and people. I can smell people like they're wearing signs.”

Wooyoung steepled his fingers, his professional mask settling into place. “The medication should have muted the scents. Tell me how it's different.”

“They were!” Yeonjun's head snapped up, a spark of desperation in his eyes. “It was just... hints. Whispers. Now...” He choked on the words, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper. “Now it's like a physical blow. I can taste an alpha's aggression from clear across the paddock. I can...” His breath hitched, the confession burning behind his teeth, a line he couldn't cross.

I can smell Soobin. The clarity of it makes my instincts scream.

A brittle calm settled over him. “You need to up the dosage.” His voice was dangerously flat.

“Absolutely not.” Wooyoung didn't even look up from the chart. “Your current dose is already at the ceiling. I only agreed to it as a temporary measure.”

“Can't you see it's not working anymore?” Yeonjun's control cracked, his hand striking the desk.

Wooyoung finally met his gaze, his own steady and unyielding. “The suppressants aren't failing, Yeonjun. You are. They don't just mask scents — they suppress a core part of your nature. And nature always mounts a counter-offensive. You need to come off them. A higher dose isn't an option.”

“No.” The refusal was a knee-jerk reaction, visceral and immediate. “The season isn't over. There has to be another way. A different brand, a stronger formula— I don't care about the side effects. I'll deal with the aftermath later. I just need to finish.”

“And risk a complete system crash? In the middle of your race?” Wooyoung leaned forward, his palms flat on the desk. “This isn't a negotiation. Your body has built a tolerance. It's compensating for the suppressants by heightening everything else — that's the 'overload'. You're not fighting your biology; you're fighting the side effects of the very thing that's supposed to help. And you're losing.”

“What a fucking mess,” he grated out. For a single second, he thought he could accept it. Then the reality of it hit him. “How long do I have to be off this shit?”

“To do this properly? Six months. Minimum. We need to reboot you from the ground up. After that, maybe we can discuss a lower, sustainable dose.”

“Six months?!” Yeonjun shot to his feet, his chair scraping back with a jarring screech. Monte Carlo, COTA, Mexico City — the heart of the season flashed behind his eyes, vivid and slipping away. “Drive raw for half a year? I need control in that car, Wooyoung. Without it, I’m just… noise.”

“You are not noise,” Wooyoung’s voice was slicing clean through the rising panic. He rose to his feet, his usual calm now heavy with intent. “I know you, Jun. You’d rather break than let anyone see you fall. But you came to me for help, and this is it. The only thing that will work.”

He stepped closer, his voice unwavering. “Ask yourself — why are you the only driver out there fighting his own nature to see the racing line? For the alphas, it's an advantage. For you, it's a civil war. A war you're draining yourself to fight, leaving nothing for the car.”

“The instincts will drown me. I'll lose the line,” Yeonjun said, the words hollow with practiced resignation. The strength drained from his legs. He lowered himself back into the chair.

“They will,” Wooyoung agreed, his gaze unflinching. “But for the first time in years, your body won't be fighting against you.” He paused, letting the words settle. “The boy I knew dreamed of driving forever. The man I see now is trying to burn out before he's thirty. The choice of who you want to be... it's always been yours.”

A heavy silence filled the room, thick with everything Yeonjun couldn't say. The memory surfaced, unbidden — the neon lights, the crushing panic, and the single, solid anchor in the storm: the scent of cold cedar and sun-warmed earth after rain.

It was the ultimate betrayal. His body, which had already failed him with weakness, was now failing him with this — a raw, gut-deep pull toward that forest-like calm. The craving was profoundly alien and terrifying. It wasn't the desire of a champion; it was the instinct of an omega for the stabilizing presence of a compatible alpha, a fundamental truth of his body his entire identity was built to reject. To accept it was to admit that “Choi Yeonjun, the racer” was a carefully constructed lie.

He violently shoved the thought aside. There was no room for this. No tolerance for distractions that threatened to unravel him. Nothing mattered but the win. 

The cold, terrifying question remained: could he even find his way back to victory, fractured like this?

He let his head fall back against the chair, his eyes closed. “Don't make me regret this, Wooyoung.”

The words cost him everything that remained. Defeat settled in his bones, final and absolute. His body finally accepted the truth his mind had been screaming at him. “Walk me through it.”

“We'll start with a two-week taper. Right now, your body is rebelling against the medication. Next, it'll be struggling to find its own balance.” Wooyoung's voice was steady, but his eyes were grave. “The turbulence isn't ending, Jun — it's changing direction. The volatility will continue, but now it'll be your system trying to repair itself, not self-destruct.”

His voice softened, but the gravity in his eyes made the words an absolute command. “And you will rest. This process will take every ounce of strength you have left.”

⟡

As the season reached its midpoint, Soobin's relationship with the Red Bull was finally clicking into place. The car communicated in a new language of vibrations and feedback — a whisper he was just beginning to understand. He saw it in the engineers; once, their attention had drifted past him, anchored solely to their established champion. Now, they stopped and listened. He was no longer just part of the midfield; he was a contender. 

That podium in Singapore should have felt like everything. But the celebration felt like a show, a performance for someone else. The only genuine sensation was the warm, sticky champagne soaking into his suit.

A hollow victory. Each point he gained lately came not from brilliant driving, but from Yeonjun's mysterious decline. The driver he'd studied for years — ruthlessly efficient, relentless, predictable in his speed — had first grown inconsistent, then crashed out in Austria, and finally became a ghost in Singapore: physically there but mentally gone. Beating a shadow brought no satisfaction. He wanted to race the champion, not watch him fade away.

The image of that collapse haunted him: Yeonjun's ashen face, his desperate grip on Soobin's arm like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning. In that moment, something primal had taken over — a raw, blinding instinct to protect, to shield Yeonjun from the watching world and his own crumbling resolve. He wanted to fix it, to say the right thing, but he was staring into an abyss he didn't understand. 

How could he help when he had no idea what was wrong? 

Seeing him like that had hit him with the force of a sudden vacuum, all the air ripped from his lungs. Yet somehow, through his own rising panic, a calmer version of himself had taken control. While every fiber screamed in alarm, his hands stayed steady, his voice even.

Leaving him alone was never a choice. If Yeonjun was breaking, someone had to keep him together.

The silence afterward had been heavy with worry. No one told Soobin where Yeonjun disappeared to for almost two weeks. He'd wanted to call, to text, but it felt like crossing an unspoken line. Instead, he asked Namjoon in careful, casual tones, “Is he doing okay?” The answers were always the same vague reassurance: “He's fine. He'll be back for the race.”

Of course, Yeonjun couldn't miss a racing weekend. The team had felt his absence deeply — briefings lacked their usual sharpness, strategies felt unfinished. Soobin and the senior engineers had been waiting, their plans stuck in limbo until their lead driver returned.

And now, on Thursday, he was here.

A ripple of greetings from a few team members clustered near the espresso machine made Soobin look up from his laptop. Yeonjun stood in the doorway of the hotel lounge, offering them a tired but genuine nod. 

For a second, Soobin could only stare before he found his voice. 

“Hyung! You're back,” he managed, the words rushing out in a surprised exhale.

Yeonjun crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite. Soobin felt something in his chest loosen. It wasn't just that he looked better — it was that he looked present again. The sickly gray tone was gone from his skin, replaced with healthy color. The deep exhaustion around his eyes had eased into something softer. Most importantly, that terrifying brittle tension had vanished. This was more than relief; it was a profound, almost physical satisfaction, like witnessing a storm finally pass. He hadn't realized just how heavily the image of a broken Yeonjun had weighed on him until he saw it being replaced by this — still tired, still guarded, but fundamentally whole. 

He drew a slow, deep breath — the first full one he'd taken in what felt like forever.

“Missed me?” There was a faint thread of weariness in Yeonjun's voice. “I got you something.” He pushed a distinctive Dolce & Gabbana shopping bag across the table; a box was visible inside.

“What's this?” Soobin raised an eyebrow and opened the box. Inside, stark against the black tissue paper, was a pair of sneakers. The design was a bold, aggressive mix of white, red, and black. But it was the branding on the box that made him do a double-take, the words printed in that unmistakable, demonic font: Jujutsu Kaisen.

“It's a collab. Dolce and that... anime thing you like,” Yeonjun paused, stumbling over the words, and for a second he looked like a millennial dad trying to recall his kid's favorite Italian brainrot character. He gestured vaguely at the box. “Beomgyu told me. Got your size from your mechanic, so they should fit. A little something from my trip.”

Soobin felt heat creeping up his neck. Damn Beomgyu and his big mouth. It wasn't like he was ashamed of his hobbies, but for some stupid reason, the thought of Yeonjun seeing him as just some anime-obsessed nerd made his stomach twist.

He must have made a face, because Yeonjun's awkward confidence suddenly vanished. He looked down, suddenly fascinated by the table between them.

“And... thanks,” he muttered, the words rough and low. “For your help.” He still didn't look up, but the meaning hung in the air between them — Singapore. That alley. The unspoken truth that this was about so much more than a pair of shoes.

Soobin's fingers traced the intricate stitching, the weight of the gift settling in his chest — unexpectedly warm, almost painful. This was no generic luxury present. Yeonjun had gone through the genuine effort of seeking out this specific collab, asking Beomgyu what he'd like, even confirming his size. He'd managed all these practical steps while grappling with whatever had pulled him off the grid for two weeks. The gesture was awkward and excessive, yet so profoundly sincere. It was an action, not a speech — his only safe way to be honest.

Yeonjun picked up a random pen from the table, turning it over and over in his fingers, his shoulders tightening slightly as if bracing for a negative reaction. “Yeah, well. Don't make a big deal out of it.”

When Soobin finally looked up, a real smile touched his lips. “Thank you, hyung,” he said, his voice soft. He carefully placed the shoes back in their box and tucked it into the bag. “You didn't have to. I'm just... really glad you're doing better.”

As he straightened the bag, something made him pause. A new scent — faint, barely there, but undeniably present. After the artificial void that usually surrounded Yeonjun, it felt like hearing a whisper in a soundproof room. Soobin was breathing it in for the first time, and it was nothing like typical omega scents. Not sweet or floral, but not sharp either. It was the scent of warm skin after a shower, wrapped in the comforting embrace of a well-loved blanket — notes of sweet almond and sun-warmed cotton lingering in the soft warmth, cut through by a faint, wistful bitterness, like almond skin left to dry in the sun.

The words were out before his brain could catch up, a breath too late.

“Your scent...” he started, then immediately winced. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.

Yeonjun went perfectly still, every muscle locking. “Don't.” The sound cut off the space between them, his gaze turned to ice. “It's none of your business. Don't even start.” He looked away, jaw tightening. As if suddenly hearing his own tone through Soobin's ears, his voice dropped, rough at the edges. “...Sorry. Didn't mean to snap. This is how I am. Okay?”

Soobin studied him, his head tilting just slightly. “That’s what you want me to believe,” he said, not as an accusation, but as a simple observation. “Okay.”

Seeing the defensive line of Yeonjun’s shoulders, he shifted approach, his tone softening into something more personal.

“Look...” He said it gently but firmly, waiting until Yeonjun’s gaze slowly drifted back to his. “I know it’s not my business. And I’m not trying to interrogate you.” He took a careful breath, then it tumbled out. “I just... I like it.”

A beat of silence. His own words echoed in his ears, too blunt, too intimate. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered. “Sorry, that came out all wrong. It’s not about the scent,” he fumbled, trying to claw his way to the real meaning. “It feels like I’m finally getting a glimpse of the real you. And I... I’d like to see more.”

Yeonjun said nothing, his eyes lingering on Soobin’s face for a beat too long before he let out a short, quiet scoff. “The real me?” The question came out sharp and bitter. Soobin saw it then, just for a heartbeat in his eyes — something raw and exposed — before the familiar walls slammed back into place.

“You couldn’t handle the real me. Trust me.” The statement was flat, devoid of any emotion. He turned away, the movement deliberate and final, as if closing a file. “Don’t waste your time trying to figure me out.”

The words hung between them, a tired barrier. But to Soobin’s own surprise, there was no sting — only a strange, quiet clarity. He’d overstepped, stumbled past a boundary he hadn’t even seen.

Something in Yeonjun’s sharpness, in the way the air could turn cold so suddenly — it was starting to feel familiar. Not random. There was a rhythm to it, even if Soobin couldn’t trace its shape yet.

He was beginning to catch the signs: that unguarded flicker in his eyes before the walls went up, the anger that flared too quickly. This wasn’t a fortress built to withstand a siege. It was a reflex. A flinch. He’d touched a nerve — one he clearly wasn’t meant to reach.

Trust like this couldn't be demanded. It would have to be earned. Not with words, but with patience.

He paused, letting the silence acknowledge that invisible border, then deliberately shifted his tone into something lighter and more practical. “Well, since we've got an hour before the briefing... and you're finally back, hyung... I could use your thoughts on the Hungaroring.”

Yeonjun didn't look up, but a sliver of tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

“I'm struggling with the car in the middle sector,” Soobin continued, pulling his laptop closer. “Especially that long left-hander. I can't get it to point right on the exit, and it's killing my speed onto the back straight.” He angled the screen slightly in a gesture that was both an offering and an invitation. “You've always been unreal through that section. What's the secret?”

Yeonjun was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on some distant point. Then, he slowly turned his head, his eyes flicking from Soobin's face to the laptop screen.

“You're fighting it because you're too tight,” he muttered, the words quiet but clear. “You're choking the corner. Let it flow. Go wider before you turn in, and the car will straighten itself out for the exit.” He made a smooth, flowing gesture with his hand. “You're so focused on the corner itself, you're missing the straight that comes after.”

A quiet satisfaction washed through Soobin — not for the advice, but for the response. The champion he'd always looked up to was still right there. And for now, that was everything.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes as a grin broke through. “Show me.”

Yeongjun answered with an exaggerated eye roll that said I know what you're doing. But the charade didn't last — a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at his own mouth as genuine interest pulled him in. The racer in him could never resist a real technical challenge, even one presented as a peace offering.