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Monza arrived enveloped in that late-morning warmth of early September, a sun that didn't burn like in August but still clung to the skin, and an air heavy with history that seemed to watch them from every tree in the park. September 6th passed almost unnoticed, a qualifying session that didn't generate any major headlines, no dramatic twists or collective euphoria. Even so, the underlying feeling wasn't flat: Isack would start from the pit lane after exceeding the power unit quota, and although he didn't make a big deal of it, it weighed on him like a pebble in his shoe, something small but impossible to ignore.
On Sunday, the race flowed with that mix so characteristic of Monza: pure speed, decisions on the edge, penalties falling like footnotes that changed everything without affecting the main excitement. Kimi crossed the finish line eighth, focused, only half satisfied, to see how a five-second penalty for forcing Alex off the track pushed him down to ninth. He gritted his teeth when he found out, but he didn't explode. Ollie, on the other hand, received a ten-second penalty and two points on his super license for a collision with Carlos; his final position didn't change, but the real weight wasn't in the standings, but in that number that was now eating away at him: ten points out of twelve. Two would expire in November, yes, but November seemed dangerously far away.
The atmosphere at McLaren was permeated by a decision that not everyone took the same way. Norris's slow pit stop had opened the door to a team order: Piastri had to give up the position to improve the Brit's standing in the championship. Oscar did so. Without public drama. Without an exaggerated gesture. But those who knew him well noticed that longer-than-usual silence, that jaw clenched just a second too tightly during interviews. In his rules, that wasn't allowed. And that hurt.
Franco, for his part, once again finished far from the points. It wasn't a disaster, but neither was it any visible progress. He walked through the paddock with that polite smile he had learned to use as armor, and the pack sensed it without needing words.
Later, when the noise of the engines faded and the team retreated to the hotel, the emotions began to settle in a different way, more intimate, more genuine.
Kimi and Ollie met in one of the long, carpeted hallways, dimmed and filled with that neutral, luxury hotel scent. Ollie spoke first, too quickly.
"I have ten penalty points," he blurted out, without preamble. "Ten."
Kimi stopped, looked at him for a second, and then, without saying a word, cupped his face in his hands.
"Breathe," he said. "Two will be gone in November."
"But if something happens before then..."
"It's not going to happen," he interrupted, with a lopsided smile. "And if it does, we'll deal with it. Together."
Ollie snorted, half laughing, half frustrated.
"You're too calm for someone who just lost a position on the track."
"And you're way too dramatic for this time of day," Kimi retorted.
They ended up laughing, leaning against each other, and Kimi hugged him tightly, rocking him a little, as if it were a game. Ollie buried his face in Kimi's neck, inhaling that familiar scent that always grounded him.
"Promise me you won't get into any trouble," Kimi murmured.
"I'm not promising anything," he replied playfully. "But I promise I'll try not to bump into any more Spaniards."
Kimi's laughter echoed softly in the hallway before he gently released Ollie, but didn't completely let go. They walked together, shoulder to shoulder, making their way leisurely toward the apartment the pack had claimed as their territory within the hotel. At that hour, the noise was low, subdued: the occasional distant laugh, footsteps muffled by the carpet, the murmur of a forgotten television.
When they pushed open the door to the shared apartment, the familiar scent greeted them before the voices. That perfume, a blend of all kinds—sweet, warm, calming notes—that always made my chest loosen up a little.
“Hi,” Kimi greeted, raising his hand.
There were scattered responses. A “hello” from the sofa, a distracted gesture from the kitchen, someone who glanced up just to smile and go back to what they were doing. Nothing formal. Nothing heavy. Just that comfortable normalcy that only develops when you share a lot.
Ollie paused for a second longer than usual, observing the scene, and Kimi noticed.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied. “Here… always yes.”
Kimi gave him a light nudge with his hip.
“Come on, drama queen. Back to our cave.”
The walk to his room was short, but Ollie made it entertaining. He walked a little slower on purpose, brushing against his arm, his shoulder "accidentally" bumping into his.
"If you cause a collision here, you'll get a penalty too," joked the Italian, trying to lighten the mood so his boyfriend could relax entirely.
"Five seconds?"
"Fifteen, for being a repeat offender."
They laughed at the same time. Kimi opened the door and let Ollie in first. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the light filtering through the almost completely closed blinds. The atmosphere was intimate, peaceful, as if the whole day had been building up to end there.
Ollie threw his shoes down haphazardly and flopped onto the bed, lying on his back with his arms outstretched.
“I’m officially dead,” he announced. “If I don’t move, tell the FIA it was from natural causes.”
Kimi slowly took off his shirt, watching him with a forgiving smile.
“You move a lot for someone who’s dead.”
“It’s emotional rigor mortis.”
Kimi shook his head and approached the bed, leaning over him just enough to steal a quick, playful kiss, which Ollie tried unsuccessfully to prolong.
"Hey," he protested. "That's not fair."
"Change," Kimi ordered. "Or I refuse to flirt with you anymore."
"How cruel," he replied, but obeyed.
He sat up and began unbuttoning his shirt, exaggerating each movement just to provoke him. Kimi watched him out of the corner of his eye as he took off his watch, feigning indifference.
"You know," Ollie said. "You look at me like you don't care."
"Because I don't care," he retorted, like the liar he was. "Not at all."
Ollie raised an eyebrow.
"Liar."
Kimi finished changing and put on some soft shorts. When he turned around, Ollie was already in his pajamas, sitting on the bed with a satisfied smile.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Very," Kimi admitted.
He sat down next to him, and Ollie immediately rested his head on his shoulder, as if the gesture had been waiting for permission.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"Again?"
"Yes. For not making me feel like a problem."
Kimi put an arm around his shoulders and kissed his hair.
"You never are to me."
Ollie sighed, relaxing completely.
"I promise to try to behave."
"Try," Kimi repeated, amused. "That's all I need."
They stayed like that for a while, exchanging slow, languid kisses, small smiles that didn't need words. Outside, the hotel was still alive, but inside that room, the world had shrunk to two comfortable bodies, gentle teasing, and the quiet certainty that, at the end of the day, they would always find each other.
Not far from there, almost out of the pack's sight, Dino and Paul were trapped in that particular bubble that formed whenever they consciously chose to ignore the world. The hallway was dimly lit, illuminated by warm lights that cast long shadows on the walls, and Paul walked slowly, deliberately slowly, as if each step were an invitation.
His black skirt brushed against his thighs with every movement, a simple yet dangerous fabric, swaying just enough to catch the eye of anyone who knew how to look. And Dino knew how to look. Since the elevator. Even before.
Paul stopped abruptly and turned around, catching him red-handed.
"Are you going to keep pretending you don't notice?" he asked, tilting his head, his lips curling into a smile that promised trouble.
Dino threw up his hands, theatrically.
"What exactly?" he replied, trying hard to sound innocent… but failing miserably.
Paul took a step toward him, closing the distance until there was barely any air between them.
"That you're looking at me like it's illegal," he whispered. "But you're not doing anything about it."
Dino swallowed. He lowered his voice, not because he needed to, but because that way no one in the pack would have any more ammunition to insist on how completely at his boyfriend's mercy he was (even though it was true).
"It should be," he admitted. "You distract me. A lot."
Paul laughed softly, satisfied, and without breaking eye contact, he spun around slowly, dramatically, just so his skirt followed the movement, tracing a small, provocative arc. The fabric fell back into place, and Paul raised an eyebrow, defiant.
"Then concentrate," he said. "Or don't."
Dino let out a low laugh, surrendering before even trying.
"Don't play dirty."
"I'm not playing," Paul retorted. "I'm putting on a show."
Dino took a step forward, close enough to lean toward him without quite touching, as if the tension were part of the deal.
"You know what you're doing," he murmured.
"Perfectly," Paul replied. "And I love that you do too."
The silence between them crackled with electricity, filled with long glances and crooked smiles. Finally, Dino shook his head, defeated, and offered his arm with almost chivalrous exaggeration.
"Come on," he said. "Before I forget how to breathe."
Paul accepted the gesture with delight, intertwining his arm with Paul's and moving close enough so that his shoulder brushed against Dino's chest.
"Relax," he whispered as they started walking. "We haven't gotten to the best part yet."
And if anyone had happened to be passing by at that moment, they would have had the distinct and clear feeling of interrupting something dangerously hot… although, luckily for Dino and Paul, no one did.
In another hotel room, far from the lingering noise of the hallway and the echo of laughter that still hung in the common areas, Logan and Oscar inhabited a different kind of calm, a domestic one, the kind that makes no noise but fills everything. The light was dim, a lamp on by the bed casting soft shadows on the walls. Outside, Italy continued to breathe at a frenetic pace; inside, time seemed to have surrendered.
Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, his back slightly hunched, his phone resting listlessly in his palm. He wasn't really reading anything. He was scrolling through the screen almost by rote, like someone who needs a repetitive gesture to organize his thoughts. His brow was barely furrowed, that characteristic expression of his that wasn't open worry, but rather reflection.
Logan came out of the bathroom, his hair still a little damp, wearing an old t-shirt that clearly wasn't his. He approached without a word, with that naturalness that only exists when there's no longer a need to announce one's presence. He rested his chin on Oscar's shoulder, letting the weight be minimal but steady, and wrapped his arms around his waist.
"You did great," he said softly, without any drama. "Even though your team messed it up."
Oscar let out a long sigh, one of those that seemed to have been building up for weeks. He turned off his phone and set it aside, as if doing so would also turn off the rest of the world.
"I know," he admitted. "But sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I didn't have to think about anything other than running. Just that. Getting in the car, doing my job... and that's it."
Logan didn't respond right away. He simply tightened the hug a little, swaying slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture that said I'm here. He ran his thumb slowly, absentmindedly, along Oscar's abdomen.
“I don’t think you’re capable of thinking about just one thing,” he said finally, with a smile the other couldn’t see, but could feel. “Not even when you say you want to.”
Oscar tilted his head to one side, resting it against Logan’s.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s… human,” he replied. “And it makes you you.”
They stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing together, until Oscar spoke again, changing the subject with that gentleness of his that always indicated what was coming next was important, though not urgent.
“George and I spoke after the race,” he said. “They’re all settled into their new house in Monaco now.”
Logan raised his head slightly, listening intently.
“Really?”
“Yes. Big house, plenty of room for all six of them. He says they haven’t had any problems with the adults so far.” He paused. “They only spoke to Lewis and Nico. They asked them not to say anything yet.”
Logan nodded slowly, as if confirming something he already suspected.
"That makes sense," he said. "After everything that's happened..."
"George says Lewis understands," Oscar continued. "That he respects their need for this separation. That... he thinks it's best for them right now."
The American smiled with a quiet pride that needed no grand words.
"I'm glad to hear that."
Oscar hesitated for a second before continuing.
“He also told me something else.” He turned his head slightly, searching for Logan’s face. “Lewis seems to want to talk to me sometime. To try and calm things down with the comments the boys are still getting. He wants to see if I’d agree with the ideas he’s come up with. But he hasn’t dared to say anything to me yet. He only mentioned it to George.”
Logan frowned slightly, not with annoyance, but with genuine interest.
“And what do you think?”
The alpha shrugged.
“I’m grateful George warned us. That way we won’t be caught off guard.” He smiled slightly. “We have time to decide if we want that or not.”
The older man kissed his temple, slowly, unhurriedly.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “we’ll decide together.”
Oscar nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. He let himself stay like that, supported, and something in his posture completely relaxed. Logan rested his cheek against his head, and for a few seconds there were no words, only that simple intimacy that was built in the everyday.
“You know,” Oscar murmured afterward. “Sometimes I think about the future now that we’re in a different situation… and I’m not afraid.”
Logan smiled, a small, private smile.
"That's new."
"Not really," he replied. "Just... different."
"You often find it hard to adapt."
"I could. For you. For us." He paused. "I want to be able to give you everything you want. I know we're young, but you've got many things clear since your presentation; I don't want to be the alpha who holds you back."
"I know, love," he whispered against his cheek before placing a kiss there and pulling away to look at him. "We have time."
They said nothing more. There was no need. Logan slid a hand down until his fingers intertwined with Oscar's, like someone making an automatic, learned gesture, and they stayed like that, sharing an image that didn't need to be named: something stable, something calm, something that perhaps one day would include more laughter, more chaotic schedules, and a house that felt truly full.
Jack and Liam occupied a corner of the communal nest as if it had always been theirs. They sat on the floor, their backs against the wall, surrounded by neatly arranged blankets and cushions. The light was warm and dim, and the distant murmur of voices faded into the space the pack had turned into a refuge.
"I'm serious," Liam insisted, with a cheeky grin. "Monza isn't that bad. Long straights, hard braking, and that's it."
Jack slowly turned his head, looking at him with a feigned expression of patience.
"If you say Monza is easy again, I'll throw something at you," he warned. "And not something small."
"What? A blanket? A cushion?" Liam opened his arms. "Go ahead. I'm ready."
"Oh, really?"
Jack reached out without taking his eyes off Liam and, almost ceremonially, grabbed a pillow that was beside him. They looked at each other for a second, that brief moment when they both knew exactly what was going to happen.
"You wouldn't dare," the New Zealander provoked.
The pillow flew through the air. Liam burst out laughing as he narrowly dodged it, and responded by grabbing another and throwing it back. He didn't aim well—or perhaps he aimed too well—because it ended up hitting the wall and landing right on Jack's head.
"Hey!" protested Jack, already laughing. "That was treason."
"That was advanced aerodynamics," he retorted proudly. "Very Monza."
"Very someone who can't brake," the other mocked.
Their laughter mingled, soft and unobtrusive. Someone on the other side of the apartment quietly asked them to be quiet, and they both raised their hands in a gesture of exaggerated surrender.
"Okay, okay," Liam whispered to his friend. "We behaved ourselves."
“Five minutes,” Jack added. “Then I’ll come back and explain why Monza hates you.”
“We have a complicated relationship,” he replied. “It’s mutual.”
They continued like that, exchanging lighthearted jokes and inconsequential remarks, when a figure appeared a few steps away. Franco stood still for a moment, as if hesitating to interrupt. His shoulders were slightly slumped, his hair a bit disheveled, and he wore that expression they both knew all too well: weariness mixed with a quiet sadness that didn't cry out for help, but needed it nonetheless.
Liam was the first to notice. He lowered his voice almost instantly.
"Hey, Franco," he said gently. "Come with us."
Jack looked up and smiled immediately, a warm, open smile, without questions.
"There's room here," he added, patting the space between them.
The Argentinian hesitated for just a second longer before approaching. He said nothing. He simply lowered himself slowly between them, settling in carefully, as if afraid of taking up too much space. He lay on his side first, then rested his head between their seated bodies, fitting in with a naturalness that spoke of habit, of security.
Jack brought his hand to his head almost automatically, his fingers sinking gently into his hair, caressing it slowly, without haste. Liam put an arm around him, and with the other hand began to slide his fingers down his back, slowly, calmly, following a rhythm that invited deep breaths. Their voices lowered even more.
"You look like you've had a long day," Jack murmured.
"He looks like he needs a three-hour nap," Liam replied, in a conspiratorial whisper.
Franco let out a small snort that could have been a laugh.
"I'm not that obvious," he murmured.
“You are,” they both answered at the same time, and then they looked at each other, smiling.
Jack continued talking in a low voice, recounting some silly anecdote from the paddock, while Liam added sarcastic remarks here and there. They weren't seeking attention; they were talking to fill the air with something soft, constant, so that Franco could let go. His caresses didn't stop, but they became even slower, more protective.
And so, between half-whispered words and the gentle sway of hands over his body, Franco closed his eyes.
He thought about how strange it had all seemed to him at first. Being an alpha in the pack. What that entailed. The idea that he had to be strong, firm, confident. That growing up meant leaving behind the arms that held him, the unprompted pampering, the possibility of being cared for without explanations. He had been told—without ever being fully said—that maturing meant hardening. And he hadn't felt ready for that.
He hadn't wanted to stop being the puppy Logan protected without reservation, the boy Oscar looked at with pride and tenderness, the boy Jack still combed his hair with his fingers as if the world could wait. He didn't want to lose that sensitive side, that desire for refuge, for shared warmth.
With this pack, he didn't have to. Here, he could be the alpha without being harsh. He could show his vulnerability without anyone trying to change him. No one was pushing him to fit into a rigid idea of what he should be. Everyone chose their own way of experiencing their dynamic, of taking care of each other, of loving each other. All different, all respected.
He felt Jack's fingers pause for a second, as if he'd noticed his breathing becoming deeper, slower. Liam adjusted his arm around him, pulling him just a little closer.
"Get some sleep," Jack whispered.
Franco didn't answer. There was no need.
The door closed behind him with a soft, almost reverential click, as if even the door understood it shouldn't make a sound. Outside lay the hotel, the race, the whole world. Inside, the air was different: denser, heavy with something warm that had no name but a pulse.
Gabriel didn't move immediately. He just stood there watching him. Isack was still wearing the clothes he'd put on after his shower in the paddock, his hair a little tousled, his skin marked by fatigue, which looked so handsome on him. There was something about the way he stood, relaxed yet expectant, that made Gabriel feel that familiar knot in his chest, a mixture of desire and gratitude so deep it almost hurt.
"Come," he finally asked, in a low voice.
It wasn't an order. It never was. It was an invitation laden with promise.
Isack took a couple of slow steps, as if there were no rush to arrive. When he stood before him, Gabriel carefully raised his hands, as if touching something fragile and sacred at the same time. His fingers glided first along his arms, barely touching, recognizing. They moved up to his shoulders, then down his sides. Isack closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath.
"You always look at me as if..." he began, with a gentle smile.
"As if you were everything to me," Gabriel finished, without hesitation.
He slowly removed his shirt, without pulling it, letting it slide up inch by inch, savoring every second to kiss the skin that was being revealed. A kiss on his navel, on his sternum. Another, slower, on his collarbone. Isack rested his forehead on his shoulder, his fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.
The pants came next, unbuttoned patiently. Gabriel stopped when Isack stood before him in his underwear. Not because he doubted, but because he needed to look. The garment was delicate, carefully chosen, the kind not selected at random. It fit him perfectly. Gabriel ran his thumb along the lace trim, soft, as if drawing an invisible line.
"You know you drive me crazy with this stuff," he murmured, with a small smile.
Isack chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling.
"I like that you like it."
Gabriel leaned down and kissed his belly, slowly, letting his lips linger a second longer than necessary on each spot. His hands moved up and down his hips, firm, adoring, as if each caress were a way of saying thank you. The omega trembled slightly, leaning against the wall when Gabriel gently pushed him down, never breaking contact.
The kisses multiplied. Neck. Jaw. The corner of his lips. When he finally kissed him for real, it was slow, deep, without any hurried hunger. Tongues met calmly, breaths mingled, hands learned each other's rhythm once again, even though they knew it by heart.
"You make me feel…" Isack broke off, gasping for air.
"Tell me," Gabriel pleaded, resting his forehead against his.
"Desired."
The beta closed his eyes for a moment.
"That's because you are," he said. "All the time. You know it."
He led him to the bed, never ceasing to touch him, never breaking the invisible thread that bound them. He undressed as well, but slowly, as if the very act of removing his clothes were part of the ritual. They met again, skin to skin, sharing warmth, letting their hands explore, their mouths trace slow paths, desire settling in the air without needing to be rushed.
There was no urgency. Only time. Time to kiss until they left soft marks, to lose themselves in each other's bodies, to stay there, suspended in that intimacy that needed nothing more than synchronized breaths and caresses that said I'm staying.
And Gabriel, in every gesture, in every conscious pause, adored him without hiding it.