F1 Groupchat + House PART 2

✨33. 🇶🇦✨

The soft hum of air conditioning filled the quiet of Pepe's driver's room. The walls bore posters of his favorite tracks, his name proudly displayed in bold font, and a faint scent of motor oil and sweat lingered—signs of a racing career still in its infancy.

Pepe sat cross-legged on the couch, his crisp campos polo slightly wrinkled, hair damp from a quick shower after the earlier practice session.

The qualifying session was mere minutes away, but for now, everything was still.

Except for Isack.

The Frenchman paced the room with a nervous energy, his tousled hair catching the light as he ran a hand through it for the fifth time in as many minutes.

His sharp cheekbones were flushed, his jaw set tight, but his mouth betrayed him a slight twitch at the corners hinted at something unspoken, simmering.

Pepe watched him from the couch, one brow raised in curiosity.

"You're making me nervous, estúpido," Pepe teased, using the Spanish term. He stretched out lazily, his long legs splaying over the edge of the couch.

"You're the one who's supposed to be the calm one, no?" The Spaniard continued.

Isack stopped mid-stride, his stormy blue eyes locking onto Pepe's warm hazel ones.

"Calm? You're joking, right? Do you ever get nervous before these things? You're always so...so—" he gestured wildly with his hands, searching for the word, "relaxed."

Pepe grinned, his dimples deepening.

"That's just my secret weapon. Cool under pressure. You should try it." Pepe said.

The duo has been getting closer as people after Pepe found out about his parents break up. Not that they weren't close before but they were becoming friends, not enemies, not just people who slept together after a rough session.

Isack rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the small smile tugging at his lips.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to ground himself, but his gaze lingered too long on Pepe's face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the slight stubble there, the way his damp hair curled just so at the edges.

Something flickered in Isack's chest, an ache, a pull but he shoved it aside, as he always did.

They were teammates, finally becoming friends, partners in this high-octane, adrenaline-fueled world. That was all.

Or so he kept telling himself.

"Come here," Pepe said suddenly, patting the seat beside him.

"You're wearing me out with all that pacing." Pepe continued.

Isack hesitated for a moment before obeying, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch.

Pepe shook his head and leaned back, propping himself up with his elbows.

"Relax, mon ami. It's just qualifying, not the end of the world." The Spaniard said, using the French term trying to calm his teammate.

Isack turned to him, his expression unreadable.

For a long, charged moment, neither said anything. The faint hum of an announcement over the loudspeakers filtered through the door, but it seemed far away compared to the heartbeat pounding in Isack's ears.

"Pepe," Isack said, his voice low, almost strained.

"Yeah?" Pepe asked, his tone casual, but the soft lilt of his accent sent a shiver down Isack's spine.