Game on. | c.l & p.g x reader

Chapter two: Out Lap

"Hasn't crashed in a year and a half," he added.

"I know that too."

"But yet here you are," he said, glancing at her hands where she was mindlessly picking at the skin around her nails. She looked down, sighing.

"I don't know," she shrugged.

Pierre didn't answer right away. Just watched her, head tilted slightly like he was trying to figure out if this was a version of her he recognised or something entirely new. It was strange how quickly they'd fallen back into this. The comfort. The unspoken things.

"I was convinced you wouldn't come," he said eventually.

She looked up. "I wasn't, originally."

"So what changed?"

He asked it softly, no edge to it, but it still felt like it carried weight. She hesitated.

"Jacques asked nicely," she said. "And... my mama said it was time."

Pierre didn't say anything to that. Just shifted his weight, thumb brushing his lower lip, a nervous tell he probably didn't realise he still had.

"Clearly, Charles didn't think you'd come either."

Y/n blinked. "What?"

"I saw his face yesterday. He was surprised but happy."

A pause.

"I didn't come for Charles," she said.

Pierre nodded, but his jaw clenched just enough that she noticed.

"I didn't come for you either," she added, quieter now.

"I know."

But she wasn't sure if he did.

A marshal's voice boomed over the speaker system, and somewhere behind them a photographer cursed about losing light. The paddock was so alive, so brimming with energy, that it made standing still feel almost unnatural.

Pierre glanced back toward the garages. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the garages. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

She raised a brow. "Protective now?"

He smirked faintly. "Just old habits."

Y/n let herself be led. She didn't say anything, but she noticed the way people looked when they passed. Mechanics, journalists, strangers, none of them looked surprised to see Pierre Gasly with a woman. But they did look a little longer than usual.

Maybe it was because of how he walked beside her. Not touching, but always just close enough to suggest he might.

They stopped just outside the McLaren hospitality suite again. From here, she could see Jacques surrounded by engineers, helmet in hand. Her mum was laughing with one of the mechanics, and her dad had finally relinquished his spreadsheet to someone else.

"You're nervous for him," Pierre said, looking through the glass.

"Wouldn't you be?"

He gave a short nod. "I was. Twelve years ago. We all were."

Y/n didn't speak. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve.

"He was so young back then," Pierre went on. "Didn't listen to anyone. Would throw the car into every corner like it owed him something."

She laughed softly. "He still kind of does that."

"True. But now he knows what it costs."

"You don't talk to him much anymore do you?" She asked quietly.

Pierre sighed, he really hopped he could've left this all in the past but seeing Charles with y/n yesterday fulled him. He couldn't let it go, still to this day. "Not really," he started. "Probably for the best" he looked down to his shoes, finding his shoelaces really interesting.

"Yeah" she nodded agreeing.

A silence settled between them again, not uncomfortable, just... full.

"You've changed," he said after a while.

She turned. "So have you."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Think that's a good thing?"

"I don't know yet."

Pierre nodded, then pulled his cap lower on his head. The moment hung between them like something unfinished.

Before she could say anything else, her dad appeared in the doorway and gestured for her to come in. She caught the brief pause in his step when he clocked Pierre, his eyes flicking between them for a second too long before he nodded politely.

"I should go."

"Yeah," Pierre said. "You should."

But neither of them moved right away.

"Good luck," she said, because it was safe. Simple.

"Thanks," he replied. He wanted to say more but didn't. Although she could see in his eyes what he wanted to say — the things he hadn't before. He was more guarded now, but it was still comfortable.

As she walked away, she didn't look back.
But she felt him standing there, just the same as before.

Pierre sat on the bench in his driver room, helmet beside him, suit halfway on. The hum of the TV played in the background another segment on Charles' battle to dethrone Jacques, of course. He didn't look at it.

He rubbed his hands together, restless, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

He'd been stupid to walk up to her like that. Too familiar, too quickly. It had been instinct. The kind that came from knowing someone too well and forgetting how much time had passed.

She looked the same. Older, sure. A little sharper around the edges. But the same eyes. The same way her voice tightened when she was trying not to be emotional. The same habit of pressing her thumb into her palm when she was uncomfortable.

He hated that he still noticed those things.
He'd always been the one who held it closer to the chest. Charles could talk about the past and laugh. Could make it light. Pierre didn't know how to do that. Not with her.

Resurfacing it all, the feelings, the what ifs, the timing that never worked. It was messier for him than it would ever be for Charles.

He sat back, exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Stupid." he muttered under his breath unsure if he meant the past, present or just himself.

Then he stood, pulled the sleeves of his race suit up, and closed the visor on his helmet like it could keep everything else out too.