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hoe4hotchner · 4 hours ago

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The Final Lap

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 2.3k | CW: A little swearing, one midly suggestive comment, champagne, I don't know - is sweat a cw?

A/N: I finished writing this at 2am, so some of the environemt might not make sense, I'm not changing it though ;)

The Ferrari garage was electric, the air thick with the buzz of movement as engineers murmured over headsets, eyes glued to the data screens, pit crew readying themselves for the next stop, and the unmistakable scent of fuel and burning rubber that clung to the humid night air and only got stronger with each lap.

Yet despite the organized chaos around you, your world had narrowed to one thing: the red blur blazing around the track.

Aaron Hotchner.

A two-time World Champion, one of the best drivers this generation of Formula 1 had ever seen. But tonight, that was all coming to an end. He was retiring. Mid-season at that. It had shocked everyone in the paddock.

Retiring in the middle of the season? Unheard of.

Speculation had run wild—injury, contract disputes, internal politics, a baby?—but no one had guessed the truth. Hotch wasn’t leaving because of any of that. He was leaving because he wanted something more than the endless race weekends, the constant jetlag, the hotels, the pressure of performance, and the fear of injury. He wanted a life, and that life had you in it.

For the first time in over a decade, Hotch had found someone he didn’t want to leave behind every other weekend. Someone who made the circuit feel small, someone who was waiting for him to come home, not just to a race but to a life beyond the track and parties.

Right now, he was in P2, chasing down Max Verstappen with only a handful of laps to go.

The garage was tense, every engineer hanging on the telemetry. You stood in the garage, chewing your lip, arms crossed and fingers digging into your skin as you watched the screen, tracking his every move.

“Gap to Verstappen, 1.2 seconds,” his race engineer, Paul, relayed over the radio. “He’s struggling with tire degradation. If we push, we can get him.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and composed. “Understood.”

God, you loved him.

You loved how focused he was, how in control he remained even when every part of his body must’ve been screaming for release, for a break.

But not tonight. Not when this was his last race.

A sudden thought struck you, and without hesitation, you turned to one of the engineers, pointing at a spare headset on the workbench. “Can I say something to him?”

The engineer hesitated, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, but then smirked. “Make it quick.”

You pulled the headset on and pressed the comms button, taking a deep breath. The air in the garage felt thick with anticipation as everyone waited for you to make your move, but in that moment, you only had one person on your mind.

“Hey, handsome.”

Silence.

Then, a breathy response came through the radio.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer than it ever was during a race. Always so composed, never losing focus—never even swearing, like many of his opponents—yet you could tell by the slight drop in his tone that he was smirking.

You grinned, your heart racing. “You look good out there.”

The air shifted in the garage, the engineers going silent as they eavesdropped on the comms.

“You should see me up close,” Hotch murmured back, and you swore you could feel the weight of his words in your chest.

Hotch flirting mid-race? The fans were going to have a field day with this recording you thought.

You bit back a laugh, suddenly feeling a flutter in your chest. “I’ll hold you to that,” you teased, voice dropping just slightly. “But I think P1 would look even better on you. Let Max eat your exhaust fumes”

A breath from him, holding together a laugh. Then, a low and steady reply:

“Copy that.”

The garage went completely still. The next few seconds would determine everything.

Lap traffic ahead. Two backmarkers. Hotch’s team didn’t even need to tell him twice. He saw the gap, recognized the opportunity, and now it was up to him.

The roar of the engine shifted, the engine note rising as Hotch pushed harder. Paul’s voice cut through the static. “Verstappen’s losing time in Zone 4. This is our chance.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. He was already setting up for the move.

As they approached the Anderson Bridge, Max hesitated behind the Aston—which was unlike him. It was the opening Hotch needed.

ERS deployed.

He dove down the inside at Turn 12, braking impossibly late. The Ferrari twitched, almost losing the rear, but Hotch held it steady, centimeters from Max's rear.

And then—he was ahead.

The garage exploded into triumphant chaos. “He’s done it!” “He’s in P1!”

Your heart raced, your hands trembling as you pressed the comms button again, breathless with excitement. “Aaron, you absolute machine.”

Through the radio, you heard his low chuckle. “Told you to hold on tight.”

Final lap.

You barely registered the world around you. You were all but consumed by the sheer will of the moment. Every corner was a battle. Every turn was his. The world around you blurred into the background, the only thing that mattered being Hotch and the finish line that was now within reach.

Turn 17.

Turn 18.

The final corner.

The checkered flag waved.

“AARON HOTCHNER WINS THE SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX!”

The words rang in your ears as the Ferrari surged across the line, the crowd roaring, the Tifosi screaming in unison. It was over. The moment had arrived.

The Ferrari garage erupted. Headsets slammed onto tables—clearly not caring if they broke—engineers leaped into each other's arms, and bottles of champagne were already being cracked open. On the pit wall, a sea of red uniforms flooded the monitors, clapping, shouting, barely able to contain themselves as the realization set in—Aaron Hotchner had just won the Singapore Grand Prix. Your breath caught, hands pressed to the headset, every nerve in your body still wired from the last ten laps. The tension had been unbearable—Max had been defending his spot like his life depended on it, and for a while, it seemed like P2 was where Hotch would finish his racing days.

Until he didn’t.

The radio was full of cheering, the entire Ferrari team shouting over each other. Hotch’s voice finally broke through—breathless, steady, softer than you expected. “Yes!” A rare burst of raw emotion. “That was—unbelievable. Thank you, guys.” Paul, his race engineer, was practically laughing.

“Aaron Hotchner wins in Singapore! What a move. What a drive. P1, baby!”

And you? You pressed the comms button, voice teasing. “Told you P1 would look good on you.”

A chuckle—low, warm, the kind of laugh that curled through you like fire on a cold day. “Guess I couldn’t let you down.”

Your fingers tightened around the headset. Out on the circuit, he was still weaving his car side to side on the cool-down lap, burning the last of the fuel, fans screaming his name from the grandstands. Red flares ignited in the sky, casting a glow over the Marina Bay circuit.

The final results came in:

🥇 Aaron Hotchner | Ferrari

🥈 Max Verstappen | Red Bull

🥉 Charles Leclerc | Ferrari

A Ferrari double podium in Hotch’s last race. If the garage had been loud before, it was deafening now. But you stayed rooted in place, eyes locked on the screens.

He pulled into parc fermé, stopping in front of the #1 marker. Engine off. Helmet off. You watched as he climbed out of the car, sweat-soaked fireproofs clinging to his body, hair damp, chest rising and falling as he took in the moment, before climbing on top of his car, with his helmet raised to the sky.

And then—That smile. Not the usual, small, controlled one. This was real. Wide, bright, a kind of happiness he couldn't control. Mechanics surrounded him first as he climbed back down, clapping his back, congratulating him. He took it all in stride, shaking hands, hugging his engineers. But then—He started searching for something.

No, not something.

Someone.

You.

The second the cameras shifted to the post-race interview area, you ran. Through the garage, past team personnel, ducking under barriers as you weaved through the sea of red. And then he saw you. A split second of recognition—Then open arms.

You collided with him, the scent of fuel, sweat, and somehow champagne already clinging to his suit, but you didn’t care. His arms locked around you, tight, body still thrumming with adrenaline. His voice was hushed, just for you.

“I was waiting for you.” Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the hammering heartbeat. “Had to make sure you really won.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “You doubted me?”

“Never.”

The Ferrari crew around you whistled, someone muttering something about "Hotch getting a different kind of trophy tonight." You flushed, but Hotch only laughed under his breath, fingers brushing the side of your face before a team official clapped his shoulder.

“Podium time, Hotch.”

You squeezed his wrist. “Go. I’ll be watching.” His gaze lingered before he nodded, turning towards the podium ceremony.

The circuit was alive with energy. Red flares burned, fans roared, and the Ferrari team crowded together in the pit lane, waving flags and cheering.

At the top of the paddock, the podium gleamed under the bright floodlights, a red carpet leading up the stairs where FIA officials and race stewards stood waiting. Above, the massive digital screen displayed the final race standings: Aaron Hotchner in P1. Max Verstappen in P2. Charles Leclerc in P3. If anyone was unsure of the standings.

You stood just below the stage with the rest of the team, heart racing as you watched Hotch climb the steps. His suit was still damp with sweat, the red and black fabric clinging to his body, and yet he carried himself with that same unwavering confidence, like a man who had done this a thousand times before—which it felt like he had. But this time was different. This was his last time.

The podium announcer’s voice echoed across the circuit, listing the finishing positions in order. Charles was introduced first, stepping onto the third-place podium to a chorus of cheers. He shook his head slightly as he adjusted his collar, still breathless from the race. Then Max, accepting his second-place finish with the usual tight-lipped nod, the competitive edge in his eyes refusing to dull—no doubt he would power through several simulations the following days.

But it was when the announcer called Hotch’s name that the world seemed to explode.

Everything erupted. Fans chanted his name, flares burned brighter in the night, and as he stepped onto the highest tier of the podium, he exhaled slowly, drinking it in. His final podium. His final win. But instead of sadness, there was peace in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, in the way he ran a hand over his jaw before placing the Pirelli cap on his head.

Even with the weight of history, of legacy, of an entire nation behind him, his gaze still searched for you.

The American national anthem played first, Hotch standing motionless as the flag was raised above him. Then the Italian anthem, and if the fans had been loud before, they were deafening now. Every single word was sung, voices carrying over the circuit, filling the air with pure, unfiltered passion. And through it all, Hotch stood tall, head slightly bowed, fingers flexing at his sides. You had never seen him look so at home.

One by one, the trophies were presented. Charles accepted his first, shaking his head with an exasperated smile before turning to congratulate Hotch with a playful nudge. Max followed his grip tight on his trophy, still smirking slightly like he was already thinking about the next race. And then, finally, the presenter stepped forward with the massive gold-plated winner’s trophy.

The weight of it was nothing compared to the moment itself, but Hotch lifted it with ease, raising it high above his head.

The second the trophies were set down, the champagne bottles were cracked open. Charles was the first to strike, popping his bottle and immediately drenching Max, who let out an indignant shout before retaliating. The two of them descended into absolute chaos, but Hotch, ever the strategist, waited—watching, calculating—before launching his own attack. He shook his bottle furiously, angling it just right before absolutely soaking Charles in champagne. Charles yelped, attempting to shield himself, but the cameras had already captured his fate. The crowd ate it up, loving every second of the carnage, knowing that they would miss the relationship between Hotch and Charles on the track.

Through it all, you watched, heart swelling with something deeper than pride, something warmer than admiration. You had loved him in so many ways, in so many lifetimes, but seeing him here—drenched in champagne, racing suit and fireproofs sticking to his frame, a rare, boyish smirk on his lips—you had never loved him more.

And then, before you could react, he was moving. Away from the cameras. Away from the podium. Away from the crowd. And toward you. Not caring about the interviews.

His fingers curled around your waist, tugging you in until you were flush against him. He was still damp, still smelled of adrenaline and gasoline, but you didn’t care. His lips brushed your ear, voice low, teasing, the same voice that had made your heart race over the radio.

“I think I like winning.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pressing your hands against his chest. “Then why retire?”

He exhaled, warm against your skin, fingers grazing the small of your back. And then, softly and simply smiled—

“You know why.”

Because it had never been about injuries. It had never been about losing. Aaron Hotchner was retiring from Formula 1 because he had already won the most important thing of all.

You.

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