The Sound of Silence

by DdSilver

Summary:

Denise was born deaf, but she’s always loved Carlos Sainz Jr.
Not that it ever mattered.

He was five years older—Spain’s golden racing prodigy, her childhood best friend, the boy whose eyelashes she used to count as she braided his hair.
And she was just Denise: the quiet girl who grew up in the Sainz household more often than her own.

At sixteen, Carlos gets his soulmate mark and his invitation to the Red Bull Junior Team. Determined to find whoever he shares his soul with and racing. He leaves—forgetting, and leaving her behind.

Years later, they collide again when Denise walks into the Spanish Grand Prix.
She is a stranger now—older, beautiful, undefeated, and absolutely uninterested in forgiving him.

A childhood bond.
A forgotten heart.
Two soulmate marks that always belonged to each other.
And a love story that only begins once they finally grow into people capable of hearing it.

If only he knew the heart he was searching for was the one he'd left behind.
__________________
Check out my other stories: are amazing
1. Keeper of Lost things (longshot Sebastian Vettel/OFC)
2. Between the Net and the Finish Line (Moddle length Charles Leclerc/OFC)

Notes:

This is a new attempt at a story that I had dreamt up. Please kudo, comment, subscribe. It would be much appreciated. Also check out my other stories. I've been told they're pretty good.

This story is posted without edits. (this is the first edition)

promoting my main fic: "Keeper of Lost things" - sebastian vettel/oc (longshot rec)

Chapter 1: The Heart, the Helmet, and the Boy with the Soft Hair

The first and most important thing you must know about the Sainz family is that their home was built on a foundation of petrol, passion, and pristine white walls.

The second thing is that I, at the age of three, became the sole reason one of those walls was temporarily defiled.

I don’t actually remember the day I decorated the Sainz family’s living-room wall. Not really. I was three—too young for memories, too young for sense, old enough for chaos. Most of what I know comes from the stories Mamá Sainz and Blanca love to retell, each time with more exasperation, more laughter, and more affection than the last. It was a legend, and I was its tiny, destructive protagonist.

On that particular afternoon, the sun lay warm and heavy over the terracotta tile floors, and the house was steeped in a deep, almost sacred silence.

It was the wrong kind of silence.

Eight-year-old Carlos Sainz Jr. paused in the doorway to the living room, his brow furrowed. His mother was in the kitchen, humming a flamenco tune as she chopped vegetables for dinner. His father was out at the rally workshop. His older sister, Blanca, was at school.

Which left only one variable unaccounted for.

“Denise,” he muttered under his breath, the name a familiar sigh.

He didn’t hear her—he never could—but he felt the air shift the way it always did when she was up to something. It was a faint vibration of mischief, a subtle disruption in the household’s stillness. He had become an expert in reading the Denise-shaped quiet.

He followed the bad feeling down the hallway, his small sneakers silent on the cool tiles.

And there, he found her.

Tiny, barefoot Denise Merhi stood proudly in the center of the living room, a look of fierce concentration on her face. She was clutching one of Mamá Sainz’s very expensive, imported red lipsticks in her chubby fist like it was a crayon gifted from the gods themselves. Her jet-black hair was tied into two crooked pigtails, one of which had already sagged loose. Her little tongue poked out from between her lips as she dragged the waxy crimson stick across the pristine white wall in wide, determined strokes.

It looked… vaguely like a heart.
If you squinted.
And backed up six meters.
And maybe prayed to every saint in Spain.

Carlos stopped dead. His own heart performed a violent leap from his chest directly into his stomach, leaving a cold, hollow space behind.

“…Mierda.”

Denise, attuned to the vibration of his footsteps through the floor, turned. Her dark, expressive eyes lit up, sparkling with triumph. She pointed a sticky, red-stained finger at her creation with pure, unadulterated joy.

Look! her entire being screamed. Look what I made!

She didn’t need sound to communicate—her excitement was a deafening, silent shout.

Carlos marched toward her, his hands flailing in frantic, clumsy Spanish Sign Language. His baby signs were unpolished but earnest. No. No drawing. No wall. Mamá angry. Big trouble!

Denise blinked up at him, her lips twitching. She found his panic amusing.

Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned back to the wall and added another bold, red stroke right through the center of her heart.

Carlos dragged a hand down his face, a gesture far too weary for his eight years.

“Deni, no,” he said aloud, the sound harsh in the quiet room, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He tapped her wrist gently but firmly. Stop. Bad.

A silent giggle shook her small shoulders. She had always been mesmerized by his face—the way his expressions moved like a storm, the exaggerated, fascinating shapes his mouth made when he was upset. Today, his long lashes fluttered in frantic panic, and something in her tiny, chaotic brain decided this was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

She reached up with her lipstick-stained hand to pat his hair, to soothe him.

He jerked back, horrified. “Deni!”

He should have been angry, but instead, a weak, hysterical sound almost escaped him—a laugh choked by terror. But then he pictured his mother’s face, the devastation in her eyes when she saw her beautiful wall, and the panic sucked all the humor straight out of him.

He inspected the heart—its smearing, its lopsided, drunken unevenness—and he realized instantly, with the cold clarity of a military strategist:

Blanca, for all her drama, wouldn’t draw this.
Roberto wasn’t home.
Mamá sure as hell didn’t draw it.

Meaning:
This disaster belonged entirely to Denise.

He needed a miracle.
Or—
His eyes darted around the room. A marker.

He sprinted to the kitchen, yanked open the junk drawer, and grabbed a thick, black permanent marker. Mamá looked over from the counter, her knife stilling.

“¿Qué haces, Carlitos?” What are you doing?

“Nothing!” he squeaked, his voice cracking with guilt, and bolted back to the crime scene.

When he returned, Denise had, somehow, made the heart look even worse, adding a few speculative red squiggles at the bottom.

“Okay, okay…” he muttered, kneeling before the wall like a priest at an altar.

She watched him with wide, curious eyes as he uncapped the marker with a decisive pop. She loved watching his hands when he drew; she could feel the faint vibrations through the wall when he pressed down hard.

Carlos took a deep, steadying breath and pressed the marker to the wall.

Over her red, smeared heart, he began to draw:
A circle. A line for a visor. A chin guard. Two bold stripes down the side.

A racing helmet—crooked, uneven, childish, but undeniably, unmistakably a helmet.

Denise’s mouth formed a perfect, silent O. She began to bounce on the balls of her feet, her excitement palpable.

And just as he leaned forward to fix a wobbly line—

She grabbed a fistful of his soft, brown hair.

And climbed him.

“Denise—! ¡Ay—!”

He wobbled violently, still clutching the marker, the toddler now dangling from his shoulders like a determined, sticky koala. The helmet line shot off at a wild, jagged angle. This was, somehow, objectively worse than before.

That was the moment Blanca arrived home.

She froze in the doorway, her school bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes scanned the scene: the red-and-black mural, the guilty marker in Carlos’s hand, the toddler using his head as a climbing gym. She sighed deeply, a sound of profound, sisterly resignation, and placed a hand on her hip.

“Oh my god. Carlitos. What did you do?”

“It’s not me!” he cried, trying to peel Denise off his head. “Help—she’s stuck—!”

Blanca groaned and waded into the chaos, lifting Denise off his shoulders with practiced ease. Denise immediately latched onto Blanca’s clean white school shirt, leaving a perfect, crimson handprint right over her heart.

“Perfect,” Blanca muttered, holding the toddler at arm's length. “I always wanted a shirt that looks murdered.”

Carlos, free at last, capped the marker and stepped back to survey their handiwork.

On the wall:
Denise’s chaotic red heart, now encased in his crooked, frantic black helmet.
If you didn’t know better, if you viewed it with a generous and squinting eye, it almost looked intentional. Like a piece of very, very modern art.

He exhaled, a puff of shaky relief.
“There. Now it’s art.”

Before Blanca could retort, the sharp, familiar click of heels echoed on the tiles behind them.

Mamá Sainz stepped into the room.

She stopped cold.

Her eyes, sharp and discerning, performed a slow, devastating scan:
The wall.
The heart.
The helmet.
Carlos, holding the smoking-gun marker.
Denise, covered in lipstick like a tiny, triumphant vandal.
Blanca, holding the toddler like a contaminated biological object.

Silence, thick and heavy as a blanket.

Carlos swallowed. Hard. The sound was deafening.

“Mamá…”

Her gaze, when it landed on him, was sharp enough to cut glass.

“¿Pero qué…?” What on earth…?

Denise, sensing the attention, pointed proudly at the wall, then at Carlos, then at herself, claiming her share of the credit.

Blanca raised a hand, like a soldier in a war room. “Permission to blame the toddler?”

“Denied,” Mamá said instantly, her voice low.

Carlos deflated.
Blanca sighed.
Denise beamed.

Mamá pressed her fingers to her temples, as if staving off a migraine. “Why the wall, Carlitos?”

He could have told the truth. He could have blamed Denise, blamed gravity, blamed the inherent chaos of the universe.

Instead, he lifted his chin, meeting her gaze with a bravery he did not feel. He channeled every artist who had ever been misunderstood.

“Es arte.” It’s art.

Mamá stared at him. Then at the wall. Then back at him. Her stern expression wavered. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Then—slowly, reluctantly—the stern line of her mouth softened into something perilously close to amusement. She shook her head, a puff of air escaping her lips.

“Blanca, get the cleaning spray and the paint touch-up can from the garage. Carlos, wash your hands. Denise…”

She moved forward and lifted the toddler from Blanca’s arms.

Denise instantly wrapped herself around Mamá like a koala, burying her face in her neck, red lipstick smearing generously across the shoulder of Mamá’s silk blouse.

“…mi niña,” Mamá whispered, her voice now pure tenderness. She tapped Denise’s cheek gently until the girl looked at her. Mamá pointed to the wall, then mimed drawing on a piece of paper. “Next time, paper. ¿Sí?”

Denise nodded, a picture of solemn understanding.

An hour later, there was no evidence left. Blanca had scrubbed away the lipstick, and Mamá, with a few expert strokes of a small paint roller, had restored the wall to its original, blinding white. The heart and the helmet were gone, sealed beneath a fresh layer of paint as if they had never existed at all. It was a secret now, a story with no physical proof.

Carlos, seeing his chance for escape, turned to leave—only for Denise to reach for him with both arms, her little hands opening and closing.

He hesitated, looking from her to his mother.

Mamá’s eyes were soft. She lowered Denise gently into his arms.

Instantly, the toddler tucked her head into the crook of his neck, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his shirt. The frantic energy drained from her small body, melting against him with a trust so complete it was terrifying. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

She fell asleep.

Carlos blinked, startled by the sudden weight and warmth. Then, carefully—awkwardly, as only an eight-year-old boy can be—he shifted his stance to support her better. One hand came up to settle on her back, holding her secure. His cheek brushed against her loose, silky pigtail.

To Carlos, it meant nothing profound. It was just a toddler who’d run out of energy after a long day of artistic terrorism. A simple, biological shutdown. The wall was clean. The crisis was averted. It was over.

Denise, in the deep well of toddler-sleep, clutched his shirt and murmured soft, silent nonsense, vibrations of contentment that only she could feel.

Mamá paused in the doorway, watching them. Something warm and unnamable flickered in her expression as she saw them—Carlos standing steady and gentle, Denise curled trustingly into him, the freshly painted wall gleaming behind them.

Just two children.
A secret buried under fresh paint.
A helmet drawn over a heart, now known only to memory.

A moment that meant nothing then.
A moment that would mean everything later.

“Ay, mis niños,” she whispered to herself, a secret smile touching her lips as she glanced one last time at the pristine wall. “You two will be trouble one day.”

Chapter 2: Two Babies, One Driver's Seat

Summary:

Carlos Sainz Senior was impatient to introduce his children to his legacy, but his son Carlos was utterly perplexed when that legacy suddenly included a quiet little girl named Denise.

Notes:

Please kudo and review my work, i love reading your comments.

Also please feel free to check out my main story featuring Sebastian Vettel, Charles Leclerc on my page.

Thank you and enjoy.

The Sainz family archive held a sacred, grainy VHS tape. It was a relic, a prophecy.

The scene opened on a younger Carlos Sainz Senior, his hair darker, a champion's easy grin on his face. In his hands, he held a tiny, swaddled bundle—his six-week-old son, Carlos Junior.

"Mira, Carlitos," he cooed, carefully maneuvering the infant through the window of his rugged, dirt-splattered rally car. He settled the baby into the deep bucket seat, the tiny head disappearing behind the massive steering wheel. The baby, sensing the familiar scent of petrol and victory, gurgled contentedly.

Behind the camera, a young Mamá Sainz laughed, her voice warm with a mixture of affection and disbelief. "Ay, Carlos, qué locura. Look at this. When he grows up and sees this video, he will say, 'How crazy is my father!'"

Senior just beamed, stroking his son's cheek with a grease-smudged finger. "He is a Sainz. This is his inheritance."

The tape ended.

---

Years later, the scene repeated itself, but with a new character.

The Merhi family had come for dinner, and three-year-old Denise, a quiet, wide-eyed shadow, had been entrusted to the Sainzes for the evening. Carlos Junior, now eight, was tasked with keeping an eye on her.

He lost her in under five minutes.

A familiar, sinking feeling in his stomach, he followed the trail of silence to the garage. And there it was. The same rally car, now a little older, a little more battered, but just as imposing.

And there was his father, doing the exact same thing.

"Mira, Denise," Senior was saying, his voice gentle as he carefully placed the tiny, dark-haired girl into the very same driver's seat. Her little hands, instead of gurgling, reached up to pat the steering wheel with a curious, solemn reverence.

"Papa, what are you doing?" Carlos Jr. demanded, marching into the garage.

Senior didn't look up, his focus entirely on the little girl. "Showing her the kingdom, Carlitos."

"My dad is crazy," Carlos muttered under his breath, a perfect, unwitting echo of his mother's prophecy.

From the doorway, Mamá Sainz, who had instinctively grabbed her new camcorder, chuckled. "I told you he would say that."

Senior grinned, finally looking at his son. "She has the eyes for it. Quiet. Observant. We might make a rally champion out of her."

That was the final straw for eight-year-old Carlos. The idea of this tiny, silent invader not just in his house, but in his father's sacred car, being groomed for his inheritance? Unthinkable.

As Senior lifted Denise out of the cockpit, Carlos darted forward. The moment her feet touched the ground, he swooped in, snatching her up into his arms with a proprietary grunt. She was light, and she instinctively curled into his hold, her head tucking under his chin.

"Mine," Carlos Jr. declared, not to his father, but to the universe, his small face set in a fierce frown. "I'm watching her."

Denise, protected in the circle of his arms, peeked out at Papá Sainz, completely unaware of the territorial battle that had just been fought over her.

Mamá Sainz, from behind the camera, didn't say a word. She simply kept filming, capturing the moment: the future rally legend laughing heartily, and the future F1 star, already a champion in his own right, holding his heart tightly in his arms, determined to protect it from anyone—even his own father.

Chapter 3: The Years Before Everything Changed

Summary:

Denise is always there.

Notes:

Please kudo, comment, and subscribe and check out my other stories.

If you asked Carlos when Denise became part of the Sainz household, he would’ve said:
“Always.”
It wasn’t true, of course—she was Roberto Merhi’s little sister—but childhood doesn’t measure time in calendars. Childhood measures it in proximity.
And Denise was always nearby.

Her brother, Roberto, was Carlos’s senior by a few years, his first rival and his best friend. Their lives were a tandem slide into the racing world, a blur of shared karts, shared coaches, and shared dreams. Where Roberto went, his silent, wide-eyed shadow often followed. The Sainz home wasn't just a second home for Denise; it was an annex of her own, the clubhouse for her brother's life.

By four, she wandered into the Sainz kitchen like it was hers, climbing onto a chair and pointing imperiously at the cereal cabinet. By five, she knew exactly which drawer had the small, lightweight spoons she liked. By six, she climbed onto the couch between Carlos and Blanca with the sleepy entitlement of a youngest sibling, tucking her cold feet under Carlos’s leg without a second thought. It was a claim staked not in blood, but in the simple, profound fact of being there.

And everyone let her.
Because Denise wasn’t loud the way other children were. Her silence filled rooms without ever feeling empty. The way she moved—soft barefoot steps, curious eyes, hands always reaching—made her easy to include, easy to love. She was the quiet mascot of their racing tribe.

But she needed watching.
Deaf toddlers were fearless.
Deaf children were… inventive.
And Carlos, at nine years old, took it upon himself to be her guardian when Roberto was on track.
Not because he was asked.
Because he wanted to.
Because she looked at him like he was the sun, not just her brother's friend.
And because, even then, he looked at her a little too long, a little too fondly, without knowing why.

 

Backyard Years

Denise loved the Sainz backyard. It was a world of vibrations, a symphony she could feel.
She would sit cross-legged in the grass, feeling the distinct rumble of Carlos’s kart versus Roberto’s through the earth. Carlos was precise, rhythmic. Roberto was aggressive, unpredictable. She could tell who was coming long before they appeared.
Sometimes, when Carlos nailed a turn with a clean, satisfying skid, she would clap her hands together in silent applause.
Carlos would notice every time.
And every time, he’d take the next lap just a little faster, pushing until the engine screamed. It was a performance for an audience of one.

Blanca, reading a magazine on the patio, would pretend not to care.
She failed.
Spectacularly.

One afternoon, when Denise was five and Carlos was ten, she tugged hard on his sleeve as he walked past, his helmet tucked under his arm. She signed something tiny and crooked.
He leaned down. “¿Qué?”
She tried again. Again. Drive. Fast. Show me.
Carlos’s face broke into a grin so wide his cheeks hurt. Roberto was the competition, but Denise was the pure admiration.
He sprinted back to his kart, fired up the engine, and looped the winding driveway, visor down, engine gunning loud enough to shake the gravel. When he finally screeched to a stop in front of her, she didn’t flinch. She stepped forward and pressed her small palm flat against the hot metal panel, absorbing the violent, fading echo of the motor with a reverence that made him feel weirdly, immensely proud.
Then, she reached up and patted the front of his helmet twice, a soft thump, thump, like she was blessing it.

Blanca snorted. “She has horrible taste. Just like my brother.”
“Estás celosa,” Carlos said smugly, pulling off his helmet. You’re jealous.
Blanca rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, idiota.”
Denise didn’t notice their bickering. She was too busy staring at Carlos. Her brother was a force of nature, a whirlwind. Carlos was steadier. A constant. She liked his kind of energy better.
She didn’t know it was a crush.
Not yet.
Just that she liked watching him.
Liked being near him.
Liked when he looked back.

Rally Days with Papá Sainz

If the backyard belonged to Carlos and Roberto, the garage belonged to Denise.
She was Papá Sainz’s shadow, a small, serious apprentice. While the boys were obsessed with the future—F1, single-seaters, glory—Denise loved the gritty, mechanical now of the rally car. She didn’t need to hear the engines roar—the deep, powerful vibrations that shook the concrete floor spoke to her in the language she understood best.

Carlos would hover beside her, ranting about his new obsession: Fernando Alonso.
He’d talk about his career, his impossible overtakes, the Renault, the championships, his voice rising with passion.
Denise would listen politely for about five seconds, her head tilted.
Then she would decisively abandon him for the far more interesting rally car, crawling underneath the chassis. She was her father's daughter in that way; rally was in her blood, a legacy she understood better than the open-wheeled future her brother and Carlos chased.

Papá Sainz watched them both—Carlos pointing wildly at an old F1 poster, Denise already under a workbench—and placed a hand over his heart with dramatic resignation.
“Bueno,” he groaned, “we clearly know who the favourite child is in this house.”
Carlos’s head snapped up. “Papá!”
Denise peeked out from under the bench, her cheek smudged with oil, a triumphant, gummy smile on her face.
Papá winked at her.
“This one,” he announced, “is rallying royalty. Her blood is half-oil. The engines already bow to her.”
Denise beamed.
Carlos sulked. “Roberto doesn’t even like rally,” he muttered, a cheap shot.
Blanca, passing by, cackled. “He’s not wrong. The Merhi rally gene skipped a generation and landed on the quiet one.”

It became a household joke:
Carlos → The Formula 1 child
Denise → The favourite (The True Rally Heir)
Blanca → The judge of all chaos

And Denise—sweet, silent, small Denise—glowed every time Papá teased Carlos that way.
Not because she wanted to be the favourite.
But because it made Carlos look at her, not as Roberto’s little sister, but as Denise.
Made him pout.
Made him flick her forehead gently, mock-annoyed.
She liked it when he gave her attention, any attention.
She didn’t know that feeling had a name.
She just knew she felt warm.

Learning to Speak With Hands

By six, Denise had started proper sign language lessons.
By seven, she could read lips well enough to catch the shape of Carlos’s jokes and the sharp curve of Blanca’s insults.
By eight, she was fully conversational in Spanish Sign Language, her fingers confident and quick.

She talked most with Carlos.
He always slowed down for her—
not out of pity,
but out of care.
He never let his hands fall limp or mumble his signs halfway. For her, he was precise. For her, he was patient.

And on good days, when Denise signed fast and he kept up, the two of them flowed through a private, silent language that felt as natural as breathing. They could have a whole conversation across the dinner table without making a sound, a secret thread woven through the noisy Sainz family chatter. It was a connection that was wholly theirs, separate from her brother, separate from racing.

Her crush lived in those little moments:
His perfect attention.
His gentle corrections.
The way he signed her name with an affection he didn’t use for anyone else.
The way he looked at her while she signed, his focus complete, like she wasn’t “Roberto’s deaf sister,” but simply Denise.

She didn’t know she was in love.
But Blanca did.
Oh, Blanca knew.

Paths Start to Split

Their childhood stretched in golden years—soft, warm, uncomplicated.
But the gap between them stretched too.
The boys grew faster, their rivalry intensifying even through their friendship:
At eleven → serious regional karting.
At twelve → national circuits, now direct competitors.
At thirteen → gone for weekends, to different teams.
At fourteen → gone for weeks, the friendship strained by professional jealousy.
At fifteen → Carlos was gone for months, signed to the Red Bull Junior Academy. Roberto took a different path, the first real crack in their tandem dream.

Each time Carlos came home, a little taller, a little more distant:
Denise would run to him and wrap herself around his middle, holding on like he might disappear again. He was her constant in the escalating tension between him and her brother.
He always hugged her back—
but rushed, distracted, his body already tense for the next departure. He had races to review. Training to resume. He was outpacing Roberto, and everyone knew it.

And Denise, at nine, would sit at the dining table, caught between loyalty to her brother and her affection for Carlos, wondering why her chest felt tight and hollow.

One night, after he’d returned from a camp, she signed to him carefully:
You weren’t here.
Carlos paused, his phone in his hand. He looked at her, really looked at her.
He signed back: Lo sé. I know.
She hesitated. Then added, the signs fragile: I missed you.
Something flickered in his expression—a pang of guilt, a whisper of nostalgia for simpler days before he and Roberto had started measuring themselves against each other.
He reached out and flicked her forehead.
“I always come back,” he said aloud, his voice softer than he intended.

Blanca watched from the doorway.
And she saw the truth neither of them could: he was already leaving, and Denise was being left behind, just another casualty of the track.

Ten and Fifteen — The Last Easy Year

By ten, Denise was:
A fierce, rising badminton player.
Papá Sainz’s rally apprentice (honorary).
Blanca’s honorary little sister.
The silent bridge between her brother and Carlos, a role that was becoming harder to play.

By fifteen, Carlos was:
Talented.
Promising.
Gone.
And Roberto was left in his wake, the friendship cooled into a tense, professional acquaintanceship.

He still ruffled her hair when he came home.
Still teased her signing.
Still asked her to show him her latest badminton trick.

But Denise noticed things she didn’t before:
The way his eyes stayed glued to his phone.
The way he talked about tracks and engineers.
The way he missed family dinners.
The way he hugged her quickly, his mind already a thousand miles away from her, and from the ghost of his friendship with her brother.

She didn’t know what heartbreak was.
But she was starting to learn what distance felt like.

On the last afternoon before he left for England, Denise handed him a drawing—a detailed rally car, colored badly with crayons.
Carlos smiled, but it was tired. “Lo guardaré,” he said, and signed it. I’ll keep it.
She believed him.
He did keep it.
He just… forgot to look at it again.

Blanca watched Denise watching him leave. When the front door closed, Blanca walked over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Family doesn’t disappear, she signed.
Denise was quiet for a long moment. Then her hands moved, slow and heavy.
Only sometimes.

Blanca’s chest ached. She pulled Denise closer and whispered into her hair:
“Hermana.”
Sister.
And Denise leaned into her, feeling the truth of that word resonate deep in her bones. In this loud, messy, wonderful house, she had a sister. It was the one thing that the rivalry, the distance, and the silence could not break.

Chapter 4: The Mark That Changed Everything

Summary:

When Carlos discovers his soulmate mark, he’s so consumed with finding its match that he fails to see the quiet girl who’s loved him all along—and doesn’t realize the symbol he wears is hers.

Notes:

Please enjoy the story!!!!!

The first sign that Carlos Sainz Jr.’s sixteenth birthday would be different was the silence. Not the comfortable, familiar quiet of a Madrid morning, but a tense, watchful stillness that seemed to have seeped into the very walls of the house.

He found his family clustered in the kitchen like nervous birds. Mamá was methodically chopping vegetables, her knife hitting the board with a sharper rhythm than usual. Papá was buried behind the newspaper, but he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Blanca was fidgeting with the strap of her watch, her usual dramatic energy coiled tight. And Denise, eleven years old and perpetually half-asleep at this hour, was watching them all from her seat at the table, her spoon hovering over her cereal bowl, her dark eyes wide with confusion.

Carlos yawned, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Why is everyone so quiet?"

No one answered. Mamá’s knife stilled. The newspaper lowered by a fraction of an inch.

It was then that he felt it—a faint, warm thrumming right over his heart, a sensation like a trapped butterfly beating its wings against his ribs. He tugged absently at the collar of his t-shirt.

Mamá gasped. "Carlos… tu pecho…"

His hand froze. Four pairs of eyes were locked on him. Denise put her spoon down, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

"¿Qué?" he asked, irritation prickling at the edges of his sleepiness.

Mamá pointed, her finger trembling. "Levanta."

Rolling his eyes, he complied, yanking the soft cotton up—

And the world stopped.

There, on his skin, directly over his heart, was a mark. A soulmate mark.

It was a heart. A simple, clean, crimson heart. It looked as if it had been drawn by a child, the bottom curve just a little uneven, the lines bold and sure.

Denise leaned forward, her cereal forgotten. She saw the shock on his face, the way his tanned skin paled. She saw Blanca’s hand fly to her mouth. She saw the look that passed between Mamá and Papá—a look of devastating recognition.

Carlos’s own heart was now a frantic, pounding thing trying to escape his chest. "No puede ser…" he whispered, his fingers hovering just above the mark, not quite daring to touch it. It was real. It was his.

A soulmate. His soulmate. The concept, once abstract and distant, was now a physical, permanent part of him. The world, which had previously been defined by the coordinates of a racetrack, suddenly expanded into an infinite, terrifying, wonderful map of possibility.

"¿Quién?" he demanded, his voice cracking as he looked from his mother’s stunned face to his father’s grim one. "Who?"

"It doesn't say who," Blanca said, her voice too quick, too sharp.

But Carlos wasn't listening. His mind was already racing, trying to fit this new, profound truth into the framework of his life. He looked at the heart. He looked at the table. He looked right through Denise, who was signing a small, hesitant question.

What’s happening?

He didn't see it. The part of his brain that was tuned to her frequency had been abruptly switched off, its bandwidth consumed by the seismic event on his chest. The Denise-shaped space in his world had temporarily blinked out of existence.

He needed to get out. He needed air. He needed to process this alone.

"I need to go," he muttered, backing away from the table, his phone suddenly a vital tether to the world outside these four walls. "I need— I need to think."

He fled without another word, without a glance at his half-eaten breakfast, without signing a goodbye to the girl staring after him with wide, bewildered eyes.

He didn't see the way her hand, which had been raised to get his attention, dropped slowly back to the table as if the life had gone out of it.

---

The silence he left behind was heavier than before.

Blanca was the first to move, sinking into the chair beside Denise. She rubbed the girl's shoulder, a feeble attempt at comfort.

Denise’s hands were trembling as she signed. Did I do something?

No, Blanca signed back, her movements firm. No. He’s just surprised. It’s his soulmate mark.

Denise processed this. A soulmate mark. The thing that made people act strange. The thing that made them leave. Her fingers tapped a nervous, staccato rhythm against the wood of the table. The tight, hollow feeling in her chest, the one she got when her parents' car pulled away for months at a time, was back. It was the geography of absence, and Carlos had just drawn a new map.

He’ll be okay, Blanca signed, a weak, useless comfort.

Denise nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the empty doorway, a silent, sinking certainty taking root in her stomach.

---

The Carlos who returned hours later was not the same Carlos who had left.

He was restless, buzzing with a new, electric energy. He spent hours online, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop, researching soulmate lore. He stared at his reflection in any available surface—the bathroom mirror, the dark screen of the television—tracing the heart with his fingertips as if he could decipher its meaning through touch alone.

He was different with Denise. His patience, once a steady, unwavering force, was now thin and frayed. When she signed to him, his responses were short, his hands clumsy and rushed. His focus, which had always been a beam of light she could bask in, was now scattered, pointing in a dozen different directions, at a dozen different girls he’d met at races or at school, whose wrists or ankles might hold a matching symbol.

He was searching. He was yearning. He was alive with a hope that excluded her entirely.

He never, not for a single second, looked at the eleven-year-old girl who braided his hair and followed him into the garage and considered that the heart on his chest might be hers. The idea was absurd. She was a kid. She was Roberto’s little sister. She was Denise. She was… part of the furniture of his childhood, not the key to his future.

Denise watched the change from her quiet corner of the household, her confusion slowly curdling into a sharper, more familiar ache. Every time he looked past her, every time he left the room without a backward glance, every time he talked about the mark with someone else—the string of hope she’d been clinging to for years frayed a little more.

She didn't have a name for this feeling yet.
But Blanca did.
Oh, Blanca knew.

---

That night, long after the house had fallen quiet, Mamá and Papá stood in the hallway. Mamá pressed her palm flat against the wall, right where the faint memory of a heart and a helmet lay buried under layers of paint.

"She drew that heart," Mamá whispered, her voice thick in the darkness. "And now he wears it."

"He has her heart on his skin," Papá agreed, his voice low and heavy. "But we cannot interfere. The bond is too fragile. The law is clear."

"What if she never gets a mark?" Mamá’s question was a breath of fear. "What if his is one-sided? It would destroy them both. It would destroy her."

"The universe is not that cruel," Papá said, though he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "We wait. We trust fate."

And so they sealed their silence, a vow of non-interference spoken over the ghost of a childhood drawing.

The children, oblivious, continued on their paths.
A future where they would both be marked was waiting.
But not yet for each other.
Not yet.

A few weeks later. 

The air in the Sainz garage was thick with the smell of gasoline and impending goodbyes. Carlos, at sixteen, was a live wire of nervous energy, his life a packed suitcase waiting by the door. The Red Bull Junior Academy was no longer a distant dream; it was a plane ticket to Austria, leaving in the morning.

She found him not at his going-away party, but here, staring at his old kart as if saying goodbye to a part of himself.

She tapped his shoulder. He turned, and his smile was distracted, his mind already in a different country.

She held up a hair tie. A final request.

He sighed, but it was a soft sound. He sat on an overturned crate. "Solo uno, Deni." Just one.

She stood behind him, her small fingers combing through his soft brown hair. This was their ritual. It was the one thing that was entirely theirs—her clumsy braids, his patient stillness. She wove the strands together with meticulous care, trying to braid in all the words she couldn't say. Don't go. I'll miss you. You're my favorite person.

From the doorway, unseen, three people watched.

Mamá Sainz paused, a laundry basket on her hip, her heart aching with a knowing tenderness. She saw the way Denise’s entire world had narrowed to the boy on the crate, the adoration in every careful movement of her fingers.

Papá, wiping his hands on an oily rag, stopped beside his wife. He placed a gentle hand on her back. "Our son is an idiot," he murmured, his voice low and fond. He saw it too—the quiet, heartbreaking devotion of the girl they all considered their own.

Blanca, leaning against the doorframe, rolled her eyes, but the gesture was devoid of its usual mockery. It was a cover for the lump in her own throat. She’d known about Denise’s crush for years. It was as obvious as the sun in the sky. Everyone knew. Everyone but Carlos.

He was quiet. "You'll be okay," he said, his voice a low rumble she felt through his skull. "You have Blanca. You have Papa and Mama"

She didn't answer. Blanca wasn't him. No one was him. The crush she'd carried for years, a secret, glowing ember in her chest, felt like it was being smothered.

She finished the braid, her hands resting on his shoulders for a moment too long. He reached up and covered her small hand with his own. His hand was so much bigger, and the touch sent a shiver through her.

He sits her down, and starts braiding her hair. It was the one thing that was entirely theirs. He had just as much practice braiding hers—after training sessions when her arms were too tired, or on quiet Sunday mornings when she’d crawl onto the couch next to him, presenting her back and a hair tie without a word. His braids were always neater, tighter, lasting the whole day. Hers were messier, full of heart.

"I'll call," he promised.

She knew it was a lie he had to tell. The calls would be short. He would forget.

He stood and turned, pulling her into a brief, hard hug. It was over too quickly. He was pulling away, his eyes already looking past her, toward the future.

The next morning, he was gone. Denise stood in the doorway of his empty room, the memory of his hair between her fingers. The path had split. He was a driver, and she was just a girl he used to know.

Carlos never came home that winter. Or the spring. Or the summer. He sent texts. Sent pictures. Sent updates. But he didn’t come back.

Not really.

Denise watched him grow up through phone screens: the jawline sharpening, the posture tightening, the smile getting rarer. 

He talked about training. And maybe-soulmates. And girls he’d kissed. And nights out with the boys.

And how confusing it was not knowing who his soulmate might be. Not once did he ask Denise about hers. He didn’t know she had one. He didn’t know she was quietly breaking open from a distance. And Denise didn’t tell him. Because she had convinced herself of one thing:

“My soulmate cannot be someone who’s left me.”

Meanwhile, in the Madrid house, a silent pact was forged.

It was Papá who called the meeting, his expression uncharacteristically grave. Mamá, Blanca, and he sat at the kitchen table, the same table where Carlos's soulmark had been revealed.

"He is in F1 now," Papá stated, his voice low. "It is no longer just racing. It is a show. There will be cameras, parties, and... many, many girls. It is part of the game."

Mamá's hands trembled as she wiped the counter. "I will not have this house become a shrine to his dating life. We will not discuss his... companions... when Denise is here. The magazines stay out of sight."

"So we just pretend it's not happening?" Blanca snapped, her protective fury towards Denise already a live wire. "He's going to be all over the internet with models, and we're supposed to act like he's still at karting camp?"

"We are not pretending," Papá corrected firmly. "We are curating. We are giving her a home that is not a constant reminder of where she is not. We cannot stop the hurricane, Blanca, but we can keep one room safe from the wind."

Their eyes met in grim agreement. The Sainz household, Denise's sanctuary, was now officially a demilitarized zone, with Carlos's new public life as the forbidden enemy.

Notes:

please kudos, review: I need something to help me write better. I love reading reviews.

Also feel free to check out my main fic: Keeper of Lost Things. If you like this story, that one will totally catch your heart.

Sincerely,
DDSILVER
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Chapter 5: The Carved-Heart Helmet

Summary:

Years after he left her behind, Carlos Sainz Jr. is closer to her dreams—while the girl who held his forgotten heart became a ghost in the house he still called home.

Notes:

Please kudos and review, itĺl make my day, tell me if you liked this.

 

Also check out my other main fic.

Enjoy: DDSILVER

Denise’s room at the Sainz house was more her own than the pristine, museum-like bedroom in her parents’ empty mansion. This room was alive. The walls were dotted with badminton tournament ribbons and technical drawings of rally car engines Papá Sainz had helped her with. A forgotten Red Bull cap of Carlos’s was slung over the bedpost, left behind years ago and never reclaimed. This was home.

It was in this room, on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, that the silence she lived in finally broke its own rules.

She was packing her kit for a morning training session when a heat, fierce and sudden, bloomed right over her heart. A sharp, searing pressure that made her gasp. The folded jersey tumbled to the floor.

The sensation lasted only a few seconds—a bright, burning pain. Then, it was gone.

Her breath came in shaky pants. Hands trembling, she fumbled with her pajama top and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror.

There, over her heart, was a mark.

A black racing helmet.
But it wasn't a solid image. It was as if the helmet had been drawn in thick, permanent ink, and then, from its very center, a perfect heart had been carved out, leaving only the empty, negative space of her own skin in its wake. The lines were crooked, childish.

A soulmate mark. Her soulmate mark.

All the air left her lungs. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath for years.

Her first thought was a pure, simple observation that formed in her mind and found its way clumsily to her tongue. Her voice, unused and tonally flat, broke the familiar quiet.

“He… d-draws b-badly.”

The words shocked her. She clapped a hand over her mouth. She rarely spoke. But the mark… it was so poorly drawn.

A silent, hysterical laugh shook her shoulders. She had a soulmate, and he was apparently a terrible artist.

That night, Denise sat alone at her desk.

She traced the helmet mark through her shirt

 the way some people traced constellations—

 hoping to find meaning

 in something impossibly far away.

She whispered to the universe, voice fragile in the quiet room: “Please… whoever you are… don’t forget me.”

Across the world, in another country, in a dorm far from home, Carlos felt a strange pull in his chest.

He placed a hand over his heart. The faint outline of a red tattoo warmed under his fingertips.

He frowned. And kept scrolling through messages from another girl. He had no idea who he was forgetting. Yet.

[at this point, Carlos is already in F1]

The Physical Exam

Two weeks later, Mamá Sainz took her for a sports physical. In the sterile white exam room, the doctor asked her to change into a gown. Denise turned her back and pulled her shirt over her head.

She didn't see Mamá’s reflection in the glass cabinet. Didn't see the woman’s face go pale, her hand flying to her own chest at the sight of the crooked helmet with the heart-shaped void.

Mamá’s breath caught.

Denise turned, catching the tail end of the expression.

Mamá forced a wobbly smile, her eyes shimmering. She crossed the room and cupped Denise’s face.

“Mi niña,” she whispered, voice thick. “Qué bonito.”

She wasn't lying. It was a confirmation. A secret she had carried for years, now etched onto the girl’s skin.

But the law was a wall as solid as the one they had repainted. She could not speak.

So she swallowed the sob of relief. She kissed Denise’s forehead, a long, lingering press of her lips.

And she said nothing.

Blanca Discovers the Mark — And Declares War on Fate

The discovery was an accident, but the aftermath was a declaration of war.

Denise had just returned from a brutal badminton training session. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, she stumbled into her room in the Sainz house, peeling her damp shirt off in one movement. She didn't hear the door open.

Blanca burst in, phone in hand. "Deni, have you seen my—?"

She stopped. Froze. Her eyes, initially scanning the room, locked onto Denise’s back, reflected in the dresser mirror.

There it was. The mark.

Not just any mark. A black racing helmet, crooked and childish, with a poorly drawn heart-shaped void carved out of its center.

Time stopped. Blanca’s mind made the connections in a single, devastating nanosecond.
The wall.
The lipstick heart.
Carlos’s frantic marker.
His red heart.
Her carved-heart helmet.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers and clattered to the floor.

The vibration startled Denise. She spun around, yanking her shirt up, her face flushing.

"Blanca?" she signed, sharply. What?

Blanca didn't answer. A stunning, radiant joy hit her first. Denise. Her sister. It was always going to be her. This was followed instantly by a white-hot, incandescent rage at her brother. That absolute, clay-brained—

Tears of sheer frustration welled in her eyes. 

Denise’s anger melted into concern. She stepped forward. Why are you sad? she signed.

Blanca shook her head, wiping her eyes. She pulled Denise into a quick, hard hug. “You’re just growing up so fast,” she mumbled making sure Denise could read her lips, the vibration a poor cover for her tempest of emotions.

The whole truth was a battle plan already unfurling in her mind.

He has her heart on his skin and he's looking for it in other countries, she thought, the fury a cold, sharp stone in her gut. I'm going to kill him. But first, I'm going to make him remember.

She took Denise’s hands, her signs now gentle but firm. This is yours, she signed, pointing vaguely at Denise's chest. It’s private. You don’t have to show anyone. Not even Carlos. Not until you’re ready.

Denise’s face hardened. She pulled her hands back, her signs small and shattered.

Why would I tell him? He forgot about me.

The simple, stark truth of it was a knife to Blanca’s heart. It was also the very problem she intended to solve.

He’s an idiot, Blanca signed, a simple, undeniable fact. But you… you are amazing. Don’t ever forget that.

She gave Denise’s shoulder a final squeeze and left the room, the general retreating to plan her campaign.

The scheming began immediately and ruthlessly.

The Strategy of Absence: The next time Carlos called on FaceTime, Blanca intercepted it. "Denise can't talk," she said, watching his pixelated face. "She's at a badminton camp. Super intensive. No phones." She saw his brow furrow, just slightly. Good.

The Strategy of Presence: She sent him a photo of Denise in the garage, a smear of grease on her cheek, her hands deep in the engine of Papá's old rally car. The caption was casual: My two favorite mechanics. The garage is their kingdom.

The Strategy of the Void: When he texted the family chat, "Hard day of testing. Exhausted," Blanca waited. Hours later, she herself wrote back, "Hope you rest. Denise just got home from training, she's already asleep. The house is so quiet without her."

For a few weeks, Blanca was a master tactician. She was subtle, she was clever. She was also, she was sure, completely and utterly failing.

Carlos, the thick-headed idiot, was immune.

His responses were a study in obliviousness. To the absence: "Oh, okay. Tell her I said good luck." To the photo of the garage: "Haha, looks messy. Tell Papá I said hi." To the void: "Yeah, get some sleep too."

He didn't ask questions. He didn't call Denise's phone directly. He didn't seem to notice that the constellation of his home had shifted. Her carefully laid traps of curiosity resulted in nothing more than a polite, distant nod from a boy too focused on his own orbit to notice the gravity of the star he was circling.

The final straw was a text he sent her privately. Blanca had just posted a picture of Denise at a formal badminton awards dinner. She looked stunning, in a sleek black dress, holding a trophy, her smile confident and bright. It was the most un-“little-sister” photo imaginable.

Carlos’s text arrived an hour later.
Carlos: Saw your pic. Deni looks nice. Hey, do you know if Mamá still has my blue racing suit from last season? I need the specs.

Blanca stared at her phone, a wave of cold, defeated fury washing over her. Nice. He thought the girl who held his soul was nice. And then he immediately asked about a suit.

She had thrown everything she had at him—absence, presence, beauty, accomplishment—and he had politely stepped around it all, his gaze fixed firmly on a racetrack a thousand miles away.

She had failed. Spectacularly. Her brother wasn't just blind; he had built walls around his blindness and installed a high-performance engine on top. No amount of her subtle hinting was going to break through. The truth, it seemed, would need a much bigger hammer. But for now, the war was lost. All she could do was stand beside Denise and watch the idiot run himself in circles, hoping that one day, he would run headfirst into the truth.

Chapter 6: A Heartbeat That Wasn't Hers

Summary:

At fourteen, Denise built a fortress of silence on the badminton court to survive Carlos’s absence.

Notes:

Please kudos and review, and also check out my other stories!

Also I'm so happy for Landooooooooooo so cheers, a new update!!!!!!

Enjoy,
DDSILVER

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The silence Carlos left behind was a vacuum, and at fourteen, Denise filled it with the sharp, clean thwack of a shuttlecock.

Joining the Spanish Junior National Badminton Team wasn't just a choice; it was a survival instinct. The court was a world of perfect, logical geometry. There was no ambiguity in a smash, no misunderstanding in a drop shot. It was a silence she controlled, punctuated by the satisfying vibration of a perfect hit through her racket.

She drowned herself in it. Two-a-day practices. Weight training. Film study. Blanca, worried about the frantic, desperate energy she saw in the girl, would sometimes show up unannounced at the team dorm with a care package of Mamá’s home-cooked food and stay the night, a silent, steady presence in the bottom bunk.

The world outside the court was harder. Initially, there had been bullying—mocking imitations of her speech, cruel whispers she couldn’t hear but could feel in the sidelong glances. But she found her tribe. A fierce, loyal group of girls who saw the bullies for what they were and shut them down with a ferocity that left Denise breathless with gratitude. They learned signing for her, their fingers fumbling at first, then becoming fluent. They were her shield, her translators, her sisters in arms.

The badminton circuit became her entire universe. The camps brought together the best young players across Europe, and within this nomadic community, Denise found a home. Her friends, buoyant and social, dragged her to parties. Denise would go, wanting to be normal, but always ended up sitting in a corner, a cup of warm soda in her hand, watching. She couldn't feel the music. The deep bass was a faint tremor in the floor, the melodies were nothing. She was an island in a sea of rhythm she couldn't access, the laughter and shouting a pantomime she couldn't follow.

Her friends, now all paired off with boyfriends from various national teams, would tease her lovingly.
“You’re too loyal to your soulmate!” they’d sign, grinning. “Saving yourself for the one!”
They meant it as a compliment, a testament to her romantic heart.

They didn’t understand. It wasn’t about loyalty to a faceless destiny. It was about sparing herself the heartache. Every potential glance, every attempt at connection, felt like a risk. A risk of being misunderstood, of being pitied, of not being enough. It was easier to stay in her shell, where the only thing that could break her heart was a lost match.

Papá Sainz, understanding the shift, never pressured her. But on weekends, he’d still show up at the training center. “The engine misses you, pajarita,” he’d say. She’d get in the passenger seat, the familiar rumble of the rally car a comfort. In the garage, with grease under her fingernails, she finally signed to him, her movements slow and heavy with guilt. “Lo… sien… to.” I’m sorry.

He’d waved a wrench, his smile genuine. “This will always be here. But your passion flies. You must follow it.”

The fragile peace she’d built shattered one evening in the common room. Her friends were scrolling through social media, a whirlwind of race suits and glamorous paddock life.

“Oh my god, look at Carlos Sainz Jr.,” one of them sighed, holding up a phone. A meme of him, winking after a race, was captioned: ‘Spanish F1 Driver looking for his soulmate.’

A chorus of giggles erupted. “He is so handsome!”
“I’d let him break my heart!”
“Can you imagine? Being the girl he’s searching for?”

Denise felt the blood drain from her face. She focused intently on re-lacing her badminton shoes, her hands trembling.

“Hey, Denise,” another friend said, nudging her. “You know him, right? You live with his family. Is he really as charming as he seems?”

All eyes turned to her. She was trapped. The boy they were fantasizing about, the one whose search was a public spectacle, was the same boy whose absence was a constant, private ache in her soul. The irony was a physical pain.

She managed a weak, wobbly smile and signed, her movements stiff. He is very focused on his career.

It was the blandest, most distant truth she could muster. Inside, she was screaming. She wanted to cry, to tell them that his charm felt like indifference, that his search felt like a rejection of everything she was. But she just nodded, excused herself, and fled to the quiet of the court, where the only sound was the echo of her own loneliness and the ghost of a heartbeat that had always belonged to him.

Chapter 7: The Unwelcome Home

Summary:

A unexpected Thanksgiving.

Notes:

I struggled writing this chapter. But here goes. I hope you enjoy, please kudo and review. it makes my day, I'm still on the high of Lando winning.

The plane touched down in Madrid a full two days early. The U18 Denmark Open should have been concluding with a gala dinner. Instead, Denise was alone in a taxi, watching the city lights blur through a film of unshed tears.

The injury itself was a stupid, fluky thing—a sharp, warning twinge in her quad during a lunge in the final. Not a tear, not a rupture. Just a pulled muscle. But her coach, protective of his rising star, had seen the slight falter in her step. “It’s not worth the long-term risk,” he’d signed, his face firm. “We forfeit.”

Forfeit.
The word was a small, quiet death. She hadn’t been defeated on the court; her chance had been medically revoked. The silver medal felt like a consolation prize, a symbol of a battle she wasn’t allowed to finish.

The team dorm in Copenhagen, meant to be buzzing with post-tournament excitement, was a morgue of pity. She couldn’t stand it. She needed the one place that operated on a different frequency. Home. The Sainz home. She didn’t text. An early return felt too much like an admission of failure.

Meanwhile, in the Sainz household…

The Sainz household had settled into a quiet, comfortable rhythm for Thanksgiving. It was the first one in years without Carlos, who was now fully immersed in his second F1 season, and without Denise, who was in Denmark competing in her first international junior final. Mamá had prepared a smaller, cozier meal, just for the three of them. There was a bittersweet peace to it; a quiet pride for the children who were flying so high, even as their absence left a noticeable void.

“She’ll win,” Blanca declared, scooping up a forkful of turkey. “I can feel it. Then we’ll have to listen to her humble-brag for a month.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were full of fierce, sisterly pride.

“She has worked so hard for this,” Mamá agreed, her smile soft. “We will call her after dessert to celebrate.”

Papá nodded, raising his glass. “To our campeona.”

The toast was interrupted by the shrill vibration of Papá’s phone on the table. He glanced at the screen, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “It’s Carlos.”

He put it on speaker. “Hijo! We were just toasting Denise. Are you calling to join?”

“Hola, Papá, Mamá, Blanca,” Carlos’s voice came through, buzzing with a nervous, excited energy they hadn’t heard from him in a long time. “Listen, I know this is last minute… but I’m in Madrid. And… I’m bringing someone home for dinner.”

A silent, electric shock went through the three of them. Blanca’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Mamá’s smile tightened at the edges.

“Someone?” Papá asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Her name is Lucia,” Carlos said, and they could hear the grin in his voice. “She’s… I don’t know. It’s different. She’s different. I have a really good feeling about this one. I think… I think she could be the one.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating the previous warmth. The one. He had said it about other girls before, but never with this specific, hopeful conviction.

“Of course, mijo,” Mamá said, her voice a masterclass in maternal warmth that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bring her home. There is plenty of food.”

“Great! See you soon!” The line went dead.

The silence that followed was heavy. Blanca dropped her fork with a clatter. “You have got to be kidding me. He picks tonight? When Deni is having the biggest moment of her life?”

“Blanca,” Papá warned, but his heart wasn’t in it. He shared the same, unspoken dread.

The next hour was a frantic, silent rearrangement. The cozy table for three was reset for five, the best china brought out. The atmosphere shifted from a quiet family meal to a stage being set for a performance. By the time the doorbell rang, the air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with holiday stress.

Lucia was, by all accounts, perfect. Beautiful, poised, from a good family. She complimented Mamá’s cooking and laughed at Papá’s jokes. But her presence was a glass wall. The easy, noisy chaos of the Sainz family was muted, forced into polite, hearing-world boxes. Blanca’s contributions were monosyllabic. Mamá’s smiles were strained. Papá watched it all with a growing sense of unease.

Carlos, beaming, was oblivious. He was lost in the fantasy of presenting his perfect, suitable match to his family.

Back to Denise…

She let herself in with her key. The house was warm and carried the rich, savory ghost of a great feast. Thanksgiving, she remembered, her heart sinking. Of course. In her focused misery, she’d forgotten the date entirely. She’d missed it.

A profound loneliness washed over her. She just needed a hug. She needed Mamá to pull her into that soft, scented embrace and tell her it was all going to be okay. She padded quietly towards the dining area, drawn by the low thrum of residual life in the house.

She popped her head around the corner into the atrium, her eyes instantly seeking the comfort of Mamá’s face.

And the world tilted.

Mamá was standing, her back to the sideboard, a polished silver platter in her hands. Her smile was a tense, thin line, her knuckles white where she gripped the metal.

Denise’s gaze darted. Blanca was half out of her chair, her body angled as if to physically block the view of the table, her expression a silent scream of frustration.

And then she saw the source of the fracture.

Carlos. At the head of the table. And next to him, a stranger. A beautiful, hearing girl with glossy hair and a dazzling, confident smile. Her hand rested on Carlos’s arm as if she had a deed to it.

The tension was a thick fog. Papá, staring into his wine glass, was the first to see her. His eyes filled with immediate concern.

He stood, his chair scraping—a vibration she felt through the floor. You’re back early, he signed, his brow furrowed. Are you hurt?

The simple, direct question broke her. All eyes were on her now. Carlos looked surprised. The beautiful girl looked politely curious. Blanca looked furious on her behalf. Mamá’s face was a mask of pained sympathy.

Denise couldn’t speak. Her voice felt trapped. She just lifted her hands, her signs small and defeated.

I’m going to my room. Long day. Sorry I forgot to call. Happy Thanksgiving. 

She didn’t wait. She turned and limped away, each step a quiet agony of body and soul, leaving the fractured celebration behind.

The Thanksgiving feast sat on the table, growing cold. The celebration was over. The real drama had just begun, and it was happening in the silent room down the hall, where a heart was breaking behind a closed door.

An hour later, a soft knock came at her door.

Mamá entered, holding two steaming mugs of rich, Spanish hot chocolate. She didn’t say a word. She sat on the edge of the bed, handed Denise a mug, and pulled her into a firm, silent hug.

Denise finally broke, her tears soaking Mamá’s shoulder, the hot chocolate forgotten as the woman who was her real mother held her and let the silent, broken pieces of her 

Chapter 8: The Origins of the Spanish Silencer

Summary:

Here is the origin story of the Spanish Silencer.

Carlos left the next morning. There was no awkward breakfast encounter, no goodbye. The only sign he’d been there at all was the faint scent of his cologne in the hallway and a text that arrived on Denise’s phone as his plane took off.

Carlos: You've got this champ.

She stared at the words. Champ. After he’d seen her limping, defeated, having forfeited her final. After he’d paraded his "perfect" girlfriend in front of her. The hollow platitude felt like a deliberate cruelty, though she knew his obliviousness was just as likely. Might as well rub it in my face, she thought, the bitterness a sharp, clean emotion she preferred to the aching sadness.

That bitterness became her fuel. She worked harder. She pushed through the rest of her recovery and then pushed past her previous limits. Her training became as grueling and single-minded as any F1 schedule. The trophies started piling up. The "Spanish Silencer," they called her in the sports pages, a nickname born from her deafness and her ruthless efficiency on the court.

Blanca, still furious at Carlos, channeled her energy into becoming Denise’s manager. She handled the sponsors, the media, the logistics, becoming the sharp, protective wall between Denise and the world. Mamá and Papá were her most loyal fans, traveling to as many matches as they could, their pride a tangible force.

She was so busy building her own legacy that she almost missed the news. It was Blanca, her face a mixture of dread and dark amusement, who showed her the phone.

“Remember Lucia?” Blanca signed. “The ‘one’?” She scrolled to a gossip column. Carlos had been photographed with a new model. Lucia was nowhere to be seen. He’d dumped her after a week.

Denise felt nothing. No schadenfreude, no hope. Just a distant confirmation of what she already knew: Carlos’s search was a restless, shallow thing, and she wanted no part of it. She was in a different league now.

At twenty, Denise was on a historic winning streak. Her fifteenth consecutive title of the year was a masterclass, a display of such focused power that the crowd’s roar was a visible wave of awe she could feel in her bones. An Olympic invitation was no longer a dream; it was an imminent certainty.

Her badminton friends, now her closest confidantes, celebrated her victories but worried in private.
“You’re a champion, but you’re lonely,” her friend Sofia signed one night after a victory party where Denise had, as usual, slipped away early. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

“I’m not lonely. I’m focused,” Denise signed back, her movements firm.
“You’ve built a fortress around your heart,” another friend, Lena, added. “It’s been years since you even looked at a guy.”
Denise just shrugged. What’s the point? she thought. The one person she’d ever truly wanted to look at her had never really seen her. She had learned to forget Carlos. She had packed the childhood crush, the soulmark, the Thanksgiving humiliation, into a box and buried it deep. The emptiness he left was a void she had filled with shuttlecocks and gold medals. It was a worthy trade, she told herself.

The conversation shifted when they realized the Spanish Open and the Spanish Grand Prix were the same weekend.

“We have to go!” Lena signed, her eyes alight. “It’s the perfect birthday trip for all of us! We can watch you win and then experience the race!”

Lena pulls up the website and groans, “You’ve got to be kidding me, the tickets are sold out? All I wanted this year was to go to a Grand Prix, just once.”

“Then ask Carlos!” Sofia insisted. “As a birthday present to us! Please, Denise? For your best friends?”

Denise felt the walls closing in. I can’t, she signed, her movements frantic. We’re not close anymore. It’s been years. It would be too awkward.

But her friends were relentless, their pleas wrapped in the unassailable armor of birthday wishes and shared dreams. Worn down, defeated, she finally relented.

She found Blanca. My friends want Grandstand tickets for my birthday. Everything is sold out. Can you… ask Carlos? But please, her signs were begging, don’t tell him they’re for me. Say they’re for you. For relatives. Anything.

Blanca studied her, seeing the deep-seated fear. The desire to remain a ghost in his world. “I’ll handle it,” she promised.

The text Blanca sent was a masterpiece of omission.
Blanca: Oi, idiot. I need a few paddock passes for some relatives who are in town. Can you sort it?
The reply was instant.
Carlos: For you? Of course. Anything for my favorite sister. They’ll be at the pass office.
He never asked who. He never suspected. In his mind, he was doing a simple favor for his sister. The thought that the request originated from Denise, that she would be stepping back into his world, never crossed his mind.

When Blanca presented the passes, Denise felt a cold dread. Paddock passes. The heart of his domain.
I asked for grandstands! she signed, horrified.
“I know,” Blanca signed back. “But this is what he gave me. It’s fine. He doesn’t know you’re coming.”

There was no backing out.

Notes:

Please kudos and review and check out my other stories.

Chapter 9: A Vibration She Could Feel

Summary:

A champion, hiding from one spotlight, is swept into another world of deafening vibration and a familiar face who finally sees her—changing the game for them both.

Notes:

This is where the true fun of the story starts. I love rereading from this chapter onwards. Buckle up for the journey!!

The shuttlecock hit the court with a final, definitive thwump. Game, set, match. Denise Merhi was in the finals of the Spanish Open.

But her victory felt hollow. All she could think about was what came next. As she evaded the post-match media scrum—a skill she’d perfected—her friends and Blanca were waiting, their faces a mixture of pride and barely-contained excitement.

“No,” Denise signed, the moment she saw them. “I’m going back to the hotel. I need to rest for the final.”

“Absolutely not,” Blanca signed back, her expression leaving no room for argument. “You just won your semi-final. You’re going to the Grand Prix. We have the passes. You’re going to have fun, even if I have to drag you there.”

Her girlfriends surrounded her, their hands flying.
“You promised!”
“It’s your birthday trip!”
“You look amazing, you have to be seen!”

They had insisted she change out of her sweaty kit. Now, dressed in a simple but elegant sundress that highlighted her athletic frame, her hair styled loosely instead of its tight competition braid, she felt exposed. This wasn’t her normal. This was… something else.

Her first impression of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was not sound, but a force. A deep, primal rumble that started in the soles of her feet and traveled up her bones, making her teeth vibrate. It was a physical pressure in the air, a constant, terrifying tremor that she felt in her very core. There was no scream of engines, no roar of crowd—only a brutal, silent earthquake. She clung to her friends, a stunned island in the chaotic, shuddering sea of the Paddock.

It was then that the plan imploded.

A reporter, sharp-eyed, did a double-take. Denise saw his lips form words she couldn’t hear, his excitement a pantomime of pointing and frantic phone calls. The news reached the Spanish sports federation.

An official descended on Blanca, his mouth moving in a rapid, silent stream. His gestures—jabbing a finger towards Denise, then towards the media center—were unmistakably greedy.
“This is perfect!” Blanca voiced his words for her, her own signs sharp with anger. “They want a picture. ‘The Spanish Silencer and Sainz.’ Cross-promotion.”

Before Denise could flee, the machinery of publicity locked onto its target. She was gently but firmly steered away from her friends, pushed through the shuddering air towards the media tent, a sad, trapped expression on her face. She’d run from one media circus only to be captured by another.

Inside the bustling media pen, the vibrations were different—a chaotic jumble of footsteps and chatter she could feel through the floor. She was positioned for a joint interview, a microphone pointed at her face as if it were a meaningless prop.

The interviewer, a man with a bright, performative smile, began speaking to her. Denise saw his lips moving, a rapid, shapeless blur. She offered a pained, tight-lipped smile, nodding slightly, hoping it looked engaged. She was a statue of polite confusion.

Carlos was leaning against the media tent entrance, scrolling through his phone. He’d been waiting for his turn, his mind already on qualifying. He glanced up, a bored, professional smile ready for whatever reporter was next. His eyes passed over the woman standing for the photo op, then snapped back.

They widened.

He didn’t recognize her at first. The woman before him was a stranger—stunning, with a poised intensity and an athlete’s grace that was both familiar and entirely new. Who is that? He stared, his mouth slightly agape, his phone forgotten in his hand.

Across the room, Carlos could see Caco face lit up with recognition and delight as his cousin too had spotted the out-of-place woman. 

He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight up to her, wrapped her in a tight, familiar hug, and planted a loud, affectionate kiss on her cheek before releasing her.

“¡Hola, preciosa! You clean up nice!” he said, his voice warm. He signed as he spoke, a habit he’d picked up over the years. You look beautiful. Blanca didn’t tell me you were coming!

Denise’s tense expression melted into a real smile. She signed back, I didn’t know I was coming until an hour ago.

Caco laughed, squeezing her shoulders. “Well, welcome to the circus. Are you here to see the less handsome driver Sainz?” He winked and gave her cheek a squeeze.

Denise blushed and squatted his hand away, “No, I’m here with my friends, but work caught up with me.” She didn’t give an actual answer to Caco’s question but she took the end of his jacket sleeve and tugged.

“Alright, try not to let the dumber Sainz affect your day too much, yeah?” He gave one last cheeky squeeze, and was off, disappearing back into the crowd.

Carlos watched the entire exchange, frozen. The ease between them. The hug. The kiss. The way the girl’s face had lit up and Caco’s obvious, affectionate familiarity with her.

Blanca materialized beside him, following his gaze and gives him 10 seconds to process with that clay-filled brain of his and smacked him over the head. 

Carlos jumps and whirls around and was surprised to see his sister. 

"See something you like, little brother?" she murmured, her voice a low vibration. "You're drooling."

Carlos jerked, blinking. “What? I… who is…” 

“Take a wild guess,” Blanca said, her tone dry. 

Carlos looked again, really looked - past the sundress, the styled hair, the poised posture. And then he saw her: the dark, expressive eyes. The shape of her face, now refined from the softness of childhood. “Dios mío. Deni?”

“The one and only,” Blanca said, a devious smile playing on her lips. Finally, she thought. They were so much cuter as babies.

Carlos’s shock turned to accusation. He turned to Blanca, his signs sharp and private. “You didn’t tell me you guys were coming! I could have given them proper garage passes, not just Paddock Club!”

In between their hushed whispers, Carlos sees Blanca out of the corner of his eyes sign Behave to a bemused Denise, who was trying to control her upturned lips. 

Blanca shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I didn’t know if she would come! I had to drag her. Her friends are the ones who actually managed it.”

There was a pause, Blanca leaned in, here eyes glinting, “You can still do it properly for tomorrow. Give her the full experience. This is her first Grand Prix. Make it memorable.”

The idea took root in Carlos’s mind. Carlos’s gaze drifted back to the interview scene, where the reporter was now frowning, finally realizing his questions were met with the same, strained smile. He saw Denise’s isolation, the way her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.

Just then, Caco circled back and joined them, standing beside Blanca. He followed Carlos’s gaze to where Denise was struggling through the interview.

“She looks lost,” Caco murmured. 

“She can’t hear the questions,” Carlos said, his voice tight. 

Before anyone could stop him, Carlos stepped forward. He saw the flustered interviewer turn to a producer for help, and moved in. “Here, let me.” He began to seamlessly translate the interviewer’s silent questions into sign for her, then voiced her signed answers to the press.

From the sidelines, Caco stood with Blanca, watching.

“He’s not completely hopeless,” Caco commented quietly.

“No,” Blanca agreed. “Just selectively blind.”

They watched as Carlos finished translating, his hands gentle and precise. Denise looked up at him, startled but grateful. For a moment, they were in their own bubble.

“About time he saw her,” Caco said.

“He sees her now,” Blanca corrected. “Whether he understands what he’s seeing is another story.”

Before Carlos’s qualifying session, he sought her out again. He’d disappeared and returned with a single pair of official, high-grade noise-canceling headphones. He gently looped them around her neck.

A souvenir of your first Grand Prix day, he signed.

Denise looked bewildered. She pointed to her own ears and raised an eyebrow.

For the vibrations, he clarified, his expression earnest. They can still damage your ears. Please wear them later.

Blanca smacks his arm this time. Where are mine? She signed, scowling. But inside, Blanca is yet again surprised and seeing Carlos in another light. Denise’s friends would later question about where she got that headphone and Blanca would supply that Carlos only remembered to bring one to our special birthday girl. 

You can cover your own ears when you need to. Carlos says, rubbing his arm.

Later, when Carlos secured a stunning pole position, the media swarmed. When asked what made the difference, he grinned, his eyes flicking towards his family in the crowd. “It feels good to be home,” he said into the microphones. “My lucky charm is here. My family is here.”

The FIA official presented him with the mini tyre trophy. Instead of holding it alone, he turned and gestured for Denise to join him. She hesitated, then stepped forward, and they posed together, her hands gently supporting the base of the trophy as he held the top—a co-signed victory.

After the frenzy, Denise introduced him to her star-struck friends. Carlos was charming, but his focus kept returning to her. As Denise turned to speak to Blanca, Carlos, standing behind her, caught her friends' eyes. He gave them a charming, conspiratorial wink and signed clearly for them all to see: Make sure she comes tomorrow.

He then pulled Blanca aside, pressing five VIP garage passes into her hand. “Make sure she’s here tomorrow,” he said, his voice low. “Give them to her after her match. I don’t want to distract her.”

Finally, he turned back to a stunned Denise. “Deni,” he signed, his expression earnest. “Come to dinner with me tonight. The team, some of the other drivers… I want you to meet them. It’s been too long.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was a direct threat to her focus.
I can’t, she signed, her movements firm. My final is first thing in the morning. I need to focus. I need to win.

She saw a flicker of confusion in his eyes—the world rarely said no to him—but he nodded.
Of course. Good luck. I’ll be watching.

As Denise walked away with her friends, the phantom feel of his hands and the weight of the headphones around her neck were imprinted on her soul. Her friends immediately descended, their hands flying with questions about Carlos.

Don’t start, Denise signed, her face flushed. I have to concentrate on tomorrow’s match.
But she saw the determined gleam in their eyes. They were merely biding their time, ready to corner her the moment her final was over.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Carlos scrolled through the news feeds about the Spanish Open semi-finals. Every article, every post from her team and fans, was filled with the same message: "Happy Birthday, Denise!" "All the best for the final on your birthday!"

His breath caught. Her birthday. He’d had no idea. The forgotten birthdays of years past suddenly felt like a heavy weight. She would be expecting him to forget again.

As Denise lay in her own hotel room, she braced herself for the familiar silence from him. He always forgot. It was a pain she was used to.

Just then, the door to his hotel room clicked open. Caco walked in, balancing a large, elegant bouquet of white lilies and blush roses wrapped in brown craft paper.

Carlos looked up, frowning. “What’s that for?”

Caco set the vase down on the side table, adjusting a stem. “For Denise. Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

Carlos stared, his throat tightening. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” Caco said, not unkindly. “I’ve remembered every year since she turned six.” He glanced at Carlos’s phone, still lit up with birthday wishes for Denise. “You just finding out?”

Carlos didn’t answer. He looked back at his screen, then at the flowers—thoughtful, beautiful, already here—and something in him twisted.

Caco watched him for a moment, then sighed softly. “Look, if you want to get her something, make it meaningful. Not just something expensive.”

Carlos swallowed. “Like what?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who grew up with her.” Caco headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “But don’t overthink it. I’m going to bed now. Don’t stay up too late Carlos. You also have a race tomorrow. ”

The door shut quietly.

Carlos sat in the dim light, the glow of his phone the only illumination, brainstorming. Approximately 20 minutes later.

He knew what to get her.

As Denise lay in her own hotel room, she braced herself for the familiar silence from him. He always forgot. It was a pain she was used to.

But Carlos was already making another call—to his team’s PR coordinator, then to Blanca, his voice low and urgent. A new, determined plan was forming.

This year would be different. He would give her a birthday surprise she would never forget.

The distraction she feared was no longer a possibility; it was an inevitability, speeding towards her faster than any car on the track.

Notes:

PLEASE kudos and comment I NEED THEMMMMMMM!!!!!

Also check out my other stories.
Keeper of Lost Things - Sebastian Vettel / OFC
Between the Net and the Finish Line - Charles Leclerc / OFC

Chapter 10: The Sound of a Heart Break

Summary:

Carlos does the right thing and then.........Caco and Blanca facepalm.

The morning of the Spanish Open final dawned bright and clear, but Denise felt shrouded in a fog of conflicting emotions. The familiar pre-match focus was there, a sharp, honed edge. But beneath it thrummed a restless energy named Carlos Sainz.

7:00 AM – Barcelona

Caco’s black SUV pulled up outside Denise’s hotel just as the first light of dawn brushed the skyline. Blanca was already in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone. Denise climbed into the back, her tournament bag on the seat beside her, looking focused but calm.

“Morning, campeona,” Caco said warmly, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. He signed as he spoke. Ready?

Denise nodded, signing back. As ready as I’ll ever be.

As they merged into the quiet morning traffic, Caco gestured to the backseat. “Check behind you.”

Denise turned to find a long, elegant box tied with a silk ribbon. She carefully pulled it onto her lap and untied the bow. Inside lay a breathtaking bouquet of white lilies and blush roses, accented with delicate green hydrangeas and seeded eucalyptus. Tucked among the blooms was a small envelope.

She opened it. The card read in neat handwriting:

Para nuestra campeona.

Feliz cumpleaños. Hoy ganas.

— Caco

(For our champion. Happy birthday. Today you win.)

Denise’s eyes softened. She looked up, signing, They’re beautiful. Thank you.

“Every champion deserves flowers before the fight,” Caco said, smiling in the mirror. “Not just after.”

She walked onto the court to a roaring applause she could only see. Her eyes scanned the VIP box. It was empty. Of course. He’s preparing for his own race. She pushed the thought away, burying it under layers of competitive fire. This was her world. This was her silence.

The match was a brutal, exquisite battle. Her opponent, a powerful Russian player, matched her point for point. The world narrowed to the shuttlecock's flight, the spring of the court, the reading of her opponent's body language. But there was a constant, nagging disadvantage Denise had spent her life compensating for.

For hearing players, the game had a soundscape. The sharp, crisp thwack of a tight, controlled net shot sounded different from the deeper, fuller thump of a powerful clear meant to push the opponent back. The most crucial tell was the sound of a smash. You could hear if it was hit too flat, too hard—the sound was a warning it might land out. Denise had none of that. She had only milliseconds of visual flight path before she had to commit to a reaction. It was a constant, high-stakes guess, the one flaw in her otherwise impeccable game.

She saw her opponent wind up for a smash and braced, judging the angle. She lunged, her racket flying up for a defensive block, but the shuttle sailed a good six inches past the back line. The Russian had tricked her, making a "long" shot look like a winning smash. The flaw had been exploited.

A frustrated breath escaped her. She glanced at her coach, who gave her a steadying sign. Watch the shoulder. Not the sound.

Across the city, inside the McLaren garage, Carlos was a whirlwind of pre-race focus. But during a quiet moment, he pulled out his phone for the live stream. He saw the point she lost, the slight slump in her shoulders. He couldn't hear the commentary, but he could see the struggle. He saw the way she had to rely purely on sight, a step behind the auditory cues other players took for granted. A fierce, protective pride swelled in him. She was fighting a battle on two fronts.

Back on the court, Denise recentered. She blocked out everything—the crowd, the memory of Carlos, the ghost of engine vibrations. She focused only on the geometry of the game, the minute twitch of her opponent's muscles before a strike.

Match point. The Russian served. A long, high rally ensued. Denise was everywhere, her movements a silent dance of anticipation. Her opponent set up for another powerful smash. Denise saw the angle, the body position. It was the same setup as before. But this time, she didn't move back. She held her ground, reading the subtle opening of the racket face. It was a bluff.

The shuttle came, fast but with a slight, visible lift. A smash designed to look out, but would land in. Denise didn't fall for it. She stood firm and with a brutal, clean smash of her own, she sent the shuttle screaming into an undefendable corner of the court.

The crowd erupted. Denise stood, chest heaving, as the reality of her victory washed over her. She had done it. Not just in spite of her deafness, but by mastering the game in a way only she could. Spanish Open Champion.

Her friends and Blanca rushed the court. In the celebration, Blanca slipped the VIP passes into Denise’s bag. From Carlos, she signed. For after.

The post-match media was a frenzy. “Denise! A huge win on your birthday! Any special plans to celebrate? Perhaps at the Grand Prix?”

She deflected with practiced signs, but her friends were already forming a firm phalanx around her. “You won. Now, we are going to the Grand Prix,” Sofia signed, her expression leaving no room for argument. They were cornered.

Meanwhile, at the circuit, Carlos was strapped into his car. As he lined up on the grid, a single thought cut through the calm: She’s coming.

The lights went out.

The race was a masterclass. Carlos, driving with a predatory focus, finished a stunning P2. As he climbed from his car, his first thought wasn't for the champagne. He scanned the garage. And then he saw her.

Denise stood by the entrance, still in her tracksuit, the official headphones around her neck. Her eyes were wide, taking in the scene of his victory. She had seen him.

Their eyes met across the chaotic garage. He saw the awe in her expression, the faint, proud smile. He gave her a small, exhausted, but genuine smile in return.

Later, he found her with her group by the motorhomes. The setting sun cast a golden glow. He walked towards them, and her friends subtly parted.

He stopped in front of her, holding a small, flat box.
“Happy Birthday, Deni,” he signed.

Denise stared, utterly stunned. He remembered.

She opened the box. Inside was a silver necklace. The pendant was a tiny, perfectly crafted badminton shuttlecock.

Tears welled in her eyes. It was an homage to her world, to her struggle, to her victory. It was the most thoughtful gift she had ever received.

Before she could sign thank you, he gestured for her to turn around. With a gentleness that belied his racer’s hands, he fastened the clasp around her neck. The cool metal rested against her skin.

As she turned back to face him, touching the shuttlecock at her throat, the last of her defenses crumbled. The fortress was in ruins, and standing in the wreckage was the boy she had always loved, who was now, unmistakably, looking at the woman she had become.

The moment was shattered by an enthusiastic producer from the Spanish national news. “Carlos! Denise! A moment, please! A historic day for Spanish sport! We must have you both!”

Before they could protest, they were gently but firmly steered in front of a camera, the bright lights making Denise blink. The interviewer beamed.

“A spectacular day! Carlos, a brilliant P2 on home turf, and Denise, a stunning victory on your birthday! The Spanish duo conquering all on home soil! It must be a very special win indeed.”

Carlos, still buzzing from the race, grinned and slung a casual, brotherly arm around Denise’s shoulders. The contact was electric for her, but his words were like a dash of cold water.

“It’s incredible,” Carlos said into the microphone, giving her a squeeze. “I’m so proud of her. I practically grew up babysitting this one. To see her become such a champion is amazing.”

Babysitting.

The word was a sledgehammer. The intimate moment of the necklace, the look in his eyes—it all shattered. Her hopeful expression dissolved into a mask of stunned hurt before she could stop it. 

From just off-camera, Blanca, who had been watching with a proud smile, visibly flinched. She brought a hand to her forehead in a slow, deliberate facepalm, her shoulders slumping in second-hand embarrassment. That stupid, stupid mouth.

Caco, who had been chatting with a sponsor nearby, had also heard. He stopped mid-sentence, his smile fading as he watched Denise’s face fall. 

The interviewer, sensing a story, leaned in. “You two seem very familiar. A long history?”

“Oh, our families are very close,” Carlos continued, blissfully unaware of the devastation he’d just wrought.

Denise wasn't listening anymore. She subtly shifted her weight, causing his arm to slip from her shoulders. She stared straight ahead, her smile now a tight, lifeless line for the camera.

Denise just nodded, her signs for the camera short and professional. It was a great honor to be here today. Thank you.

As they stepped away from the lights, the warmth of the moment was gone, replaced by a cool distance. Carlos, finally noticing her stiffness, looked confused.

“What’s wrong?” he signed.

But Denise just shook her head, offering a thin smile. Nothing. I’m just tired. It was a long day.

She turned to rejoin her friends, the beautiful shuttlecock pendant feeling suddenly heavy against her skin. He had given her a piece of her world, but in front of the entire world, he had put her back in hers. 

He intercepted Carlos before he could follow her, pulling him aside near the McLaren hospitality unit. “Babysitting? Really?”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair. “It just came out.”

“It just came out,” Caco repeated flatly. “You buy her a beautiful necklace, look at her like she’s the sun, and then tell the world you used to change her diapers. Smart.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Carlos?” Caco’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re hurting a really good person. And I’ve watched her grow up, too. I don’t like it.”

Carlos stared at him. “Since when are you so protective of her?”

“Since you left,” Caco said simply. “Someone had to be.”

Notes:

PLEASE kudos and comment I NEED THEMMMMMMM!!!!! Don't forget to subscribe for updates.

Also check out my other stories.
Keeper of Lost Things - Sebastian Vettel / OFC
Between the Net and the Finish Line - Charles Leclerc / OFC

Chapter 11: Your Menace

Summary:

Because Caco Knew.

Notes:

Happy New Year to all ~ DDSILVER

Caco knew. Of course he knew. He’d known since Denise was eight and Carlos was thirteen —when she wasn’t just Roberto’s quiet little sister, but Carlos’s tiny, silent shadow. She’d follow him around the Sainz house like a determined duckling, always picking him. To sit next to at the table. To braid her hair. To show him her trophies. To fall asleep on.

 

She’d climb into his lap without asking, tuck her head under his chin, and refuse to move. A human koala, Blanca called her. Carlos would groan and complain, but he never pushed her off. Not really.

 

Caco watched it all from the doorway, a knowing smile on his face. This one’s gonna be trouble, he thought.

It started when she was small. Caco, then fourteen, would scoop her up and give her cheek a gentle squeeze. “¡Oye, monita!” he’d say. She’d giggle, swatting at his hands, but she’d always lean into it.

 

The cheek pinch became their thing. A greeting. A comfort. A secret handshake. When she was ten and Carlos was thirteen and too cool to let her hold his hand at the go-kart track, Caco pinched her cheek. I’m still here.

 

When she was eleven and Carlos was sixteen and left for his first racing academy, she stood at the window watching his car disappear. Caco pinched her cheek—softly, sadly. He’ll be back.

 

She didn’t believe him. But she believed the pinch.

The Bullying – Age Fifteen

It wasn’t a boy. It was girls on her badminton team—jealous, mean, weaponizing her deafness. They’d hide her gear, mock her voice, pretend they couldn’t understand her signs.

Denise came home one day, her favorite red bull cap—the that belonged to Carlos—dipped in mud. She didn’t cry. She just sat in the garden trying to wash out the mud with the garden hose.

Caco was there, helping Papá with logistics for a rally event. He took one look at her and knew.

He sat beside her, pinched her cheek—not playful this time, but grounding. Look at me.

She did.

“Names,” he said.

She shook her head. My friends already handled it.

“Good,” Caco said, pride in his voice. “But I’m handling it too.“

He didn’t yell. He just showed up at her training center the next day and had a very calm, very clear conversation with the head coach while standing next to a poster of Spain’s anti-bullying laws. The message was received.

The bullying stopped for good. The next time she saw Caco, she walked straight up and pinched his cheek—hard. He laughed, loud and surprised, and pulled her into a headlock.

“You’re a menace,” he said, grinning.

Your menace, she signed back.

The Thanksgiving Aftermath – Age Seventeen

Caco arrived a day late for Thanksgiving. Work had kept him in Madrid, but he’d promised Mamá he’d come for leftovers and family time.

The moment he stepped into the Sainz house, he felt it—the thick, heavy silence that clung to the walls like damp. Mamá’s smile was strained. Papá was unusually quiet, tinkering in the garage. Blanca looked ready to commit arson.

And Denise… Denise was curled on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket, staring blankly at the muted TV. She looked small. Hollow.

Blanca pulled Caco into the kitchen and gave him the full report in hissed whispers: the surprise return, the injury, Carlos showing up with Lucia, Denise’s shattered expression, the awkward dinner, the silent tears afterward.

Caco listened, his jaw tightening with each detail. But when Blanca finished, he didn’t rage. He didn’t storm off to call Carlos and give him the verbal lashing he deserved. Instead, he took a deep breath and walked into the living room.

He sat on the edge of the sofa beside Denise and pinched her cheek—gently, like he was tethering her back to the world.

She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.

“Hey, preciosa,” he signed softly. “Rough day yesterday?”

She nodded, just once.

“Yeah. Me too. My client’s yacht caught fire in Monaco. Don’t ask.” He stood up and clapped his hands together, addressing the room. “Okay. Family meeting. We are all going to stop moping. We are going to eat Mamá’s amazing leftovers. And then…” He looked at Denise. “We are going to watch Harry Potter. All of them. Or at least until we fall asleep.”

Denise blinked. Blanca raised an eyebrow. Mamá looked like she might cry from relief.

“Harry Potter?” Blanca signed.

“Yes. Because wizards are less complicated than Formula 1 drivers.” Caco grabbed the remote and started scrolling through streaming services. “And because Denise deserves a world where the chosen one actually notices the girl who’s been there all along.”

He didn’t look at Denise when he said it. He didn’t have to. She knew what he meant.

They spent the rest of the day buried under blankets, surrounded by plates of turkey and mashed potatoes, watching Hermione Granger outsmart everyone on screen. Denise fell asleep during Prisoner of Azkaban, her head on Caco’s shoulder, her breathing finally even.

Blanca leaned over and said to Caco, "You’re not going to say anything to Carlos?"

Caco shook his head. "Not yet. Let her heal first. Then I’ll break his nose."

Blanca smirked, "I’ll hold him down."

Caco never did break Carlos’s nose. But he made sure Denise knew, in a thousand small ways, that she was loved.

Notes:

I will be updating tmr on the first day of 2026 as well. So don't forget to subscribe for updates and kudos and comment.

Wishing everyone a splendid 2026.

 

~ DDSILVER

Chapter 12: The Singapore Rescue

Summary:

Lost and alone, her rescue came from the last people she expected.

Back to the present 2019

Singapore was humidity and neon, a sensory overload even for those who could hear. For Denise, it was a silent kaleidoscope of flashing lights and vibrations underfoot—disorienting and beautiful.

She was there for the World Badminton Federation's Youth Outreach Program, giving a coaching clinic at a local community center. Her schedule ended a day early, and Caco—ever the schemer—had "accidentally" booked her return flight for after the Grand Prix weekend.

"Might as well stay and watch the race!" he'd signed over FaceTime, his grin suspiciously wide. "I'll get you a paddock pass. My treat."

Denise had agreed, mostly because she loved Singapore's street food and didn't want to admit she was curious about seeing Carlos race on a night track.

She’d spent the evening exploring the Marina Bay street markets, soaking in the colors and textures. Now, tired and ready to head back, she stepped into a quieter side street to call an Uber.

She reached into her jacket pocket for her phone.

Empty.

Her stomach dropped. She patted her other pockets, then her jeans, then her small crossbody bag. Nothing. Her wallet was gone too. A cold wave of panic washed over her—she was alone, phoneless, moneyless, in a foreign city after dark.

That’s when she felt the impact.

The Collision (Revised)

Alex Albon was late. He'd stayed too long at the team sim session and was now jogging back to his hotel, head down, AirPods in, when he rounded a corner and—

Thump.

He crashed right into someone, sending them both stumbling. His AirPods flew out. "Shit—sorry! I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

The woman—pretty, athletic, with dark hair tied in a messy bun—was on the ground, looking dazed and visibly distressed. Tears of frustration glistened in her eyes.

Alex knelt. "Hey, are you hurt? Can you stand?"

She looked at him, her eyes wide with panic, and started signing rapidly—hands flying in shapes he didn’t understand.

"I'm sorry, I don't… I don't know sign language," he said helplessly.

She took a shaky breath, clearly trying to calm herself. She pointed to her ears and shook her head, then pointed at his mouth and said slowly, carefully, "S-slow."

Alex nodded, slowing his speech dramatically. "Okay. Are. You. Hurt?"

She shook her head, but her hands were trembling.

"Can. I. Call. Someone. For you?" Alex asked gently.

She shook her head again, her face flushing with embarrassment. She opened her mouth, the words struggling to form. "C-cannot… remember."

"You. Don't remember. Their number?"

She nodded, looking utterly defeated.

"Is. There. Somewhere. I can get you to? A hotel? The police station?"

At "hotel," her eyes lit with fragile hope, then dimmed again. She couldn't remember the name. She tried once more, her voice flat and strained: "Hoh… tel."

Alex didn't offer his phone. He simply waited, his expression patient and open, giving her space to communicate in her own way. He could see the concentration on her face, the effort it took to form words she couldn't hear. He didn't rush her. He didn't look away.

Then her hand brushed against her jacket's inner pocket. She felt a smooth, rectangular edge. The key card. She’d slipped it there that morning after breakfast and forgotten to move it back to her wallet. A stroke of dumb luck. 

With trembling hands, she pulled it out and held it up to Alex: MARINA BAY SANDS.

Alex’s face lit with recognition. "That's. Where. I'm. Staying!" He pointed in the direction of the hotel;s iconic triple tower. "Come on. I'll. Walk. You."

At the Hotel Lobby – The Misunderstanding

They reached the soaring, air-conditioned lobby of Marina Bay Sands. Alex was about to ask the concierge to help Denise when a familiar figure in Red Bull gear hurried toward them.

"Alex! There you are—we need to go. Media pen in ten." Max Verstappen’s eyes flicked to Denise, who was standing slightly behind Alex, looking lost but calmer. "Everything okay?"

Alex stepped aside so Denise could see Max’s mouth. "This is Denise. She got pickpocketed. No phone, no wallet. I found her near the circuit."

Max’s expression softened immediately. He nodded at Denise. "Sorry that happened. You need help getting to your room?"

Denise shook her head, then pointed at Max’s Red Bull shirt, then at his mouth. "Slow," she said softly.

Max slowed his speech. "Do. You. Need. Help?"

Denise took a breath. "Pad…dock."

Max and Alex exchanged a glance. Right. A fan. Of course she wanted to go to the paddock. Happened all the time.

Max gave her an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We can't… bring fans. Security."

Denise shook her head urgently, pointing again. "Car…los."

Alex’s expression turned understanding but firm. "You want to see Carlos? At the paddock?"

She nodded, relief in her eyes. They understood!

Max sighed gently. "Look, I get it. He’s popular. But we really can't…"

Denise’s face fell. She tried again, forcing the word out. "Fam…ily."

Max’s skepticism was clear. "Family? Right." He’d heard that one before too. Everyone at the paddock was suddenly a driver’s “cousin” or “family friend” when they wanted access.

Max checked his watch. "Alex, we really have to go."

Alex nodded, then turned back to Denise with a kind but dismissive tone. "We’ll let security know you’re here, okay? They can help you call someone."

Max began to walk away, Alex following with an apologetic glance back.

But Denise reached out and gently caught Alex’s sleeve. She held up his phone—he’d left it on the concierge counter in his rush. When he turned, she mimed typing, her eyes pleading.

Alex paused. There was something in her expression—not starstruck desperation, but genuine, flustered need. He handed her the phone.

She opened a browser, her fingers trembling slightly. She typed Carlos Sainz sister interview and scrolled—too many results. She tried Spanish Grand Prix interview sister, then Carlos Sainz little sister badminton. It took a few tries, the loading circle spinning each time as Max tapped his foot impatiently.

Finally, she found it—the clip from Spain, Carlos with his arm around her, calling her his "little sister" on live TV. She turned the screen toward them.

Max leaned in, his eyes scanning the headline: CARLOS SAINZ SUPPORTS ‘LITTLE SISTER’ DENISE MERHI AFTER SPAIN OPEN WIN. Then he looked at her face on screen, then back at the woman in front of him.

His expression shifted entirely.

"Oh. You really are his…" He didn't finish. He looked at Alex, who was peering over his shoulder. "She's the one from the interview. The badminton player."

Alex’s eyes widened. "The Spanish Silencer? That’s you?"

Denise nodded, her blush returning—this time from being recognized.

Max ran a hand through his hair, a faint, sheepish smile touching his lips. "Right. Okay. Sorry about that. We get a lot of… anyway." He gestured toward the door. "Come on. We'll take you to McLaren. Carlos is probably wondering where you are."

The Ride to the Paddock

In the team car, Max sat up front with the driver, Alex beside Denise in the back. As they pulled away from the hotel, Max half-turned in his seat, speaking clearly toward her.

“Carlos talked about you sometimes when we were teammates.”

Denise felt the vibration of his voice through the car seat, but couldn’t see his lips. She stayed silent, staring out the window at the blur of Singapore lights.

Max waited, then turned fully around when she didn’t reply. He caught her eye and repeated himself, slower, making sure she could see his mouth. “Carlos. Talked. About you. When we were teammates.”

Denise nodded, a small smile touching her lips. She signed Thank you, which Alex translated quietly: “She says thank you.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod. “He called you his ‘quiet shadow.’ Had a picture of you in his driver room—you were tiny, holding a badminton racket.”

This time, Denise watched his lips closely. Her expression softened with a quiet warmth. She hadn’t known Carlos kept a photo of her at work.

Alex added gently, “So he really does have a sister.”

Max glanced between them, then back at Denise. “Not by blood,” he said, enunciating. “But yeah. Family.”

Denise gave another small nod, then turned her gaze back out the window. But this time, she wasn’t staring blankly—she was smiling just faintly, a private thought held in the quiet hum of the car.

At the McLaren Hospitality – Panic

Carlos was pacing near the engineering office, phone pressed to his ear. Caco’s voice was strained through the speaker.

“She’s not in her room, not in the lobby, not at the hotel restaurant. Front desk hasn’t seen her. I’ve called three times. Her phone’s off.”

“Did you check the pool? The gym?”

“I’m checking everywhere. But Carlos—her phone is off. That’s not like her. She always has it on vibrate.”

A cold dread settled in Carlos’s stomach. Singapore was safe, but it was still a massive, unfamiliar city. Denise was independent, yes, but she was also deaf and now phoneless. If she got disoriented, she couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t hear traffic. Couldn’t ask for directions easily.

“Keep looking. I’ll check with the badminton coordinator again. Maybe she went back to the venue.”

He hung up, running a hand through his hair. His mind raced—where would she go? She loved the gardens. The waterfront. But at night? Alone?

He was about to call the team’s security liaison when a familiar voice cut through the paddock murmur.

“Carlito.”

Max Verstappen stood at the entrance of the McLaren hospitality, Alex Albon beside him. And between them, half-hidden by their taller frames—Denise.

Carlos didn’t wait.

He stepped around Max and Alex as if they were furniture, closed the distance in one long stride, and pulled Denise into a hug so tight it lifted her slightly off the ground.

His arms locked around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his face buried in her hair. A full, silent, death-grip hug.

Denise froze for a second, shocked by the force of it. Then her own arms came up, hands fisting in the back of his McLaren team shirt as she clung back just as hard. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest—or maybe it was hers.

Max and Alex exchanged a look. Max raised an eyebrow. Alex just smiled slightly and took a step back, giving them space.

Carlos didn’t let go for a long time. When he finally loosened his hold, “Deni.” His hands flew into sign, his face tight with worry. Where were you? Are you okay?

She nodded, signing back, I’m fine. I got lost.

Max stepped aside, giving them space. “Alex found her near the circuit. Pickpocketed. No phone, no wallet. She was trying to tell us she knew you.”

Carlos’s eyes never left Denise’s. Why didn’t you call?

She showed him her empty pockets, then signed, Couldn’t. I tried to find my way back.

“She did,” Alex added quietly. “Once we understood she wasn’t just a fan.”

Carlos finally looked at Max and Alex, his expression shifting from panic to deep gratitude. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Max gave a small shrug. “She’s tough. Argued with a security guard without saying a word.”

Carlos almost smiled, but the fear was still too fresh. He turned back to Denise, his hands gentle as he signed, Don’t scare me like that again.

I didn’t mean to, she signed, her expression sheepish.

Caco burst into the hospitality suite a minute later, phone in hand, face flushed. He stopped short when he saw Denise.

“You’re here! How—?” He noticed Max and Alex. “Oh. Of course. Rescued by the grid.”

Max smiled faintly. “Just doing our civic duty.”

Caco pulled Denise into a quick, tight hug, then held her by the shoulders. “Okay, new plan,” he announced, pulling out his phone and opening his notes app. “I’m having her tattooed. My number, your number, Blanca’s number, and the non-emergency line of the Singapore Police Force. Right on her forearm. In Comic Sans.”

Carlos didn’t laugh, but the tension in his jaw eased slightly. “Maybe just a card in her wallet.”

“The wallet that got stolen?” Caco shot back. “No. Tattoo. Waterproof. Theft-proof. Can’t lose it unless she loses the arm.” He pointed a finger at Denise. “And if you lose the arm, we have bigger problems.”

Max, who was lingering near the door with Alex, chuckled. “I can recommend a good artist in Monaco. Does fine line. Very tasteful.”

Alex nodded. “He did George’s dog’s portrait. It’s subtle.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, but he was finally breathing normally again. Caco shoved his phone back in his pocket and pulled Denise into a much gentler, briefer hug. “You scared ten years off my life, preciosa. Don’t do it again.”

I won’t, she signed against his shoulder.

“Good.” He released her and clapped his hands together. “Now. Who’s hungry? I’m buying. And you—” he pointed at Carlos, “—are not allowed to let her out of your sight until her flight leaves. Consider it driver babysitting duty.”

Later That Evening – The Quiet Aftermath

Caco returned not just with satay, but with a sleek new phone still in its box. “Bought out the store’s last model. You’re now the proud owner of Singapore’s most overpriced mobile device.”

Denise accepted it with a grateful, embarrassed smile. As she powered it on, Alex, who had decided to dropby while  Max left to finish some media duties, quietly took the seat beside her.

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing to the phone.

She nodded, handing it to him.

Alex’s fingers moved with efficient grace. He entered his own contact—Alex Albon – Williams—with a little racing helmet emoji. Then he added Max’s. Max V – Red Bull (emergency backup).

“There,” he said softly, turning the screen to show her. “Now you have two more numbers. In case… you know. The Sainz men lose their phones too.”

He said it lightly, but his eyes held a gentle sincerity. He wasn’t teasing. He was offering a lifeline.

Denise took the phone back, her throat tight. She typed: Thank you for being patient with me earlier. 

Alex read it and smiled softly. "You're. Welcome. You were. Very brave."

She blinked, surprised, then typed: Brave?

"Trying to speak. In a scary situation. In a second language. That's brave."

Denise's eyes softened. She hadn't thought of it that way. To her, it had just felt like failing. She typed one last message: You're a good person, Alex Albon.

He read it, his smile turning a little shy. "So are you. Denise." He paused, then added slowly, "You’re gonna be hanging around for this race weekend right. You can come hangout with me. I'll show you the best parts of the paddock. The good bits."

She nodded, a real smile touching her lips. I'd like that.

As he walked away, Caco—who had been watching from a discreet distance with the sharp eyes of a manager and a cousin—approached Denise.

You okay? he signed.

She nodded. He was kind. Really kind.

"Yeah," Caco said, his gaze following Alex's retreating form. "He is. And Carlos is currently pretending not to be jealous over by the espresso machine. It's hilarious."

Denise looked over to see Carlos indeed hovering near the coffee station, glancing their way while trying to look casual. He was studying a data screen with intense, performative focus. She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide a small smile.

Caco's signs were thoughtful, almost to himself. You know, sometimes it takes seeing someone else be kind to you to realize how unkind they’ve been themselves.

Denise looked from Carlos's stiff shoulders back to Caco. You think he's realizing?

"I think," Caco said, a slow, scheming smile spreading across his face, "he's about to." He watched Alex disappear into the Toro Rosso motorhome. "You’re the same age, you know. You and Alex. It’s rare to have friends who are not rivals on the grid. Hey, you never know, maybe he’s your soulmate?” 

Denise’s cheeks flushed. He patted her shoulder. "Get some rest. And keep Alex's number. He's a good kid.”

Notes:

If you liked my story, should check out my other stories.b Please kudos and comment!!!!!!!!!!
Between the Net and the Finish Line - Charles Leclerc / OFC (I'm rewriting it)
Keeper of Lost Things - sebastian vettel / OFC [my main story]
The Art of Staying too late - Alex Albon / OFC

Chapter 13: Little Baby Princesa

Summary:

.......And Carlos Sainz Jr. had never walked away from a responsibility in his life.

The Singapore paddock after sunset was a study in controlled chaos. Purple-tinged lights cast long shadows, generators hummed like drowsy giants, and the scent of espresso and hot brakes hung thick in the humid air. Carlos Sainz was moving through it with the single-minded focus of a man trying to outrun his own frustration.

P8.

It wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t good enough. Not here. Not on a track that should have sung for McLaren. The car had been nervous, twitching in Sector 2 like a spooked horse. He could still feel the vague, greasy lack of grip in his shoulders.

He was halfway to the engineering office, helmet tucked under his arm, when Caco materialized beside him, eyes glued to his phone.

“Bad day at the office, huh?”

Carlos grunted, not breaking stride. “The car had no grip. Like driving on ice.”

“Mm.” Caco didn’t look up. A beat of silence, filled only by the distant shriek of a Porsche Supercup car on track. “Well, at least someone had a good afternoon.”

Carlos glanced at him sideways.

“Our little sister,” Caco clarified, finally slipping his phone into his pocket. “Spent all of quali with Alex Albon. He was giving her a masterclass on live timing. They were pretty wrapped up in conversation. Well, he was talking. She was typing. It’s adorable.”

A familiar, unwelcome heat prickled at the back of Carlos’s neck. “She’s curious about the sport,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended.

“Curious?” Caco chuckled, a low, knowing sound. He nudged Carlos with his elbow. “Carlitos, look at our little baby princesa. All grown up. Next thing you know, guys will be lining up to ask her out.” 

“Actually,” Caco added, as if it had just occurred to him, “Alex asked me something after. Wanted to know if Denise was single.”

The words landed in the space between them, heavy and still. The ambient noise of the paddock seemed to recede.

Carlos stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I told him to ask her himself.” Caco shrugged, the picture of casual reason. “Figured she’s a big girl. A champion. She can handle her own love life.” He studied Carlos’s tight jaw. “Why? You got a problem with it?”

“She’s too young and no one gets to date my sister.”

“Not by blood,” Caco reminded him gently. “And even if she was, she’s twenty, Carlos. She’s allowed to date. Alex is a good kid. Stable. Respectful. Not a bad option for a first paddock romance.”

Carlos’s face scrunched up.
“She’s not a kid running after you in pigtails anymore, Carlos. She’s a woman. And she’s starting to notice there are men in this world who will look at her and see that.” He met Carlos’s eyes, his own softening just a fraction. “Might be time you started seeing her too.”

He clapped Carlos on the shoulder—a firm, final gesture—and veered off toward the McLaren hospitality. “Don’t be late for the debrief!”

Carlos stood frozen in the stream of passing mechanics and officials. Caco’s words echoed, morphing from teasing to a tremor of truth that moved through him like a seismic shift.

Our little baby princesa.

He saw her then, not as the silent fixture of his life, but as she must have looked to Alex Albon: leaning over a timing screen, hair falling over her shoulder, her focus complete. A woman. A beautiful, formidable woman who didn’t need his protection, but maybe still wanted his attention.

Around him, the paddock pulsed. But inside, a different noise had gone silent. The brotherly static that had always surrounded Denise in his mind had cleared.

Has she always been this… noticed?

He thought of her at eight, a silent koala clinging to his back. At nine, sitting cross-legged in the garage, tracing the lines of his kart with a greasy finger. At eleven, her eyes following him out the door as he left for another season, another country, another step away from her.

He’d thought of her as his constant. The one thing that wouldn’t change.

But constants don’t grow up. They don’t win championships. They don’t walk through the paddock making friends with drivers who look at them like discoveries.

You’re not just her big brother anymore. You’re not her only world. 

The truth, cold and simple, settled in his bones. He had been away too long. Not just in miles, but in attention. In presence. He knew the shape of her loyalty, but not the contours of her dreams. He knew her favorite chocolate, but not what kept her up at night. He had been her first defender. But he hadn’t been her witness. He hadn’t been here. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

If Alex Albon—good kid, respectful, polite—was already asking about her, then others would, too. Others who might not be so kind. Others who might see her quiet strength and mistake it for vulnerability. Others who wouldn’t understand the weight of her silence, the courage in her speech, the fierce intelligence behind her watchful eyes.

He had failed her once already today. He hadn’t been there when she was lost. He hadn’t been the one to find her.

He wouldn’t fail her again.

The conclusion was simple, solid, slipping into place like a well-rehearsed race strategy:

He needed to be in her life again. Fully.

Only then could he protect her.

Only then could he keep her safe—from pickpockets, from curious drivers, from a world that didn’t understand how precious she was.

He would close the distance.

He would relearn her.

He would become her constant again.

Not because he wanted to.

Because she needed him to.

And Carlos Sainz Jr. had never walked away from a responsibility in his life.

Notes:

If you liked my story, should check out my other stories.b Please kudos and comment!!!!!!!!!!
Between the Net and the Finish Line - Charles Leclerc / OFC (I'm rewriting it)
Keeper of Lost Things - sebastian vettel / OFC [my main story]
The Art of Staying too late - Alex Albon / OFC

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Formula 1 OC collection