Chapter Text
The meowing started before the sun even crept through the blinds.
At first, Wilhelm tried to ignore it, burying his face deeper into the pillow, one arm flung across the cool, empty side of the bed. But the cat was persistent. A low, guttural yowl that echoed off the concrete walls of his London apartment, dramatic in a way only cats could manage.
He groaned. "Ten more minutes," he mumbled, voice hoarse, knowing full well he'd lost the battle.
Today was the day. Back to McLaren HQ for the first time since before Christmas, back to the controlled chaos of preparing for a new season. He'd been looking forward to it more than he cared to admit. The holidays had been too quiet, too much time alone with his thoughts and Miso's judgmental stares. Three weeks of freedom had been nice, but freedom always came with too much space to think.
Padding across the hardwood in nothing but boxers, he found Miso sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tail flicking with feline disdain. Felice had named him after a soup she insisted Wilhelm liked (he didn't), but the cat had stuck around longer than most things in his life.
"What," Wilhelm asked, blinking against the pale January light, "do you even want at six-thirty in the morning?"
Miso stared up at him like he was the stupidest man alive, then turned deliberately toward the empty food bowl.
Right. Breakfast.
Wilhelm moved on autopilot, pouring kibble into the ceramic dish, then standing there for a moment, watching the cat eat. The apartment felt different this morning, still all sharp angles and expensive furniture, but somehow charged with possibility. Almost like it knew he was about to step back into the world where everything mattered, and nothing was private.
His phone buzzed from the nightstand. Three missed calls from his trainer, two texts from Felice, and a notification from Instagram that he ignored. The off-season was officially over, and with it, the luxury of being invisible.
He liked this part: the silence before the storm. Here in his apartment, with just Miso for company, he didn't have to perform. Didn't have to be the “Penalty Prince” or the charming interview subject or the disappointment son. He could just be Wilhelm, anxious and overthinking and weirdly excited about getting back to work.
The anxiety was always there, humming quietly beneath everything else. It had been worse during the break, when he had too much time to think about the previous season's mistakes, about the calls from his father that he'd let go to voicemail, about the way his mother's Christmas card had been signed only with her name, no mention of love or missing him. Racing gave him somewhere to put all that nervous energy, something legitimate to obsess over instead of the growing distance between him and everyone who was supposed to matter.
After feeding Miso and downing lukewarm espresso from yesterday's pod, Wilhelm pulled on his running gear and stepped out into the cold.
The streets of London were quiet this early with just a few dog walkers, condensation curling from their mouths like smoke. He liked it like this. No cameras, no engines, no pressure. Just the sound of his sneakers hitting pavement, the pull in his lungs, the rhythm that kept his thoughts from spiraling.
He ran past the empty train station, then looped through the park by the canal. This part of the routine never changed, no matter what city he was in or how badly the previous race had gone. Pre-season was about the control of his body, of his thoughts, of the way everything in his life had to be perfectly calibrated.
In a way, racing had saved him. It gave him something legitimate to rebel toward instead of just away from everything his family expected. The Bernadotte name opened doors, but it also came with assumptions: that he'd follow Erik into law, that he'd be the dutiful son their mother had always wanted, that he'd eventually grow out of his "phase" and settle into respectability.
Instead, he'd chosen speed. Chaos. The kind of career that made his mother change the subject at dinner parties and his father question where they'd gone wrong with their youngest son. Erik understood, or at least pretended to, but even his brother's support felt careful sometimes, like he was waiting for Wilhelm to crash and burn so spectacularly that he'd finally come home with his tail between his legs.
The problem was, Wilhelm was good at this. Really good. Good enough that the disappointment in his family's voices was starting to sound less like concern and more like resentment. Good enough that he could almost convince himself he didn't need their approval.
Almost.
By the time he returned to the apartment, his muscles hummed and his ears stung from the cold. He showered quickly (steam fogging up the glass walls, Miso scratching at the bathroom door in protest), then dressed in black joggers and a hoodie with the McLaren logo subtly stitched near the hem.
Breakfast was his usual eggs, protein shake, and half an avocado on toast. Felice always said he ate like someone was timing him, but efficiency felt like survival most days. The less time he spent sitting still, the less time his brain had to catalog all the ways things could go wrong.
By 8:00 a.m., he was sliding into the driver's seat of his Urus, the shiny black paint catching the grey morning light. The engine purred: understated but lethal, like everything else in his carefully curated life. Sometimes he wondered if he'd chosen the car or if it had chosen him, this machine that looked expensive and fast but kept all its real power hidden until you needed it.
Felice was already waiting outside her flat when he pulled up, sipping something hot with her signature sunglasses perched in her hair despite the lack of sun. Her winter coat looked expensive and editorial, because of course it did.
She slid into the passenger seat. "Morning, sunshine."
"You're overdressed for HQ," Wilhelm said, pulling away from the curb.
"I'm always dressed appropriately," she replied with a grin. "You're underdressed for being back. Just a reminder that cameras exist."
Wilhelm smirked and rolled his eyes. "Good morning to you too."
She sipped her coffee. "New year, new responsibilities."
"Yours or mine?"
"Both," she said. "McLaren offered me a full-time role over the break. Social strategy, team liaison, personal management... still attached to you, but not just you."
He raised an eyebrow. "So, I've been demoted to part-time Felice?"
"Never," she said. "But I am hiring someone to take over your wardrobe this season."
He turned to glance at her as they merged onto the motorway. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. I can't run social media, liaise with the brand team, and also make sure you don't show up to interviews looking like a rich man's lost son."
"I am a rich man's lost son."
"Exactly my point," she said dryly. "There's a new coffee place by HQ. We should stop, first day back deserves decent caffeine."
Wilhelm didn't argue, because Felice was usually right about these things, and because the idea of walking into McLaren with shit coffee felt like bad luck.
"Fine. But I'm not ordering anything with foam art."
"You are so emotionally repressed it's actually impressive."
The coffee shop was busy but efficient, full of the kind of people who understood that Monday morning caffeine was a serious business. Wilhelm let Felice order for both of them while he stood slightly apart, hood up, watching the morning rush through the window. He'd gotten good at being invisible in plain sight, at existing in public spaces without inviting attention.
It was a skill he'd had to learn. The first year in F1 had been overwhelming, not just the racing, but the constant awareness that someone might be watching, recording, posting. Every mundane moment had the potential to become content, and content had the potential to become controversy. He'd learned to move through the world like he was always being observed, because he usually was.
"Two oat milk flat whites," Felice announced, pressing a cup into his hands. "And a croissant for you, because you're probably going to forget to eat lunch again."
"I don't forget lunch," Wilhelm protested.
"You forget lunch when you're nervous about something," she said, giving him a knowing look. "And you're nervous about meeting the new stylist."
Wilhelm felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I'm not nervous."
"You're fidgeting with your car keys," Felice pointed out. "You only do that when you're nervous or when you're about to do something stupid on track."
He forced his hands to still. She was right, of course. He was nervous, though he couldn't exactly articulate why. It wasn't like this was the first time someone new had joined his team. But something about the timing, about starting fresh in a new year with someone who didn't know him yet, felt significant in a way that made his chest tight.
The McLaren Technology Centre curved into view like something out of science fiction, all glass and steel and perfectly still water. Even after two years with the team, it still looked slightly unreal to Wilhelm, especially after three weeks away. The holiday break had been necessary, but walking back through those doors felt like coming home to a life that actually fit.
He pulled into the private staff entrance and parked in his usual spot, engine cutting off with a quiet click. The parking lot was fuller than it had been in December with engineers and mechanics filtering back in, the subtle electricity of a new season beginning to hum through the air.
"Ready?" Felice asked, handing him his coffee and the croissant he definitely didn't need.
"More than ready," Wilhelm said, and meant it.
Inside, the HQ maintained its usual clinical perfection: white walls, soft lighting, the distant hum of machines he couldn't identify. But there was something different now: a sense of purpose, of momentum building. People moved with direction, conversations carried weight. The calm was officially over.
They headed toward the drivers' lounge which was a sleek, glass-walled space off the main hallway, complete with Italian espresso machines, buttery leather seating, and a view of the test track that stretched out empty but somehow expectant beneath the January sky.
Wilhelm dropped into his usual corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, taking a moment to appreciate the familiar ritual. This was where he could still be himself, at least for a few more minutes before the day demanded his public face.
"So," Felice said, settling into the chair across from him and pulling out her tablet. "About that wardrobe situation. I reached out to one of my old professors over the break. Fashion design department at London College of Fashion. She's sending someone today, no public posting, just a quiet recommendation."
Wilhelm looked up from his coffee. "You're trusting my face to a student?"
"To a highly recommended student," Felice said. "One she really pushed; his name is Simon Eriksson. Swedish, lives in London. Apparently has a good eye for structure and detail. Bit of a minimalist."
"Swedish?" Wilhelm asked, something about the name catching his attention.
Felice gave him a look. "Don't be weird about it."
"I'm not being weird. Just... small world."
"Maybe," she said with a slight smile. "He'll be here around eleven. Just observing today, maybe helping organize your shoot fittings. And Wilhelm?"
"Yeah?"
"Be nice. He's young, he's probably nervous, and he's definitely intimidated by all this." She gestured around the gleaming headquarters.
Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. "I'm always nice."
"You're tolerable on good days. On media days, you're a walking PR nightmare."
Wilhelm smiled behind his coffee cup, but the name had already lodged itself somewhere in his chest. Simon Eriksson. He found himself wondering what kind of person could make Felice's old professor use words like "highly recommended," what kind of eye could cut through all the carefully constructed image work he'd been doing for years.
The morning passed in a blur of meetings and catch-ups. Wilhelm spent an hour with his race engineer going over telemetry from the previous season, another hour in the simulator getting reacquainted with the feel of digital speed. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, he'd almost forgotten about the new stylist.
Almost.
He was in the drivers' lounge, scrolling through his phone while Felice fielded calls, when she suddenly straightened up and smoothed her hair.
"He's here," she said, and Wilhelm felt his stomach do something complicated.
Through the glass wall, he could see Felice approaching a young man near the reception desk. Wilhelm's first impression was that Simon looked exactly like what central casting would order for "fashionable art student" his all black clothing, sharp cheekbones, and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to look as nervous as he probably felt.
His second impression was that Simon was beautiful in a way that made Wilhelm forget how to breathe properly.
It wasn't just that he was attractive, though he absolutely was. It was something about the way he carried himself, cautious but not apologetic, like he was aware of taking up space but wasn't going to shrink to make other people more comfortable. He had curly dark hair and the kind of bone structure that photographers probably fought over.
Wilhelm watched Felice introduce herself, watched Simon's shoulders relax slightly as she spoke. Even from a distance, Wilhelm could see the exact moment Simon's professional confidence kicked in, the way his posture shifted from uncertain to focused.
"Wilhelm," Felice called, gesturing for him to join them. "Come meet Simon."
Wilhelm stood, suddenly aware of every step as he crossed the space between them. This was ridiculous. He met new people all the time. He was good at this, charming, easy, the kind of person who made others feel comfortable. But something about Simon's direct gaze made him feel exposed in a way that had nothing to do with cameras or interviews.
"Simon Eriksson," Simon said, extending his hand. His voice was softer than Wilhelm had expected, with just a trace of Swedish accent underneath the London polish. "It's nice to meet you."
"Wilhelm," he replied, taking Simon's hand. The handshake was firm, professional, and lasted exactly the appropriate amount of time. Wilhelm found himself wishing it had lasted longer.
"Simon's been briefed on the upcoming shoots," Felice said, clearly oblivious to whatever was happening in Wilhelm's chest. "I thought he could observe today, maybe help with organization. Get a feel for how we usually work."
"Sounds good," Wilhelm said, proud of how normal his voice sounded. "What's your background? Besides fashion school."
"I do freelance styling on the side," Simon said. "And I work part-time at a bar near campus. Nothing too glamorous, but it pays the bills."
There was something appealing about his honesty, the way he didn't try to oversell himself or downplay the reality of being a student trying to make ends meet. Wilhelm found himself wanting to know more like which bar, what kind of freelance work, whether he liked London or if he missed Sweden.
"The work here is probably different from what you're used to," Wilhelm said instead.
"Different how?" Simon asked, and Wilhelm appreciated that he didn't seem intimidated by the question.
"More... public. Everything we do ends up photographed, analyzed, turned into content. It's not just about looking good, it's about telling a story, managing an image."
Simon nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. Fashion is always about storytelling, really. It's just a question of who's controlling the narrative."
The comment was casual, thrown away, but it hit Wilhelm with unexpected force. How long had it been since someone had understood that so immediately? Most people saw the clothes, the brands, the expensive watches, and assumed it was all about vanity or status. They didn't understand that every choice was strategic, that image was armor as much as it was advertisement.
"Exactly," Wilhelm said, and Simon's slight smile suggested he'd caught the surprise in Wilhelm's voice.
They spent the next hour going through Wilhelm's calendar, Simon taking notes on his phone while Felice outlined the upcoming commitments. Photo shoots for sponsors, media appearances, the season launch event. Simon asked good questions about Wilhelm's preferences, about the image they were trying to project, about practical considerations like travel and quick changes.
Wilhelm found himself studying Simon as he worked. The way he chewed his bottom lip when he was thinking, the way his eyes lit up when he had an idea, the unconscious way he pushed his hair back from his forehead. It was distracting in the best possible way.
"Lunch?" Felice suggested around twelve-thirty. "The cafe here is actually decent, and we can talk through the rest of the schedule."
They found a table by the window overlooking the test track, and Wilhelm watched Simon's eyes widen slightly as he took in the view.
"It's incredible," Simon said. "All of this. I mean, I knew McLaren was impressive, but seeing it in person..."
"Different from what you expected?" Wilhelm asked.
"Bigger. More... serious, I guess. Like, the engineering department looks like something out of a sci-fi movie."
Wilhelm smiled. "Wait until you see the car up close. That's when it really hits you, all this technology, all these brilliant people, and it all comes down to trying to go faster than everyone else in a circle."
"Is that reductive?" Simon asked, and Wilhelm caught something teasing in his tone.
"Completely," Wilhelm said. "But also, accurate."
Simon laughed, and the sound did something warm and dangerous to Wilhelm's chest. He found himself wanting to say funnier things, smarter things, anything that might make Simon laugh like that again.
They talked through lunch, about the upcoming season, about Simon's studies, about the strange parallel lives they'd lived growing up Swedish but ending up in England. Simon was easy to talk to once he relaxed, funny in a dry way that reminded Wilhelm why he'd missed having conversations that weren't about lap times or media strategy.
"I should probably head back to campus," Simon said eventually, checking his phone. "I have a textile analysis class at three, and the professor has opinions about punctuality."
"Of course," Felice said. "This was perfect for a first day. Wilhelm, anything else you want to cover?"
Wilhelm found himself searching for reasons to keep Simon there longer, which was ridiculous. "I think we're good," he said instead.
"Sounds perfect," Simon said, gathering his things. He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "Thank you for this. Both of you. It means a lot."
There was something vulnerable in the admission that made Wilhelm want to say something reassuring, something that would ease whatever worry was behind Simon's careful professionalism. But Simon was already standing, already shifting back into the polite distance of someone who knew how to leave gracefully.
"I'll walk you out," Wilhelm offered.
They rode the elevator in comfortable silence, and Wilhelm tried not to notice the way Simon smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something else, coffee, maybe, or the particular scent of London winter air.
At the main entrance, Simon turned back.
"Thank you again," he said. "I know this is probably strange, having a student work with you. I promise I won't let you down."
"I'm not worried about that," Wilhelm said, and meant it. There was something about Simon, a competence, a quiet confidence that made Wilhelm trust him instinctively.
Simon smiled, quick and genuine, then pushed through the glass doors into the afternoon cold. Wilhelm watched him walk to the bus stop, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, and felt something shift in his chest.
This season was going to be different. He could feel it already, in the way his pulse had quickened during lunch, in the way he was already looking forward to next week's meeting.
Different could be dangerous. But as Wilhelm watched Simon disappear around the corner, he found he didn't much care.