𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 | 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛

02: between gears and glances

The air inside Michael's house was thick with the kind of tension that only came when two people spent hours deep in discussion. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving the room illuminated by a soft, golden light from the lamps scattered around. It was warm in a way that made you feel comfortable enough to stay, yet serious enough to know there was work to be done.

Tatum sat opposite Michael at the large oak dining table, papers and notebooks spread between them like a battlefield. Weeks had passed since she'd first agreed to take on the role as his personal assistant, and each day had been a crash course in the chaotic life that came with being a Formula 1 driver's right hand.

Michael's house wasn't overly extravagant, but it had an undeniable charm. The place was clearly designed for someone who valued efficiency—nothing overly decorative, just simple, clean lines, and practical furnishings.

The space was a reflection of him, really. Focused, disciplined, with just enough warmth to make you feel comfortable, but not so much that you forgot you were in the presence of someone important.

Tatum, however, felt oddly at home here.

Maybe it was the years of shared history, or maybe it was just that they had fallen back into an easy rhythm like no time had passed at all. Either way, it felt right. But beneath her calm exterior, her mind raced as she absorbed the flood of information Michael had thrown at her.

"I have to admit," Michael leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're taking all this in better than I thought."

Tatum let out a dry laugh, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the pages of her notebook. "Yeah, well, I'm a quick study. Or maybe you're just not as complicated as you think." Her lips twitched into a smirk, and Michael shook his head, chuckling.

"Sure, let's go with that."

It had been weeks of them discussing her responsibilities—no, not just discussing—Michael was grilling her, throwing every possible scenario at her. How she would handle logistics, what she'd do if the team dynamics got complicated, how she'd manage his media presence, what the hell she'd do if all of it came crashing down at once. The fact that she hadn't run screaming for the door yet was a testament to her adaptability.

One evening, after a long day of hashing out details, Michael leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. His face bore that intense look, the one he got when he was deep in thought. "You know you'll be on-site for every race, right? Every practice, every team meeting. It's not going to be easy. You're going to be dealing with shit from everyone, not just me."

Tatum shrugged, flipping through her notes with a nonchalant flick of her wrist. "Uh-huh. I know what I signed up for."

"I'm not just talking about keeping my schedule in check," he said, his tone serious. "You'll need to manage my head too. Keep me grounded. Sometimes I lose track of the bigger picture."

Tatum couldn't help but smirk, the corners of her mouth twitching up. "Oh, I know. That's why you need me. You're like a toddler on a sugar high—always bouncing off the walls and ready to trip over your own damn feet. I swear, if I don't keep you in check, you'll end up in a tree or something."

"If only he knew how often I wanted to trip over my own feet in this world," she mused inwardly.

Michael let out a sharp laugh, leaning back in his chair, but Tatum felt a weight settle in her chest. This wasn't just a job; it was something much bigger. The sense of duty loomed over her, but she took a deep breath, reminding herself that it was what it was.

After all, she could always bounce back from holdups. She just needed to complain about it for a moment, and she'd be fine.

"Look," she said, waving a hand dismissively, "I've handled worse. I mean, sure, the stakes feel higher this time, but come on—how hard can it be to keep a racing driver from flying off the handle? I'll manage the logistics like clockwork. The emotional side? Well, I'll just treat you like a cat—keep you fed and remind you that you need to relax."