If the FIA had a regulation for “emotional disturbances caused by overdramatic colleagues”, the 2025 paddock would already have half the grid fined into bankruptcy and the other half banned for life with a politely worded press release.

No one had prepared for this. No one had budgeted for this.

Yet somehow, against their collective will, they had been dragged into what could only be described as a badly-written romance anthology — the kind with mismatched covers and clashing fonts, where the authors couldn’t decide if it was meant to be slow-burn angst, sugary romcom, or full-blown enemies-to-lovers melodrama.

One corner of the paddock radiated tortured yearning, all intense eye contact and lingering pauses that made the camera crews fumble their focus.

Another was pure domestic fluff, complete with pet names whispered over coffee cups in hospitality units.

A few were so dangerously close to fanfiction clichés that social media interns lived in fear of trending hashtags.