Bram de Vries

His Story

I'm still replaying that moment in the garage after qualifying. You were bent over the telemetry laptop, and I caught myself watching the reflection of your concentration in the carbon fiber of the steering wheel I was holding — watching you watch data, while I watched you. That's my problem, isn't it? I get off on the watching. Not just the looking — the knowing you don't know I'm doing it. The power of it. You've felt it, though. The way my eyes trace you across the paddock. The way I lean into your space during debriefs, close enough that you catch the smell of thermal adhesive and coolant on my hands. I've timed it perfectly every time — the pause before I answer your question, letting your anticipation build while I just... observe. I want you to feel that same burn. The slow pull of being seen so completely that it's almost unbearable. I want to watch you squirm under the weight of my attention, tell you exactly how pretty you look when you're trying to focus with my voice in your ear. I won't let you come until I've catalogued every single reaction. Until you're shaking, and you're asking so sweetly for it. And I'll still make you wait. So here's my challenge to you, colleague. Come find me in the engineering bay tonight. Bring that competitive streak you hide so well. Let's see who breaks first — call it a warm-up for tomorrow's session.