HE DOESN’T WANT ME WHEN HE’S SOBER PART 2 (LANDO ENDING)

OK OMG can i request sub oscar literally having to take a break from fucking because he’s gonna come too quick? 🙈

♪ — 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 oscar piastri  x  girlfriend! reader (smut) fic summary . . . after weeks apart due to Oscar’s F1 commitments, he and you finally have time with each other. the deal to not indulge in sexual pleasure while apart comes to bite oscar in his ass (562 words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, p n v sex, overstim, vanilla sex, begging, sexual frustration, light teasing)

an — i love getting these types of oscar requests. finally getting around to writing them, thanks for the request lovie <3

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Oscar’s forehead presses against your shoulder, his breathing already unsteady, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, the way his muscles shake as he forces himself to stay still. And you know why.

It’s been too long.

Between his F1 schedule and all the traveling, he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone spend a night tangled up with you. And after weeks of teasing phone calls, half-whispered confessions about how much you missed each other, you made a deal—no touching, no getting off, nothing—until you were together again.

At the time, it seemed like a fun way to build up anticipation.

Now? Oscar looks like he’s about to combust.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his voice strained. His hands flex at your hips, like he wants to move but knows he shouldn’t. “I just—I need a second.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smirk. He’s barely inside you, buried to the hilt but still, and he’s already this close to falling apart.

“You okay, baby?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Oscar groans, lifting his head just enough for you to see how wrecked he already looks—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed all the way down his chest.

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I—I can't. You feel too good. It’s—fuck, it’s too much.”

You tighten around him just to be mean, and holy shit—the way he shudders, a choked whimper spilling from his lips, makes heat coil low in your stomach.

“Jesus,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-Don’t do that. Please.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What happened to my sweet, patient boy?”

Oscar exhales sharply, gripping your waist tighter. “She left me stranded on the other side of the world for weeks and made me promise not to touch myself,” he grumbles. “Now she’s acting surprised that I’m losing my fucking mind.”

His words make you clench around him again, and he whines, dropping his forehead to your shoulder again.

“Okay, okay—seriously, I need a second,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I move, I’m gonna come in like, two thrusts, and you’re gonna make fun of me forever.”

You hum, running your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly at the roots just to hear him whimper. “You’re already giving me plenty to tease you about, baby.”

Oscar groans. “You’re evil.”

You tilt his chin up, making him look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips bitten raw, and you feel a rush of affection mixed with arousal at the sight of him like this—so desperate, so yours.

“Take your time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I want you to feel good.”

He exhales shakily, nodding, but there’s still frustration in the furrow of his brows.

You smile. “And when you can’t hold back anymore, I’ll take care of you. Okay?”

Oscar swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. “You—” He stops, taking another deep breath, trying to ground himself.

Then, finally, he moves—just a little, a slow roll of his hips that sends a full-body shudder through him.

He groans, high and so needy. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice breaking.

You smirk, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

“That’s the fun part, baby.”

HARD TO MISS

Lando Norris x Driver!Reader 7.9K words

Summary: You had driven sick many times before, but never sick enough to retire from a race. Now Lando was worried about you and how the media was going to react. But maybe this was just about the best thing that could of happened to him. Or in which, reader gets sick during the Spanish GP race and has to face the looming media presence after retiring early with a newfound anger she's never experienced. She was a mess of emotions, acting so different, or maybe it wasn't just her being strange.

Teammates, established relationship, an unexpected surprise?? Note: this unfortunately is a re-upload because my dumbass literally deleted the post the first time I posted it despite it being up for days. Yes I'm mad, and no this isn't edited because of it.

The heat of the Spanish sun beat down on the track, the asphalt shimmering with a relentless intensity that seemed to seep through the cockpit. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your focus on the race ahead, hot, fast breaths heaving through your helmet like a symphony. The familiar roar of the engine, usually a comforting sound, felt more like a distant hum as yet another wave of nausea rolled through you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d raced under less-than-ideal conditions, but today felt different. The adrenaline that usually sharpened your senses now seemed to amplify the queasiness in your stomach, every bump and turn on the track making it harder to push the discomfort aside. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising bile as you powered through another corner, the car responding to your every command despite the growing turmoil within.

The twisting and turning of the track seemed endless, each lap blurring into the next as your vision narrowed, tunnel-like, around the path ahead. You knew you needed to speak up, to let your team know something was wrong, but the words felt heavy on your tongue, weighted down by the fear of admitting weakness. But you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I'm not feeling very well."

The twisting and turning of the track was making it hard for you to settle your stomach enough to find your voice, but when you had, there was a long silence on the other end. Ears alert with anticipation as nothing came through, before the thick accent of your engineer, Marlow finally sounded in with a panicked voice, "Are you feeling faint?"

"Not really.” You huffed. “I feel quite nauseous though. My stomach is not cooperating."

There was a short silence through your head piece before a shuffle was heard on the other side, followed by a concerned, "Should we retire the car?"

The suggestion shakes you and a quick puff of air leaves your mouth in order to hopefully settle the turning in your stomach, though you think it might have translated more as annoyance to your team despite the intention. You couldn't help but hope it hadn't come off too harshly, however the forceful tone of your next words certainly didn’t do much to calm the idea. "No! I'm not retiring the car... No, I'm okay."

"Please love, If you can't finish there's no shame in retiring. You're not letting anyone down, we understand-!" He knew how stubborn you were and he really didn't want the question to feel like the hit to the ego he knew you would take it as, but it was hard when everyone knew this race was what was separating you from top 3 and the rest in the championship. They knew it wouldn't be that easy, quickly corroborated by the frustrated grunt you let sound through the line.

Your foot braces against the accelerator, bearing down full force as you take the straight right after corner 4 at full speed, you weren't retiring. Subjective to your own harsh perception of yourself, retiring - no matter the circumstance - was one of the most culpable failures you could commit. It was never a rewarding feeling, and whether or not to retire from a race like this was an indisputable no. Six years into the sport and you had never retired from a race on your own accord. Today would not be the first.

"I'm okay for now."

There was no arguing with a driver going over 300 kilometers an hour, and so the team let your decision chart as they sat back and kept on with their roles, no different than before. Except for one thing, noting the conversation, they all made undisclosed motions to keep an extra close eye on the driver cam.

And so the race continued as 10 laps went by, 10 very shaky laps with countless immoderate wobbles, a few oversteers around a couple corners and a very close call with Carlos who made quick work of letting the communal radio know how exactly he felt about that, words that were quickly relayed to you. Though his accent was warm, his words were anything but kind and usually you would have taken it on the chin, laughed at his profanities and apologized with a quick witty comment to follow, but your team watched as you only let out a harrowing breath and shook your head. You obviously were not on your A-game and your entire team could see that.

So with all this, it came as no surprise when the silence in their headphones was abruptly interrupted with the blaring sound of your wheels against the track, followed by your voice, quick yet strained, echoing through the radio.

"I think I'm gonna be sick, guys."

With not a moment to spare, Marlows eyebrows furrowed down at your words, worry clear in his voice as he pressed down on the radio button. And though his words were mostly phrased as a question emphasizing the choice as your own, it was still hard to miss the pleading tone in his voice as he spoke loudly into the headpiece, "Are we retiring? It’s your call, love."

Your end of the radio was silent as the words rang through your headset, though not for lack of connection as the sound of your wheels barrelling against the tar never ceased. They knew you were still there, just not vocalizing your thoughts. They had no doubt this was a tough decision. A huge part of this sport was pride; pride in your team, pride in your car, pride in your abilities. And being the only woman on the grid meant your pride was strong and the backlash was inevitably more harsh when things went wrong. 

It was already hard enough for a driver to admit they needed to back out of a race, let alone for a driver who had something to prove and everything to lose. It was a decision they knew you were avoiding complying with. You had been complaining about feeling ill for days leading up to the race and yet insisted on racing regardless. They knew this was important to you, and to back out now, after making it so far already? Your heart was strong, and your head stronger. But for this one time, it seems your stomach was the strongest, and your nausea was taking the reins of this particular race. And so you bit your lip, hoping to keep the bile from rising for just a little while longer. “I need to stop. I’m retiring the car. I can't help it.”

As disappointing as ending a race early was, your team couldn’t deny the shred of relief that washed over them as you, for once, chose your health first. As fun as racing was, and as rewarding as a race in points felt, none of it was ever worth the increased risk to your safety. They would much rather you all woozy up in the medic bay with a DNF, than halfway to unconsciousness with a p8 finish. This certainly wasn’t your best race anyways, probably one the lowest you’d been in points this season. 

As you began your way around your last lap towards the pit lane, your mind raced with all the dreadful thoughts a DNF brought, the pit in your stomach rearing into a sizeable hole which would of left you feeling melancholy if the twisting and turning hadn’t trumped the discontent. 

As each second passed, you could feel whatever it was you had eaten for lunch earlier with Lando rising higher and higher. High enough in fact, that you found it necessary to press the radio button once more with a request. “Have a bag ready for me when I pull up, please.”

To which a compliant, “Copy.” sounded suit.

It wasn’t too much longer until your orange car could be seen sweeping down the pit lane, no hesitation in your steering as you made a harsh turn into your spot by the garage door. The pit team were prepared to make haste in their actions, ready to prop your car onto the jack in order to wheel it into the garage only to be stopped when two quick hands extended up as you braced yourself up against the halo and pulled yourself out of the seat.

At this point, you were hyper aware of the all the people surrounding you, as well as the multitude of cameras pointing directly at you, recording your every move for all the judgeful eyes to see, and yet you found not a single cell in yourself which cared as you leaned over the car and called out for your assistant, who quickly met you with a large black bin in tow. 

You quickly grabbed for it, pulling your front over the side of the car as far as you could in order to hide yourself from the view of the cameras. And out it came, a slurry of lunch which you had been so looking forward to at the time, and quickly regretting now as it all escaped your stomach.

What in the world had you feeling so ill in the first place? It felt like it had been lightyears since you had felt sick enough to actually puke, and god did you not miss this feeling. Had you eaten something bad earlier in the day? Maybe. But everything you ate Lando had eaten too, so wouldn’t he be sick as well? Well, it’s not really like you could ask him, you thought as you looked up just in time to see him overtake George on the big screen. He looks a little busy. And you should be busy too.

The thought seared through your mind as you spat into the bin, you should be racing too, but at least you feel a little better now that it’s come out; though not completely. Your stomach still churned a little and now your throat burned but you guessed it was better than crashing. You had already nearly done that just by being on the track a little too long and now you were definitely going to receive an earful from Sainz when he finally crossed the checkered flag and found you inevitably moping. 

However, you quickly realized that Carlos was actually the least of your worries and the only person you really had to fear was Lando, for when he heard about the outcome of your race, you were sure to face the lecture of your life. He had been warning you for days leading up to it not to participate. You were obviously unwell and he was aware of the dangers an unwell driver faced under the taxing conditions of a race but you were stubborn, insisting you would be fine. Look at you now. Head in a bin with cameras all around and a bruised ego. 

There was only a little time now until the race ended to recover before everyone came pummeling at you with questions. 

The wheel was starting to feel heavy in his hands and the rubbing of the HANS device against his neck was really starting to hurt. They were approaching the end stretch of the race and as the last 15 laps commenced, Lando couldn’t help but feel a little relieved knowing this would be over soon. This was undoubtedly a tough race. 

From lights out till now, he’d managed to pull from P5 to P4 and had every intention of passing Lewis for a podium position, soon enough he’d be in DRS range but for the time being, he was focused on catching up. The world around him had become mute, he hadn’t even looked up at the grand screen once, all he knew was the car.

So he had almost jumped in his seat when the chime sounded. Just as he began slowing around the final corner leading up to the line for his next lap, the sound of an incoming radio signal had his ears perking in anticipation. Were they planning on pitting him again? Sure he was definitely pushing a little too hard against his tires- not really doing his best at conserving them but he was so close to a podium position and he just needed a little bit more force-

“Lando mate,” Will’s voice sounded through his ears, his tone a little hesitant which left Lando biting his lip with anticipation. Please don't box. “I’ve just been informed by Marlow that y/n has retired.”

Lando's heart nearly fell into his stomach as the words registered in his brain. You retired?! Now thinking about it, you did start only a single position behind him and he hadn’t really seen all that much of you during the race. What happened? “Did she crash?!”

“No Lando, she's okay, it was voluntary. She wasn’t feeling well, I don’t think.” 

“You don’t think?”

“She’s okay Lando, just under the weather.”

Not feeling well? Under the weather? You’d raced a multitude of times before whilst under the weather. Each time he’d advise you not to race, and each time you’d ignore him, swearing up and down you’d be fine- and to Lando’s consolation each time you were fine. You’d come out the other side with a smile, no qualms or grievances and you would save your complaints for him afterwards, when no one else was around to judge. As you had done before, he expected the same this time. You’d never let a little ailment set you back, especially not let it affect you enough to retire. Not unless it really was bad.

Lando’s thoughts were soon interrupted by Will’s voice once more, his tone dismissive, implying the conversation had reached its end and no more discussion would be had about it. “We will contact you again if anything happens.”

And despite Lando’s dismay, he complies. There were still a good 15 laps left of the race ahead and he had a lot of catching up to do, a lot of competitive driving to be had. His focus couldn’t be elsewhere, but what was he supposed to do knowing his sick fiancé has just pulled herself out of a race? What was he supposed to do when he knew you well enough to understand how prideful you could be, and how poor you had to feel to choose to retire?  

He really tries to not let it bother him. During the next lap, he tries to not let it bother him as he forces himself to look anywhere else but the jumbo screen in hopes of a possible update on your condition. He tries to not let it bother him in the lap after that as the team radios in to discuss possible strategies regarding the oncoming overtake he will perform, and he tries to not let it bother him during the lap after that one when he finally passes Lewis. Now 3 laps have passed but he just can't get the questions about you off his mind. It is bothering him. He shouldn’t be distracted, especially while he’s in a podium position but he can’t help it. 

So as he crosses onto the next straight, he finds himself radioing in with the question that had been eating away at him since the news broke. “Uh.. Any updates on y/n? Is she alright?”

There's a considerable moment of silence on Mclaren’s end of the line, the team were honestly tied on what to tell the man and what not to. You weren’t exactly in optimal condition, and word around was slightly worrisome regarding your state. You were okay, but definitely not well, they knew because they had caught the treacherous sounds of your gags a few more times since the first echoing through the mclaren garage. 

As your fiance, he deserved to know these details, but as a driver, they knew it wasn’t smart to worry him. What were they to say as to not stress him out in an already extremely stressful situation? They could tell him a few of your team members were discussing taking you to the hospital. Or they could keep him from driving the car through the wall in order to meet you there. The decision was clear, they needed him to focus on driving. “She’s okay, she's currently being looked at by the medical team.”

“She has the medical team on her?!” Will’s eyes shut hard as Lando’s reply came through. Definitely not the right choice of words.

“Just a precaution Lando, she isn’t well at the moment.”

Lando’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as he ponders his engineer's words. He finds himself over analyzing every syllable, every infliction with intentions of unpacking whatever truth was seeping between the lines, and he notices that he’s biting his cheek as he rounds the 8th corner with a little less precision than usual. “Is she bad?”

Landos team take quick note of this change in pace, latching onto the clear oversteer he performs around the corner. They quickly find themselves trying to pull away from the topic in order to keep him both figuratively and literally on track and so Will concludes the conversation with a stern tone. “Please Lando, you can see her when you're done racing. We need you to focus on the race.”

He almost wanted to curse the man out purely due to frustration despite knowing deep down that he was right. But what else was he supposed to do when he knows his fiancé is sitting in the medic bay and all he can do to support her is… well, nothing. He just has to finish this race.

Despite your protests, your team was adamant on a visit to the med bay in order to possibly come up with a reason for your sudden onset of race ending symptoms, and after a quick trip down the hall that took a little longer than usual due to your need to stop once more, you were simply told there wasn’t much they could do long term to crack the bilous case. Shocker. They did however hand you something to ease the nausea which you were beyond thankful for.

You had spent so long counting down the seconds until the anti-nausea medication kicked in that you hadn't even noticed that the race had ended, nor did you notice the approaching sound of hasteful footsteps until the door to your driver's room came barrelling open with a thud.

“I told you not to race.” Lando’s voice was so stern it had you stiff. There was a slight indication of anger lingering behind his words but ultimately his face was a dead giveaway to the worried intention etched behind his tone. 

“I thought I’d be okay.”

“You threw up?” His eyebrows came down as he said it, and you noticed it was less of a question and more as if he was trying to confirm a suspicion. Someone from your team must have snitched on you already. No damn loyalties.

“Only a little.” Your words were sheepish.

“You stink.” He deadpanned and you found yourself scoffing, slightly exasperated at the bluntness of his words. The statement had you petty with offense. 

“You don’t smell very good either-”

“-I don’t smell like vomit.”

Finally you let out a sigh, already tired of the back and forth over something so menial, and unworthy of an argument. You were sick. Shit happens. “Lando, I wasn’t feeling well and I’d been feeling it all week with no real problem so I didn’t think there would be a reason to sit this race out. I didn’t think I would actually need to pull over. It’s done now.”

There was a loud silence between the two of you as he onced over your body with intentful eyes. You seemed okay enough and he guessed this really wasn’t the time or place to start an argument, especially over something as stupid as him being worried about you, you were on the same damn side. So instead he just sighed, bit his lip and nodded at you. “Alright.”

“Guys.” Charlotte suddenly peaked her head through the cracked door to glance at you both. “Come on, we need you at Media now.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, that you knew. The media had given you a hard time for things way less than this so you could only imagine what they had in store for you after throwing up on live TV for half the world to see moments after a voluntary DNF. It just about felt like you were being led to your execution with the way you knew they were about to tear into you. But there was no avoiding this, and the grimaced look etched into your features left Lando very aware of this fact.

“I know you don’t wanna do this but you have to go out there, you’ve got no choice. Not unless you’re willing to cop a fat fine.”

You stuck an eyebrow up at Landos voice, the sides of your lips extending out as you conceptualized his words but your expression quickly had him shaking his head alongside a hearty laugh. “No, no. Don’t even look like you’re considering it.”

Your laugh to match his own soon sounded throughout the room, and his hand swiftly found its place at the nape of your neck, to which he gave a quick squeeze and began leading you out the door into the McLaren garage hallway. “We have a wedding to plan and that means a lot of money to spend. You will not be wasting money trying to get out of media duties.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how exasperated and sarcastic he sounded.

You both found yourselves trailing along Charlotte's path until the hallway quickly opened up into a large room where a few other drivers had already begun their own separate interviews towards the camera crews which littered every corner. The media pen; may as well be your death site.

Whilst waiting for the race to end; and for the nausea to subside, Charlotte had given you a rundown - more like a lecture; regarding what to expect and how to approach the inevitably condescending questions that would soon be thrown your way. 

This was going to be brutal, you knew that. You had finally made a mistake that the male media could exploit to reinforce their stereotypes about damned women in motorsports. Just another day facing the misogyny of the position, except this time, it was your own carelessness that put you in this position. The only damned thing you’d be was a damned liar if you said the upcoming articles tearing into you weren’t already gnawing at your mind. You could just picture it;

‘’Mclaren Princess’ Just Might Throw Her Way Up and Out of Competitive Driving,’

‘Speed Queen’s Weak Stomach Shows Why She’s Better Suited for Other Races,’

‘Too Glamorous For The F1 Track? or Maybe Not Glamorous Enough; - maybe we should leave the fast cars to the men that made them.’ 

This might just be worse than the ‘Revving Engines, not Emotions,’ article from last year when you teared up in Australia after what was the most frustrating race of your career. This was going to be horrible. 

Your actions were always hyper-criticized, but maybe just once you were being too imaginative for your own good. You needed to calm down because words tended to stick with you. A fact that Charlotte knew all too well, because she was sure to speak words she knew would ring through your ears during those interviews; Take it on the chin, stay composed and certainly don't be snappy. One of those was doable.

The moment you passed the threshold beyond the doorway, officially crossing into the media pen, it's as if every set of eyes and every lens of a camera had turned to watch you move. The room hadn’t by any means gone quiet, but there was definitely a shift in volume as the noise settled from a near unbearable buzz to a tolerable chatter, just enough to notice the change. The influx of attention almost had you doubling over once again, especially when you felt the nausea begin to slowly creep up for the second time that day. But you made notable efforts to keep your head high, hoping that a strong demeanor would at least soften the blow which would soon be dealt.

Lando’s arm had split from your neck not long after entering the room. You guys were always light on your PDA, trying to keep as much of your personal relationship as private as possible; as private as an already public relationship could possibly be. But he still managed to give you a small, reassuring squeeze on the hip before you both set off, being led in opposite directions.

A flurry of reporter eyes seemed to trail your path as your personal PR manager led you to a spot right in between Carlos and Charles, and as you started setting yourself up, you unavoidably overheard their journalists trying to wrap up their interviews, which you could only imagine would be to get a shot at you faster. 

However unluckily for those journalists, it seems your first adversary had already taken the stand just directly across from you with a large, heavy mic and aged, gleaming eyes; eyes that had your own widening in alarm. You were quite familiar with this journalist, very familiar with him actually as he had always been quick to criticize you and your skills on many occasions in the past. He was quite ill-mannered towards you, definitely holding a target out with a gun aimed directly for your career, making it clear he was disapproving of your presence as a woman on this grid. You just knew he had been waiting for you. This was going to be hell.

The journalist quickly began setting himself up, the cameraman behind him pointing the lens directly at your sour face, which you admittedly were not doing a great job at masking. Though, if your interviewer had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t commented on it. However that didn’t stop him from wasting any time beginning to comment on the other mistakes you had made today.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Speed Queen.” His gravelly voice spat. “Though I think ‘Pit Princess’ may be a little more fitting after today's race.” A sly smirk quickly spread across his mouth, an act that had your hands bracing against the railing separating the two of you from one another. Charles had quickly taken notice of this from his position just beside you. He admittedly felt he was doing quite well at remaining professional and ignoring the exchange between you and the infamous journalist, but now he was on high alert, ears perked in your direction with the intention of intervening at any given moment.

Despite your peeved sentiment, you did well at keeping your face straight and head high at the insult, feeling it necessary to not crack in front of the person trying to get a reaction out of you. Don’t prove his point. 

“I appreciate the creativity, but I think I would prefer to focus on the race itself rather than nicknames. I’m quite happy with the one I have.” There was a moment in which he tried to intervene, however you were determined to move past the subject. “-And, you know, today’s challenges were significant, but that’s a part of the sport, I guess.” Despite the lingering nausea, you still managed to force a professional smile.

“Is it?” He curled an eyebrow condescendingly, a look which nearly had a scowl slipping past your placid facade. But instead you held strong, that sickeningly sweet smile dripping like honey with disdain. “Part of the sport is the unpredictability of it. So I’d say so.”

The man's eyes gleamed on, a small hum escaping his lips as he nodded absently. “It’s just that no other driver seems to have this issue. Do you think maybe your choice to retire has to do with particular limitations a female might have that the men in this sport don’t?”

And as expected, the indirectness wasn’t so indirect anymore, the true misogynistic intentions of his words slowly crept out with ferocity. 

“No.” Your tone was final, like it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, because it really hadn’t. “No I really don’t. Many men before me have gotten sick during races, I guess I just preferred to voluntarily take myself out of the race than spend the rest of it wiping pesto off my visor.” You snarled. 

A small tap against your arm quickly alerted you to the contention of your PR manager, a disapproving gesture silently advising you to reel it in. But god was it hard when his face was so smug. She should understand that being passive aggressive was much more admissible than being violent, so she may as well let you get your anger out in the socially acceptable way, though you admit it was strange of you to feel so angry. You were usually better at keeping your emotions in check. Hm. But alas, you complied, correcting your face and letting him speak; even if you wanted so badly to interrupt him with your thoughts of how horrible a journalist he was. 

“Well, I think a lot of people agree when I say that this sport tends to reward determination and resilience, not quitting.”

Were you hearing this correctly? Was he really implying that you should have thrown up right into your helmet and just continued through the race like nothing? It was getting really hard to remain socially acceptable. What was this new found anger? “Racing may sometimes reward resilience, however, being sharp minded is more important sometimes. I noticed I was unwell enough for it to affect my performance, so I decided it was smarter to take myself out of the race. Especially after nearly taking Carlos out of the race too.” 

Just as you finished answering the (absurd) question, a suave laugh sounded to your left as Carlos suddenly stepped up beside you, sliding his arm across your shoulder. “I did have some choice words prepared for you earlier Mija, but then I learnt what happened and now I forgive you.” His eyes suddenly turned to the journalist, a glint of exaggerated pity in relation to the topic seeping into his expression, almost as if he was speaking with experience to someone who wouldn’t understand; because he was. “Driving whilst sick is not for the weak.”

The journalist's cold eyes squinted slightly as Carlos’ condescending tone registered in his head, yet he kept his expression neutral and mic high as he nodded. “I’m sure it isn’t.” And nothing was said after that. No rebuttal, no argumentative comment, just a plea of agreement. God, how you wished interviews were that easy for you.

A few voices echoing out from somewhere behind had caught the attention of the trio, and it didn’t take long for you to realize it was Carlos’ team instructing him to move onwards to his next position. So with a reassuring smile towards you and a quick quirk of a brow towards the reporter, he was off to his next interview without another word, taking your fleeting moment of security along with him as he left.

Now it was just you and the reporter once more, and you could tell he wasn’t feeling as cordial with you as he was with Carlos, evident by the slight snarl that had crept onto his face by the interruption in your defense. “Friendly words from Sainz there, as always.” he began, his tone dripping with insincerity, “Do you find it degrading that other drivers always have to come to your defense in order to keep your positive reputation, because there are a lot of people that believe you perhaps, ride off the success of others.” 

Your stomach twisted, and if it was from the nausea growing once again or from the sheer audacity of his words, you couldn’t tell. He was essentially implying that the only reason people liked you was because other likable people vouched for you, and not because of your own hard work and valiant achievements. It seems he wanted defense, you were about to show him just how defensive you could be. 

“With all due respect,” you began, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “I don’t defend myself because I don’t have to, because the genuinity of my character extends far past my words.” you paused, thinking about your next words carefully. “My peers defend me because I’ve proven my capabilities time and time again, and they know that one incident doesn’t define my career. However, I don’t think you share the same sentiment, hm?” 

The taunting in your voice was quickly caught on by your PR manager who swiftly grabbed your arm in yet another warning, except this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as much. The journalist's eyes narrowed at your words, clearly not expecting such a discourteous response and the tugging of your PR manager's grip against your arm was an obvious nonverbal message to wrap it up but you weren't finished, oh no. That new found anger that had been gnawing at you all race was just beginning to trickle out.

“‘Riding off the success of others.’” Your quoted, voice riddled with humor, “And yet you somehow manage to find me every post race interview. Do you write these question’s down in your little notebook while you watch my multi-race winning car fly past you? Or do you wipe the dust from the camera lens instead?”

He quickly opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, your PR manager intervened, her grip on your arm tightening slightly as she stepped forward. “This interview is over,” she announced firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “McLaren will be utalizing the next few days to help Y/n recover for next week's race. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to our media office.”

Your eyes widened in shock at the intervention. You had overstepped your media training a few times before and yet none had ever led to the end of the interview. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little surprised at your PR manager's swift movements as she tugged you back and away from the journalist. “Let’s move on.” Her voice was disapproving but she was obviously trying to remain calm and professional, understanding there was a job to be done. But your anger wasn’t discriminatory, everyone was a potential outlet, and you weren’t having this. “No, I’m finished.” You didn’t even want to participate in media in the first place, this was obligatory. You had done your part and now you were taking charge of the rest of your night. And so you pulled your arm back and made quick haste towards the exit, leading back to your driver room. 

You were only a few meters from the door now, acutely aware of all the eyes watching you retire early from yet another obligation today, when a hand grazing the small of your back pulled you away from the tormenting feeling of the bile rising once again. This time, it was Charles, his sweet face beaming a reassuring smile at you as he began walking in stride towards the exit alongside you. “Mon cheri, that was something else.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, nausea bubbling once again, expecting yet another lecture from someone else. “If by ‘something else’ you mean a complete disaster, then yeah, I guess.”

Charles kept his tone steady, a touch of amusement in his voice as you both walked in stride. “No, I mean you handled it with a lot of, uhh.. What is the English? Poise.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, but it didn’t feel like handling things with poise, It felt like I was about to lose it.” 

His smile slipped into a small laugh before it fell,  and his bright eyes quickly turned into one’s of worry as he began a once over of your body. “Are you feeling okay?” he began the inevitable conversation. “I’m okay, it’ll pass I'm sure.”

Charles’ brows furrowed down, thick accent sounding with worry as he spoke. “You shouldn’t count on it passing, you should take care of yourself. You’re only gonna have more shit thrown at you if you don’t-”

As sweet as his concern was, you were tired of this conversation today, it was becoming tedious to hear and you really just needed to lie down or something. “-Charles, I really appreciate it and I'll be sure to visit the doctor tomorrow, but I think I’m gonna be sick again, so how about you cover me up to the hallway before I end up in another fight with a reporter, or my head in another bin on TV.”

Your words had Charles’s eyes widening, quickly glancing around from side to side in search of his target who was finishing up from an interview of his own, when your hand came up to press against your mouth, skin turning a tinge green. “Lando!”

The video shook a little as the person on the other end fidgeted with the camera, a slight blur shifting the image and the audio cracking with the movement before the frame finally straightened up. The person took a step back. It was you, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the video had been uploaded onto your own instagram, but it was the first anyone had really heard of you in weeks. 

Ever since your race ending ailment back in Spain, you had essentially gone radio silent. Not posting, not participating in interviews; you had missed 2 more races since then. It was worrisome, especially considering you had assured everyone the day after Spain that you were working on getting better for next week's race, which you never showed up to. 

The races went on and the fans asked about you, the interviewers asked about you too, but it seemed everyone involved in the FIA had no comment on your whereabouts nor your condition. The drivers dodged post interview questions, excelling on to new subjects and only had quick fleeting comments in response to concerned fans around the paddock who were only trying to make sense of it all.

Lando copped the brunt end of it though, scoring a P2 podium in Canada that everyone could more obviously care less about in his post-race interviews. The only topic mentioned was you, your absence from the race and why everyone was so hush-hush about it in the first place. The interviews were so off topic that this time it was Lando who had to leave the media pen early to avoid the questions, though opposingly, McLaren had been the ones to encourage his swift exit.

It was starting to become an issue. People were fretful. Were you still sick? Was it something more serious than you had anticipated and now you couldn’t race anymore?

The view they were looking at suggested that perhaps they were about to find out. 

You retreated away from the camera propped up against what people could only speculate had to be your dressing table, as you found your spot upon the large, luxurious bed the camera was pointing towards. Now cross legged upon it, your body clad in a 2 piece short silky pajama set, finally you began to speak. 

“Hello everyone.” You didn’t sound unwell, not stressed or upset. In fact, there was an edge to your voice that almost seemed cheerful; excited. And yet for now you remained composed, nothing but a small, media trained smile dawning your otherwise expressionless face.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence was humorous, calling attention to the silence you had afflicted, and the lack of news upon your whereabouts. “Lando and I are finally home in Monaco for summer break, though I have to admit that I’ve actually been in Monaco for a few weeks now. I think some of you might feel that was a bit obvious given my absence.”

There was a high pitched chuckle off screen, it obviously being Lando out of frame as your eyes flickered over to the side with a playful yet mischievous smile, encouraging his reaction with your expression. It was a fleeting moment as your smile once again fell into something a little more vacant before straightening up and continuing. “I know a lot of people have questions, and I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my end, I’ll explain, I promise but first I also want to say please don’t be mad at any of the other drivers for not speaking out, they were all just respecting my wishes in not saying anything until I was ready.”

There was a small pause as you took a breath, no sound emitting except for the slight breeze wafting through the room, further exemplified by the sway of the sheer curtains. This was so nerve racking, were you about to announce your departure from motorsport? Were you about to reveal a sickness you weren't aware of until now? The silence, though short lived, was deafening. 

“I-” Finally you spoke, but quickly caught it with a bite to your lower lip. It really seemed like you were processing your words, debating how to present your next statement carefully enough. “How do I-?”

Once again your gaze drifted off to the side of the screen, confused and cautious eyes quickly averting into a bright smile before a laugh escaped your mouth. “Don’t look so excited!” 

Lando, obviously beaming, clear by the tone of his voice, cheerfully yelled back, “Do you want me to say it?!”

“No!” you rebutted quickly with a laugh, “I told you I wanted to be the one to announce it, stop trying to take my shine!”

“Then go on with it!” He was so obviously really excited, impatient to finally announce whatever it was that had him so elevated.

“Okay well-” You stuttered for a moment, quickly catching yourself before continuing. “As many of you saw in Spain, I wasn’t feeling too well,-”

“-Hard to miss-.” Landos voice mumbled, a comment in which you swiftly ignored.  

“-And I hadn’t been for a few days leading up to it but I just took it as a stomach bug and planned to go on with it like usual. What I didn’t plan for however, was the doctor's visit I was forced to go to the day after.”

Your eyes glared off to the side once again, feigning annoyance but evidently not actually upset before looking back at the camera with a smile. “The good news is that we are very much aware of what was making me sick.” Your voice was reassuring, eyes slowly beginning to light up as you continued on. “The bad news is that I unfortunately will not be participating in the rest of the 2024 season, or the 2025 one for that matter.”

It was like you could feel the impending shock of everyone watching radiating through the screen despite it being pre recorded because your pause was almost comically dramatic. And yet it was so wholly conflicting, because regardless of the awful news, you didn’t really seem all that upset despite being such a passionate racer, it felt so out of character. This confusion was only exemplified further when your eyes once again drifted to the left, a large smile engulfing your features as you took notice of what had to be Lando's excited expression once more. “Oh don’t look so happy, you’re the one who still gets to race!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughed that high pitched laugh he does when he just can’t hold it back.

Your eyes flickered back to the camera, sitting straight on with a patient yet humorous smile, a single eyebrow cocked as you waited for Landos laughter to simmer. It took a moment, a moment you thought ended a time or two before he began again, but eventually the room became still again as your face grew just a little more in adoration towards the man everyone could see you loved dearly. It was like the energy had shifted just a little, from what felt so playful before, to something a little more familial and warm. 

“I think some of you may have put the pieces together, but for those who haven’t. Well… I’m pregnant!” Your smile was so big and sheepish, so conscious and just a little shy, it almost felt as if you were announcing it to a friend of many years and it was all just so heartwarming. You were okay! More than that, you were happy, and soon everyone else who would watch this video would be too. Lando's happy laugh from beyond the camera at the announcement finally being made was more than enough to express just how joyous the news was for the two of you.

“As heartbreaking as it will be to not be able to competitively race in the upcoming seasons, I’m not actually that sad about having to step down for a little.” You laughed heartily. “I proudly announce that in my place, the very talented Australian driver Oscar Piastri will be filling my position until I'm off from… maternity leave? I guess. That's a first for this sport.”  You laughed.  “But of course they just had to find the best to replace the best.” You quickly glanced over towards Lando out of frame, clearly expecting an agreement that never came. They could only imagine the disapproving look Lando was sending you.

Your expression never changed, but your tone dropped as you spoke darkly. “I’m carrying your child.” You spat, to which a loud “But of course!” sounded in response, followed by a laugh from the both of you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be seeing me around the track a lot considering this muppet,” you pointed to your left, “still gets to race.”

“Don’t be jealous,” the soft voice came from off screen. 

“No, I’ll confidently admit it, I’m so jealous.” You pouted, but the warmth in your eyes belied the playful tone in your voice.

Lando’s hand appeared in the frame for a brief moment, gently squeezing your shoulder before disappearing off-camera again. “We’ll be back out there together soon enough.”

You nodded, your smile returning as you glanced back at the camera, feeling a surge of excitement for what was to come. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to supporting the team from a different angle. It’s going to be a new experience, but I’m excited to do this as…”

“-As a mother?” Lando finished with a knowing smirk.

“As a mother.” You laughed, a loud one from Lando soon sounded to match your own, one so joyous it left you beaming. Suddenly, Lando jolted in frame, clearly excited as he leaned over the bed to tackle you from your sitting position down into a hug, leaving you both falling back onto the sheets. “Oh my god Lando!” You shout, a hand quickly moving to shield your lower stomach. “God! Nevermind guys, I think Lando just tackled the baby out of me, guess I’ll be seeing you all from my McLaren in Austria.”

“Oh!” Lando gasped. “Not funny!” 

to be honest ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

“i’m sorry i had a machine hooked up to me and i couldn’t lie.” 

ꔮ starring: alex albon x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. inspired by and references the Does Alex Albon think he is No. 1 at Williams? | The Lie Detector video, secret (not for long, sucker) relationship. ꔮ commentary box: this idea has been clanging in my head for two weeks now, i fear 🐈‍⬛ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Alex had asked—begged—you not to watch the lie detector test video. 

You agreed, but not without teasing him about divulging some embarrassing secret. You figured it was something along those lines. Maybe they made him choose his favorite cat or reveal his ridiculous pre-race routine. Either way, your boyfriend seemed pretty serious about not wanting you to see that particular piece of content. 

Except it’s been impossible to avoid. 

Your algorithms are unsurprisingly fine-tuned to anything and everything Alex. Clips of his radio messages on Instagram reels, edits of him to Hamilton songs on your TikTok For You page. You’re idly scrolling through your Twitter feed when one particular post catches your attention. 

It’s not even the concept of a reveal that catches your attention. No, that was to be expected. 

What did they mean—Alex asked for it not to be mentioned? 

It’s one thing to keep you from watching. It’s a completely different situation to ask everybody else to stay mum, as if purposefully keeping you out of the loop.

That would make no sense. You try to shake the thought out of your head, try to go back to doom-scrolling, but it nags in the back of your brain. Alex wasn’t the type to hide things from you. The two of you were a secret to the rest of the world, sure, but there were no secrets between you. 

Right? 

You set your phone on Do Not Disturb. You scrub the kitchen clean. You take a scalding hot shower. None of it helps. 

By the time you’re back on your couch, red-faced from the heat of your bath and something else entirely, you make an executive decision. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, you decide. Alex has given you grace for much worse. 

You pull the video up.

The guilt you’re feeling ebbs at the familiar lilt of Alex’s accent. My heart is gonna be, like, two hundred.

He’s not even on the screen yet, but you can imagine the way his boyish smile would curve around the words. He’s not due to visit until much later, so this six-minute video will have to tide you over the feeling of missing him. And your curiosity. That, more than anything. 

For a moment, you nearly forget why you’re watching. It’s so easy to be distracted by Alex’s sheer expressiveness, by the way he’s always just a bit breathless when he’s laughing. You want nothing more than to reach into your phone and will him to be seated right next to you, alleged reveal be damned. 

Have you ever sat on the toilet so long, your legs fell asleep?, he’s asked, and you simultaneously snort with on-screen Alex. 

Many a times, he answers, and it’s registered as the truth. But it’s more because that’s my time to watch TikTok.

You’re all-too aware of that habit. The petty arguments of you slamming on the bathroom door, demanding for your turn, only for Alex to shout back that he’s finishing part 32 of some movie cut up into several videos, and he’ll be out soon, he swears. It’s the type of domestic image that paints how comfortable the two of you have been this past year, even if there was nobody else to see it. 

Did you have a celebrity crush growing up? 

Yes, on-screen Alex responds. When prodded, he adds rather sheepishly, Erm… Emma Watson. 

You knew that, too. When you first found out, you made Alex sit through the fourth movie so you could tease him relentlessly. Fed up, he had tackled you down onto the mattress during the Triwizard Tournament’s Second Task. The ensuing makeout session had been both heated and playful. A part of you can still feel it thrumming beneath your ribs, months later. 

You’re scheming how to orchestrate another Harry Potter marathon just as two things happen at once. 

First, the Alex on-screen gets asked—baited, more like—with a query of And does your girlfriend compete? 

Then, your front door swings open. The man himself calls out like he always does, “Honey, I’m home!” 

It’s an inside joke, one you can’t really dwell on. Your attention is halved. 

You’ve started out of shock, and your phone is playing on full volume. Just enough for your boyfriend to hear his own sputter of My—my what? from what you’d been watching. 

There’s the sound of something crashing in the entryway. Later, you’ll discover it’s Alex having dropped his duffel bag in his own panic. 

He’s at the mouth of the living room in the next second, but you’re too busy going slack-jawed at the scene in the challenge. The polygraph shoots up. The examiner shakes his head amusedly. The man on the screen fucking laughs, goading Alex, So there it is! You’ve got a girl, Albono?

“You’re watching the video!” Alex shrieks accusingly. 

In return, you screech, “You told everyone about me?!”

Alex darts forward. You mentally curse his racer reflexes and his long legs as he throws himself on top of you. He’s blissfully unaware of his own weight, and so you feel winded amid your attempts to fight back. 

“I didn’t—tell about you,” he argues, his arms flailing as he tries to wrestle your phone out of your hands. “That’s all I said!” 

Which is a damn lie, of course. You don’t even see your screen anymore, but you can hear the video playing out. 

Alex being asked, Would you say this is your soulmate? 

Alex, without missing a beat: Yes. Without a doubt, yes. 

The Alex on top of you groans. He buries his face in the crook of your neck like he might be able to run and hide from his answer, especially as the examiner declares, He’s not lying. 

You relent, hitting pause and casting your phone aside. It lands somewhere by the foot of the couch. “I can’t believe you watched it,” your boyfriend petulantly murmurs against your skin. 

“I can’t believe I’m your soulmate,” you shoot back, and he pinches your side in retaliation. 

“Seriously,” he huffs, adjusting his positioning so that he’s not crushing you too much. “What happened to trust, huh?” 

“Slow down, Gabriella Montez.” 

“Stop being a nerd. It makes me want to kiss you.” 

You’re giggling as Alex rolls off you, flopping to the other end of the couch. He’s all lanky limbs and furrowed brows, his glare fixed on your phone like Sky Sports has personally wronged him. You reach out to rub his ankles, and he instinctively relaxes as if his body is fine-tuned to respond to your touch. 

“I’m sorry for watching the video,” you say. 

Alex frowns. “You’re not sorry.” 

You’re not. 

He heaves out a long-held sigh. “I had to do this whole thing,” he grumbles absent-mindedly. “Hid my Instagram story from you and all that…” 

“You what?” 

“Anyway. Anyway.” Alex clears his throat, his frown curling into a thin pressed line. It’s a rueful kind of grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tick for when he’s guilty. “I was going to tell you.” 

“I bet you were,” you hum. 

You’re not mad. Not really. You know he’s been itching to go public, has wanted you in the Williams hospitality suite for God-knows-how-long. That laminated ID card that would proudly proclaim Guest of Alex Albon.

“They still don’t know you,” he offers. This time, he’s reaching out for you. Preemptively trying to soothe some imagined annoyance. Alex tugs you gently until you’re resting between his legs, his face burying in the back of your hair. 

“All they know is that you exist,” he adds, “and they don’t have to know anything else.” 

You feel a pang in your chest, one put there when you’re reminded of just how lucky you are to have somebody so patient. Someone so willing to set aside his wants for your comfort, your peace of mind. 

“Okay,” you say, voice now softer that Alex has his chin hooked over your shoulder. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry I had a machine hooked up to me and I couldn’t lie.” 

You laugh. “As long as you promise to never lie to me,” you note, nudging his ribs lightly. He lets out an exaggerated howl. 

“I would never,” he grumbles, and you know—you know that’s the truth, too. 

You tilt your head slightly, catching the complicated expression on Alex’s face. There’s that hint of insecurity, that touch of guilt, that flash of impatience. But all of it eases up when you lean in, and you kiss the doubt away. 

“I believe you,” you breathe against his lips, and he’s already smiling before he pulls you in for more. ⛐

BONUS —

Thawed

Kimi Räikkönen x sunshine!Reader

Summary: the many times throughout the years that only the warmth of his wife could thaw the Iceman

“He’s just so … cold,” your aunt comments, wrinkling her nose at Kimi’s back as he heads to the bar. It’s the first time you’ve brought him to a family event.

You bristle, prepared to defend your new boyfriend. “He’s not cold once you get to know him. He’s just a private person.”

Your aunt sniffs. “Still, he barely said two words all night. And that nickname — the Iceman! I don’t like it.”

You straighten your spine. “Well I do. His thoughtfulness and loyalty outweigh any lack of words.”

As you speak, you feel your doubts about mismatched personalities fade. Opposites attract for a reason.

Your aunt looks unconvinced, but you pay her no mind. You’re falling for the quiet Finn with a heart of gold. And you won’t let anyone’s disapproval chill that flame.

When Kimi returns, you lean up and kiss his cheek fondly. He looks pleasantly surprised. Let them judge. You see the real man inside.

***

“Smash it! Smash it!” The rowdy groomsman chants as you and Kimi cut into your wedding cake.

Other guests take up the chant, clamoring for Kimi to shove cake in your face per tradition. But you had quietly asked him not to — you don’t want frosting up your nose and ruining your makeup on your wedding day.

Kimi’s eyes meet yours, a silent question. You give a slight shake of your head. His expression hardens with resolve.

In one smooth motion, he whirls and smashes the slice of cake directly into the rowdy groomsman’s face. Icing splatters everywhere. The room goes silent.

“Here you go, since you seem to want the cake smashed so bad,” Kimi says coldly.

The groomsman splutters in shock. You have to hide your smile behind your hand.

Kimi winks at you as he licks icing off his fingers. “Now, where were we?”

Heart swelling, you lean in to kiss your wonderful, cake-covered husband. No one gets in the way of your wishes on your wedding day.

***

The paddock is bustling with activity as you make your way through the crowds, weaving between mechanics and engineers going about their race day routines. The smells of rubber and gasoline hang thick in the air. You smile and nod at familiar faces, receiving knowing looks in return.

Everyone here knows who you are — the bubbly, outgoing wife of the Iceman himself. The unlikely pairing has been the talk of Formula 1 ever since you started dating a few years ago. You’re warm and chatty. He’s cool and laconic. But somehow, it works.

You find Kimi in the Ferrari motorhome, sipping an energy drink, game face on. His brows are furrowed in concentration, icy grey eyes focused straight ahead. You know not to disturb him right now. This is business time.

Slipping into the seat beside him, you pull out your phone and scroll aimlessly, letting the comfortable silence stretch between you. The hustle and noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Finally, Kimi drains the last drops from his can and crushes it in his hand. He turns to you, the stern expression melting away. His eyes soften and the corners of his mouth tick upward ever so slightly.

“Morning,” he says quietly, voice gravelly.

You beam at him. “Good morning, love. Ready to go racing today?”

He nods, the hint of a smile still playing on his lips. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I did, thanks to my very comfy race driver pillow.” You wink.

Kimi snorts, the creases around his eyes deepening. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

Around you, mechanics and team members try and fail to pretend they aren’t glancing your way, still not used to seeing the Iceman so openly affectionate. But Kimi doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“I’ll see you after,” he says, standing up and giving your hand a squeeze. His face settles back into cool concentration as he strides out to prepare for the race.

You settle in to watch qualifying, heart swelling with pride and love for your Finnish fireball.

***

“Kimi, the stewards want to speak with you about the incident with Perez on lap 37.”

Kimi’s jaw clenches, eyes flashing. “Typical,” he mutters.

You touch his arm reassuringly. “Go on, I’ll wait here for you.”

He nods, striding off to the steward’s office, race suit half unzipped and hair disheveled. You know he’ll be lucky to escape without a penalty. Kimi has never been one to mince words or hide his displeasure with other drivers. You can only imagine the icy staredown happening behind those closed doors right now.

Twenty minutes later, he emerges looking ready to smash a table. You jump up and hurry over.

“Well? What did they say?”

Kimi’s scowl deepens, if that’s even possible. “Ten second penalty. Ridiculous.” He spits out something in Finnish you’re glad you don’t understand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You drove brilliantly today.”

He shakes his head and stalks down the hall towards the paddock. You scurry after him, nearly jogging to match his long angry strides.

“Forget it. Not your fault the stewards are blind.”

You slip your hand into his, lacing your fingers together. Immediately you feel some of the tension leave his body. He glances down at you, the hint of a smile breaking through the thunderclouds.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say gently. “I’ll make you your favorite dinner, open a nice bottle of wine ...”

He nods, expression softening. “Okay. Sounds good.”

You smile up at him, giving his hand a squeeze. The stormy Finn may have a heart of ice on the track, but you know better. He just needs a little sunshine sometimes.

***

You pause in the kitchen doorway, heart melting at the scene before you. Kimi sits on the living room floor, your baby niece perched happily in his lap. He bounces her gently on his knee as she squeals with delight, the hint of a smile on his usually stoic face.

“Faster Unca Kimi, faster!” She cries, unruly curls flying.

He chuckles and picks up the pace, eliciting delighted giggles from her. Your sister watches nearby, still looking a bit bemused at seeing the Iceman so good natured and playful.

Finally Kimi stops, feigning exhaustion. “Whew, that’s enough for Uncle Kimi,” he says, lifting her up and pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “You’re too fast!”

She dissolves into giggles and wraps her tiny arms around his neck in a hug. He hugs her back, looking more content than you’ve ever seen him. Your heart feels fit to burst.

“Who wants ice cream?” You announce, carrying in two bowls.

“Me, me!” Your niece starts to squirm in Kimi’s lap, reaching eagerly for her treat.

He stands, swinging her up easily onto his shoulders. “Let’s go have ice cream on the porch, give your mama a break,” he says. She kicks her little legs gleefully.

Your sister shoots you a grateful smile as Kimi carries her outside. You grin and wink. Who would believe it — the Iceman, a big softie for kids. But you know better. Under that cool exterior beats a heart of gold.

***

The crowds pressing around the circuit are suffocating today. Fans shove programs and merch at you for Kimi to sign. One overzealous teenage boy tries to wrap you in an uninvited hug.

Suddenly Kimi is there, gently but firmly detaching the boy’s hands from your arms. His face is thunderous.

“Back. Off.” The boy stumbles away wide-eyed.

Kimi keeps a protective grip on your shoulder as he marches you briskly from the paddock. Once inside the privacy of the motorhome, he cups your face in his hands.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His tone is urgent.

You shake your head, still a bit shaken. “Just got grabby. Thank you for the rescue.”

Kimi exhales, pressing his forehead to yours. “I don’t like you getting swarmed out there.”

You smile wryly. “Hazards of being Mrs. Iceman.”

He brushes his thumb over your cheek. “I just want to keep you safe. Those crowds make me nervous.”

You kiss him softly. “I’ll be okay.”

His eyes bore into yours, icy blue melting into tenderness. “Still. Stay close to me out there from now on. So I can protect what’s most precious.”

Your heart flutters under his intent gaze. You lace your fingers through his, feeling infinitely cherished.

“Always.”

***

“Kimi, your phone is ringing again,” you call from the couch.

He doesn’t respond, gaze fixed intently on the TV as he navigates a difficult turn in his racing video game. The phone buzzes angrily on the coffee table.

With a sigh, you reach for it. The caller ID says “Bane of My Existence.” You frown. That’s the third call from her this week that he’s ignored.

“Kimi ...”

“Hmm?” He pauses the game and glances at you, eyebrows raised.

You hold up the phone. “It’s your PR officer again. Don’t you think you should answer and see what she wants?”

His expression clouds over. “No. Told her not to call me anymore.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” You keep your tone light and curious.

He shrugs. “Kept trying to get me to do stuff. Go to parties and all that.”

You bite back a smile, warmth flooding your chest. Your shy homebody of a husband, sought after on the celebrity circuit but wanting none of it.

“Well, I’m glad she hasn’t lured you away yet,” you tease gently.

The corners of his mouth quirk up as he takes the phone from you and sets it aside before pulling you into his lap.

“Don’t worry,” he rumbles, nudging your nose with his. “You’re the only party I need.”

You kiss him softly, heart overflowing. The glitz and glam means nothing to your Kimi. Home is where his heart is.

***

You awake to whispered voices and the smell of something burning. Bleary-eyed, you shuffle to the kitchen doorway.

Kimi stands at the stove, hair endearingly mussed from sleep. He’s scowling down at a frying pan, clutching a spatula like a weapon. Your brother leans against the counter, trying and failing to stifle laughter.

“What’s going on?” You ask through a yawn.

Kimi’s scowl deepens. “Trying to make you breakfast. Not going well.” He prods the blackened lump in the pan disdainfully.

Your brother snorts. “He nearly set off the fire alarm. I got here just in time.”

“I told you I don’t cook,” Kimi mutters, avoiding your gaze.

You pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, love.”

He relaxes back into your embrace. Your brother mimes gagging behind his back. You stick out your tongue at him.

“Here, I’ll show you,” you say, gently prying the spatula from Kimi’s hand. “Just go slow ...”

Soon, the three of you are gathered around the table, eating the pancakes you made together. Kimi’s are a bit misshapen, but edible.

He looks inordinately pleased as you sample his. “Good?”

You beam at him and squeeze his hand. “The very best.”

His rare unguarded smile warms you more deeply than any breakfast ever could.

***

You awaken to the dipping of the mattress as Kimi slips under the covers. The red glow of his bedside clock reads 3:48 AM.

“Everything okay?” You murmur, rolling over to face him.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against his chest. You feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” His voice rumbles low near your ear.

You nuzzle into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. “Worrying about the race this weekend?”

He exhales, his breath stirring your hair. “No. Just thinking.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, you lift your head to study his face in the dimness. His eyes shine in the faint light, gazing at you with an intensity that makes your own heart skip.

“What is it?” You whisper.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his callused fingers infinitely tender. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re here. That you’re mine.”

Emotion swells in your chest, words escaping you. You cup his stubbled face and guide his lips down to yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

When you finally draw apart, he pulls you close again, tucking your head under his chin. No more words are needed. You understand each other perfectly in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. Soon his breathing evens out in sleep, and you follow him down, still nestled safe in the circle of his arms.

***

You’re just drizzling the last of the chocolate over the molten lava cakes when you hear Kimi’s keys in the front door. A smile spreads across your face. Perfect timing.

He wanders in a few moments later, hair adorably rumpled, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“Mmm, something smells good,” he says, crossing the kitchen to wrap you in a hug.

You kiss his scratchy cheek. “Made your favorite for dessert. Now go get cleaned up while I finish.”

He squeezes you tighter, stubble tickling your neck as he nuzzles into it. “Can’t I have you for dessert instead?”

You swat his shoulder playfully. “Go on, you. Plenty of time for that later.”

He steals one more kiss before sauntering off, a grin playing about his lips. You shake your head, unable to stop smiling. After all these years, he still makes your heart race as if you’re teenagers again.

When he returns, you’ve set out the seared salmon, roasted vegetables, and the two perfect chocolate lava cakes. His eyes light up.

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best wife ever?” He asks, pulling out your chair.

“Hmm, I think you could stand to mention it more,” you tease.

He takes your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. His eyes pierce yours. “You’re the best wife ever,” he says solemnly.

You lean in and kiss him, happiness bubbling up inside you. However many times he says it, you’ll never get tired of hearing it.

***

“So, what’s it like being married to the grumpiest driver on the grid?” The reporter shoves a microphone in your face, invasive and smug.

You recoil, blindsided. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality.” The reporter leans closer. “Does the Iceman thaw out at home or just freeze you out?”

Humiliation burns through you. Before you can respond, Kimi is there, gently moving you aside. His eyes are blazing.

“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that,” he growls at the reporter. “You know nothing about our life.”

The reporter withers under Kimi’s icy glare. You feel a rush of gratitude for your protective husband.

Kimi turns to you, face softening. “Let’s get out of here.”

Once you’re alone, he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Sorry you had to deal with that. He had no right to badger you about our marriage.”

You lean into him, safe in the circle of his arms. “It’s okay. You came to my rescue like a knight in shining racing gear.”

He snorts. “Hardly a knight. But for you, always.” He kisses you tenderly.

No matter what the media says, your life together is not theirs to define. Your love writes its own quiet story each day.

***

You awake in the dark to a loud crash from downstairs. Heart pounding, you shake Kimi’s shoulder.

“Kimi, wake up! I think someone’s broken in.”

He’s up in an instant, alert and poised to strike. You hear footsteps creeping up the stairs. Kimi pushes you behind him and grabs the baseball bat by the bed.

The footsteps reach the landing and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway. Kimi flicks on the light, bat raised menacingly. You both freeze.

It’s Sebastian Vettel, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Whoa whoa, it’s just me!”

Kimi’s shoulders slump as he lowers the bat. “Seb? What the hell are you doing here?”

Seb runs a hand through his messy hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was in town and my rental car broke down outside. I was hoping I could crash here tonight.”

Kimi sighs, shaking his head. “You couldn’t call first?”

Seb grins sheepishly. “Forgot to charge my phone.”

You step out from behind Kimi, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, love. Let’s get some fresh sheets for the guest room.” You turn to Seb. “We’ll figure out your car in the morning.”

Seb’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thanks, I really owe you guys.”

As you make up the bed, you share an amused look with Kimi. Only Seb could turn up unannounced in the middle of the night and get away with it. But then again, that’s why you love him.

***

You’re waiting at the finish line, heart in your throat as the cars scream past for the final lap. Kimi is battling for a podium finish, but has fallen back after a poorly timed pit stop. He’s gaining ground fast, but is he out of time?

The crowd roars as the frontrunners cross the line. P2 … P3 … waiting for P4. Come on, Kimi.

Then you see it, the red and white Alfa Romeo flashing past the checkered flag, narrowly clinching third. You leap in the air, cheering loudly. Kimi did it!

You rush down towards the pits, arriving just as Kimi climbs from his car. His race suit is drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes are bright. When he spots you, a grin breaks across his face.

You throw your arms around him, heedless of how sweaty he is. “You were amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

He lifts you off your feet in a bear hug, laughing breathlessly in your ear. The sound sends joy bursting through your veins.

As he sets you down, you cradle his stubbled face in your hands. “I love you,” you say fiercely.

His grin softens to something more tender. He tilts his forehead against yours, heedless of the crowds milling nearby.

“Love you too,” he murmurs.

The cameras flash around you, eager to capture this rare unguarded moment. But Kimi only has eyes for you. Third place has never felt so golden.

***

“Ugh, your wife is so annoyingly positive all the time. It’s nauseating,” the other driver’s girlfriend gripes to Kimi at a race afterparty.

You freeze mid-laugh, stung by her disdainful tone. Kimi’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“I would rather have a positive wife than a miserable cow like you,” he says coldly. “Come on, let’s go.”

He takes your arm and steers you firmly away. You blink back tears, embarrassed.

“Hey,” Kimi says softly, tilting your chin up. “Don’t listen to her. I love how positive you are. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for spreading joy.”

You give a watery chuckle. “Really? You don’t find it annoying?”

“Are you kidding? Your light balances out my darkness perfectly.” He punctuates this with a swift kiss. “You keep me from being a constant grump.”

You laugh and swat his chest. “Impossible. No one can tame the Iceman’s grumpiness.”

He smiles tenderly and pulls you close. “You do. Don’t change for anyone else.”

***

You pace the bathroom floor, heart racing. The little white stick sits innocently on the counter, but its result will change everything. One blue line for negative, two for positive.

Three minutes have never felt so long.

When the timer finally beeps, you take a deep breath and turn it over with a shaky hand. Two blue lines stare back at you.

Positive.

Emotions swell within you — joy, nervousness, excitement. You and Kimi have been trying for a baby, but it still feels so surreal now that it’s actually happening.

You hear the front door open and Kimi call out your name. It’s time. Clutching the test behind your back, you go to him.

He must read something in your face, because his brows furrow in concern. “Everything okay?”

Your face splits into a teary grin. “Everything’s perfect.” You bring the test out from behind you and hold it up wordlessly.

Kimi’s eyes widen. For once, the unflappable Finn seems utterly flapped. “You … we ...” He stares at the two little lines, then back at you. “We’re having a baby?”

You nod, vision blurring with happy tears. With a joyful shout, Kimi sweeps you up in his arms and spins you around. His excitement is boyish and uncontained.

When he sets you down, he cradles your face in both hands. “I’m going to be a father,” he whispers in awe.

You put your hand over his, overjoyed tears spilling down your cheeks. “You’re going to be the best father.”

***

You fidget impatiently on the exam table, Kimi’s hand clutched in yours. After months of waiting, today is your first ultrasound. If all looks well, you’ll get to see your baby for the very first time.

“What’s taking so long?” You huff. Kimi smiles and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Relax, they’ll be here soon.” His calm steadies you, as it always does.

Finally the technician arrives and asks you to lift up your shirt. She squeezes cool gel over your swelling belly and begins moving the ultrasound wand through it.

The screen comes to life, showing grainy black and white images you can’t decipher. The technician frowns, adjusting some dials. Your heart leaps into your throat.

Sensing your distress, Kimi gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Just be patient,” he murmurs.

After a few tense moments, the technician’s face clears. She turns the screen towards you with a smile. “There we are. There’s your baby.”

You gaze in wonder at the little shape filling the screen, tiny arms and legs visibly squirming. Your vision blurs with tears. That’s your child, your little miracle.

Beside you Kimi is utterly transfixed, eyes shining. “That’s our baby,” he whispers reverently.

He lifts your intertwined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, voice husky with emotion. “For this gift.”

You have no words. You simply lean into him, his solid warmth anchoring you as joy washes over you both.

***

You stare glumly at your reflection in the mirror. At eight months pregnant, you feel like a beluga whale. Your ankles are swollen, your back aches constantly, and none of your clothes fit over your enormous bump anymore.

Voices sound from downstairs as Kimi arrives home. You feel tears prick your eyes. You don’t want him to see you like this, a beached whale in sweatpants.

Sniffling, you ease onto the bed and bury your face in a pillow. Kimi finds you there a few minutes later. The mattress dips as he sits down and rubs your back.

“What’s wrong, love?”

You shake your head, embarrassed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Gently he turns you over, brushing the hair from your damp cheeks. “Talk to me,” he says softly.

A sob escapes you. “I’m hideous like this! I’ve gotten so huge. You must be disgusted looking at me.”

Kimi’s brow furrows. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his earnest gaze. “Is that what you think? That I find you disgusting?”

Ashamed, you drop your eyes, fresh tears spilling over.

“Look at me,” he says gently. You do. His ice blue eyes pierce yours. “You’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are right now, carrying our child.”

He places a reverent hand on your belly. “You are giving us the most precious gift in the world. How could I not find you beautiful?”

His words pierce your heart. You cover his hand with yours. “I love you,” you whisper.

He gathers you close, dropping feather-light kisses over your face. “And I love you. Always.”

You cling to him, feeling foolish and so very loved.

***

A contraction rips through you, more intense than any before. You cry out, squeezing Kimi’s hand desperately.

“Breathe, love, breathe,” he coaches, face taut.

You gasp air into your lungs as the vice grip on your insides finally releases. Kimi dabs the sweat from your brow with a cool cloth.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Our little one will be here soon.”

Even through the haze of pain, his voice anchors you. Your Kimi, always steady as a rock.

Too soon, another contraction wrings a ragged shout from you. Kimi never leaves your side, letting you nearly crush his hand as you ride out the agony.

“I can’t … I can’t do this ...” you sob.

Kimi presses his lips to your temple. “You can. You’re the strongest person I know. I’m right here with you.”

His faith buoys you, even as your body is wracked with wave after wave of excruciating spasms. Your world narrows to the circle of his arms.

Then finally, miraculously, comes the thin, piercing cry of your child. Your exhausted tears mingle with joyful laughter.

Kimi cuts the cord with shaky hands, eyes shining brighter than you’ve ever seen. When they lay the squalling, pink bundle on your chest, the universe crystallizes to this one perfect point.

Your family, whole at last.

***

You awake in the small hours before dawn, reaching across the cool sheets only to find Kimi’s side of the bed empty. Padding down the hallway on silent feet, you peer into the nursery.

Your breath catches in your throat. Kimi stands over the crib, your tiny daughter cradled against his chest. One large hand gently supports her downy head.

He’s speaking softly to her in Finnish, too low for you to understand. But the love shining through his voice brings tears to your eyes. Your tough, taciturn Finn transformed into a doting father.

As he lays her tenderly back in the crib, you hear him murmur in a whisper, “Don’t worry little one, your isä will always protect you. I promise you that.”

He tucks the blanket snugly around her and brushes a feather-light kiss over her forehead. The tenderness of it makes your heart ache.

You slip silently back to bed before he notices you, not wanting to intrude on this private moment between father and daughter. But the image stays seared in your mind.

When Kimi joins you a few minutes later, you turn and press your face into his chest so he won’t see your tears of joy. His arms come around you reflexively.

“You okay?” He rumbles.

You nod, a lump in your throat. Your family is so very blessed.

***

The paddock is bustling with activity as you push your daughter’s stroller through the chaotic maze of the paddock. She’s only six months old, wide-eyed at all the commotion.

Mechanics pause to coo over her, their grease-smudged fingers surprisingly gentle. PR people stop to fuss and take photos. Word has spread — the Iceman’s baby girl is here.

Kimi strides over, stooping to drop a kiss on your head and tickle his daughter’s tummy. His race suit is on, grey eyes intense and focused.

“Sure you don’t want me to take her while you concentrate?” You ask.

He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked up. “I need to see my two favorite girls before I drive.”

Your heart melts. Kimi scoops her up, and she clutches at his nose and gurgles. Nearby, you hear shutters clicking madly. The Iceman undone by a baby — it’ll be all over the press tonight.

But Kimi only has eyes for his daughter, face soft in a way it never is before a race. With a deep breath, he cuddles her close and murmurs something in Finnish before handing her back to you.

You kiss his cheek. “Go show them how it’s done, Daddy.”

He winks and strides off towards the pit lane, determination in his stride. Your daughter waves a chubby fist as he disappears from view.

No matter how many races he wins, now his best trophy waits for him at the finish line. His family.

***

“Must be lonely married to a man called the Iceman,” the reporter says slyly. “He’s not known for being warm and affectionate.”

Anger flashes through you. How dare this stranger imply your marriage is lacking.

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” you reply sharply. “Kimi is very attentive and loving in private.”

The reporter raises her eyebrows. “But his public image ...”

You cut her off. “That’s all it is — an image. Kimi deserves more respect than tired old stereotypes.”

Your voice softens as you glance to where Kimi is chatting with fans, his body angled protectively towards you.

“There is no one kinder or more loyal than my husband. He cherishes our family greatly, he just doesn’t flaunt it to the world.”

The reporter looks taken aback by your fervent defense. You almost feel sorry for her. She’ll never truly know the man behind the Iceman legend. But you do and you won’t tolerate anyone maligning him.

tides of change

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary : Lando and Y/N’s not so situationship had become the talk of everyone around them. It was clear to everyone but the two of them that their connection was something worth fighting for. The question on everyone’s lips: When will Lando finally stop holding back and risk it all?

Words : 4.1k

Warnings : swearing, mentions of sex, poorly translated french

It was a rainy day in Monaco, the kind of weather that made everything feel a little slower. The usual buzz of the city was muffled by the constant drizzle, and the three friends—Lando, Max, and Charles—found themselves on a paddle court, looking for a way to pass the time during their break.

Sweaty and winded from their last round, the trio stood around, sipping on drinks, exchanging small talk about the upcoming season. Max, ever the competitive one, wiped his brow with a towel, giving Lando a smirk. "I think you might be getting worse, mate."

Charles finally looks up from his phone after being preoccupied for the past few minutes. "Lando, Y/N is here?"

"Yeah, she got in last morning. Why?" Lando nods, still catching his breath from the last game.

Charles grins and pockets his phone. "Alex just texted me—she just found out today. You should invite her to join us on the yacht. It's supposed to be a clear day tomorrow."

Lando raises an eyebrow. "Who else is coming?"

"Couple of other friends, Carlos and Rebecca too."

Lando smirks, glancing over at Max. "Max?"

"Nah, mate," Max chimes in, wiping his face with a towel. "Don't think being out at sea would help with Kelly's morning sickness." He laughs lightly, clearly trying to keep the mood light, but there’s a genuine care in his tone.

Lando’s grin softens, and he nods. "Fair enough. I’ll let Y/N know then."

"Speaking of which... what's ugh, going on with you two? Finally asked her out?" Max smirks, leaning back against the wall.

A small smirk crept up on Lando’s face, but he quickly took a swig from his bottle, picking up his racket as if the question never happened. "Are we playing another round or what?"

"Well, that’s a clear no," Charles laughs, crossing his arms.

Max raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. "You idiot, how long has this situationship been a thing for now? Two seasons?"

Lando freezes for a second, then points a finger at Max. "First of all, don’t ever use ‘situationship’ again. Sounds weird coming from you." He shrugs nonchalantly. "And... we’re just friends."

Charles snickers. "Friends who kiss every now and then—"

Max jumps in. "And sleep together."

Lando's eyes widen slightly. "Hey, that’s not—"

"So you haven’t?" Max presses, his grin growing.

Lando bites his lip, trying to hide the grin spreading across his face. He glances at Charles, who’s trying to suppress a laugh.

"Oh, they definitely have," Charles chimes in, his voice teasing.

Lando glares at them, but it’s no use—he can’t help the flush creeping up his neck. "Alright, alright, enough."

"I've had a couple of friends ask me about her, mate." Charles pats Lando’s shoulder before casually walking back to his side of the court. "Come on, one more before we head home."

Lando blinks. "Wha— Which friends?" His grip tightens slightly on his racket, trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

Charles exchanges a knowing look with Max, the kind that screams look at this idiot, so oblivious. Max just smirks.

"Doesn't matter who" Charles shrugs, stretching his arms as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. "Just thought I’d let you know. Do with the information as you will."

Lando opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning slightly. His mind is already racing through the possibilities, but before he can press further, Max serves the ball, forcing him to refocus.

But even as they dive back into the game, the thought lingers.

------------------------------------------------------

The sound of Lando's keys hitting the table broke Y/N's gaze from the screen in front of her. She glanced over to see him standing by the door, bag still slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from a mix of sweat and rain.

"How was paddle with Max and Charles?" she asked, shifting her focus back to the movie playing in front of her.

"Good. Max lost, of course." Lando smirked, toeing off his shoes before flopping down beside her. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat. "Hey, uhm— you busy tomorrow?"

"Mmm, not really. Kinda wanted to walk around and shop for a bit. Why, what's up?"

Lando ran a hand through his damp curls. "Charles is inviting us on his yacht tomorrow with Alex and a couple of their friends. Carlos and Rebecca are coming too, I heard."

Y/N hummed in thought, eyes still on the screen, but Lando barely noticed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he forced himself to sound casual. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous—he was just inviting his best friend to hang out with their other friends. They all knew each other already.

So why did it feel like something more?

"Sure, yeah, that actually sounds fun. Haven’t seen them in a while," Y/N said, shooting Lando a soft smile.

Relieved, Lando let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He barely had time to react before Y/N’s fingers slid through his damp curls, her touch light and familiar.

"You should shower," she murmured. "You’re gonna get sick."

Lando smirked, tilting his head just enough to press a featherlight kiss to her wrist. "Join me?"

Y/N laughed, gently but firmly pushing his head away. "Dork. We both said no more, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah… I tried," he chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. As he passed, he reached down to poke her cheek, grinning when she swatted at his hand.

It was true—what Charles and Max suspected. They’d kissed. And, yeah, they’d definitely slept together. More than once. But somewhere along the way, between shared hotel rooms, late-night confessions, and stolen moments, they both agreed that this—whatever this was—couldn’t be more. Not now. Not when Lando was constantly on the move, when their friendship was the one thing they both swore they’d never risk.

So they stayed just that—friends.

At least, that’s what they kept telling themselves.

----------------------------------------------------------------

"Cabrón! It's been too long! Have you grown taller?" Carlos' voice rang out, loud enough to make nearly everyone aboard the yacht turn their heads.

Lando laughed, shaking his head as he walked over. "You muppet, I saw you last week." He pulled Carlos into a quick hug before stepping back and motioning toward Y/N, who stood just behind him. "Look who I brought."

Carlos' face lit up. "Ahh… mi novia’s novia. Good to see you, Y/N." Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her slightly for dramatic effect.

Before she could fully recover, Charles appeared beside them, grinning as he leaned in to greet her with a cheek kiss. "She's also my girlfriend’s girlfriend," he added, giving Lando a teasing look.

"Y/N is the nation's girlfriend," Carlos announced, laughing as he patted her shoulder. Then, with a wicked smirk, he leaned toward Lando, lowering his voice just enough.

"Except yours."

Lando rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. Carlos just smirked wider.

"Too much testosterone. Where are my ladies?" Y/N teased, glancing around the deck in search of her friends.

"Oh, they're inside getting changed," Charles said, nodding toward the doors leading into the yacht.

"Perfect. I’ll see you boys later then." She gave them a small wave before heading off, disappearing through the doors with an easy grace.

Lando’s eyes lingered on her retreating figure, something he wasn’t even aware of until he heard the soft chuckles beside him. He turned to find Carlos and Charles exchanging a knowing look before shaking their heads in amusement.

"What now?" Lando sighed, already bracing himself.

"I just don’t get it," Charles said, crossing his arms. "I really don’t."

"Get what?"

Carlos exhaled dramatically, giving Lando a pointed look. "Why you like punishing yourself like this. Like a fucking sadist."

Charles nodded in agreement. "You clearly like each other."

Lando shook his head, sliding his sunglasses on as if they could shield him from the conversation. "Not that simple."

"Oh, but it is," Carlos countered, arms crossed. "It’s not like you haven’t been in a relationship before, so I know for a fact it’s not commitment issues on your end."

Charles tilted his head. "She doesn’t want to?"

"It’s not that." Lando exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It just… doesn’t work. We've tried"

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "Tried what, exactly?"

Lando hesitated, jaw tightening slightly. "Just the whole distance thing. Me being away all the time. And then there’s the hate she’s gonna get when people find out. I can’t do that to her." His voice was quieter now, but firm. "She’s already getting shit just for being friends with me."

Charles and Carlos exchanged a look, their teasing fading into something more serious. For all the jokes, they knew Lando wasn’t just making excuses. But still, Carlos shook his head with a sigh.

"You know, if you ever stop being an idiot, I think she’d be worth it."

Lando huffed a small, almost bitter laugh. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

"If not, I mean, I got friends that are interested," Charles shrugged, all casual, but the glint in his eye said otherwise.

Lando chuckled, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness in his voice. "See, you keep saying that, but I think you're just doing it to provoke me."

Charles smirked but stayed silent.

Carlos, however, turned to him with a knowing look. "Who? Luca?"

Charles' brows lifted in surprise before he gave Carlos an approving nod. "Yeah."

Lando’s expression shifted in an instant. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck is Luca?"

"Like I said… a friend," Charles smirked, enjoying this way too much.

"Don’t fuck with me right now, Leclerc." Lando’s head snapped around as he scanned the yacht, shoulders growing visibly tense. "He’s here?"

Carlos chuckled, clapping a hand on Lando’s back. "Calm down, cabrón. Y/N is available, no?"

Lando shot him a glare before rolling his eyes. "You two are dicks."

Charles and Carlos only laughed, sharing a look before Carlos added, "Just saying, if you don’t want her to be, maybe do something about it."

-----------------------------------------------------------

The yacht had sailed further into the open ocean, the hours melting away in a blur of sun, salt, and laughter. Everyone had split into their own little group, swimming, chatting, drinking. But as lunchtime rolled around, they all gathered around the spread of food laid out on deck.

Y/N sat at a smaller table in the corner with Rebecca and Alex, the three of them deep in conversation. Lando strolled over, wordlessly setting a small pouch in front of her along with a glass of water.

"Medicine’s in there. Take one, okay?" He gave her head a light pat before turning on his heel and walking off to grab some food for himself, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rebecca and Alex exchanged confused looks, both raising an eyebrow as they glanced between Y/N and the small pouch Lando had left behind. Neither of them knew what he meant by "medicine," and the whole exchange seemed a bit mysterious.

Y/N noticed their concerned gazes and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She pulled out a row of antihistamine pills from the pouch, holding them up. "Sometimes shellfish makes my allergies act up. It’s really nothing too serious, but it’s better not to risk it."

Alex’s expression softened in understanding, though she still looked a little taken aback. "Ah, makes sense," she nodded, her voice light "And of course... Lando is on top of it"

Rebecca let's out a soft laugh as she shakes her head "You're just as oblivious as he is you know, it's cute and funny at the same time"

"Guys... come on. We agreed to not talk about this"

Rebecca nods and holds her hands up in surrender "Mhmm alright, we'll let you figure it out on your own"

"What are you girls gossiping about this time huh?" Carlos walks over with Lando and Charles, plates of food and drinks in hand as their took their respective seats around the table

"Nothing you boys need to worry about," Alex smiles.

"Ah, donc rien à voir avec le fait que quelqu'un nie ses vrais sentiments pour quelqu'un, hein ?" Charles tilts his head, looking over at Y/N as he takes a bite of his food (Ah, so it has nothing to do with anyone denying their true feelings for someone, huh?)

"Espèce de bâtard sournois, Alex t'en a parlé ?" Y/N’s mouth dropped open, her eyes flicking between the two of them. (You sneaky bastard, did Alex tell you?)

"Non ! Je jure que je n'ai rien dit !" Alex quickly defended herself. (No! I swear I didn't say anything!)

"S'il vous plaît, c'est tellement évident. Je pense que tout le monde peut le dire rien qu'en vous regardant tous les deux," Charles smirked, making Alex chuckle beside him as she nodded her head in agreement, while the rest of the table fell into conversations of their own. (Please, it's so obvious. I think everyone can tell just by looking at the two of you)

"Il a pété un câble quand je lui ai dit qu’un pote était intéressé par toi. Tu sais que les potes normaux réagissent pas comme ça, hein ?" Charles goes on, raising an eyebrow as he watches Y/N’s reaction. (He freaked out when I told him a friend was interested in you. You know normal friends don't react like that, right?)

Y/N simply shakes her head and continues to eat, it wasn't until Charles continues to egg on his theory

"Il ne comprend pas un mot de ce que je dis, mais regarde ça." Charles straightens up, a mischievous glint in his eyes as if preparing to prove a point. "Tout ce que j’ai à faire, c’est dire le nom de Luca, et ça attire son attention." (He doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, but look at this.) (All I have to do is say Luca's name, and it gets his attention)

Right on cue, Lando’s head whips around, his conversation forgotten as his ears latch onto the familiar name. Confusion flickers across his face, caught completely off guard by the sudden mention.

"Dickhead" Y/N mutters with a laugh, shaking her head as she stands up, plate in hand, and makes her way toward the buffet table for more food.

Lando is on his feet almost instantly, trailing after her without a second thought. Whatever she and Charles were talking about, he needs to know.

"So, he told you about Luca, huh?" Lando leans against the table, arms crossed as he watches her pick through the food. His voice is casual—too casual.

Y/N sighs, shaking her head. Charles really wasn’t exaggerating. Of course Lando took the bait. "Lan, he was just fucking with you."

His eyes narrow slightly. "So you're not at all interested in this Luca guy?"

She pauses, glancing at him with a teasing smirk. "What if I was?"

Lando blinks at her, completely dumbfounded. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out as he tries to process what he just heard. "What do you mean?"

Y/N shrugs, casually placing a piece of food on her plate. "What if I was interested? What’s it to you?" She glances at him, eyes challenging. "Like you said, we’re just friends, remember?"

His stomach twists uncomfortably. That is what he said. But suddenly, he’s not so sure he meant it.

Y/N simply tuts, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she brushes past him. As she does, her fingers trail lightly along his arm, the touch barely there but enough to send a spark straight through him.

"Just something to think about," she murmurs before walking away, leaving Lando standing there—plate forgotten, mind racing, and heart pounding just a little too fast.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Lando lounged on a sunbed, sunglasses on, deep in conversation with Carlos when Rebecca’s voice cut through the chatter.

“Looking good, Y/N! That set is gorgeous on you!”

Mid-sentence, Lando sat up slightly, resting on his elbows as his gaze searched for her.

And then he saw her.

Not just in any bikini—no, a papaya one. His colour. He almost swore she wore it just for him.

Lando barely had time to recover from the way Y/N’s laugh sent a shiver down his spine before she sat beside him, all sweet smiles and knowing eyes. He saw right through her. She was playing with him, enjoying the way she had him wrapped around her finger.

And damn, was it working.

Before he could say anything, Charles strolled by, some guy trailing behind him.

“Y/N, this is my friend Luca. He’s been asking non-stop about you. Thought it was time I introduce the two of you.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, fingers twitching against the sunbed. You have got to be kidding me.

Y/N stood to greet Luca, and the guy wasted no time leaning in for a cheek kiss. Normally, Lando wouldn’t care—his friends did it all the time. But this? Some random guy he didn’t know? Absolutely not.

“Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard such great things,” Luca said with a grin. “I see you around a lot, just… not with the right team.”

Lando’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.

Y/N laughed. “Ah, yeah! I’ve seen you with Charles and Alex a few times.”

“So how long are you in Monaco this time? For good, I hope?”

“I wish. This place is amazing, but I have to go back to England next week—work calls. I’ll be back by the end of the month, though.”

Luca smiled. “Then we have some time to go out before you leave?”

Lando sat up fully, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. Was this some kind of sick joke? Asking her out—right in front of him? His blood boiled.

No. Absolutely not.

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “Actually, no, we’re busy. Got plans this week.”

Carlos, instantly catching on, barely held in his laughter—though his girlfriend didn’t bother hiding her amusement, giving him a light slap on the arm.

Y/N turned to Lando, eyebrows raised. “We do?”

“Yep,” he answered smoothly, leaning back like he hadn’t just pulled that excuse out of thin air. “Max and P are coming over to stay with us, remember? Got some activities lined up. Sorry, mate.”

The only problem? Now he actually had to find things to do and start booking these non-existent activities.

Luca frowned slightly. “Oh—well… when you come back from England, then?”

“Sounds good,” Y/N started, “I’ll ask Charles for your—”

“Naaah,” Lando cut in again, shaking his head. “Doesn’t work either, mate. We’re heading to Italy when she gets back.”

Y/N blinked. “We are?”

“Yes. Was supposed to be a surprise. Surprise!” Lando shot her a grin, ignoring the way Carlos was now openly laughing beside him.

Just off to the side, Charles leaned toward Alex, voice low. "S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi le sortir de sa misère." (Please let me put him out of his misery.)

Luca could only laugh, shaking his head as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, got it, mate. All yours.”

Lando didn’t bother hiding his smirk, satisfied with the outcome.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, dragging Lando toward a quieter part of the yacht, away from prying eyes. His smug smirk only made her more irritated.

“What the fuck was that, Norris?” she snapped, arms crossed.

Lando barely flinched, still grinning. “What, you don’t wanna go to Italy? Greece more your style? Oh! How about Ibiza—”

She didn’t let him finish, landing a solid punch to his arm.

“Ow!” Lando winced, clutching his arm. “Forgot how strong you are.”

“Stop playing with me. I know there’s no Italy trip.”

“There is!”

“Bullshit.”

He exhaled, dropping the act. “Fine! I just… You can’t go out with him, Y/N.”

Her expression softened for a moment before tilting her head, arms still crossed. “And why’s that?”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, avoiding her gaze for a second before finally meeting her eyes.

“That’s so unfair, Lando, and you know it,” Y/N shot back, arms tightening over her chest. “You’ve gone out with other girls, and you didn’t hear shit from me.”

“No—that’s different,” Lando argued, shaking his head.

“Oh, it is different,” she scoffed. “Because I haven’t been sleeping around with other people since what happened between us.”

His eyes widened. “But I haven’t!”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit—do you want me to drop names?”

Lando opened his mouth, then shut it just as fast. He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Alright, fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I have feelings for them,” he added quickly, voice softer this time.

Y/N let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Awe, how fucking romantic.”

Lando felt his stomach drop. The teasing, the back-and-forth—it all came to a screeching halt the second Y/N let her emotions slip through.

She sank onto the sofa, fingers threading through her hair, exhaling like she was tired—tired of him, tired of this.

“We can’t keep doing this, Lan,” she murmured, voice quieter now. “This whole ordeal is fucking exhausting. If you really want this, you can have me. But you can’t just want some of it. Take all of it. The good and the bad.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “I can’t stand having just some of you. I need all of you.”

Lando swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Because the truth was, she already had all of him. Always had. He just needed to say it.

Lando dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands gently finding hers, squeezing them with a tenderness that spoke louder than words ever could.

“Hey… pretty girl, look at me, please?” he whispered, his voice soft but full of sincerity.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but despite herself, her gaze met his. The rawness in his eyes caught her off guard. For the first time in a long while, she saw him again—the guy she fell so deeply in love with, the man she’d been willing to risk everything for.

“You have all of me,” Lando said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This time, I promise… we’ll make it work. I’ll make this work. You deserve the world, Y/N. I’ll make it up to you... if you’d give me another chance.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but a quiet part of her still hesitated. It felt too good to be true. But his words… his honesty? It was enough to break through.

Y/N took a slow breath, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt. There was none.

Slowly, she squeezed his hands back. “You better not make me regret this, Lando.”

Lando nodded almost immediately, his eyes lighting up with a joy so pure it made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. “I promise,” he said, voice full of conviction. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll do things right this time.”

Y/N let out a soft sigh, her emotions swirling as she processed his words. After a beat, she gave him a small, hesitant nod.

Without another word, Lando pulled her into his arms, locking her in a tight embrace. The way he held her felt urgent, like he was afraid of losing her again. They clung to each other as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if nothing mattered but this moment.

“I know we said to take things slow… but I’m dying to kiss you right now,” Lando murmured against her neck, his breath warm and shaky.

The words made Y/N laugh softly, her fingers tracing the side of his jaw as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs gently grazing his skin, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. It was slow, a kiss that held all the passion, all the longing they’d kept buried. The world outside disappeared as they lost themselves in each other, the kiss a promise of what was to come.

Lando was the first to pull away, chuckling softly as he did. “We can’t… I don’t think I can control myself if we keep going.”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her cheeks, her heart racing from the kiss. She placed one last soft kiss on his cheek before pulling him back into another hug, as if holding him was the only thing that could steady her.

"Greece sounds good..." she muttered quietly, her words almost lost in the moment.

Lando pulled away slightly, brows furrowed as he looked at her, not quite catching what she said. “What was that, baby?”

“Greece,” Y/N repeated with a smile tugging at her lips. “I said Greece sounds good.”

Lando’s face lit up with a grin, the tension in his chest easing as he nodded. “Greece it is. Anything for my girl.”

Growing Pains | Max Verstappen ( The Masterlist )

SUMMARY — It started with berry stained fingers. Karting suits that were slightly too big. The sickening crunch of metal and the silence that followed.

If you asked Max Verstappen to pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Mila Meijer, he'd say, 'Lonato, Italy. 2005. Behind my father's van. In a blackberry bush.'

If you asked Mila Meijer when she fell in love with Max Verstappen, she'd smile, blush, and ask, 'Which time?'

WARNINGS — Career ending spinal-injuries and the aftermath, coming of age, abusive parents (very vague), death of a parent, racing accidents, PTSD, chronic pain, time skips, eventual smut.

AUTHOR NOTES — Welcome to the Mila/Max universe! I hope you guys fall in love with them the same way that I have.

No taglist! If you want notifications for my updates only, follow @pitlanelive and turn on notifications!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

look me in the eye | pt.2

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 is unfixable but that's definitely not the only reason max verstappen wants you around.

a/n: "who cares what they think" bf and overthinker gf are my roman empire

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Max doesn't give you much of a choice.

One minute, you're wrapping up post-race debriefs with your teammates, pretending that you're not reeling from his reaction to your possible departure. They're very polite and do not pry into the conversation they all obviously heard. The next, he's standing by the garage exit, jacket in hand, waiting.

"Dinner," he says. It’s not a request.

You hesitate, glancing around. "I mean, I don't think-"

"I need to talk to you." His words are softer but still determined. "Properly. Not in the garage. Not with twenty people listening."

Your stomach twists. You should say no. You should.

Instead, you find yourself sitting across from him in a dimly lit restaurant, the scent of freshly baked bread and seared steak filling the air. It's nothing fancy. Fancy means attention. It's quiet, tucked away, the kind of place he probably picked because he assumed no one would bother him here.

But Max Verstappen is not someone who goes unnoticed.

Right now he's focused, barely glancing at the menu. It feels more like a business arrangement than a catch-up. That's how it's meant to be. Max is, in the hierarchy pyramid, somewhere a few diagonal triangles above you.

"Tell me what you need," he says as his fingers tap restlessly against the table. "More support? More control over the car setup? I'll talk to Christian."

You sigh, setting your menu down. "Max, it's not just about that. It's-"

A hushed voice at a nearby table. A phone camera clicks and, judging by the kerfuffle that follows, the person who pressed the button didn't expect it to be so loud.

Your stomach drops. Max's gaze flickers over your shoulder, jaw tightening as realization dawns.

"Shit," he mutters.

You don't turn around. You don't need to. The whispers are getting louder, the occasional giggle or gasp confirming what you already know-someone recognized him. And worse? They recognized you.

Your chest tightens. This is exactly what you didn't want. Attention. Speculation. The internet dissecting every detail of why Red Bull's star driver is having dinner with one of the team's engineers. Especially after that interview. Two things that should not be happening in quick succession.

Max leans forward and his voice is low. "Hey."

You shake your head, gripping your napkin like it's a lifeline. "I need to go."

"If you leave now, it’ll be worse."

You know he's right. Storming out will just make it look more suspicious. But that doesn’t stop the anxiety creeping up your spine.

Max studies you for a moment before making a decision. He leans back, body language shifting, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Then, loud enough for the nearby table to hear-

"You're overthinking. Just enjoy your food."

It's so casual, so normal, that for a split second, it throws you off. And judging by the way the whispers fade just a little, it throws everyone else off too.

Max is playing it cool. Acting like this is nothing, just a casual dinner, nothing worth speculating over.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to match his energy. You pick up your menu again, even though you're too tense to focus on the words. "Fine," you sigh. "But if this ends up all over Twitter, I'm blaming you."

His grin deepens. "I'll take full responsibility."

Under the table, where no one can see, his fingers graze against yours. It's only for a second. It's probably an accident, you tell yourself.

You look into his eyes and you know it means so much more than just that.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You wake up to chaos.

Your phone won't stop buzzing. The messages, missed calls, and notifications stacking up faster than you can process. At first, you think it's just another race week frenzy. Then you open Twitter.

Max Verstappen on a dinner date with Red Bull engineer. Garage romance?

Attached is the photo. A little grainy, taken from the next table over, but unmistakably you and Max. He's leaning in, smirking, looking far too comfortable across from you. You're gripping your menu like you were ready to bolt.

There are too comments to keep track of.

user1 she's been in the garage w him all season user2 Bro is dating his own engineer to fix the car 💀💀💀 user3 i fear they look GOOD together user4 is she the one he slipped up about in the interview??

You barely register the rest before Christian Horner is calling you. You pick up immediately instead of letting him go to voicemail. This is bad.

"Do you know what's happening online?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I just saw it."

He breathes loudly-you can hear it over the phone. "Look, we don't comment on personal lives, but if anyone asks, we stick to the story. It was a casual team dinner, nothing more. Max's team is probably already handling it."

Max.

As if on cue, another message flashes across your screen.

Unknown It's Max

Unknown Don't look at twitter

Too late.

By the time you get to the paddock, the damage is done. Journalists are already circling, cameras flashing whenever you so much as breathe near Max's side of the garage. You stick next to Liam's car. You don't know what you're doing there, but he kind of does and pretends to talk with you about something he doesn't understand either. Good lad.

You keep your head down, pretending not to notice the murmurs. When you step into the engineering office, Max is already waiting.

He's scrolling through his phone. You can't see anything behind those startling blue-green eyes of his. You still can't when he looks up. "They're making a big deal out of nothing."

You exhale. "I'm trending on Twitter."

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "And?"

You blink. "And? Do you know what people are saying? That I'm-” You lower your voice. “That I'm sleeping with you for my job. That you’re-”

"Using you to fix the car?" His lips press together. Now his eyes darken, the sky before the storm. "Bullshit. Do they not know how engineers work? They fix the car anyway."

You shake your head. "It doesn't matter if it's bullshit. It's out there."

Max crosses his arms. "So?"

"So?" you echo, incredulous. "I don't want this. I don't want my name attached to you like I'm some stupid tabloid headline!"

He seems to read you. "Do you think I wanted it either? I just wanted dinner. I wanted to talk to you, convince you not to leave. Not...this."

Your anger deflates. You can't be mad at him. People are people.

Max pushes off the desk and steps closer. "Tell you what. If you want, I'll shut it down. Tell them all it's nothing, that it was just a stupid meal. That you mean nothing to me."

The words sting even though you know he doesn’t mean them.

You swallow hard. "Would you?"

His jaw tightens. "If that’s what you want."

You should say yes. You should. But he's the one waiting for you to make a choice-the choice-and you're frozen.

"I don't know," you whisper.

Is that relief you see on his face?

"Then we don't say anything."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The orange army has risen, and it's not McLaren's. The checkered flag waves, and above the screaming engines and the crackling of team radios, one thing is clear: Max Verstappen has won again.

Against the odds, against the struggles, against a car that has fought him all season, he has done what Max Verstappen does best.

He has won.

The Red Bull garage erupts. Engineers shout, mechanics throw their arms around each other, and the pit wall slams their hands down in victory. You barely register the chaos because your eyes are glued to the screens, watching as Max slows down on his cool-down lap, his voice breaking through the radio.

"YES, LET'S GO!" His laugh is breathless. "That was so, so good. Thank you, guys. Thank you."

You exhale. He did it. You don't even recognize the warm feeling going through you because suddenly, he's there.

Before you can even process it, Max is sprinting toward the garage, helmet ripped off, his fireproofs half-unzipped and clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing-shouldn't he be out there?-as he skids next to you.

Your heart lurches.

You don't even have time to move before he reaches you, before his hands find your waist and he pulls you in.

"Max-" Your protest dies in your throat because holy shit he's so close. His breath is warm against your skin, adrenaline pouring off him in waves.

"You," he pants, eyes wild and utterly alive. "You made that happen."

You shake your head, flustered beyond belief. "Max, you-"

But he cuts you off, hands tightening like he's afraid you'll slip away. "No. You fought for this car. You never stopped." He swallows, chest rising and falling. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

You feel every nerve in your body short-circuiting.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just static.

Max searches your face. He looks at you as he does his father, after a race is over. Like this win doesn't mean as much if you aren't part of it. There is one person in the world he cares about making happy...might there be a second?

You’re completely, utterly speechless.

"Lost for words?" he teases.

You shove at his chest, but your laughter betrays you. "Shut up, Verstappen."

You untangle yourself from his grasp and motion for him to greet some other of the team members. The media must be having a field day. And after the entire PR talk, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The celebrations are still in full swing when Max is pulled into an interview. The champagne drips from his hair as a permanent grin is stretched across his face. He's still breathless, still buzzing, still high off the win.

The reporter from Sky Sports barely has to ask the first question before Max is already talking.

"Max, that was an incredible drive. How does it feel to take this victory after the struggles you’ve had with the car?"

Max laughs easily. "Yeah, it wasn't easy. The car still isn't perfect, but today, it worked. And that's not just me, that's the team, that's the people who keep pushing-"

His words cut off for a second, his mind catching up to his own excitement. His tongue is loose, his filter nonexistent.

And then-

"-that's her."

The interviewer blinks. "Who?"

Max doesn't hesitate. "My engineer."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Your stomach drops as you watch from the back of the garage, eyes wide as the cameras zoom in on him. He's still grinning, still glowing, and either he doesn't realize what he just said or he does not care.

"She-" he stops himself, shaking his head like he can't find the right words. "She works harder than anyone. Every problem with this car, she's been on it. I mean, I was nowhere at the start of the season, and now, we're here. If anyone deserves credit, it's her."

The reporter raises an eyebrow. "That's very high praise. Would you say she's been a crucial part of your season?"

Max tips his head back in his laughter, and it's so obvious now, the way he's still running on instinct, how he's still in the moment.

"She's been-" He stops, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. And then, softer-too soft for someone who's just talking about an engineer-he finishes:

"She's everything."

The interviewer's eyes widen slightly, and there’s a second-just a second-where you see the exact moment he realizes what he just let slip. Max's lips press together, like maybe if he stops talking now, the words will somehow erase themselves. But the damage is already done.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Max turns his head like he can see you in the garage. He's searching, looking for you.

You panic. You run.

But the world has already heard him. You're not just another engineer.

You're Max Verstappen's everything.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second you step back into the Red Bull garage, cheeks flushed from your bathroom pacing and breakdown, you know you're screwed.

The looks. The whispers. The way people pretend not to be staring but are absolutely staring. Because, of course, everyone saw the interview.

The moment Max Verstappen, three-time world champion, winner of the race, decided to open his mouth and say-

"She's everything."

You could kill him.

Scratch that. You will kill him.

Your heart is still hammering from the moment you heard it, from the way he looked for you afterward, like he wasn't even the slightest bit embarrassed about saying something that made it sound like-like-you don't even know what it sounded like, but it was definitely not normal driver-engineer talk.

And now, here you are, trying to avoid eye contact with every single person in the garage while searching for the idiot responsible.

It doesn't take long.

Max, being Max, doesn't bother hiding. He's standing by the monitors, still in his fireproofs, arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered. He should be celebrating. Why is he not out celebrating?

He's still waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, his expression shifts. Something smug, something amused, something that makes you want to strangle him.

You grab his arm and yank him into the nearest private space you can find.

"Max," you hiss, barely able to contain yourself. "What the hell was that?"

His brows furrow. "What?"

"What?" you repeat. "You-on live television-you called me everything."

Max blinks, looking so utterly relaxed that you want to shake him. "Yeah."

You stare at him, waiting for him to realize the problem, to acknowledge that he just threw you to the media wolves with zero warning.

Nothing. Just calm, slightly confused Max Verstappen.

"You do realize what that sounded like, right?" You press, feeling your face heat up. "Everyone's losing their minds. Twitter is exploding. Horner gave me a look. Do you know how scary it is when Christian Horner gives you a look?"

Max’s lips twitch. He's fighting a smirk and he's not winning. "I mean… was I wrong?"

"What?"

He tilts his head, like he's considering his words. "You are everything. To this team. To the car. To-" He stops himself, but it’s already too late.

He knows exactly what he said.

"Max-"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

You can't, because he isn't. Maybe you've known it all along. Maybe this is why you can't leave the stupid team, even though it's causing hair loss and severe lack of sleep.

So you don't. Instead, you grab him by the collar and pull him down. Max lets out the softest, most relieved exhale before he crashes into you.

It's not a soft kiss. It's not careful, or hesitant, or anything close to restrained. It's desperate. It's months of tension snapping all at once.

You make a soft noise-half surprise, half something else entirely-and that's all it takes.

Max groans, deep and low, like he's wanted this for as long as you have, and suddenly it's worse, because now he's tilting his head, deepening the kiss, pressing you back until you hit the nearest surface.

You don't even know where you are anymore. A storage closet? A backroom? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is him. The way he tastes like champagne and adrenaline, the way he kisses like he races. All-consuming and with only one thing on his mind.

You should stop. You know you should stop. The entire garage is just outside. Someone will notice. Someone will hear.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly, and Max shudders.

"Fuck," he mutters against your lips, utterly wrecked. His eyelids flutter, long lashes too. Max runs a finger down to your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You're overthinking again."

He's completely right. But you don't stop then. You relax and just let Max Verstappen take over every single thought in your mind.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: i just need a man who's bad at emotions but also so good at them

TIMEZONE | OP81

an: i promised after oscar’s pole id promise fluff and also because i got peer pressured by @amyelevenn im a victim fr, enjoy our soft boy - warning it does start off a bit angsty. this was a request from @n0vazsq for my 2k celly thank you ml <3 ALSO THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD IM SORRY

wc: 3.1k

synopsis: oscar let the one go, but the longer he spends away from her the more he realises what a stupid mistake it was.

OSCAR WAS MISERABLE.

He'd just won his first ever pole-to-win conversion, and he was bloody miserable.

The champagne was still dripping from his race suit, the taste of victory lingering on his tongue, but it all felt hollow. The cheers from the crowd rang in his ears, deafening, but none of it mattered. Because she wasn’t there.

She should have been. She should have been in the paddock, wrapped up in his fireproof jacket, rolling her eyes at his cocky post-race grin but kissing him breathless anyway. She should have been the first person he saw when he climbed out of the car, arms flung around his neck before he'd even peeled off his gloves.

Instead, she was seven thousand miles away, living a life that no longer included him.

The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut as he stood on the podium, trophy in hand, the cameras flashing. He should have felt elated, triumphant. Instead, he felt empty. He'd sacrificed so much for this—pushed himself to the absolute limit, given everything he had to his career. But in doing so, he’d lost the one person who made it all mean something.

He barely heard the post-race interviews, barely registered his own answers. His PR manager nudged him at the right moments, and he went through the motions; smiling, nodding, thanking the team. But his heart wasn’t in it. It was still in London, curled up in a tiny uni flat with a girl who used to wear his hoodies to bed and steal his socks when hers went missing.

She used to joke that they spent more time apart than together. At first, she’d said it with a laugh, teasing him about their ridiculous time zone differences, about how she’d wake up just as he was finishing free practice on the other side of the world. But as the months passed, as the late-night FaceTime calls turned into missed texts and unreturned voicemails, the laughter had faded.

And then, one day, she’d stopped waiting.

He should have fought harder. He should have told her she was more important than all of this. That she was the only thing in the world that felt like home.

But he hadn’t.

And even now, standing on the top step of the podium, the world at his feet, he had never felt further away from where he truly wanted to be.

By the time he finally escaped to the driver's room, the buzz of victory had been drowned out by the quiet hum of regret sitting in his chest. His race suit was damp with sweat and champagne, the adrenaline fading, leaving nothing but exhaustion.

He grabbed his phone from where he’d tossed it earlier, the screen lighting up as he pressed the button. No texts. No missed calls. Nothing.

His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked to the clock widget at the top.

London: 10:00 AM

He could never bring himself to delete it. No matter where he was in the world—Australia, Japan, the Middle East—he always knew exactly what time it was for her. He used to check it before calling, before sending stupid voice notes at ungodly hours, before whispering a sleepy “Goodnight, love” when she was already halfway through her morning coffee.

Now, it was just another reminder of how far away she was.

With a frustrated sigh, he chucked his phone onto the massage bed and peeled off his race suit, yanking it down to his waist before grabbing a towel. The knock on the door came exactly two seconds before it was shoved open.

"Oi, I'm changing!" Oscar snapped, instinctively pulling the towel higher over his shoulder.

Lando stood in the doorway, completely unfazed. "Yeah, don’t care." He strolled in like he owned the place, tossing a sweaty towel onto the table before flopping onto the small sofa in the corner. "Right, what’s your problem?"

Oscar frowned. "What?"

Lando gestured vaguely at him. "You won the race, mate. First pole-to-win conversion, team's over the bloody moon. But you look like someone just ran over your cat."

"I'm fine."

"Bollocks," Lando said flatly. "You barely said two words after the race, you legged it out of the debrief like your arse was on fire, and you’re sitting here staring at your phone like you're waiting for it to apologise to you."

Oscar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. "Just... tired."

Lando snorted. "Tired, my arse. Come on, out with it."

Oscar hesitated. He could dodge, change the subject, pretend that he wasn’t slowly losing his mind over someone who didn’t even call him anymore.

But then, before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out.

"I broke up with her." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. "I mean, she broke up with me. But only 'cause I was never bloody there. Time zones, flights, races, all of it—it was too much. She got sick of waiting for me to show up, and I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I let her go."

Lando didn’t say anything for a moment, just watching him with a look that was more knowing than Oscar would have liked. "Shit."

"Yeah." Oscar let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. "I won the biggest race of my career today, and the only thing I can think about is how she should’ve been in the crowd. She should’ve been the first person I saw when I got out of the car." He exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But she wasn’t. And that’s my fault."

Lando was quiet for a beat, then sighed. "Mate, that’s brutal."

Oscar let out a bitter chuckle. "Tell me about it."

Lando leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "So... what are you gonna do about it?"

Oscar blinked. "What?"

"You love her, right?"

Oscar opened his mouth, ready to protest, but stopped himself. Love. The word sat heavy on his tongue, because of course he did. He always had.

Lando shrugged. "Well, then. Go and fix it."

Oscar shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I can't."

Lando raised a brow. "I can."

And with that, he stood up, clapped Oscar once on the shoulder, and walked out of the room—leaving Oscar sitting there, half-dressed, with a thousand unanswered questions.

What the hell did that even mean?

He stared at the door for a moment, running through every possible way Lando could have just ruined his life. But there was no time to dwell on it. He had a flight to Nice that night, back to his apartment, back to his too-quiet routine of training, simulator work, and pretending he wasn’t thinking about her.

Except an hour later, when he was in his hotel room, shoving his clothes and essentials into his suitcase, there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, he padded over, running a hand through his damp hair before swinging it open.

Max stood there, hands in the pockets of his team-branded joggers, looking like he had about two minutes of patience left before he lost interest and walked away.

Oscar blinked. "Uh—"

"I'm leaving for London at six," Max said.

Oscar frowned. "Okay?"

Max tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for Oscar to catch up. When it became clear that wasn’t happening, he sighed, shifting his weight onto one foot. "I've got a spare seat on the jet."

Oscar's brain still wasn’t putting one and one together. He looked over Max’s shoulder, half-expecting Lando to be standing there smirking, but the corridor was empty. "Right. And why exactly are you telling me this?"

Max exhaled through his nose, already looking like he regretted getting involved. "Lando said you were miserable. You broke up with your girlfriend and need to get back to London to fix things. I know you probably have a flight to Nice booked, and Lando seems convinced you’re just going to sit there and wallow until the next race." He paused, glancing at the half-packed suitcase on the bed. "So finish packing. Let’s go. I don’t do well with tardiness."

And with that, he turned on his heel and started walking away.

Oscar stood there for a solid five seconds, staring at the now-empty hallway, his thoughts scrambling to catch up.

Lando. That meddling little—

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. Then, without hesitating, he turned back into the room and shoved the rest of his things into his suitcase.

London. He was going to London.

To fix things.

To fix everything.e

It was 7 AM when they landed, and the first thing Oscar did—besides being absolutely jetlagged—was check her schedule.

He never deleted it from his camera roll.

It was an old photo, scribbled notes in her handwriting detailing lectures, seminars, deadlines. He used to check it religiously before calling, making sure he wasn’t waking her up before an important class or messaging when she was in the library. Even now, he found himself doing the same, as if he still had the right to.

Mondays. No morning lectures.

That gave him time.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, then turned to Max, who was stretching his arms over his head like he hadn’t just crossed multiple time zones. "Cheers, mate. For, you know… all of this."

Max just shrugged. "You can thank Lando. I don’t usually offer free therapy and private jet rides to sad bastards."

Oscar let out a breath of laughter. "Duly noted."

With that, he slung his bag over his shoulder, headed outside, and hailed a cab.

The drive to her flat was a blur of grey London streets, his heart pounding harder with every passing second. The nerves only set in when he stepped out of the taxi, staring up at her building like it was a bloody racetrack he’d never driven before.

What if she didn’t want to see him?

What if she had moved on?

What if he was about to make an absolute fool of himself?

Still, his feet carried him forward. Up the stairs. To her door.

He raised his hand and knocked.

There was shuffling from inside—soft footsteps, the creak of the floorboards. And then, the door swung open.

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat.

She stood there, blinking at him in sleepy confusion, dressed in nothing but his hoodie, a pair of socks, and—Jesus Christ—his old boxer shorts, worn as makeshift pyjamas.

His hoodie was too big on her, hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves bunched up where she’d pushed them past her wrists. The sight of it, of her, in his clothes like she always used to be, knocked the air from his lungs.

His throat felt tight. "Hi."

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him, like she wasn’t sure if he was real.

Oscar swallowed hard, heart hammering. "Can I come in?"

She stared at him, wide-eyed, gripping the edge of the door like she needed to steady herself. "What are you doing here?"

Her voice was quiet, still laced with sleep, but there was something else beneath it—something raw, something hesitant.

Oscar swallowed. "I—" He exhaled, shaking his head like even he couldn't believe it. "I needed to see you."

She blinked again, like she was still processing his sudden appearance. Then her brow furrowed slightly. "You were in China yesterday. You won your race. Now you’re here."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You watched?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Of course, I did."

Something in his chest squeezed tight. He didn't deserve that—didn't deserve her still watching, still caring. But he was selfish enough to let it fuel the courage he needed to say what he’d come here to say.

"I’ve been miserable," he admitted, voice rough. "Since the moment I let you walk away. Since the moment I realised I was losing you, and instead of doing something about it, I just let it happen. I thought I could handle it, you know? Thought I could just keep my head down, focus on racing, distract myself with the next flight, the next circuit, the next podium. But it didn’t work. None of it worked. I won, and it didn’t feel like winning, because you weren’t there. You weren’t insulting me for making you cry and ruining your makeup. I'd check my phone and see the time in London, and I’d realise I had nothing to text you anymore. I kept waiting for it to get easier, but it never did. And I—"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m saying, I didn’t plan this—"

And then she kissed him.

Just like that. No warning, no hesitation. She reached up, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and pulled him down to her. His words died instantly, swallowed by the warmth of her lips, by the way she pressed against him like she’d been waiting for this just as much as he had.

His bag hit the floor with a dull thud as his hands found her waist, gripping tight as he walked her backwards into the flat, not bothering to close the door. He had barley registered the sound of his bag, too caught up in the way she sighed against his mouth, the way her fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to send heat racing through him.

He backed her up until she hit the wall, a quiet gasp escaping her as he pressed closer, deepening the kiss. He’d had dreams about this. Stupid, torturous dreams where he’d wake up in hotel rooms alone, still reaching for her. But this—this was real. She was real, warm and soft under his touch, her nails raking lightly over his shoulder blades as his hands slid up beneath the fabric of his hoodie—his hoodie—to feel the warmth of her skin.

Then—

"Ahem."

They froze.

Oscar pulled back just enough to see over his shoulder, his stomach immediately plummeting.

Mrs Hart—her elderly neighbour—stood in the hallway, wrapped in a thick cardigan and holding a shopping bag. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"If you're going to take part in passionate rendezvous before 8 AM," she said dryly, "at least do it with the door closed."

Heat flooded Oscar’s face. He heard her let out a mortified laugh, peaking from in front of him just enough to mumble, "Sorry, Mrs Hart."

Mrs Hart hummed, clearly unimpressed, then shuffled off down the hallway, muttering something under her breath about "young people these days."

The second the front door clicked shut, she turned back to Oscar, biting her lip, eyes full of amusement. "That was—"

"Mortifying?" he supplied, still half-dazed from kissing her.

She grinned. "Hilarious."

And then she kissed him again.

Oscar was so gone for her.

He let out a breath, still slightly dazed, before remembering his bag was still abandoned in the corridor. He pulled away, bent down, grabbed it, and kicked the door shut properly this time. When he turned back, she was watching him, arms crossed, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"So," she said, tilting her head. "You flew across the world to tell me you’re miserable?"

Oscar exhaled a laugh, dropping his bag by the wall. "I guess I did."

"Idiot," she murmured, but there was no bite to it. Just fondness.

His chest ached. God, he’d missed her.

They stood there for a second, neither speaking, neither moving. Then, wordlessly, she reached for his hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just curled her fingers around his wrist and pulled.

Oscar followed without resistance, letting her lead him down the hall, into her bedroom, and straight to her bed. He barely had time to react before she gave him a firm shove, sending him tumbling onto the mattress with a surprised grunt.

She stood at the edge, hands on her hips, looking down at him with a raised brow. "First," she said, voice firm, "sleep. Those bags under your eyes are giving me a run for my money, and I’m a uni student."

Oscar huffed a laugh, opening his mouth to argue—only for her to crawl onto the bed, straddle him, and press her lips to his before he could get a single word out.

It wasn’t a soft kiss this time. It was deep, heated, like she was trying to make up for all the time they’d lost.

Oscar groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding under her hoodie, fingers skimming warm skin. He felt her shiver, heard the little gasp she let out when he pulled her closer, felt her shift slightly and—

Yeah. Yeah, she definitely felt that.

She broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, grabbing his wrists and shoving them away. "Naughty!" she scolded, grinning as she sat back. "First, we’re sleeping."

Oscar let out a dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the pillows. "That’s just cruel. You’re a cruel woman."

She smirked, rolling off him and slipping under the duvet. "You’re the one who looks half dead. Get in."

Oscar stared at her for a moment, something warm curling in his chest. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed this—the casual intimacy, the way she just knew when he needed to rest, the way she could tease him one second and make his heart ache with how much he loved her the next.

He exhaled, then kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside her.

But Oscar didn’t hesitate. The second he was under the covers, he pulled her tight against him, slotting her perfectly against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed across her back, the other tangled in her hair as he breathed her in.

She was warm, soft, real.

For months, he’d fallen asleep with nothing but the hum of hotel air conditioning and the occasional distant city noise to keep him company. No whispered conversations under the covers, no sleepy kisses before sunrise, no warmth beside him. Just cold sheets and silence.

But now—now she was here. In his arms. Where she belonged.

She let out a small sigh, nuzzling into his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his side. "You know, I meant what I said earlier," she murmured.

Oscar hummed, his thumb brushing along her spine. "What?"

She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him with a teasing glint in her eye. "That you’re an idiot."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I missed you too, sweetheart."

She huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue, just curled in closer.

Within minutes, her breathing evened out, her body relaxing completely against his. Oscar lay awake a little longer, just holding her, letting it all sink in. The ache that had lived in his chest for months—the one he’d ignored, buried under podium celebrations and press conferences—finally eased.

No win, no pole position, and no championship could ever make Oscar feel as happy as he felt then and there.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @obxstiles @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn

After All

Charles Leclerc x bestfriend!reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, tooth rotting fluff

Charles is a lot of things. He’s determined, hardworking, a bit of a self sacrificing dumbass. He’s kind, talented, humble, confident, soft. He’s your best friend, your closest confidant, the person you would trust with your life.

And, according to everyone who’s ever seen the two of you together, he’s madly in love with you.

…..

Pierre’s the first one to say it. He’s known both of you the longest, he’s one of Charles’ best friends. He sidles up next to you on a warm afternoon. You’re both on Charles’ yacht, leaning against the railing and watching as he does a backflip off the deck and into the water.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” you point out, “and Ferrari will not be happy.”

Pierre snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “He is showing off.”

You give him a look of disbelief. “For who?”

Before he can answer, you’re drawn to look at Charles again when he calls your name. You watch and wave at him, and then he lines himself up for another stupid trick dive that makes your stomach lurch. He makes a splash when he lands, sinking deeper and deeper till you can’t see him through the bubbles. Just when you start to worry, just when you feel like he’s been under too long, he resurfaces. He kicks himself to the surface, hair plastered to his forehead, laughing raucously. He’s suddenly the boy you met at 13, big dreams and big plans and a big personality to get him there.

“You,” Pierre says, jarring you out of your staring. “He is showing off for you.”

You roll your eyes and elbow your friend. “What? He is not. Why would he be trying to impress me?”

“Because he is in love with you,” Pierre states, so matter of fact you almost don’t realize what he’s saying. “Come on, it’s obvious.”

“He is not!” You laugh, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “Jesus, Pierre, the fumes from those engines must really be getting to you.”

Pierre opens his mouth to speak, probably to rebut with some insane theory he’ll present as fact. He’s interrupted by Charles calling your name again. This time he’s waving you down to the back deck, eyes sparkling. He’s going to want you to jump in. You have a fear of heights, a fear of falling, a fear of deep, open water. Despite it all, you head down to meet him anyways. Charles could talk you into anything, could make even the scariest things seem easy.

“You have to hold my hand, though,” you say, when he urges you to jump in with him. “The whole way, no letting go.”

“The whole way,” he promises, knitting your fingers together.

…..

It’s a bit of fate that you end up in Suzuka for the race. You hadn’t been planning on going, but there’d been cheap flights available when you looked the week before, and suddenly you’re off to Japan. Charles is thrilled about it, always happy to have you there, even when he’s busy and barely gets to see you. He says there’s something comforting about knowing you’re in the garage or the stands.

He takes you with him to as many things as he can, including the pre race media days. The second you meet up with him after you get to Japan, he’s talking non stop about Sebastian’s Buzzin Corner project, and your heart melts at the excitement in his eyes. He’s been missing Seb lately, having a tough go of things and searching for guidance.

You watch from behind the scenes, behind the cameras, as the entire grid arrives to make pollinator hotels and decorate canvases. You smile when Sebastian spots Charles and runs over to give him a hug, and you smile even bigger when Charles follows Sebastian around like a lost puppy. Sebastian seems just as happy to be near Charles again, stopping by to check on Ferrari’s progress frequently.

Charles turns during a lull in the event, when the cameras are on another team and Sebastian is distracted, too. He waves you over, eyes bright, smile wide. You can’t help but be drawn towards him. Any time he wants you nearby, you go willingly, eagerly.

He has paint on his fingers, speckles of it on his shirt. Charles is creative, too. He doesn’t get nearly enough chances to show it, in your opinion. He’s stifled by brand deals and the public eye and overbearing management. You stand next to him, eyeing his and Carlos’ artwork with a soft smile. The pollinator hotel is filled with supplies, the roof is decorated, and Charles tells you excitedly that they’ve already had their first “guest”. He hands you a paintbrush when nobody is paying attention.

“You should add something, chéri,” he says, nudging you lightly.

You look up at him, twist your face into an unsure smile. “Am I allowed to?”

“Of course,” Sebastian says, having made his way back around to the Ferrari team. You smile at Charles’ old teammate as he pays your shoulder lightly. “It’s not exclusive, you know.”

You laugh, reaching out with the paintbrush and adding a small heart next to the stripes and stamps the guys have painted on. “A little love for the the pollinators and bugs.”

“You weren’t saying that about that spider last week,” Charles teases.

“It was in my hair,” you say through gritted teeth, looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t slander me in front of Seb.”

Carlos is giggling, watching the two of you. Sebastian is doing the same, his eyes lit up reminding you of years ago when he and Charles had been teammates. He’d joked about the two of you exhausting him, with your boundless energy and constant flip flopping between bickering and affection. You’d insisted you were the ones keeping Sebastian young.

Someone calls Charles and Carlos over for a photo op. You peruse the bee hotel while you stand next to Sebastian. There’s a lot of people’s artwork on there, but somehow you think you know which brushstrokes belong to Charles.

“I see not much has changed,” Sebastian says, nodding his head towards Charles. “He calls you darling and then teases you in the same minute.”

You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks grow hot. “He is my best friend, both of those things are his job.”

“Ah, to be young and oblivious,” Sebastian says in a lilting tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughs, tilts his head at you. “Just that my wife was my best friend, once.”

You narrow your eyes at him. The glare has no effect if the grin on his face says anything. Sebastian is older, wiser, and Charles trusts his judgement on nearly everything, but you know he’s wrong about this. There’s no way Charles sees you as anything more than a friend. You’ve come to terms with that. You can live with that. You have to live with that.

Charles makes his way back over to the two of you, hands in his pockets. You plaster a sunny smile back on your face and try to ignore the way Sebastian is watching the two of you. Charles is telling you to paint something else, pointing out the empty space left on the canvas and the bee hotel.

He takes your hand, still wrapped around the paintbrush, in his own. He dips it in the black paint, leads you over to the wooden structure, and adds another heart.

“More love,” he says, singsongy, squeezing your hand. Behind you, Sebastian barely muffles an affectionate laugh. “More love for the bugs.”

…..

“This is my favorite song!” You yell over the booming bass.

You have a drink in your hand, your… 6th? of the night? You’re not sure, you’ve lost count. Charles keeps handing them to you every time your gets low. It’s always tequila and soda, always with two limes.

Charles laughs, shaking his head. “You have said that about every song in the past hour.”

“I mean it this time,” you say, eyes wide. You’re standing up from the table, pulling on his arm. “C’mon, we should dance, Charlie!”

He groans lightheartedly. Really, all of this should be your sign to cut yourself off. You don’t like dancing, and you rarely call him Charlie. Everyone calls him Charles, so you’d let the nickname go years ago. You’d worried it made you sound childish, made you sound like you were holding onto years past. He doesn’t budge from his spot in the booth, watching you warily.

“Amour, I don’t like this song as much as you apparently do,” he says, shaking his head. “And I like dancing even less.”

“Fine,” you say with a pout. “I will find someone else, then.”

You melt into the crowd before he can pull you back into the booth and down to earth. You’re at that pleasant stage of drunk where everything is funny and fuzzy and floaty. You spot Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, at the bar, and she needs much less convincing to join you on the dance floor. She abandons Alex with George and follows you eagerly. It’s Las Vegas, you’re here to have fun. This is fun. The two of you squeeze through the swirling mass of people till you find a good spot.

You don’t know how long it’s been when Charles finds you there- you just know you’re sweaty, a few drinks deeper, and past the point of no return. The song that’s playing now is your actual favorite song, a fact that you tell Charles when he steps in front of you, his hands on your waist to steady you.

“I know,” he says, because of course he knows. Nobody knows you better than him. “I also know you are drunk.”

“M’having a good time,” you tell him, wrapping an arm around his neck. It’s just to keep you steady, you tell yourself. “Vegas, baby!”

Charles laughs, shaking his head, but he starts to sway to the music with you. One hand stays on your hip, but the other comes around to your back and pulls you closer. You like being pressed against him, like being able to feel the warmth of him even through the fabric of your clothing. You don’t think before you spin in his grip, press your back to his front, keep your arm around his neck behind your head. Tomorrow morning, or rather, later today, you can blame it on the alcohol.

Charles wraps his arm around your waist in response, and you swear you feel his lips on the back of your neck as he pulls you in again. You’ll blame that on the alcohol too.

It’s like you blink, and then you’re standing out on the sidewalk, surrounded by the lights of the Las Vegas strip. The night air is cold, and you laugh to yourself, thinking about all the talk of a night race in the desert and the temperature.

“What’s so funny?” Max asks.

You’re surprised to find him standing next to you, and you blink at him.

“S’cold,” you say, unable to explain the rest of it. You just giggle again. “Where’s Charlie?”

Max raises his brows. “He went inside to get your jacket. You left it in the booth. Remember, five minutes ago, when you said it was cold?”

Huh. You don’t remember, but Max is probably telling the truth. He and Charles are more of friendly rivals than enemies now, despite their formative years. Max is definitely not trying to kidnap you as revenge. He has nothing to get revenge for- he won the race. Maybe he’s bitter that a Grand Prix he talked about so negatively had ended up being one of the best of the season, you suppose. Though you’re not sure that would give him a reason to kidnap you-

“I called him that once,” Max says, and you tilt your head at him. “Charlie. He didn’t like it.”

You remember. It was in Brazil, when they’d all been gathered in a garage. You’d seen it in a video. You can’t admit that, though, without admitting you watch tiktoks of your best friend, so you stay quiet on that subject.

“He thinks it’s childish,” you say with a shrug, scuffing the toe of your shoe on the ground. “I… forget, sometimes.”

You forget that Charles isn’t just your thirteen year old friend, the guy you’d never expected to even tolerate you. You can’t remember how it even happened, how you went from barely saying hi in the halls at school to dinners with his family, homework at their kitchen table. You’re not sure it matters now. What matters is keeping him a part of your life.

You’ve adapted. You’ve let pieces of him go, like childhood nicknames and any hope he’ll ever look at you the same way you look at him. Charles is larger than life, now. You’re still small. You’re still thirteen sometimes, still sitting at the table, begging Charlie to help you with your math problems.

“That’s the thing,” Max says, nudging your side lightly. “He doesn’t seem to mind when it’s you that says it.”

You frown. “Oh, he definitely minds.”

Max shrugs. “He doesn’t show it, then. Probably because he loves you.”

You nod solemnly. “I am his best friend.”

“Right,” Max laughs. “Sure. Friend.”

Charles reappears shortly after that, your jacket in hand. It turns out Max isn’t even leaving- he’d just been tasked with keeping an eye on you while Charles went back inside. He says goodbye and goes back into the club, while Charles is checking his phone, telling you the car should be there any minute. The night has gone from fuzzy to blurry, and you lean heavily on Charles’ shoulder, blinking repeatedly and trying to stay awake. He pours you into the backseat of the car, drags you out of it ten minutes later when you get to the hotel.

“You are so drunk,” he says, standing in the elevator, your head against his chest.

“I know you are but whatamI?” You slur, tugging on his jacket.

Charles just laughs. Even if he could understand you, he wouldn’t get the reference. His hand is resting on your shoulder, fingers squeezing your bare skin softly. You’d taken your jacket off as soon as you got inside, complaining about being hot. Charles had just taken it from your hands with an exasperated smile.

“I think you should sleep in my room,” he suggests when the elevator dings and the doors begin to open. “So I can keep an eye on you.”

You’re not that drunk, but you’re not going to argue. “Yeah, okay.”

When you wake up in his bed in the morning, Charles is asleep on the couch. He’s stretched out, one arm hanging off the edge, one foot on the armrest. His blanket is tangled in his limbs, and you feel guilty, suddenly. It was his night to celebrate, and he’d ended up taking care of you, ended up sacrificing his hotel bed and sleeping on the sofa. You sit up, feeling sick to your stomach, and not from the hangover.

“Lay down,” Charles says, not even opening his eyes. “S’too early. You need more sleep.”

“I should go to my room,” you whisper, and he opens one eye and looks at you warily. “That couch cannot be comfortable.”

“It’s not,” he admits, and the guilt lurches in your gut again. He’s smiling, though. “You tried to insist on sharing the bed, but you were very drunk.”

That’s not surprising. Drunk you always wants Charles close. You direct your eyes to the comforter and muster up all the courage you have left.

“I’m sober now,” you tell him. “So either we share the bed, or I go to my room. You look so uncomfortable.”

Charles hesitates for only a second. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, if you’ve crossed the line. But then he’d shifting, untangling himself from the blankets and tumbling off the couch. He crawls into the bed next to you, sighing happily as he sinks into the mattress. Seemingly almost without thinking, he reaches out, slips his arm around your waist, and hauls you against his chest. You let it happen.

There’s something sacred about the time between morning and night. The sky is a purple hue outside the hotel room window. The halls are quiet. Charles’ heart thuds in your ear, steady and beating out a soothing rhythm, and nothing about this feels out of place. It’s like this is where you’re meant to be, tucked against him, slotted together like puzzle pieces. You wrap your arm around his upper arm, and he pulls the blankets over the two of you.

“G’night, Charlie,” you mumble.

He laughs, and it’s a sweet sound. There’s no hostility behind it. “Goodnight, amour.”

…..

There’s something to be said about your inability to see something as it is until it’s staring you in the face. You’re stubborn as a mule, and maybe blind as a bat, too. It’s not till the holiday break that it all clicks into place.

Charles is sitting next to you at your kitchen counter, decorating cookies. You’ve been baking all weekend. It’s your grandmother’s recipe, now your responsibility to keep up the tradition. There are batches set aside for your family to decorate later, another set for the cookie party you’re holding with some of your friends from university. But Charles had whined and begged about wanting to decorate cookies, about wanting to be a part of the tradition, and you’d given in oh so easily.

He has a heart shaped one in his hand, a knife with red frosting in the other hand. He’s being so delicate, so particular, like it means so much to him. It’s just a cookie, you want to say to him. You hold my actual heart in your hands every day without a care, but you’re so delicate with a cookie?

Except, then, you’re thinking about it, and maybe that’s not true. Charles is brash and bold and confident, but he’s never anything other than gentle with you. He cares deeply, throws himself headfirst into things, he’s all or nothing. But when he’s around you he lets his guard down, takes the time to think. He’s cautious, heartfelt, kind. He takes his time.

“Max asked me to play padel today,” he says casually. “To make up for him missing our match.”

You laugh, though it feels a bit forced. You’re watching his hands, watching as he takes the white icing and writes something on the cookie. “Oh? You didn’t go?”

Charles shakes his head. “He wasn’t free till 11:00. I told you I’d be here at 10:30.”

You frown, blinking at him. He’s so focused on the cookie he doesn’t even notice you staring. He hasn’t spent this much time on a single cookie since he got to your apartment that morning.

“You could have come over later,” you say.

He shakes his head. “This was more important. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

It shouldn’t be the moment, is the thing. Nothing spectacular happens. It’s not like he’s made some big confession, not like anything drastic has changed. Somehow, you just know. He looks up at you, a soft smile on his face, and it’s so, so obvious. You wonder if this is what he sees when you look at him. You wonder if this is what everyone else has seen and told you about. There’s so much love in his gaze that it makes your heart skip a beat, makes your skin feel hot, makes your fingertips go numb. You set your cookie down on the table.

He holds his in his own hand, peering down at it as if he’s judging it in a competition. He turns it between his fingers, leaving a red thumbprint on the underside of it. He has icing on his fingers, all the colors of the rainbow. It’ll probably stain his skin.

“You are always more important,” he breathes, and you can’t breathe at all. “The most important.”

He turns the cookie towards you, but you already know what it’ll say. His initials and yours, in white icing on a red backdrop. He’s been saying it all along, really. The whole way. More love. I know. Somehow it has still caught you off guard, stolen the air from your lungs and the words from your lips. All this time pining after him and you had never actually considered he might be feeling it, too. But it’s there, written on the cookie, and it’s written on his face, too.

You lean in to kiss him. He tastes like frosting and feels like love, and you wonder how you didn’t see it sooner.

…..

A week later, Pierre spots the matching hickeys on yours and Charles’ necks and laughs his ass off.

“I told you,” he says, through peals of laughter, shaking his head. “You are both so blind.”

Charles wraps his arm around your waist, and you shrug. You stare up at your boyfriend, happier than you’ve ever been, the weight of his hand on your hip grounding you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, dismissing Pierre even as he continues to laugh. “We figured it out. That’s all that matters.”

Charles leans close, presses his lips to your forehead. You feel it all. The years of waiting, wondering, wishing. Pierre is congratulating the two of you and saying something about calling Carlos about a bet they’d apparently had. You can’t bring yourself to care. In the end, you suppose, Pierre deserves to gloat. All your friends do.

They were right, after all.

thanks for reading! you can check out my other fics here!

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

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