From The Start ⋆𖦹⋆｡˚⋆ฺ

THE ICEBREAKER| KIMI RÄIKKÖNEN

Pairing; Kimi Raikkonen x wife!reader

Summary; It never fails to amaze the formula one community just how much of a difference there is in Kimi’s attitude whenever his wife is around.

Warnings; Simply fluff.

F1 Master List

It was common knowledge in the world of formula one that Kimi 'the iceman' Raikkonen was everything that his nickname implied. He was blunt, hard faced and cold, straight to the point.

There's only a few instances where that guard drops; when he's drunk, caught off guard or sometimes when he's around Sebastian Vettel.

However, everyone knew that the ultimate Icebreaker was his wife.

It amazed everyone how quickly that icy facade melted whenever Kimi was around her, he was a completely different person, the paddock changed when she was around, Kimi was full of soft smiles and loving glances.

They were complete opposites, she was sunshine and spring, he was winter and icy winds but there had never been a pair more suited for each other.

Kimi wasn't due on track for another half an hour so him and Y/N had hidden themselves away on a bench at the far side of the garage. Kimi's back was rested against the wall, his wife sat between his legs, back resting against his chest. His arms were securely wrapped around her, his chin rested on her shoulder, eyeing the data he was holding in his hands.

Every now and then the Finnish man would nuzzle his head into her hair, inhaling the comforting smell of strawberries and a scent that was so uniquely her, followed by a soft kiss on her shoulder before returning back to his data.

Y/N relished in these small moments before races, even though they were surrounded by people running around it always felt like it was just them, alone in the world and they were perfectly content getting lost in each other's presence.

She closed her eyes, relaxing into the love of her life's embrace, she would never take these moments for granted, not when their lives were so hectic, it was relieving to live in a moment like this, to use it as a sort of pause button to take a small but needed break.

'...And there is the golden couple of the paddock, world champion Kimi Raikkonen and his wife, that man looks anything but what we know him as...'

She heard David Croft's voice filter through a nearby radio causing her eyes to open in confusion before she noticed a camera zooming into them from outside of the garage, sure enough they were on the big screen.

She smiled, lightly tapping Kimi's arm to get his attention, he turned his eyes from the papers in his hand to look at her. She pointed to the camera, Kimi looked in that direction, shaking his head with the smallest of smiles when he noticed the camera.

He knew what everyone said about him, how he was a different person when he was with her and they took every chance they could to capture him in a moment with his guard down. He didn't try and deny it because he knew they were right, sort of.

He wasn't a different person with her, he was himself with her, just a softer version of himself that he reserved for family and closest friends.

"Kulta" Kimi whispered 10 minutes later, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Hmm" she responded, eyes remaining closed, more than relaxed in his arms.

"It's time for me to get in the car" he mumbled into her ear, softly patting her thigh. She sighed but sat forward, standing up from the bench, stretching as she did.

Kimi groaned as he stood, folding the papers into his right hand, reaching out his left to grab hers, leading her over to his car where his engineer stood with his balaclava and helmet in hand. He handed the balaclava to Kimi and helmet to Y/N before walking away, giving them privacy.

Y/N watched as her husband got into his racing mode, his icy-blue eyes turned hard and determined, his body tensed up as he became more focused, strategies running through his mind.

She handed his helmet to him and once he had secured the straps under his chin she stepped closer to him, gently cupping the sides of his head and pressing a loving kiss on the hard material where his lips were covered.

Her hands ran down his arms before eventually reaching his hands that were covered in his gloves, she laced her fingers with his, her eyes never leaving his.

"Win for me" she told him "I love you so much" his eyes shined brighter at her words, his right hand rose to her cheek, his thumb brushed across her skin.

"I love you" she heard his muffled voice repeat back causing her to smile. He stroked her cheek one last time before lowering his hand, releasing her hand from his left and turning to his car.

Once he had climbed inside and checked his radio was working, he was ready to go. He looked towards where Y/N was standing and gave her a thumbs up before the mechanics wheeled him and his car out of the garage.

She walked back over to his side of the garage, sitting in front a screen that would be streaming the race.

There was no greater sight than watching the love of her life living his dream, his heart may beat for her but he was born to race. She had supported him up to this point and would continue to support him until the day he decides to let racing go, even then she would cheer him on in what he decides to do next.

---

Hi, I was wondering if you could write something for this ask please. You’re the social media manager and with Red Bull recently promoting yuki you’re trying to make Yuki comfortable and get h to film content. So yuki is attached to your hip basically and then other members of the grid have taken a liking to you. One day will filming content on the grid max was passing and saw how close you and yuki were and got jealous. At the same time Carlos came up and was trying to ask you out. You can write something about how jealous max confronts you.

Thank you 😊

"Problem?" "Not yet"

Summary: As Red Bull’s social media manager, you’ve become Yuki’s safe space—and now everyone on the grid wants your attention, including one very possessive Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen x pr!reader

Navigation

You weren’t expecting to become Yuki’s emotional support human, but ever since Red Bull promoted him, that’s exactly what happened.

“I don’t want to film this alone,” Yuki said for the third time that day, arms crossed like a stubborn child as the videographer set up behind the hospitality tent.

You smiled, tugging your headset down around your neck. “You won’t be. I’ll stand just off-camera, alright?”

“Too far,” he grumbled.

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. “Then I’ll stand barely off-camera. Deal?”

Yuki looked up at you with those impossibly wide eyes. “Fine. But if I mess up, it’s your fault.”

You didn’t mind. In fact, over the last few races, Yuki had become like a little brother—always hovering near your desk, asking what kind of TikToks were trending, or stealing your snacks during media days. You chalked it up to the stress of the promotion. New team. New pressure. New expectations.

And maybe… the comfort of someone who never saw him as just a driver.

What you didn’t expect was how many of the other drivers suddenly noticed you.

You blamed the behind-the-scenes video that went viral last week—where Yuki refused to let go of your arm during an interview setup, and fans lost it over the way you patiently helped him adjust his mic.

Now your DMs were a minefield, and every other person in the paddock wanted to “film content” with you.

Including Carlos Sainz.

It was a sunny afternoon in Melbourne, just before qualifying. You were walking with Yuki through the paddock, prepping for a “Rate That Grid Fit” video. Yuki, as usual, was glued to your side, tossing sarcastic commentary your way while you adjusted your camera settings.

Then Carlos appeared.

“Hola, Y/N,” he said, flashing that annoyingly charming smile.

You blinked. “Hey, Carlos. Nice fit today—”

“Gracias,” he said smoothly, then turned to Yuki. “Mind if I steal her for a second?”

Yuki narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

You snorted. “Yuki—”

“I don’t trust the William drivers,” he mumbled.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to sabotage her.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuki muttered, arms crossed.

Carlos ignored him and looked at you again, this time more serious. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner later tonight. After quali.”

You froze.

Yuki blinked up at you. “Dinner?”

You stared at Carlos. “Are you serious?”

He smiled again. “Completely.”

Before you could answer, a third voice cut in—low, flat, and laced with irritation.

“You’re pretty popular today, huh?”

You turned, heart jumping slightly.

Max Verstappen stood a few feet away, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face.

Oh boy.

You hadn’t interacted much outside of race weekends and Red Bull content. Max was always professional, quiet, intense. But lately… something had shifted.

You’d caught him watching you a few times when you were with Yuki. Lingering glances. Sharp stares. Silent brooding from across the garage when you laughed too hard at one of Daniel’s jokes.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re filming content, Max. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said coolly, though his eyes flicked to where Carlos still stood—too close for Max’s liking.

Carlos lifted a brow. “Problem?”

“Not yet,” Max said flatly.

You exhaled, annoyed. “Okay. Testosterone break over. Carlos, I’ll get back to you. Max—Yuki and I have a shoot to finish.”

But Max didn’t move.

He just stared you down with those piercing blue eyes until the others slowly drifted off—Carlos with a wink and Yuki muttering something about “drama queens.”

Now it was just you and Max behind the media pen, the noise of the paddock muffled by the tent walls.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded.

His jaw flexed. “You tell me. You’re the one letting half the grid line up to flirt with you.”

“Letting?” you echoed, stepping closer. “I’m working, Max.”

“With Yuki hanging off your shoulder like a puppy?”

“He’s adjusting to a new team. I’m helping him feel comfortable. That’s my job.”

Max scoffed. “You do that with Carlos too? Over dinner?”

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re actually jealous.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t have to.

You saw it all over his face.

The clenched fists. The tightened jaw. The way his eyes dropped to your mouth when you spoke—hungry and frustrated, like he wanted to bite the words off your tongue.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you said quietly. “Not when you’ve never once made your feelings clear.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he growled.

Your pulse spiked. “Well, you do. Because I’m not a mind-reader, Max. And if you’re going to stand there acting like I’ve wronged you somehow, you better say what you really mean.”

He stepped forward, crowding you until your back hit the tent post.

“I don’t like seeing other drivers touching you,” he said lowly.

“Then do something about it.”

There was a long pause.

Then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

One hand cupped your jaw, the other gripping your waist as he kissed you like he’d been holding back for months. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he groaned into the kiss like he was finally breathing again.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“I should’ve done that the first time I saw you,” he muttered.

You were breathless. “You’re lucky I don’t slap you for being an ass.”

“I’d deserve it,” he said with a smirk. “But then I’d kiss you again.”

You laughed, head spinning.

Max Verstappen. Jealous. Possessive. Hungry.

And apparently, very done with watching from a distance.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

---

little white lie — MV1

pairing: max verstappen x fem!leclerc!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions and usage of alcohol, smut, unprotected sex, oral (m & f receiving), sexual references, translated french and dutch, the 2022 f1 season, not proofread!!

synopsis: charles didn’t have a long list of rules when it came to you and the other 19 drivers on the grid, although dating his championship rival was #1 [6.0k]

a/n: return/celebratory max fic ig?? when is that man not winning races

MASTERLIST

You'd caught him staring at you from across the paddock, never the type to hide his staring, the smuggest look you'd ever seen on his face. The collar his race suit had obviously been messily fastened together, still being able to feel the burn on your fingers from the velcro from when you done it back up only minutes ago.

His cheeks were a shade rosy pink, easily explained to anyone who asked as the warm weather getting to him, as was the messy state of his blonde tipped hair. A stoic look was all you returned his grin with, still you could feel the butterflies in your stomach, the feel of his hands on your skin imprinted in your mind.

If anyone had bothered to pay enough attention to him they would've noticed the blossoming purple bruise forming just above his collar, the slight teeth mark you'd left just under his ear too. Although your lingering marks were soon to be covered by his balaclava.

Charles had given you two simple rules to follow, don't date his teammates, and most importantly don't date his rivals. If he could help it, don't date any of the drivers.

And luckily for Charles, you'd hated everything about him from day one, since you had first met Max at one of your brothers karting competition all the way up till now, the smug smile that seemed permanent on his face, his almost entitled attitude as if he deserved to win simply because he was who he was and he drove for who he drove for.

Everyone in the paddock knew of your rocky relationship with Max, since the first race Charles had invited you, it wasn't long till your obvious dislike of the dutchman came out in full force.

The feelings, of course, being mutual.

Annoyingly for you, it seemed as if people naturally gravitated towards him, like he had this unspoken charm that you were yet to see. Even when you were both as young, it was a similar situation, everyone dying to be able to call him their friend.

His move to F1 almost seemed to intensify that charm you were forbidden from seeing, of course you were aware of the media's rendition of him, similar in a way to how you viewed him and it pained you to admit he was actually nothing like that at all.

For those years though that you'd (thankfully in your opinion) never crossed paths more than a couple times where you'd stayed on later after one of Charles' races to see the podiums and bother Pierre around the garage. Even then you barely acknowledged each others presence more than what was deemed necessary.

Although avoiding him altogether was never really an option for either of you, your friendship groups integrated deeply into each others, only becoming much more apparent to you when Charles made his f1 debut and your once in a blue-moon meeting became an almost weekly occurrence.

Never once though did you attempt make your feelings towards him secret, and Max was being honest he didn't try to hide his either, Charles or Pierre often being the ones to step in when you found the opportunities to wind the other one up.

It became a sort of game in your friendship group to wager when the truth would finally come out. The truth that you both masked any glimpse of feelings towards each others with insults and glares.

Charles, for one, was desperate for you both to get along, knowing that if you'd put the work in and pushed aside the baseless hate you held for each other potentially even a friendship could form.

And so when Charles had graduated to F1 in 2018, he was even more so desperate for you to be somewhat neutral towards the red bull driver. After all you'd be seeing him much more frequently, with Charles moving up and you landing an interviewing job at F1TV, he also knew of the hard times the media were beginning to give him. "They're basically eating him alive, at least try to be nice to him, yeah? You know he isn't that bad." He asked you again, for the amount of times you'd lost count, not becoming discouraged from the silence you gave him in response.

Reluctantly, after a significant amount of convincing, his patience paid off as you had agreed to do so, for your brothers sake.

Now though, years later, you were sure if Charles knew what would come from reintroducing you, he would've kept you at least 12 feet away from the dutchman at all times.

The media had caught on quickly that the red bull driver had gotten himself a mystery lady. Multiple articles about Max doing little to hide the red scratch mark you'd left down his back the night before, also never sparing a thought to hide the hickeys you had ever so carefully attempted to leave where his race suit collar would cover.

Of all people, no one had suspected it to be you though, which was the only reason you actually continued whatever it was you were doing with Max. You told yourself it was just sex, because that's all it really was, at least at the start. He hadn't spent a night over at yours, just as you had never his, just a string of hotel rooms in cities across the globe.

The first time had been a moment of weakness on both your parts, Max had just came of race week with a very rare strategy blunder by his team, ultimately ruining his chances for the win and instead handing it to his teammate and you, you had just found out your boyfriend had cheated on you.

It was one of those cliche movie moments, Max finding you at the hotel bar, you're makeup messy and mascara practically melting away from the tears that still stained your face, drinking the night away on your own and occasionally offering up a conversation with the bartender, although mostly it had just been you wallowing in self pity.

As soon as he'd seen you the thought of turning around and ordering a bottle to his room crossed his mind. He'd already had a shitty day, a shitty race week he'd say if he was feeling dramatic, and he didn't need to deal with you drunk and crying on top of that.

Instead, though, he chose to sit down, his legs moving before he could process a thought of what he was doing. He signalled over to the bartender as he sat down beside you. "Two of whatever she's having, please." He heard you groaning at the sound of his voice, the last thing you needed to end a day like that was not spending your time drinking with him, or even seeing him if you could help it.

You'd already spotted him coming in, you're eyes flickering back to the bar in fear of the dutchman seeing you, silently praying that if he was to stay that he would choose another seat but it seemed faith hadn't been on your side.

You would've put money on this being the first time in years the two of you had been together alone, no mutual friends to fill the awkward silence between you.

It took another taste of your drink to build up the willpower to speak. "Saw your team fucked you over," On the outside your words seemed harsh but they were just the trick to break the inch thick ice. "Maybe they're sick of you winning too." Your tone was lightened with a smile and he laughed at your bluntness, probably one of the only times you had actually heard him laugh at something you said.

Max passed the full glass over to you, moving your empty one out of the way as the bartender gave him the drinks, a nod in acknowledgment before he went back to fixing drinks. "Heard you got cheated on?" He retorted, a lift at the end of his words as if he was asking you without the intention of getting an answer back.

Despite the topic of conversations being definitely untraditional, you found the humour in the situation, being helped by the almost goading nature of what he said.

In response you only smiled at him, the silence falling once again but it was no longer the thick and stuffy, awkward one as before.

Both of you were shamelessly drunk by the next couple drinks, the conversations flowing between the two of you as if you'd been friends forever, somehow not running out of things to say as he offered to walk you to your room and you'd agreed before you could even think about saying no.

You had, not that you would ever admit out loud, gotten to your door quicker than you wished to. Neither wanted to say goodbye, unadmittedly enjoying each others company and with the next couple words that left your mouth, whatever tension was between you changed, sure to be blamed on your drunken brain the next morning. "Do you want to come in?"

He looked back at you blankly, expression unreadable, as if he was going through the scenario in his head, what would happen if he said yes, if he said no, and then he slowly nodded his head.

It'd all happened so quickly, one second you were inviting Max into your hotel room and the next you had him pinned against the wall, the strap of your dress falling down your shoulder. "We shouldn't be doing this." You mumbled against his skin, and yet he made no attempt to stop the sloppy kisses you littered across his neck. "He'll find out." Even multiple drinks deeps you had some sort of rational thinking, not that you could say much from the way he pushed his knee between your legs and how it made your mind foggy.

You gasped at the unexpected feeling of his hand in your hair, pulling your head up to meet his eyes, the close proximity making it feel more intimate than you had wished. You felt his finger delicately tracing over your lips, parting them slightly when he pushed his thumb passed them. "Not if we don't tell him, he won't."

Max let his hand drift from your lips, running his fingertips over your cheek and down your jaw, and you shamelessly revelled in the way it felt having him this close. His touch commanding against your skin, already knowing you were like putty in his hands. Goosebumps rose on your skin, the lustful look in his eyes making them appear a shade darker.

There was nothing loving about the way he touched you, no ounce of romance in his actions, no softness when he squeezed the skin of your thighs motioning for you to jump.

He basked in the feeling of having you, the only girl he was ever truly forbade from seeing, and here you were with your arms wrapped around him. "You have no idea how long i've wanted to do this." His voice was hushed against your ear, the sensation of him so close, the warmth of his body radiating against yours, leaving you wanting more.

Your eyes pleaded with him, silently asking him to give you something, anything.

His teeth nipping at your skin had you throwing your head back, exposing more of your neck for his lips to explore. "You're so beautiful." He spoke between kisses, not wanting to stop himself leaving more bruises. "Verdomd mooi." fucking beautiful

Busying yourself as he moved your hands found his hair, your thighs on either side of his as you subconsciously rocked your hips against him, threading your fingers through the soft strands of his light tipped hair. "Tell me you won't regret this?" Max whispered against your ear as he placed your back against the soft mattress.

You could barely think from the way his mouth felt against your skin, never the submissive type but you swore you would've given into anything he said to you in that moment. "I'm not going to regret this." Your hand found his hair once again as his lips trailed down your stomach, dress long gone and lying on the floor.

~

More than a month had passed since the first night you had spent together, and no amount of the alcohol had done its job to make you forget it. Every night before you slept you replayed the details in your mind, from the way his touch on your body wasn't soft as if you were made of glass and the way his accent grew thicker the more turned on he got, the sounds he made against your body, everything.

You tried to steer clear of the dutchman for as long as possible, as much as you could anyway despite being in the paddock at all times with him every race week. It was as if the universe was punishing you for giving into your desire for him, for not resisting his charm.

It seemed as if he was everywhere you were, and you knew from an outside perspective that sounded silly, he was a driver of course he was going to be in the paddock but it didn't help you were the one asking him questions after most races, the good and the bad. Those were the days Max wished it was more than a one night deal, the nights after a bad race where his bed was empty, only a few doors up from your own hotel room with an equally as empty bed.

It was impossible to deny you had wanted to see him again, he'd made you feel like no one else ever and it was almost like torture seeing him around the paddock and having to push back those ever present feelings.

Wether it be him jumping in front of another driver to be interviewed or a simple look from across the paddock. Max made it known to you that he wasn't going to forget and that more importantly he wasn't going to let you forget.

You'd caught him after a particularly bad race, the thing making it worse was that he had been the one to make the mistake, it wasn't a mechanical issue or a strategy blunder, it bad been all him, he'd been the one to lose control of the car and in Max's eyes he was the only one to blame. He was the latest one to arrive at their media duties, no doubt the only reason he had even came at all was due to being dragged by his media officer.

Just by the looking of him you could see how the result of the race had affected him, and to say it was a bad result would be an insult to most other drivers, he'd finished p7, in the points which was more than the 10 other driver could've said, and yet from the look on his face you could've guessed he was dead last.

"So, Max, tell us what happened in that corner with Perez?" You danced around going easy on him or getting straight to the point, ultimately choosing the second option knowing it would make the interview get on quicker, which benefited both of you.

The dutchman shrugged slightly before speaking, a sad smile on his face as he did so. "Yeah you know how it is, we're both that type of driver where if we see a gap we're going to go for it and if one of us don't back out then we're going to have to pay the consequences and i did, so."

You nodded at his answer, a diplomatic one at that and you knew he wanted the interview to be over just as quick as you did. Although something else you knew was that no tabloid would be happy with the reasonable answer he'd gave. "And you believe that's all it was? Just a racing incident between two teammates?"

"Like i said, yeah, we're two driver who want to go for it and it happens."

"Moving on from that, recently you've been labelled a 'dirty driver', how do you feel about that? Do you think it captures your driver style or?" You'd moved passed trying to coddle his feelings, you wanted to push his buttons, bring out that fire in him you knew he had and for some reason put out over a p7 result.

Max cocked his head to the side at your question, the corners of his lips threatening to turn up when he realised your intention. "Do you think i'm a dirty driver?" You shook your head although he camera couldn't catch it and this time he let himself smile. "I think i'm a driver who knows i need to push myself to achieve my best, and some may say that's dirty but i'm here to win not to be p7."

"Right, thank you Max." You nodded your head, max returning the gesture before you finally began packing up your equipment.

The paddock was beginning to filter out, garages looking bare just as they did just mere days before, still the light of one side of the red bull garage stuck out in the clear night. It took everything in you to not turn around there, get in your car and drive back the hotel, instead forcing your legs to walk towards the light.

There was only 4 or 5 mechanics left in the garage, clearing up little bits they'd missed the first time and though they were confused at your presence they still smiled welcomingly at you. Almost as if he could read your mind one of them spoke up. "He's in his drivers room, just down the hall."

Thanking him you continued further into the garage, his, checo's and even Daniel's face splashed onto the walls. You sucked in a breath when you reached his door, knocking on it lightly before you could back out. "I'll be out in 5 minutes." He replied back, almost monotonously.

"Max, can we talk?" There was silence on the other side of the door before you heard shuffling, then the turning of a lock and soon enough you were standing inside his room. Max looked at you expectedly, waiting for you to explain what it was you were doing there. "I'm sorry for calling you a dirty driver,"

"And for bringing up your collision with checo, i knew you weren't the happiest with the result and i pushed you-" In the midst of your ramble you hadn't caught hie close he'd gotten to you, and were taken slightly off guard when you were cut off by press of his lips on yours.

He held your face in his hands, keeping you impossibly closer to him in the stuffy confinement of his drivers room. You let your body move against his, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss when you felt him nip at your bottom lips, a gasp slipping from your mouth.

You stumbled back slightly, breaking apart for a second to catch your breath before your lips were on his again. Max held your hand in his, as his body hit the back of the small couch in his room your legs straddling his lap, thighs on either side and the memories of your first night together came in flashes when you closed your eyes.

"Max..." You whispered against his lips, your breathing heavy, Max's hands travelling across your clothed skin as if it was the first time he'd done so.

"God, you never shut up." His laugh was breathy after he spoke, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before his fingers started expertly undoing the top buttons of your shirt. He undone the buttons just enough to see the bra you wore underneath it, the white lace details attempting to disguise you as innocent.

Max dropped his head bellow your collarbone, pressing kisses to the exposed skin, small whines and whimpers falling from your lips as he did so, occasionally nipping at your sensitive spots and soothing it over. By the time he was finished your neck looked like it had been attacked, blossoming purple and red marks covering your skin and the patterns dipped lower to just between your breasts.

You were practically begging him to do more, whispering pleas against his ear when he slowly rocked your body against his. "Not here, schatje, come back with me?" He phrased it like a question and you feverishly nodded your head, no plan to go back to your hotel alone in the state he'd put you in. 

His room was only a couple doors down from your own and just two by Charles, Max having to shush your giggling slightly as he told a joke in the near empty hallways. Your hands were laced together, from an outside perspective you looked like a young couple in love, coming home from a night out together, only the two of you knowing the extent of your dirty secret.

Your back hit against his hotel room wall, legs being spread by his knee between them pushing your dress further up your thigh. With his arm wrapped around your waist he held you up, pressing his lips to yours knocking the air from your lungs in the process. Max pushed down the front of your dress, exposing the white lace bra you hid underneath.

You gulped at the feeling of his hands across your body, your knees starting to buckle as he trailed down the soft lace material of your bra, taking his time as his finger met the clasp which held the two sides together. The movement was slow and calculated, purposeful in the way he bared your skin to the air, watching, and smiling, as your breath hitched in your throat.

Max took a step back, standing tall in front of you, holding himself steady as he took you all in, your pupils already blown out with lust. His fingertips danced across your waist, moving up your body to slip the straps off your shoulders. Your nipples hardened as the thin material fell to your waist, mouth parted at the vulnerability of the situation, almost naked in front of the man you once felt nothing but hate for.

He captured your mouth in his, as if he had done a thousand times before, his lips warm and supple just how you had remembered them, yet still rough against your own. His fingers brushed your jaw as his tongue slipped inside, the simple act of intimacy conveying his need, his desire for more, and you returned the gesture.

Your stomach tightening as you felt the unbelievable magic of his hands and lips on your body, working in tandem for your pleasure.

Max slipped your bra down further till you were completely rid of it, grip firm on your hips almost certain to leave a bruise, as you reached forward to unbutton his dress shirt. You rasped at the roughness of Max's fingers, in contrast to the feelings of your past boyfriends hands. He grunted at the feeling of you under his touch; the way your skin felt like satin to his senses. A shiver crept along your spine as he licked his lips.

As your fingers moved swiftly to undo the last button on Max's shirt, you stopped for a moment, mesmerised at the way the light highlighted his torso. You ran your hands over his chest, over the now familiar feeling of his abs and the way he tensed underneath your touch. He just barely whispered your name, capturing your hands in his in an attempt to gain control again.

"God, Max, i need you." You moaned against his ear, a new sense of want filling the dutchman as you did so. "Please."

And you were begging now, begging for him, for him to make you feel good and it was only natural that he gave in.

He shushed your pleas as he brought his lips to yours, slightly softer than before but still enough to show you that for tonight, he was the one going to be in charge. Although if he was going to do this, he was going to make sure he got some fun out of it too. "What do you need, schatje?"

Max tilted his head as he spoke, pulling back from you, watching how your breathing returned to normal with the new space between you. It had been less than 10 minutes and you were already sick of his teasing, the only thought in your head was him fucking you and you didn't care how desperate it sounded.

"Max," You whined, trying to press your lips to his again when he pulled his head back, only letting them just barely brush against his and nothing more. "I need you to fuck me, please."

As much as he loved the sound of your begging, he knew it would have to wait, his hand moving down the front of your stomach, slipping underneath the waistband of your already drenched lace panties. You let out a moan when he pressed down on your clit, teasing you when he dragged his fingers through your folds.

"You'll need to wait for that, gonna get you off on my fingers first." His words went straight to your core, clenching around nothing when his thumb circled your clit.

Your mouth fell open when he slipped a finger inside of you, whines and whimpers escaping from the way he stretched you out. His calloused fingers in contact with the sensitivity of your cunt had your hips bucking into his hand. "So impatient." Max was taunting you, running his fingers along your slit without allowing you the feeling of them inside you, spreading your arousal. "You're so wet, all for me, hm?"

You couldn't nod quicker, hoping flattery would get him fucking you quicker. "All for you, Max, tout pour toi." The switch in languages came from when he teased you with the tips of his fingers, never truly fully entering you.

He seemed to have taken pity on you, your thickened accent when you spoke in your native language being the catalyst as you gasped at the stretch of his fingers inside you again.

Max was slow with his movements at first, letting you adjust to the burning feeling before moving. The time between the last time he'd had his fingers in you and now seemed like a life time, your memory of that night not doing justice to the way he made you feel. Your hips moved on their own, in time with the rhythm he had set, grinding against the palm of his hand. "You look so pretty like this, riding my fingers like a good girl."

Moaning at his words, you gripped onto his shoulder. His thumb was pressed against your clit, the pressure on your neglected nerves being enough to bring you to the edge but fully tip you over, your pleasure and body fully in his control. Max picked up pretty quickly on what you wanted him to do, the dutchman somehow knowing your body better than you did after only one time together.

Lazily, he began rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb, his lips pressing against your neck as he sucked a hickey. The added stimulation had you arching your back, your chest bumping against his own. "Fuck, please i'm so close." You gasped out, a string of swear words following your confession as his relentless pace somehow fastened.

You felt your thighs beginning to shake, your cunt clenching around his fingers and with little warning your body was slumping against his, back arching off of the wall behind you. Moaning into his bare shoulder, leave an indent in the wake, his body doing the most to muffle the sound of your whines to anyone outside.

Max helped you ride out your high, the arrogant smile on his face enough to make you want to drop to your knees for him, to have him in your mouth where you were the one to control his pleasure, where you were in control. Only when he cleaned off his fingers of you in his mouth you were actually on your knees for him.

Your heels stood flat against the wall, looking up at him through your eyelashes and his breathing quickened. He was straining against the confinement of his trousers, begging to be released, to be touched by you, yet he would never voice these things to you.

His thumb stroked over your bottom lip as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. "You're so beautiful, schatje, on your knees like this."

Your own thumb ran over his leaking slit, the low groan escaping his lips making you smile at the effect you had on him in such a short amount of tome. Taking him fully into your mouth, you hollowed out your cheeks, his tip hitting against the back of your throat, hand in your hair motivating you to bob your head up and down.

You looked up to see Max's head falling back, cursing under his breath in dutch his exposed neck and parted lips making you want to skip everything and fuck him already, and you knew he wouldn't be one to argue. "Such a good girl." His words had you moaning around him, his accent appearing more intense the closer he came, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat making you gag.

Tears prickled in your eyes at the constant impact of his tip against the back of your throat as he fucked your face, his hips moving to meet your mouth, threatening to ruin the mascara you wore. When Max could feel your jaw growing tired he took over, using the hand in your hair to move your head, forming a makeshift ponytail.

The sounds he was making was enough to make you forget about the ache in your knees and the tiredness of your jaw, watching how his adams apple bobbed in his throat. Low groans, moans and dutch swear words alongside the occasional gasp of your name.

You felt him begin to twitchin your mouth, what would usually be encouragement to keep going was him pulling you off of him, both of you gasping to catch your breath. He ran his finger along your swollen lip, his pre cum and your spit coating them, pressing his thumb in your mouth as you swirled your tongue around it, just as you would if he was in your mouth. "Don't pout, liefje, wanna come inside you."

Quickly you were being pulled back to your feet, being brought in for an almost bruising kiss. His hands ran up and down your hips, squeezing the soft skin, no doubt to leave marks the next day. The impact of him pulling you up back against the wall had you moaning into his mouth.

Max linked your hand in his, moving you both towards the bed to where he sat back with his legs still spread, taking your place in between them on his thighs, the flexing of the muscle jolting you forward into his arms. You felt your core twitch as it made contact with his bare skin, although put it to the side as you only wanted to focus on kissing him.

Max’s hands sat roughly on your hips once again, digging his fingertips into your skin, matching the roughness and intensity of the kiss you were sharing.

As your lips moved against each other, you began to rock your body into his, Max’s hands following your movement, the small whimpers slipping from your mouth at just the simple contact mixing with the sounds of his groans. You could already feel your wetness beginning to dampen his thigh, his muscles flexing underneath you again. Pulling away from him, your lips went to his ear. "Max, i want you to fuck me."

He hadn’t even needed to voice a reply, already having your body turned over and your face pushed into the soft mattress of your bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it under your head for support. He stroked himself a couple times, his cock hardening in his hand before he lined it up with your entrance.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pushed into you, the pillow doing a pitiful job to shield the moans you let out. "Look at you letting me fuck you like this," He was already back to teasing you, your moans growing louder from his lewd words, only prompting him to thrust into you harder and faster, his grip on your hips tightening, pulling you impossibly closer to him. “What would your brother say, hm? Knowing you were being fucked by his rival?”

His mention of Charles only spurred you on more, feeling every inch of him in you, every vein, as he let out moans of his own. “Max, don’t stop.” His pace never faltered, not even when your thighs shook from the pleasure you were experiencing, or when your back arched higher off of the mattress. Your nails dug into the crisp white sheets you lay on, gripping onto them as you could feel yourself nearing your orgasm once again.

Max could already feel you clenching around him, which was already making him near his own release quicker. He kept thrusting into you a gruelling speed, though his movements became more erratic as he continued, his own thighs shaking slightly.

You felt his lips trailing from the bottom of your back and to the nape of your neck, moving to place more soft kisses beneath and behind your ear. When your orgasm finally washed over you, you could barely hold yourself up. Underneath your arms gave way, moaning into the pillow you felt a collection of tears drop from your eye from the overstimulation.

Within a minute you felt Max release inside of you, the warm liquid being kept deep into you as he stilled, his body falling slightly onto yours, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck. You both stayed like that for a couple of seconds, trying to catch your breaths and neither wanting to be the first to move.

Max followed his trail down from the back of your neck till he met the bottom of your back before pulling himself out, watching his cum drip out of you. He was quick to grab a dampened cloth from the bathroom, carefully cleaning you up.

You rolled onto your back, looking up to the ceiling of his bedroom, your breath still irregular. Max fell back on the bed just beside you, opening up his arms for you to slot into, wrapping around your waist and pulling you close to him, finally planting a kiss on the top of your forehead. His fingers fidgeted with the ends of your hair, taking a mental image of the sight in front of him, your red blushed cheeks and fucked out expression on your face, knowing he was most likely not going to see it for a long time.

There was a short, comfortable silence, which Max was the first to break. “Let me take you out on a date, a proper one, not just food delivered to one of our hotel rooms.”

From the way he looked at you, his eyes holding no malicious intent, you knew he was being serious and in less than a second your answer changed the relationship between you and him forever. “Okay, you can take me out.”

There was no other thought in your mind when you answered, not Charles, ferrari or red bull not even the media had crossed your mine, in that moment you could think about you and him.

---

detour

george russell x reader | 1.8k

you get in a car crash. a very handsome and very familiar man stops to help.

cw: fem!reader, car crash, blood, minor injuries. george is the star, alex in the background because he's a sweetie. hospitals and some flirting. short and sweet!

a/n: first time trying him out, but any excuse to write george saying blimey. --

Later, you'll be able to recall it in flashes.

The empty road, the voice telling you which way to go slightly patchy due to weak signal. The setting sun coloring the sky a brilliant pink, a sense that you might be lost. Waiting for the light to turn green, not a car in sight. It does, and you ease your way through the crossroads. Then -- an awful sound, spinning, closing your eyes and bracing yourself. A sharp pain, no air in your lungs, an eerie silence and then the squeal of tires.

In the moment, it takes you a few breaths to figure out what's happened. One thing at a time, you think. Wiggle toes -- check. Fingers? Check. You can see that the airbag has deployed, which explains the soreness of your chest but it doesn't hurt to breathe. Slowly, you unbuckle your seatbelt and notice that there's blood down the front of your shirt.

"Fuck," you mutter. Your forehead is tacky with it and you wince. Your neck feels a bit stiff and when you turn your head to the side too quickly your vision swims. "Oh, god."

A few moments to rest, then. You need to find your phone and call for help. The sun is almost down and there are no cars back here -- how on earth did someone hit you and drive away?

The longer you sit there the more your head starts to pound. A whisper says you shouldn't fall asleep because -- why? You can't find the word. What were you meant to be doing? Oh, your phone. Where is it? You don't see it by the gear shift, maybe it fell under the seat. God, bending over sends a rush of blood that has you groaning. Plan B. Sit here a little longer.

You're trying valiantly to keep your eyes open when you hear it -- an engine. It gets closer and closer and you expect it to pass you by but the car comes to an abrupt stop and someone gets out.

"Call 999!" they shout. Sounds like a man. "Blimey, there's blood on the window."

A shape appears and the car door opens and there stands -- a man. A tall man. He crouches down so you can see his face. Big blue eyes and a square jaw, pieces of fringe curling over his forehead. Pretty, your bruised brain supplies.

"Hello," he says gently. "Are you alright?"

"Where did you come from?" you ask. His features swim a bit but something is nagging at you. "I think I know you."

His brows furrow. "Alex," he calls behind him. "Are they coming?"

"Yeah," someone shouts back. "They're asking how she is."

The man's attention returns to you. "I'm George, and that's Alex. We're going to help you, okay?" You grunt an assent. "Now, I'm not a doctor," he says, "but do you think you can tell me where you're hurt?"

You try to focus. "I don't think anything is broken. But my head --" You reach for your forehead again but George catches your wrist with long fingers before you can.

"Think you hit it on the window," he explains. "Best not to touch it. Bit of a nasty cut."

Suddenly, you're desperate to get out of the car. "Can you -- I need to --" You tug at the seatbelt.

"George," the other man calls. Alex.

"Concussion," George says. "I think. Mate, I don't know. She's not slurring, but she's confused."

He reaches over you and unbuckles the seatbelt. You swing your legs out of the car and try to stand up. George quickly grabs your hands as you sway.

"Woah," he says. "Are you sure you want to --"

This close it's apparent how tall he is and recognition sparks once again. "I swear I know you from somewhere," you repeat, but it comes out as a croak.

"Do you?" he says lightly. "Alex, can I have the water bottle?"

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to focus. Fuck, your head hurts. It's like the ability to think clearly has simply left you.

"Yeah, you --," you look at him again. He's got a plastic bottle in one hand now, black with a teal wording on it that you recognize. "You...drive cars."

"Well done," George says, smiling. "Do you want some of this?" He hands it to you when you nod and you take slow sips. He keeps a hand lightly on your elbow.

Something occurs to you. "You didn't hit me, did you?" You're pretty sure he didn't but everything is so muddled.

"No," he says, firmly. "No, I promise I didn't." He gently turns you so you're facing the car. It's not a pretty sight. "I think some wanker clipped you at the rear and send you spinning into the pole."

The driver's side tail light is totally shattered and you see that he's right -- the light pole is firmly lodged into the passenger side door.

"Fuck," you whisper. "Where's the other car?" you ask. You know this, you think, but can't put the pieces together.

George lets out an angry huff. "Drove away, looks like."

You frown. "Well, that's not very nice." Your head pounds again and you groan. "I think I need to --"

"Woah, woah," George says. "Let's sit down."

He guides you to his car and helps you down into the passenger seat. You keep your feet firmly on the ground and take more sips of his water.

"What's your name?" he asks, crouching down to speak to you. He's so tall you're almost eye level. "Can you remember that?"

"I'm not that bad off," you scoff, and tell him. "And you --" The piece slots into place. "You're George Russell."

He grins at you. "I'm flattered," he says. "How's the head?"

You press your eyes closed tight. "Hurts," you say. "Am I still bleeding?"

"Not terribly," he replies. "It'll be alright. I think I hear --"

The siren hits your ears, cutting him off. "That's loud," you mutter. George squeezes your knee and stands.

He takes a step towards your ruined car. "Where are you going?" you ask. It sounds like a whine but you can't find it in you to care.

"Just going to get your things," he says lightly. "So you have them in hospital."

"Oh," you breathe. You allow him to walk across the road and lean into your car, searching for your stuff. He manages to find your phone and sets your purse at your feet just as the ambulance pulls up, siren blessedly off.

You look up at George. "Thank you," you say. "Thank you so much --"

He waves you off. "Please," he says. "Listen, I've put my contact in your phone, and I'll get your car sorted, alright?"

"Are you --" Before you can ask him more, the paramedics take over. You're asked questions, given a few quick tests, while George speaks to one of them off to the side. They load you into the back of the ambulance.

"I'll see you later, okay?" he calls. You just nod and lean back on the bed. The doors are shut and you're on your way.

"Nice bloke," one of the paramedics says. "Never met him before. More of a Red Bull man, myself, but glad he was decent. Do you know him?"

You blink. It's very bright in here. "No," you say. "No, he just stopped to help."

"See?" the man says again. "Decent sort. Now, if he could just get a decent racing car --"

__

Since George gave you your stuff, you manage to call the necessary people to tell them what's happened.

"Few bruises tomorrow," the nurse tells you. She's cleaned your forehead and butterfly bandaged it. "But no stitches. You're a lucky one. Now, that blow to your head isn't too bad, but do try to take it easy. Nothing more than some walks and stay off your phone and TV if you can help it for a week or so."

You nod, thankful for the painkillers she's had you swallow. The throbbing has dulled and you can think a little more clearly.

"Now, last thing," she says. Is she...smirking at you? "You said you've got a ride, but there's a very handsome man waiting for you, too."

"What?" you say. You've called a friend and she's going to pick you up but...is George here?

The nurse taps her nose and tells you you're free to go.

You slowly walk back to the waiting room, unsure of what you'll find. But as soon as you're through the doors, you hear your name.

George unfolds himself from one of the chairs and you meet in the middle. You really thought he'd just call, or something, to tell you about the car. But he's here.

"There you are," he says, as though you've been parted for eons. "I wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm alright," you tell him. He smiles and takes a step towards you, eyes on your forehead.

"That doesn't look too bad now," he says. "Shame about your shirt, though." His hand hovers in the air near your face like he wants to touch you, but he doesn't.

He's right about your shirt -- it's a lost cause. Collar soaked in blood and the front looking like you were an extra in a horror movie.

You shrug. "Not how I thought my day would go."

George winces. "I'd imagine not," he says. "Listen, I've sorted the car. A tow company has it and I'll send you their information. It's a bit of a lost cause, the bloke said, but I've given them your name and number and if you call your insurance --"

You put a hand on his arm. He's warm through the fabric of his sweater. He stops speaking immediately.

"George," you say, softly. "Thank you." He blinks at you, eyes remarkably blue, before he gives you an easy smile.

"Of course," he says. "I'm just glad we came along."

"Me too." You let him go and swallow.

"Do you need a ride?" he says, suddenly. "Alex has just gone to get petrol but he'll be back and we can take you anywhere you need to go."

Your chest tightens with regret. Objectively unnecessary, since you don't know this very famous man, but you wish you could say yes all the same.

"I've called my friend, actually," you say gingerly. "She's coming to get me."

"Good." George runs a hand through his hair, that brown fringe falling over his forehead the way it did when he crouched next to you back at the accident scene. "Good, I'm glad."

Today has been wild, absolutely the last thing you expected. A car crash, meeting this man, ending up in hospital. It occurs to you that anything is possible. You're lucky the crash wasn't worse, and maybe that spurs you to say it.

"I'd love to thank you for today," you say to him, shoulders square. You make yourself look him in the eye. "Alex, too. Lunch, maybe? Once I'm over this concussion?"

You've surprised him, if his expression is anything to go by. Then he grins. "Yes," he says. "I'd love that." His grin shifts into a smirk. "Alex might be busy, though."

You grin back. "Is that so? Too bad."

---

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

---

HE DOESN’T WANT ME WHEN HE’S SOBER.

lando ending | logan ending

summary: lando’s your best friend but seems to like you when he’s drunk. but then again, he seems to like everyone when he’s drunk.

pairing: lando norris x gn!reader

wc: 1.5k

The music was too loud but Lando was so close that he didn’t need to alter his volume - he was talking at the perfect volume that only you could hear him. Each sentence was getting lower, deeper and quieter, but your own mind made him louder, filling up every space in it with replays of him. He was engrossing. He was all you could think about.

He almost dropped the cup in his hand as he took the final step closer, not that the cup would've mattered to him, his only concern would’ve been making sure you stay dry. Still, your throat turned dry at the little distance between you both; at the prospect of what was surely about to happen.

His free hand drifted to your jaw, holding it so delicately and manoeuvring your face gently to face up at him at the perfect angle for him to kiss you. When it was just right, and he could no longer remove his eyes from your lips, not even for a second, his hand moved to the back of your head, holding you in place.

He leaned down, oozing out confidence despite the absolute fear inside of him, and rested his forehead against yours. You had closed your eyes, expecting him to kiss you, but you opened them again when you realised he wasn’t, pulling away only slightly due to the hand on your head preventing it further.

“Lan,” you breathed, your tone showing everything that you weren’t saying, “What are you waiting for?”

His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily like resisting kissing you was the hardest thing that he’d ever done in his life. “I’m just making sure you want this,” he paused, opening his eyes and flicking them between your eyes and your lips, “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you responded instantly, your desperation being evident from miles away. He held back a chuckle and instead revelled in the fact that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. “Please, Lan.”

“So polite,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. He titled your head again, bringing you impossibly closer. You could feel his shirt against your chest and his breathing on your face - there was no going back and you both knew it.

He was going to kiss you, he was leaning down, too slowly for your liking but it was happening and so you weren’t complaining. You felt a ghost touch against your lips - the slightest feeling - but it was there before being harshly ripped away in an instant.

“Mate! I’m going now, congrats on the podium,” Carlos said after walking up to Lando from behind, a hand on his back, the other one shaking his hand.

“Congrats on your win, more like it,” Lando replied, a half smile on his face, trying to be as genuine as possible and not show his annoyance that his moment was ruined.

Carlos looked towards you, about to share a goodbye with you, before noticing your dazed look and shifting between you and Lando as he noticed what was happening. “Shit- sorry, man- carry on, I’ll see you later, yeah?” he said, not letting either of you reply before wandering off, towards the door.

You both stood there frozen for a while, not speaking or moving, just staring into each other's eyes, begging the other for an answer.

Quickly, Lando had given up and stood up straight, looking into his cup and swirling what was left around. “I’m getting another drink, do you want anything?”

“No,” you said, barely audible and no longer looking at him or in his general direction. If you hadn’t shook your head as you spoke, he wouldn’t have known what you said and he really didn’t want to get into an awkward cycle of asking you to repeat yourself a few times before he finally heard you.

“I’ll find you,” was all he said as he left. You watched him as he cut through the crowds to the bar and ordered a drink and a shot, downing the shot the second that he got it.

He turned around and scanned the room, briefly meeting your eyes. You could tell he was debating whether to come back or not but you didn’t know what he decided as he began to stand up, so you made the decision for him and walked away to the side of the club, hopefully weaving through the tides of people enough that it would take a while for him to find you.

You ended up in one of the back corners of the club, pushing yourself into the wall so that people could squeeze past you and so you could people watch better. You were busying yourself giving strangers names and storylines, trying to distract yourself from whatever just happened, or could’ve happened, when you almost threw yourself to the floor in shock from a sudden hand waving in front of your face.

“Don’t jump - I was just trying to get your attention. I called your name a few times,” Alex said. You turned to look at him, slouching right next to you against the wall.

“Sorry, loud music,” you replied. It wasn’t a lie, the music was loud, but you could barely hear it over your thoughts whirring anyway. You watched Alex grimace and shake his head, somehow knowing it wasn’t the music distracting you.

“I saw,” he hummed as you took in a sharp intake of breath.

“I don’t-”

“You kissed him, finally, then what happened? Why are you all alone?” he questioned, his eyes scanning the place for Lando, knowing he’s not usually the type to leave you alone in places like this. He could tell you were upset and confused, and he needed to get to the bottom of it in order to work out whether he’d need to drive his car into Lando’s during the next race or not.

“No- he almost kissed me. Again. Carlos interrupted and he left. He left, Alex. Asked if I wanted a drink and left,” you spat, a mixture of uncertainty and anger clouding your voice. Why did he leave? He started it and left knowing exactly what was happening whilst leaving you with nothing - it was unfair.

Alex sighed. He wasn’t happy with Lando but knew what he felt for you and ultimately wanted to give him the chance to tell you without any mistakes.

“Maybe talk to him about it. He might just be unsure of where you’d like it to go-”

“He called the shots, Alex, he does it whenever he’s drunk, I don’t think he gets to be the confused one,” you sighed, looking at your feet. Alex paused and tried to think of another way to give Lando another chance to tell you how he feels without ruining it.

“Maybe talk to him when he’s sober. He’ll-”

“He doesn’t want me when he’s sober,” you whispered but wanted to scream. It hurt you to say it but you felt like it was true. Alex felt his breath hitch and his heart ache to scream at you that Lando does want you.

“That’s not right. Who wouldn’t want you?” he could see how it was affecting you and wanted nothing more than to make you feel better, but his train of thought was abandoned when he saw your body recoil into the wall in disgust.

He followed your eyeline to find Lando towards the middle of the room, kissing some girl that you had never seen before. He was leaning into her as if he’d die if he let go, and his hand was on the same place on the back of her head as it was on yours.

“Oh,” Alex said, not really knowing what else he could do. He was furious and wanted to mortify Lando in front of everyone in the room.

“Yeah, oh,” you repeated sarcastically. Your knees felt weak and your eyes were on the brink of bursting - it was impossible to hide if you tried. “I’m going to go home,” was all you could get out, your voice choking on every word.

You tried to convince yourself that you weren’t upset and rather you were disgusted but you couldn’t after the image of Lando sucking some other girl's face was plastered in your mind and you shed tears the whole way home. Lando didn’t know - in your mind he didn’t even care but as you were crying to Alex and Lily in an uber, he was looking for you everywhere. But as it hit him, the guilt and weight of what he’d done, and the realisation that you must’ve seen, he prayed that you’d let him explain, like he did every time this happened, whilst you would tell yourself, again, that you meant it this time; that he was too late.

lando ending | logan ending

---

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

---

Mon Soleil

Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader

Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)

The door shuts softly behind him.

That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.

Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

That’s where you are.

Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.

Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.

“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.

You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.

“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.

He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.

“You’re home early,” you murmur.

Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”

Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”

He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.

He closes his eyes.

“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”

You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.

“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”

You blink.

He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”

Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”

“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”

He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”

“You’ve said no to a lot.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”

You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.

“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”

“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”

There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.

You look at him. “You’d want to?”

He hesitates.

“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”

That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”

“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”

You shrug.

He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re usually not.”

“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”

You look at him for a long time.

There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.

“I wrote today,” you say finally.

His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”

“I want to read them.”

You raise a brow. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”

Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”

The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.

“How long are you home for?” You ask.

“Five days.”

“Before Spain?”

“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”

Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”

“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.

“Charles-”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”

You swallow.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.

“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.

You nod.

So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.

In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”

“Especially when you’re quiet.”

He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.

“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”

You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I always come back to you.”

And in the hush of the room, you believe him.

He holds you closer.

Outside, Monaco sleeps.

Inside, he dreams only of you.

***

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.

Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.

He glances over at you.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.

“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”

The door opens.

The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.

You step out first.

And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.

But it’s enough.

The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.

There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.

“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”

You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.

Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.

You watch him go.

He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.

The memory hits like a whisper.

***

It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.

He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.

He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.

You turned.

He held it out. “You forgot this.”

You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”

“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”

You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”

He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”

You nodded.

That was it. That was the moment it began.

Not with a spark. But a softness.

***

Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.

“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.

He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”

You nod slowly. “You sure?”

“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”

The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”

You smile. “I know.”

But it doesn’t last.

After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.

“Charles, Charles, one question?”

He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.

The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Silence.

For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.

Then, “No comment.”

You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”

The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.

He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.

The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.

You stare out the window.

He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you say, too quickly.

“But it didn’t sound like-”

“I know, Charles.”

Another pause.

“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”

You nod. “It never is.”

He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.

Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”

You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”

“I know that.”

You exhale, soft. “Do you?”

He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”

“And I want you honest.”

His jaw tightens.

You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.

You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.

You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.

“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”

You swallow.

His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”

“I know.”

His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”

“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”

Your eyes search his.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”

You kiss him first.

And then everything slows.

There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.

He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.

His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.

“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”

He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.

When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”

You shake your head. “You were scared.”

He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”

“You have me.”

He nods.

Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.

He says it again, barely audible.

“Mon soleil.”

And you fall asleep knowing he means it.

***

It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.

He stays still for a moment.

Watches you.

You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.

He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.

Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.

But it’s not the book that stops him.

It’s the manila folder on the desk.

The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.

He tells himself not to look.

Then he does.

Just one page, he promises.

Then two.

Then-

A line.

To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.

Charles stops breathing for a second.

The words blur.

He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.

There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.

He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.

Charles exhales, long and slow.

He reads on.

The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.

He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.

You see him.

You always have.

And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.

So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.

***

Letter one.

Found tucked inside your book the next morning.

I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.

***

Letter two.

Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.

Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.

***

Letter three.

Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.

I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.

***

He doesn’t sign them.

Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.

You’d know his handwriting anywhere.

***

The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.

It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.

You don’t say anything.

You just … sit with it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.

When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.

He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”

“Maybe.”

He grins. “Lucky me.”

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.

When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”

You shrug. “Felt like it.”

He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”

So you do.

***

That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.

But something’s shifted.

You start noticing the notes.

They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.

And still, you don’t mention them.

Because that’s the thing about Charles.

He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.

But when he loves — it’s quiet.

***

A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.

“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

You smile. “No new ones today.”

He feigns offense. “That you found.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”

“I know.”

He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”

“I thought you were shy.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”

He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”

You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”

He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”

“I still do.”

He swallows hard.

***

Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.

Letter four.

I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.

You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.

He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.

***

A few days later, you call him out of the blue.

He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”

You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

You blink. “Stop what?”

“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”

Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”

“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”

***

That weekend, he comes home.

No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.

Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”

You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”

“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”

He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”

You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”

He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”

You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”

He nods. “I will. One day.”

But until then-

The notes are enough.

***

He sounds like someone else on the phone.

The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.

“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”

You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Charles, look at me.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.

And underneath it all: him.

Raw. Alone.

Not anymore.

***

By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.

His whole face shifts.

Like breathing after holding it too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.

You nod. “Of course I am.”

He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”

He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.

And then-

His arms are around you.

Just like that.

He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”

“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”

“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”

His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”

“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.

Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”

***

That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.

He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.

You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.

“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.

He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”

He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.

“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Because I love you,” you say simply.

His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.

“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”

You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”

And he does.

He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”

His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.

“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’d catch you,” you breathe.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”

He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”

“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”

You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”

***

And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.

Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.

His handwriting, scrawled but certain.

You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.

You don’t cry.

But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.

Where all the others live.

***

The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.

Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.

He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.

You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s just true.”

Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”

He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”

He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”

***

The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.

Not once.

You step out of the car together, and everything slows.

You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.

Not just affection. Not even pride.

A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.

It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.

Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.

You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.

“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”

And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.

He grins. “You run, I follow.”

A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you official?”

“When did it start?”

Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.

A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.

The world sees it.

And for once, you let them.

***

Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.

Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.

You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.

“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.

Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.

“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”

There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”

He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”

You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.

Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.

A ring.

Small. Delicate. Not flashy.

Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.

One for his birth month. One for yours.

Not a proposal.

But something more sacred, somehow.

A promise.

“Charles-”

“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”

He takes your hand.

“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”

He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”

He cups your cheek.

“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”

You’re crying before you can stop it.

He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.

“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You are my world.”

You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”

His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”

You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.

“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”

He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”

***

Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.

He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.

And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.

It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.

When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.

Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.

Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.

You glance up. “What?”

He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mon soleil.”

You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”

“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”

You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.

“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.

“And?” You murmur.

He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.

“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him.

“That I revolve around you.”

The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.

You lean into him and close your eyes.

And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.

Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.

It’s you, glowing.

And him — right where he’s always been.

Yours.

---

pole position

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Lando does his best to teach his girlfriend how to drive — like a winner.

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: swearing

“No, Lando.”

“Please, baby,” Lando practically whines, ignoring the others in the room. “It’s just a quick shoot for the collab merch. In and out. I swear.”

Across the room, Max and his girlfriend P exchange an amused glance, barely holding back their laughter. For the past 20 minutes, they’ve been silent witnesses to Lando’s full-on groveling session — all to convince Y/N to take part in some new Quadrant content in Japan for their Liberty Walk collab.

Y/N shifts on the sofa, arms crossed. “Lan… I don’t know. I get so awkward doing stuff like that.”

“That’s why it’s perfect!” he insists, scooting closer until he’s basically backed her into the corner of the couch. “You don’t have to say anything or act. Just wear the merch, come to the car meet with me, let them snap a few pics, shoot a quick video. That’s it.”

“If it helps,” Max chimes in, lifting a brow, “P and I are filming too. We’ll be there the whole time.”

Y/N hesitates, her expression shifting. “I just…” she trails off, then drops her voice, “Do you want to know the real reason I don’t want to?”

Lando’s face softens. “Of course.”

“It’s the comments. Every time I’m in one of your videos or posts, people say stuff. About me, about us, and I—”

“Baby,” Lando says gently, reaching out to take her hand in both of his. “I don’t give two fucks about what people say. You know that, right? This is a big deal for me, and I want you there. With me.”

She looks into his eyes — all bright and hopeful and full of that boyish charm that always ruins her resolve. She lets out a slow breath.

“Alright,” she says with a soft smile, nodding.

Lando’s entire face lights up. “Yes!” he shouts, yanking her into a hug and nearly knocking her off the couch.

“Should’ve asked for something in return,” Max chuckles, leaning back with a grin.

“Damn,” Y/N says, raising an eyebrow as she pulls back slightly. “I should’ve, huh?”

Lando rolls his eyes at Max, then turns back to her. “Anything you want, my love.”

“Really?” she grins, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Yeah. Go on.”

“I kinda want a baby blue Miata,” she says sweetly, almost too innocently.

Lando scoffs and flops back onto the couch. “Baby, you can’t even drive.”

“Excuse me?” she gasps. “Yes, I can!”

“You can,” P jumps in, “but you don’t.”

“Only because Lando insists on driving every single time,” she shoots back.

“Because you freaked out the last time we hit the highway!” Lando laughs.

“That was one time!” she protests. “Maybe if I had a baby blue Miata, I’d want to drive more.”

Lando narrows his eyes at her, then grins. “Mmm... deal.”

Y/N laughs, patting his thigh affectionately. “I’m kidding, Lan. I’ll do the Japan thing. Promise.”

Max shakes his head, “Would've pressed him harder for that Miata, though. Just saying”

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

Lando had been out running last-minute errands before their flight to Japan the next day, leaving Y/N alone in their apartment. Now, she sat cross-legged on the floor of their closet, half-buried in a mountain of clothes, determined to pack everything perfectly. She was methodically rolling her shirts, one by one, stacking them neatly into the open suitcase beside her.

“Baby?” Lando’s voice called out from the hallway, followed by the familiar clink of his keys landing in the bowl near the front door.

“Bedroom!” she shouted back without looking up, still deep in her folding groove.

She heard his footsteps make their way through the apartment until he finally appeared in the doorway. When she glanced up, her hands paused mid-roll — Lando was grinning like a kid up to no good.

Her brows furrowed suspiciously. “What?”

“What?” he echoed innocently, settling down on the floor across from her.

“That look on your face…” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “What did you do?”

Lando shrugged, still wearing that mischievous smirk. “So, you know how we leave for Japan tomorrow night?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, not looking up this time as she resumed folding.

“And how you so kindly agreed to come to the Quadrant event with me,” he added, voice casual.

She glanced at him again, more suspicious now. “Where is this going, Norris?”

“Just fulfilling a promise,” he said with a dramatic little bite of his lip, reaching behind him and pulling out a small paper bag.

Y/N stared at it as he placed it in front of her. “I’m scared.”

Lando laughed. “Just open it, you muppet.”

Still side-eyeing him, she reached into the bag and pulled out a small black box wrapped with a ribbon. She looked from the box to him, her stomach fluttering a little with curiosity.

Slowly, she untied the ribbon and flipped open the lid — her breath catching the moment her eyes landed on the contents.

“No…” she whispered.

Inside was a single key, the Mazda emblem shining in the light.

“It’s baby blue,” Lando grinned. “Just like you wanted.”

Her jaw dropped. “Shut up. You didn’t!”

“I did,” he laughed, watching her with pure delight. “It’s downstairs. Paperwork’s sorted and everything.”

“You’re fucking mental,” she said, wide-eyed, before launching herself at him. She tackled him into a tight hug, knocking them both back onto the soft carpet of the closet as they dissolved into laughter.

“Ow,” Lando wheezed through his smile, arms wrapped tightly around her. “Come on then—let’s take it out for a test drive.”

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

Lando sat in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward Y/N with a soft smile on his face. He watched her in silence, soaking in her excitement as she ran her fingers along the dashboard, adjusted the mirror for the fifth time, and looked around the interior like she couldn’t quite believe it was real. He’d already filmed a few clips on his phone — mostly of her gawking at the car like it was a newborn puppy.

“You really like it, huh?” he smirked, breaking the silence.

Y/N turned to him, eyes wide and a dramatic pout on her lips. “I fucking love it, Lan. This is insane. I love you.”

Lando chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you too, baby. But, uh… we’ve been sitting here for like ten minutes now. Think we could maybe… I dunno, drive it?”

“Oh—right!” she laughed, quickly reaching for her seatbelt and clicking it into place. “Okay, okay. Focus.”

He watched as she adjusted her seat, then mumbled under her breath, “Okay… brake is here… this one’s the gas…”

Lando snorted. “Fuck, I knew I should’ve worn a helmet.”

She shot him a glare and smacked his arm.

“Ow!” he yelped, clutching the spot dramatically. “I was kidding, my love! Come on, you’ll be fine.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then took a deep breath and put her hands on the wheel, her expression shifting into determination — though the slight panic in her eyes was still very much there.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Lando said with a teasing grin. “Let’s see what this baby blue beast can do.”

Y/N hit the gas a little too enthusiastically, and the car jolted forward.

“Jesus!” Lando yelped, gripping the door handle. “Okay, not that much throttle, Max Verstappen.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “Sorry! Sorry! I got excited!”

“Just… ease into it, yeah?” he said, trying not to smile. “You drive like someone who just got signed by Red Bull and forgot they’re in a Miata.”

“Shut up,” she grinned, easing off the gas as they finally rolled out of the lot. “You bought me the car, now deal with the consequences.”

Lando laughed, eyes still on her — completely in love, even if slightly terrified.

“You gotta relax a bit, baby,” Lando said gently, glancing over at her. “Come on, you know this road — we drive through it all the time.”

Y/N’s jaw was tight, eyes laser-focused on the road ahead, and her knuckles were practically turning white from how hard she was gripping the wheel. “No, Lando,” she sighed, breath shaky. “You drive here all the time. I just sit in the passenger seat, stare out the window, and yap about random shit.”

He tried to hide his smile. “Fair point.”

She took a deep breath in, then out, trying to shake the tension from her shoulders.

“Just look straight ahead, my love,” Lando said softly, his voice calm as his eyes scanned the road. “You’re doing so good.”

“I’m gonna do a Monaco lap,” she mumbled, half-joking.

Lando’s face lit up like a little kid. “Ooooh,” he grinned, sitting up straighter. “What a clean first sector from Y/N L/N! She’s now approaching the iconic hairpin—can she nail it?”

Y/N burst into a laugh but kept her hands steady, guiding the car through the turn with a little more confidence than before.

“There it is! Smooth through the hairpin!” Lando shouted in his best commentator voice, leaning toward the windshield dramatically. “This is vintage Y/N — calm under pressure, minimal tyre degradation!”

She laughed again, the nerves beginning to melt away the farther they got from their apartment.

"How's my pace?" she asks, playing along

"Pace looks good Y/N, let's keep it clean" he responds

Lando stayed quiet when she needed to focus but tossed in bits of advice here and there. She was settling into it now — her grip on the wheel loosening, posture relaxing, her head even bobbing a little to the radio.

As they neared the end of the block — their self-declared “finish line” — Lando couldn’t help himself. He pulled his phone out, already hitting record with a grin.

“Y/N L/N now approaching the finish line!” he exclaimed, holding his phone toward her. “Can she take pole position?!”

Y/N giggled, keeping her eyes on the road. “Shut up, Lando.”

“And it’s pole position for Y/N!” he shouted triumphantly. “What a stellar lap! Purple sectors across the board!

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly missed the turn.

“You’re an idiot,” she grinned, cheeks pink from laughter and pride.

“I’m your idiot,” he said, still recording her.

“And apparently my race engineer.”

“Damn right,” Lando grinned. “We’ve gotta get you a seat now, my love.”

“Oh yeah? I heard McLaren’s looking for a new teammate for Oscar,” Y/N teased, glancing at him with a smirk.

Lando snorted, squeezing her hand. “Okay, maybe not my seat.”

She laughed, intertwining her fingers with his as the city blurred softly around them, late afternoon light filtering through the buildings, casting golden streaks on the dash.

They drove for a while like that, quiet moments filled with warmth and shared glances, her confidence behind the wheel growing with every block.

“You’re actually doing amazing, you know that?” Lando said after a few minutes, voice soft and full of pride.

Y/N looked over, smile tugging at her lips. “It’s the co-driver. He’s kinda cute.”

“Just ‘kinda’?” he grinned.

She shrugged playfully. “He’s growing on me.”

---

Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri, roommates!au

Masterlist

Summary: You, Lando, and Oscar are roommates. The three of you promise to take care of each other. It takes you all far too long to admit just how much you mean it. featuring dj!Lando for cece :) based on a blurb I wrote for my 1k celebration so if the first bit feels familiar that’s why! 7.4k words

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of vomiting (non graphic), illness, a breakup, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

Lando’s not expecting the phone call he gets from you. It’s late, too late, really, for him to even be awake, let alone for you to be calling. Oscar’s sitting on the couch next to him, gaming controller in hand, and when Lando swipes to answer the call, he mouths the words who is it? Lando mouths your name in reply, and Oscar’s half asleep flat expression turns into a look of concern. The three of you are roommates, but you’re gone for the night. Lando didn’t ask where you were going when you left.

“Hello?” He asks, waiting for your response.

There’s a sniffle, then a hiccupy gasp for air that has Lando sitting up straight in his seat. “Lan. Could you- fuck, m’sorry, just- d’you think you could pick me up?”

Lando stares widely at Oscar for a moment, heart clenching in his chest. You sound upset- more than upset, really. He stands up, already searching frantically for his keys.

“Yeah, love, of course,” he says as Oscar follows suit and stands up. “Should I bring Oscar?”

You sniffle again. “Yeah, please, just…”

“It’s okay. Send me your location, yeah? Take a deep breath, we’ll be there soon.”

You mumble something, and then you hang up on him. Lando shoves his phone in his pocket and looks up at Oscar, who’s holding the keys to his car. That works. Oscar heads for the door, while Lando makes a pit stop in the kitchen. When he meets his friend in the entryway, Oscar’s staring at him with confusion.

“She’s crying,” Lando says in explanation, holding a paper bag close to his chest.

They make it across town in record time. Oscar groans when they pull into the apartment complex you’d sent the location of.

“Isn’t this her boyfriend’s place?” He asks, brows furrowed.

Lando doesn’t get a chance to answer, because you step out of the front door, and they’re both distracted. Oscar swears under his breath, and Lando follows suit at the sight of you- you’re in a t-shirt and shorts. There’s snow on the ground. Oscar pulls his hoodie over his head just before you make it to the car door.

You climb into the backseat and collapse in on yourself. Both Lando and Oscar are turned towards you, and Lando’s sure their facial expressions are matching looks of concern. They both hand over their items without a word- Oscar’s hoodie, and Lando’s carton of ice cream and a spoon. You pull the hoodie over your head and open the ice cream.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Oscar says, voice low.

Lando nods. “Yeah. We can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else.”

You nod and chew on your lower lip, and the light from the street lamp outside catches on the tear tracks on your cheeks. “He dumped me. Can we just go home?”

Lando reaches his hand back to squeeze yours. Your fingers are ice cold. “Of course,” he says softly.

As Oscar pulls away, he and Lando exchange a look of worry and anger. They’ve never liked your boyfriend, but they hate to see you hurting, too.

“Thanks,” you add, voice small in the backseat. You hold onto Lando’s hand tightly. “I knew I could count on you guys.”

Lando squeezes your hand again. You’re quiet most of the way back, and he lets it go. Oscar’s right to not push you to talk about it. That’ll come in its own time.

Oscar drives back to your shared apartment, pulling into a parking space in the garage. He gets out before Lando and slips around to the backseat, opening the door for you. The Aussie wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.

When you all get upstairs, you collapse onto the couch. Lando follows suit, not wanting to leave your side. Oscar isn’t far behind. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, something quiet that Lando doesn’t pay attention to. He just watches you for signs of distress. You stare at the tv blankly and chip away at the ice cream with your spoon, leaning on Oscar as Lando leans on you. Slowly, the three of you melt into the couch, none of you wanting to break the silence and suggest going to bed.

…..

Oscar wakes up on the couch at 3 in the morning, and when he looks around, this awful feeling hits him. It’s like someone’s reached into his chest and clawed his heart out. You’re laying there, your head on his stomach, one of your arms over his thigh. Lando’s laying nearly on top of you- together, the three of you are like a stack of toppled dominoes. There are blankets strewn over all of you. Oscar can vaguely remember Lando’s attempt to cover all three of you up as you all began to drift off.

You’re fast asleep, and when Oscar peers down at you he can still see the tear tracks on your cheeks. He’s never liked your boyfriend- ex boyfriend, now, thank god- but breakups are awful no matter what. He’s got half a mind to go over and confront the guy, because who leaves their girlfriend- ex girlfriend- to walk out of their apartment in the dead of winter in a t-shirt and shorts? Even if you had broken up, he seemingly hadn’t given you the chance to put on sweatpants and a hoodie. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted to stay long enough.

Lando shifts in his sleep, pressing closer to you. It’s only now that Oscar notices Lando’s hand linked with yours, fingers knitted together on your stomach. A pang of something flares up in him at the sight, at how right it feels to have you both right here like this. He does his best to tamp it down. He brushes his fingers against your cheek tentatively, relaxing just a bit at the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips.

You nudge into the touch, eyelids just barely fluttering. Oscar wonders to himself how anyone could ever let you go. The sight of you in the backseat, teary eyed in his hoodie, is burned into the back of his brain. He’d do anything to keep you from ever crying again.

When he wakes up again, it’s much later in the morning. You and Lando are both gone, and something about that makes his heart clench. But he hears noise in the kitchen- Lando, talking to someone, the sound of food sizzling on the stove. He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes before trudging his way over there.

Lando’s at the stove, cooking something that smells awfully delicious and makes Oscar’s stomach growl. You’re sitting on the counter nearby the way you always do, still in Oscar’s hoodie, hands folded in your lap. You’re the first one to spot him- you smile, but it’s subdued. There’s a tinge of sadness to it. Something aching behind your eyes.

“Morning,” he finally says.

Lando turns over his shoulder with a smile. “I was just about to send her to wake you,” he says. “I made breakfast.”

Oscar nods. “Thanks. Smells really good.”

He takes his normal spot on a stool at the kitchen island. He passes by both of you on the way there, and you reach out to squeeze his upper arm. He brushes a hand over your knee and smiles at you.

You’re quiet. Usually, you’d be chatting their ears off. But Lando plates up the food and distributes it without a word from you, and it has Oscar feeling sick to his stomach. You stay sitting on the counter, and you push the food around on your plate with one hand. Lando sits next to Oscar and exchanges a look with him.

Both boys clear their plates without a word from you. You’ve only taken a few bites. Oscar clears his throat as he clears his and Lando’s plates. Your eyes flicker up to meet his.

“I stand by what I said last night. We don’t have to talk,” he says. “But if you want to talk, we’re here.”

You shift and smile just a little. “Not much to talk about, really. The breakup has been coming for a long time, I think. So. It’s fine, really. Just weird, you know? We’d been dating for a year- that’s a year of my life… not wasted, but. Weird to lose someone like that so quickly.”

Both Oscar and Lando nod in understanding. You nod back. That’s that. If you don’t want to talk about it more, they won’t force you. It’s enough to know you’re safe at home, really.

…..

When Lando has his first DJ set after your break up, he begs you to come and watch. Much to his and Oscar’s surprise, you agree eagerly. They’d both thought it would be a harder fight. Lando’s been getting bigger and bigger DJ gigs- not enough to quit his day job yet, but enough to get excited about. You haven’t been to them recently, which had been a bit of a sore spot for Lando, though he’d tried not to let it on to you. So. If you want to go, he’s not going to question you on it.

On the way there, you size him up in the back of the Uber. You tug at the collar of his shirt.

“You’re too buttoned up,” you say, nose wrinkled.

Oscar laughs and nods. “Yeah, lose a button,” he adds.

He reaches over and undoes the top button of Lando’s shirt with nimble fingers, and great, now Lando’s sweating.

“Or two,” you chime in.

When you reach up and undo another button, Lando thinks the blush must be obvious on his cheeks now. It’s probably running down his neck, washing over his chest, just like the soft touch of your fingers against his skin.

“Why not three?” Oscar says, smirking.

Before he can undo the third one, Lando bats Oscar’s hand away and glares at him. Oscar’s had a shot before they left the apartment, pregaming because he hates crowds and loud places and social environments. He’s definitely a little tipsy, and because of that, he’s a bit more daring. It’s going to be the death of Lando.

By the time he’s halfway through the set, Lando’s gone and lost both of you in the crowd. He won’t lie, it makes him a bit nervous. He knows you were there one second, and then the next time he looked, you were both gone. He knows in his head Oscar won’t have let you out of his sight, but it doesn’t stop his heart from clenching. He thinks of his phone, down under the stage, itches to have it in his hand so he can text or call or find you, somehow.

When he finally climbs down and grabs his phone, it’s lit up with a bunch of notifications. He swipes past the ones from Max asking how late his set goes, past the ones from friends who stopped by, telling him how good he did. In the middle, there’s a text from Oscar.

Call when you’re done.

He calls. When Oscar answers, he gives him directions to meet the two of you in a bathroom and then promptly hangs up. Lando would be more concerned with the two of you apparently hiding out together in a bathroom if Oscar hadn’t told him about it. He doesn’t have the energy to let himself get jealous. He just heads towards the two of you. He knocks on the single bathroom door, calls out to Oscar, and it swings open.

“She had a little too much,” Oscar says.

Behind him, you’re kneeling next to the toilet, Oscar’s jacket underneath your knees. It’s such a sweet touch that it makes Lando’s heart ache- there’s just something about seeing Oscar taking care of you. But he does his best to focus and steps into the bathroom. Your hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Your skin is pale, and when you turn to look at Lando, your eyes are bloodshot. He hisses and turns to Oscar.

“I know, I know, I said I’d watch her-“ Oscar says, raising his hands defensively. “She’s good at pretending to be sober. Until she’s way too far gone, and then…”

“Lan!” you call out, high pitched and wobbly. “I love you.”

Lando widens his eyes at Oscar, who nods.

“There’s been a lot of that. About both of us. She was not happy when I pulled her out of sight of you.” Oscar sighs. “I can’t figure out if it’s just- you know, she loves her friends, or-“

Oscar trails off. Lando furrows his brows.

“Lan,” you repeat again, and he turns over his shoulder to look at you, then tries not to visibly wince. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, love,” he says, softly. “You done throwing up, you okay to move?”

You shrug, then nod. Great. Not super convincing. When he turns to Oscar, he winces. Lando drags a hand down his own face. Interrogating Oscar will have to wait- the first priority is to get the three of you out of there, hopefully without you throwing up on them. He sighs heavily and makes a plan in his head.

Lando’s not sure what god he pleased, what good karma he’s earned, but the three of you make it outside without you throwing up again. He breathes a sigh of relief. Then he and Oscar spend 5 minutes debating on whether walking or getting a ride would be better- you’re drunk and wobbly, but at least if you threw up, it’d be on the sidewalk. Oscar hates that idea, is worried about you tripping and falling on the way, about how they’ll manage to get you all the way back. You stand there and watch them argue, Oscar’s hand on your shoulder to keep you from falling over.

“Boys, stop fighting,” you say hazily. “You’re both so pretty.”

Lando’s eyes go wide at that. He stares at Oscar, who seems to make a face that says I know. Lando turns to you. You’re smiling widely up at him, blinking glassy eyes and tilting your head. You reach out and tap your fingertip against his nose, then laugh. Lando swallows tightly.

Oscar uses his distraction to flag down a cab. Lando can’t find the energy to argue anymore. They’d normally put you in the middle, but this time they sit you next to the door, just in case you do need to throw up. You spend the entire ride with your head on Lando’s shoulder, and he can tell you’re starting to get drowsy just from the way you sag against him. When they climb out of the car, Oscar puts one of your arms over his shoulder, and Lando does the same on the other side.

By the time they get you up to the apartment and into the bathroom, you’re half asleep, leaning heavily on both of them. When your hand slips against the bare skin of his chest, he swallows tightly. Oscar puts toothpaste on the toothbrush for you, and Lando helps you brush your teeth, his hand wrapped around yours gently.

Then they head for your bedroom. Lando grabs you a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from your dresser. He sets them on the bed and gets ready to leave the room so you can change, and then slaps his hand over his eyes when you start to take off your dress before he even gets the chance. He hears Oscar’s hand hit his own face, too.

“We live together,” you say, and Lando can practically hear your eye roll. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Lando sighs. “It is, and you’re drunk, so.”

You laugh. “I guess. I’m dressed now.”

Lando groans when he uncovers his eyes and spots the pair of shorts still on the bed. He puts one hand over Oscar’s eyes, one back over his own, and says, “Shorts. Now.”

You grumble something about taking them off later anyways, which has Lando melting into a puddle over the thought. He hears you shuffling around, and then you grab both of his wrists and tug them away from his and Oscar’s faces. You’re fully dressed this time, and you collapse backwards onto the bed.

“Will you guys stay till I fall asleep?” you ask, softly.

Both of them nod and sit down on the edge of the bed. You curl up in the middle, each of them on either side. Oscar lays a tentative hand on your shoulder, while Lando brushes hair from your face. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, melting into the bed.

When you do, Lando nods silently towards the door. Oscar nods in agreement, and they both slip out of the bedroom. Lando looks back to check on you as he shuts the door. You look peaceful, finally.

Oscar heads for the kitchen, and Lando follows. He reaches into the fridge and comes back with two cans of sparkling water, which Lando accepts eagerly. He’d been unaware of just how thirsty he was until that moment. He drinks half the can in one go and then looks at Oscar expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Oscar prefaces. “I’m not sure about anything. But. She couldn’t stop staring at you up on the stage, and she told me about ten times how pretty you were. And then she said it about me, too. To my face. And like, right after that she threw up, but.”

“But,” Lando repeats. “You saw something. Different than her just being a drunk mess.”

“It felt different,” Oscar says, softly. “Just. I can’t explain it.”

Lando nods. He presses his lips into a thin line. Oscar follows suit, rubbing his hand against the smooth surface of the countertop.

“What do we do?” Lando asks quietly. He feels wildly out of his depth here. “I mean. D’you think she has feelings for…”

Me? You? Lando’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be either. Suddenly, he feels sick to his stomach. In an ideal world, he knows what he’d like to happen here, but that’s a pipe dream. Unrealistic.

“She’s really vulnerable,” he says, before Oscar can even answer. “And like. That would really make a good roommate situation weird, right?”

Oscar laughs, but it sounds forced. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Lando says. “Okay. So. We just let it go.”

Oscar nods. There’s something in the look on his face that makes Lando think maybe there’s more to this. That they shouldn’t brush it off so easily. But it’s late, and he’s exhausted, and this topic feels so, so difficult to broach right now. So he claps Oscar on the shoulder with an open palm, and then disappears into his bedroom.

Lando’s avoidance of the subject doesn’t last long, because the next morning, before you wake up, Oscar corners him in the kitchen.

“We need to talk,” Oscar says, which is never a good sentence to hear at any hour, let alone before the sun has even risen.

Realistically, he should’ve known this was coming, because Oscar never willingly wakes up this early on a weekend. It’s still dark outside. Lando can barely make out Oscar’s facial expressions in the dim light. He flicks a light switch and watches the other man wince.

“Rude,” Oscar grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what you get for starting off my morning with that sentence,” Lando defends. When Oscar frowns, he softens. “What’s up?”

As if he hadn’t expected to actually get to this point, Oscar shrinks in on himself. Lando leans against the counter and tilts his head. Oscar’s younger, but he’s usually the more mature one. It’s odd to see him so lost for what to say.

“Last night,” Oscar starts, chewing on his lip when he pauses. “She- I- I can’t stop thinking about…”

Lando’s gut wobbles. “About her. You like her. And you think she feels the same.”

There’s this weird jealousy in his chest. He’s jealous of both of you, he realizes, and he grips the counter behind him with his hand. He wants to be the one you like, and he wants to be the one Oscar’s into, too. He’s known it for a while, really, but this is the first time he’s had to confront it head on. And it’s - it’s a problem, probably. His best friends and his roommates. He can’t have both. Can’t have it all.

Oscar frowns and shakes his head. “No. Well. Yeah, but- it’s more than that. It’s.”

Lando tamps down the ache in his chest, plasters on a smile. “Oscar. It’s okay.”

“No,” Oscar says, dragging out the sound. “You don’t- you don’t get it.”

“You guys would make a cute couple,” Lando says quietly. “Like. Really, Osc, you’d be good together-“

“I don’t just want her,” Oscar interrupts, and Lando's heart skips a beat. “I don’t- fuck, it sounds crazy, but. I woke up that morning, after we picked her up, and you were both on the couch with me, and I just thought, yeah, this is how I want to wake up every day. And if that’s crazy then- forget I said anything, but-“

Lando clears his throat. “It’s not crazy.”

Oscar freezes, one hand halfway through his hair. “It’s not?”

Lando shakes his head and bites his lip. “No. I think I’ve been feeling the same. Just… I felt crazy, you know?”

Oscar nods. Lando can’t stop staring at him, at the red flush on his cheeks, the wide eyes. He reaches his foot out and nudges it against Oscar’s shin.

“I meant what I said last night, about her being vulnerable,” he says, and Oscar sighs heavily. “She needs friends right now. And she doesn’t need friends who are caught up in figuring out their feelings for each other and maybe her, too.”

Oscar huffs. “So we just…”

“Wait and see?” Lando asks sheepishly. “Feels shitty, I know, but our first priority is making sure she’s okay.”

Oscar nods. Lando nods back. And that’s that, for a while. And maybe for a while, it’s enough to know that Oscar feels it, too. To know he’s not alone.

…..

You know Lando well enough to know he’s not one to admit when he’s sick. You’d think he’d be the exact opposite, but he tends to try and tough it out until the very last minute. He hides it well, except when it comes to you and Oscar.

He’s getting ready for a DJ set nearly a month after the one where you’d gotten far too drunk. There’s loud music playing through the apartment as he eats dinner, dancing along to the beat. You sit on the kitchen counter in your usual spot, and Oscar stands next to you. You’re both watching Lando bounce around the room. He’s trying to convince you he’s fine without actually saying it. It’s not working.

He leaves the room for a moment, looking for his phone. Oscar looks up at you.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” He asks.

You nod and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Definitely.”

But Lando says nothing about not feeling well, so you do your hair and makeup and get into an Uber with him and Oscar to head for a club. You and Oscar exchange a glance when Lando presses his forehead to the window of the car. He’s mumbling along to the song that’s playing over the speakers. There’s sweat on his temple. You’re starting to worry.

He tumbles out of the car and into the club with you and Oscar in tow. Once the bright lights and loud music hit him, he perks up a bit. If you know him, you know it won’t last. He’s going to wear himself out during his set and then fall apart right after. He sends the two of you to the bar, tells you to put it on his tab. Oscar loops his hand in your arm to keep you close- you’re not complaining. Without saying anything to each other, you each order plain Cokes. Lando won’t question if there’s alcohol in it. You order him his go to drink- a gin & tonic, but ask the bartender to go light on the gin. You hand it off to him before he heads up for his set, and when he hesitates to kiss your cheek like he normally would, you eye him carefully.

“I’m fine,” he says, which tells you more than anything that he’s definitely not fine.

Next to you, Oscar scoffs. You press the back of your hand to Lando’s forehead and sigh. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. He’s burning up.

“It’s a short set,” he says, slurred but loud enough to be heard over the thud of the bass. “I’ll be fine.”

You watch as he walks away. Oscar takes your arm in his hand again, pulls you away to a nearby booth. Normally, you love watching Lando’s sets, love listening to the music he’s chosen, and watching his face light up at the crowd’s reaction. But now, as he takes his place, you just feel worried. You can tell Oscar’s worried too, just from the way he drums his fingers against the table in an unsteady pattern. Normally the two of you would find yourselves out on the dance floor, especially when Lando plays the songs he knows you both love, but you can’t find it in you tonight.

When he stumbles off stage from his set, he’s grinning ear to ear, but his eyes are half closed and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin that you know isn’t from the dj-ing. You and Oscar stand to meet him, and you brush damp curls from his forehead to check his temperature again. He feels even worse. Oscar winces as Lando sways in front of the two of you.

“Let's get you home,” you suggest, and he just nods.

When you get back to the apartment, you deposit Lando on the couch. Oscar stays with him, pulling a blanket over Lando and propping him up with pillows. You head for the bathroom first and open the medicine cabinet.

“Lan, what’s wrong?” You call out.

You hear his disoriented grumbling. Oscar translates. “He says he’s fine.”

You lean out into the living room and fix Lando with a glare. “Shut up. You need medicine. What’s wrong?”

He sighs and sinks into the couch. “Sore throat. Headache. Little bit of a cough.”

You nod and return to the surprisingly well stocked medicine cabinet. You grab the cold medicine that describes his symptoms the best and head back to the living room. Lando has the blanket wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon, and he has his head resting on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar’s running his hand up and down Lando’s upper arm, a look of concern on his face.

You hand Oscar the medicine. “Here. Give him a dose, will you? I’m gonna heat up some soup or something.”

“M’not a baby,” Lando mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Oscar teases gently.

Though the medicine cabinet was well stocked, the kitchen is less so. None of you like grocery shopping. You manage to find a can of chicken soup in the back of a cupboard, and it’s not expired, so you heat it up quickly. You return to the living room with the soup and a large glass of water.

Lando is fully tucked into Oscar’s side now, draped messily across the other boy. You sigh at the sight, at the way Oscar runs his hand through Lando’s hair, at the content little smile on Lando’s lips. Even when he’s sick, this is enough to bring him comfort. You wonder, then, if you could be enough, too. The memories pass through your brain- the way they’ve both taken care of you after your break up. Now it’s your chance to return the favor.

You sit down on the couch on Lando’s other side. Oscar takes the bowl of soup from you carefully, and then you hold the glass of water up to Lando’s lips. He sips carefully, then pulls away with a soft sigh. His cheeks are rosy red, and he shivers. You and Oscar both wince in sympathy.

“You should’ve told us,” Oscar says, quietly. “Should’ve canceled the set.”

Lando shrugs and elbows him lightly. “Got through it, didn’t I? Can’t go around canceling sets if I’m gonna make it big, can I?”

You roll your eyes and nudge the Brit slightly. “Your health is more important than you making it big,” you chide.

He turns to look at you, gaze hazy but still amused. “Mm. You won’t be saying that when I’ve got enough money to take care of the two of you for the rest of your lives.”

“Is that your plan?” Oscar asks, a teasing tone in his voice.

Lando closes his eyes and nods. “You two can be my sugar babies,” he asserts. “Never work another day in your life.”

“Okay, Norris,” you say, biting back a laugh. “Eat your soup.”

He does as he’s told, melting back into the couch as he holds the bowl and spoon in shaky hands. Oscar keeps his hands on the bowl, too, just to be safe. To show your support, you lean against Lando’s shoulder to help prop him up. As much as you hate to see him not feeling well, you think that maybe you could get used to this.

You tuck him into his bed later that night. Oscar’s next to you, having carried him into the bedroom from the living room. Lando was pretty much dead weight, high on cold medicine and his fever and so, so out of it. You pull the covers up to his chin and smooth sweaty hair from his forehead. You cringe at the clammy feeling, and Oscar laughs.

Lando blinks up at both of you with heavy eyes. “Meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?” You ask.

He lets his eyelids fall closed. “Gonna take care of you two. The same way you take care of me. I think abou’ it all the time.”

He yawns, turns his head, and falls asleep nearly immediately after that, lips barely parted, chest rising and falling smoothly. You feel frozen for a moment. He looks so peaceful. He wants to take care of you. Your heart is pounding.

Oscar wraps his hand around your elbow and squeezes softly. “He’ll be okay.”

He thinks you’re worried. You don’t know how to tell him that Lando being sick isn’t the problem. The what’s got you all mixed up inside is the way Lando says it so easily. Never work another day in your life. I think about it all the time.

You swallow and back away from the bed, because you have the strongest urge to crawl right in next to him and drag Oscar right with you, until you’re all curled up in a pile together. You can’t do that. Oscar leads you out to the living room. You think he knows something’s up, because he doesn’t let go of you the whole time, but he doesn’t say anything either. You need to shake this feeling. You can’t think about them like this. It won’t end well.

“I’ll make us some popcorn, yeah?” Oscar suggests. “We can watch Bake Off.”

You nod as you make your way over to the couch. You try to tell yourself you should keep your distance, should sit far away from him. But when he sits down and pulls you into his chest, you can’t help but sigh happily.

“When we inevitably catch whatever he has,” you say, “we’re gonna need more chicken noodle soup.”

…..

Oscar comes home from work one day a few weeks later, and finds the two of you in the living room- a pretty normal occurrence lately. You’re laid out on the couch, your ankles in Lando’s lap. You smile up at him happily, and he laughs. He’s glad to see you, honestly, both of you. He’s had a rough day. This is exactly what he needed to come home to.

“Comfy?” He asks.

You nod eagerly. “We saved some pizza for you. It’s in the kitchen.”

He snorts. “Gee. Thanks. Couldn’t wait till I got home?”

You pout up at him. “I was hungry.”

Lando nods in agreement. “She was being whiny, Osc, had to feed her.”

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, leaning over to ruffle your hair. You press into the touch, like a cat. “And then I’ll have dinner.”

“Ooh, take a shower beer,” you suggest.

Lando laughs. “I was gonna say the exact same thing.”

Without even thinking, Oscar leans over the couch and kisses both of your foreheads. “Geniuses, the both of you.”

Neither you or Lando seem to question it, or the blush on his cheeks, so he doesn’t even try to explain.

By the time he finishes showering, and finishes his shower beer, a bit of the stress has melted away. He sighs heavily when he steps out, towel dries his hair, and pulls on a pair of shorts and a hoodie. He eats a slice of pizza, cold, in the kitchen.

When he makes it back to the living room, you’re curled up in Lando’s arms, halfway in his lap. He grumbles, not even realizing he’s making the noise until you look up at him. You throw one arm out wide, beckoning him close. Lando looks up with a happy, soft smile and pats the open space on his chest. And really, Oscar’s had a shit day, and the spot between Lando’s jaw and chest looks quite cozy, and if he’s being invited, then-

He collapses into the two of you, slips his arm around you and presses the side of his face to Lando’s chest. Oscar takes a deep breath, smells Lando’s cologne and your perfume, the intoxicating mix of both of you, and closes his eyes. He feels someone’s finger drag down the slope of his nose, and another hand brushes his hair from his forehead.

“Bad day?” You ask.

He’s exhausted, and everything is a bit hazy feeling. Syrupy and slow. He could fall asleep like this, probably. You sound a million miles away, and also like you’re tucked away in his chest, like he’d like for you to always be. Close and protected.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Really bad day.”

A thumb brushes over his cheek. There’s a hand in his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He lets out a fluttering sigh.

“Poor baby,” you say. He thinks the hand on his face is yours, the hand in his hair, Lando’s. “We just gotta wait for Lan to make it big, yeah? ‘nd then me and you can be his sugar babies, let him pay for everything. Just like he promised.”

Oscar laughs and rubs his cheek against Lando’s chest in some sort of nod. He can feel Lando laughing, too, high pitched and breathless. His hand squeezes at your hip, where it landed when he sat down.

“I’d take such good care of the two of you,” Lando says, quietly.

Oscar knows how much truth the words hold, and suddenly his stomach aches with want. Because Lando already takes care of both of you and him any way he can, and Oscar does it for you and Lando, too, and they both wish they could do it even more so. Could kiss away your tears, could hold your hand when you cross the street. He wants it. So does Lando.

“You already do,” you say, even quieter.

Oscar feels Lando’s breath hitch in his chest. He opens one eye and finds your eyes closed, your hand pressed to his cheek. Lando’s hand, banded around Oscar’s back, squeezes softly. Oscar holds his breath.

You shrug, like you know they’re watching without even opening your eyes.

“You both do,” you add. “Picked me up when I called, checked on me ever since…” you sigh and bury your face deeper into Lando’s chest. Oscar reaches up and cups your cheek in his hand tentatively. “Couldn’t ask for more.”

Even on the worst of days, Oscar thinks that maybe you’re right. He couldn’t ask for more. He’s got everything right here.

…..

A few nights later, Lando wakes up to the creak of the door, and his eyes fly open. He turns to look and finds you standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Love?” Lando asks, quietly. It’s the dead of night. “You alright?”

You shrug and sigh. “Can we cuddle?”

He blinks and nods, wonder fleetingly if he should go and get Oscar, because this feels unfair, but- then you step backwards, walking away. You must want to go to your bed, must feel more comfortable there. Lando slips out of his bed, takes his phone with him, and follows after you. His confusion grows when you don’t stop at the door to your bedroom. You walk right past and head for Oscar’s room. You open the door, and Lando looks past you to the warm glow of the lamp Oscar always forgets to turn off, to his sleeping form.

“You’re easier to wake up,” you say, softly.

Lando blinks wildly as you trudge your way over to the bed. “Love?”

“Want cuddles,” you state as you climb into the bed next to Oscar, who’s snoring softly. “From both of you. Come on.”

And, well. You should probably all talk about this, really. But you’re already tucking yourself under the blankets, and Oscar looks cute, and Lando’s so, so tired, and he wants cuddles, too, so. He sighs and makes his way over to the bed. You grin and roll towards Oscar, who finally shifts awake at the motion.

“Hi?” He says, confused, sleep coating his voice.

You don’t bother to explain, just slip an arm around him and curl close. Lando sits down on the edge of the bed and makes eye contact with Oscar, who seems frozen between confusion and happiness.

“She wanted cuddles,” Lando explains. “From both of us. I’m easier to wake up, apparently.”

Oscar shrugs and nods. He rolls towards you and throws his arm over your middle. His fingers motion towards Lando, who breathes a sigh of relief. Sure, they’ve talked, but there was always a chance Oscar changed his mind, or that this would be weird. But, if he’s offering…

Lando crawls into bed next to you. You let out a soft sigh when he lays down next to you, and he can’t fight the smile that crosses his lips. He slips his arm around you, his skin brushing against Oscar’s, too. Oscar presses a kiss to your forehead. Lando bites back a flare of jealousy, and he’s not even sure which one of you he’s jealous of. Then Oscar brushes his fingertips against his bicep, a soft, gentle touch that reminds him he’s part of this, too. Lando kisses the back of your neck and closes his eyes, already sleepy again.

…..

When Oscar wakes up the next morning, you and Lando are still in his bed. He breathes a sigh of relief at that, having been worried one of you would wake up and panic and leave. He watches the two of you for a few moments before he lets his eyes slip closed again. The weight of your head on his chest is comforting, and the soft rise and fall of Lando’s ribs under his hand is even more so. It’s rare that he’s awake before either of you unless he has to be up early.

He opens one eye again, just to look, just to take it in. Lando’s head is pressed against your shoulder, the top of his forehead and his mass of curly hair just visible to Oscar. He could get used to this. He’d like to wake up like this all the time, the three of you all wrapped up together. And maybe that’s wishful thinking, but for at least one morning, he gets to have it.

If he wasn’t so worried he’d wake you up and spoil the moment, he’d trace the lines of your face with his fingertips and draw patterns on your shoulders. He’d do it to Lando, too- shove his tank top up until he could touch the bare skin of his ribs, run his fingers over the bumps. But he wants this to last as long as possible, so he just lays there and stares.

Eventually, you start to stir, and with you, so does Lando. It’s strange, the way it makes Oscar’s heart clench in his chest. He wants so badly for both of you to just stay right here, with him. If he could hold you both in his arms like this forever he would.

When you open your eyes, you smile softly at him. Lando shifts behind you and opens one eye, and the same soft smile slips across his lips. You press yourself farther into Oscar, and reach a hand behind you to pull Lando close.

“My boys,” you say, quietly. “My favorite boys.”

And. That’s when it hits Oscar, like a punch to the chest. There’s something in the way you say it, something about the look on your face. He just knows. He knows because he sees it in himself, in Lando. He doesn’t need to talk about it right this second, doesn’t need to ask. He just knows you feel it too. So he leans up and over, hears the way Lando’s holding his breath. He moves his hand and presses his lips to your cheek, to your warm, soft skin. Then he does the same to Lando. You smile even wider. Lando, not one to be left out, does the same to you, then Oscar, leaving his skin burning. You follow suit, and your lips are warm against Oscar’s jaw. He thinks maybe he’s in heaven.

The three of you fall back asleep in a tighter pile, wrapped up in each other’s limbs. There’ll be time to talk later. For now, it’s enough to just know.

…..

A month later, you’re in the front of the crowd at Lando’s DJ set, watching with wide, bright eyes. He has three buttons undone, the work of you and Oscar during the car ride over to the club. He’s grinning down at you as someone hands him a shot, and then he tosses it back with a grimace. You wonder if he sees the stars in your eyes as you look up at him.

Oscar’s behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist. He has a drink in his other hand- your drink, taken from your own grip when you started moving your hands to the music. His nose is pressed behind your ear, and when he speaks, his breath tickles against your skin and makes you shiver.

“Y’know, he said he’d take care of us,” Oscar says, loud enough to be heard over the music, but just barely. “But all I can think of right now are all the ways I wanna take care of him.”

You laugh, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “It’s the unbuttoned shirt,” you tell him, gesturing at your other boyfriend. “S’like kryptonite.”

Never mind the fact that the shirt’s only unbuttoned because of the two of you. Oscar laughs and squeezes his arm around your middle. Lando tilts his head at the two of you, like he knows exactly what you’re up to.

“Yeah,” Oscar agrees. “But that’s less buttons for us to deal with later.”

You nod in agreement. “Good point.”

When Lando’s shirt is laying on the floor later, next to Oscar’s shirt and your dress, and you’re all slumped together on the bed in a pile, you remember what Oscar said earlier and laugh. Neither of them bother to ask what you’re laughing about. They just kiss your cheeks and join in with laughter of their own.

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @ggaslyp1 (if your blog is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!)

---