Musings On November

Enchanted - Part 1/7

Pairing: Enzo Vogrincic x Actress!Reader

Synopsis: Bored at an event as a brand ambassador, you lock eyes with a man across the room and your evening takes a turn. Based on this request

Wordcount: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, tension, minor angst (if you squint), flirting, reader has a backstory, mentions of alcohol, brief use of Y/N

A/N: additional warning: cringy dialogue? This is mostly a prologue for the series. A little bit based on the song Enchanted by Taylor Swift. And as always, just pretend they're speaking Spanish.

Series Masterlist & Masterlist

As the pulsating beat of the music filled the air, you navigated through the crowded room with practiced ease, a glass of champagne in hand. The sparkling lights and chatter of the guests created a vibrant atmosphere, but deep down, you couldn't shake off a sense of unease. This wasn't where you wanted to be tonight. 

It was another glamorous event, one of many that filled your calendar as an ambassador for a prestigious beauty brand. Normally, you'd have your sister by your side, her infectious laughter and unwavering support serving as a comforting presence in these bustling gatherings. But tonight, she was bedridden with illness, leaving you to navigate the soirée solo.

You couldn't help but notice the familiar patterns that seemed to repeat themselves at every event. New products were unveiled, celebrities graced magazine covers, and champagne flowed freely—all under the guise of celebration.

You engaged in polite small talk with the attendees, effortlessly slipping into the role of the charming socialite. Yet, behind the facade of smiles and laughter, you couldn't shake the feeling of detachment. These people knew you only as the glamorous persona you projected in public—a facade meticulously crafted by years in the spotlight.

Your mind drifted back to the beginnings of your journey in the entertainment industry. It had been a whirlwind journey from your first gig at eleven years old as a child actor to the seasoned professional you had become, fifteen years later. Acting was more than just a career; it was your passion, your raison d'être.

Despite the glitz and glamour that often accompanied your profession, you had managed to steer clear of scandal, maintaining a pristine reputation in an industry known for its pitfalls. Your films had garnered critical acclaim, and your portrayal of diverse characters had earned you a devoted fan base.

Being an ambassador for this beauty brand had added another layer of prestige to your already illustrious career. For nearly five years, you had been the face of their campaigns, gracing magazine covers and social media platforms with your radiant presence. It was a symbiotic relationship—you promoted their products, and they rewarded you handsomely in return.

Yet, beneath the veneer of success, there lurked a sense of disillusionment. The industry often felt hollow, leaving you longing for something more substantial. Tonight was one of those moments, as you navigated the familiar landscape of superficiality and pretense that often defined these events.

Despite the occasional monotony of these events, you had learned to navigate them with grace and composure. You remembered the time you had made a hasty exit from a particularly dull affair, much to the dismay of your publicist. Since then, you had adhered to her strict rule of staying for at least two hours—an obligation that often tested your patience.

As you engaged in small talk with an influencer, your mind wandered, the minutes ticking by at an excruciatingly slow pace. You glanced at your phone, hoping to find that more time had passed than you realized, only to discover that a mere 45 minutes had gone by. One hour and 15 minutes left to endure. You yearned for the comfort of your sister's presence.

Taking a sip of your champagne, you scanned the room, searching for a distraction from the dullness. That's when you felt a pair of eyes boring into you, a subtle change in energy that drew your attention like a magnet. Turning slightly, you found yourself locking eyes with a man across the room, though he quickly averted his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about him, a nagging feeling that tugged at the recesses of your memory.

He was undeniably handsome, his features chiseled and his demeanor exuding an air of quiet confidence. Yet, despite his striking appearance, he appeared just as out of place in this sea of superficiality as you felt. And then it clicked—recognition dawned upon you like a sudden burst of clarity. You knew where you had seen him before.

His eyes met yours once more, and you felt a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks, realizing you had been caught staring. Feeling bold and excited about the prospect of conversing with someone new, you excused yourself from your current conversation and made your way through the crowd towards him.

With each step closer to him, your heart quickened, a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through you. You couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation as you closed the distance between you, determined to strike up a conversation with this intriguing man.

As you reached him, he looked at you, a subtle shift in his demeanor betraying his surprise at your approach, though he greeted you with a polite smile.

With a friendly grin, you introduced yourself, the words tumbling effortlessly from your lips. "Hi, I'm Y/N."

"Oh, I know. I'm— I'm Enzo," he responded, his words accented with a hint of nervousness, spoken in English with a charming accent.

Your smile widened at his response. "Oh, I know," you replied, switching to Spanish, a language that seemed to bridge the gap between you. "I saw your movie. It was incredible."

A look of relief washed over Enzo's features at the sound of his native language, his eyes lighting up with a spark of surprise and gratitude as he registered your words.

"Wow, thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I'm a big fan of all your work," he expressed, his hand resting on his chest in a gesture of gratitude.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling a surge of warmth at his compliment.

"I didn't know you speak Spanish. I've spoken bad English the whole evening," he quipped.

You chuckled softly, enjoying the easy banter between you. "Yeah, my father is from Mexico, so I grew up with both languages. Although I don't speak it now as often as I would like."

Enzo's presence had a way of putting you at ease, and you found yourself opening up to him more than you had anticipated. Whether it was the shared language or an inexplicable connection, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull drawing you closer to him with each passing moment.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the room once more as if seeking an escape route from the stifling atmosphere of the party. "So, what's the appropriate time to ditch these kinds of events?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty lacing his words. Lost in the sea of unfamiliar faces and foreign conversations, he seemed to look to you for guidance.

You couldn't help but empathize with his predicament. Navigating through such social gatherings could indeed be daunting, especially for someone new to the scene and grappling with a language barrier. Yet, there was a certain charm in his candid vulnerability, a quality that drew you to him even more.

But rather than dwell on the situation, you decided to lighten the mood with a playful suggestion. "Let's play a game," you proposed, a mischievous glimmer dancing in your eyes.

"A game?" Enzo echoed, his curiosity piqued.

You nodded eagerly. "It's called people-watching. My sister came up with it."

Enzo's brow furrowed in confusion. "Aren't people usually watching you?"

You couldn't contain a chuckle at his puzzled expression. "Exactly! But this way, we can be on the opposite side for once." 

Enzo still looked slightly bemused, but there was a spark of intrigue in his eyes as he awaited your instructions. “Alright. How do I play it?”

"It's simple," you replied, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes as you scanned the room, searching for a suitable target. "I pick out someone in the room, and then you have to make up a story about them. And vice versa. Something wild and completely absurd. The funnier answer wins."

"And what do I get if I win?"

You turned to face him fully, only to find him already gazing at you with an intensity that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The sudden acceleration of your heart rate caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily breathless. What was it about this man that had you feeling so off-kilter, so inexplicably drawn to him?

"How about my phone number?" you suggested with a playful tilt of your head, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but there was no turning back now.

As the realization of your own flirtatiousness dawned on you, a thrill coursed through you, mingling with the nervous excitement that bubbled in the pit of your stomach. 

Enzo's response was a raised eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he held out his hand in agreement. “Deal.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment settling over you as you met his gaze, feeling a surge of anticipation coursing through your veins. With trembling fingers, you reached out to grasp his hand, the touch sending a shiver of electricity racing up your arm. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt charged with a palpable energy that left you breathless.

Enzo's grip was firm yet oddly comforting, his touch igniting a warmth that spread from your fingertips to your core. As you withdrew your hand, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Enzo's expression, a flicker of something unreadable dancing in his eyes. It was as if he, too, felt the charged atmosphere hanging between you.

You blinked, willing your thoughts to clear as you focused on the task at hand. "How about you pick someone and I go first?" you suggested, eager to divert your attention from the lingering sensation of his touch.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his gaze scanning the room before settling on a figure in a blue suit. "Her," he declared, tipping his chin in the direction of an elegant older lady who stood at the edge of the crowd.

You studied her for a moment, taking in her poised demeanor and the air of sophistication that seemed to radiate from her. With a thoughtful expression, you searched your mental catalog for a suitable name, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"Her name is Mrs. Eleanor Pemberton," you declared with a hint of theatricality, a playful twinkle dancing in your eyes as you invented a persona for the unsuspecting stranger. "She's a retired spy, covert operations specialist turned etiquette coach. Trained in the art of espionage, but now she spends her days teaching the elite how to navigate high society."

Enzo raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up in amusement at your imaginative tale. "That's … Wow, a retired spy?" he chuckled, clearly entertained by your creativity.

You nodded emphatically, unable to suppress a grin. "Absolutely. Just look at the way she surveys the room, assessing every detail with a trained eye. It's all part of her covert training," you insisted, weaving an elaborate backstory for Mrs. Pemberton on the fly.

Enzo's laughter subsided into a warm smile, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a subtle warmth in his hazel eyes that made your heart flutter involuntarily. There was something undeniably captivating about the way he looked at you, as if he possessed the ability to unravel the layers of your persona with just a single gaze.

Shaking off the unexpected wave of shyness, you redirected your focus to the task at hand, scanning the room for your chosen subject.

“Your turn, Enzo,” you prompted, nodding towards a man with a full beard who stood behind a group of women. “Him. What’s his story?”

Enzo followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on the man you had indicated. His lips curved into a mischievous smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes as he considered his response.

"Him? Oh, that's... let's see," Enzo mused, his tone thoughtful as he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "That's Luis Morales. He was a circus performer once but now he's a chef."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his unexpected choice, raising an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "From circus to food?"

Enzo nodded, his expression deadpan. "Luis has a gift. He's known for incorporating circus tricks into his cooking routines. Rumor has it he once cooked a five-course meal while balancing on a tightrope."

You laughed, amused by Enzo's storytelling. "Sounds like quite the character. I'll have to keep an eye out for him at the next dinner party," you teased, relishing in the lighthearted banter between you.

Engaging in conversation with Enzo felt effortless and light-hearted, as if you had been friends for years rather than meeting him for the first time. There was a natural chemistry between you, a comfortable rhythm that flowed seamlessly from one topic to the next.

"Give me your phone," you requested, holding out your hand expectantly.

Enzo arched an eyebrow, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "I won?" he inquired, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

"Extra points for your first time playing," you countered with a playful smirk, masking the fact that you had just invented that rule on the spot, solely for his benefit.

He handed you his phone, and you quickly entered your number into his contacts. As you returned it to him, your fingers brushed lightly, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Enzo accepted his phone with a smile and he tapped away on the screen.

Meanwhile, your own phone vibrated discreetly in your purse, drawing your attention. Curious, you retrieved your phone and discovered a message from an unknown number. 

You're beautiful, it read, causing a rush of warmth to flood your cheeks at the unexpected compliment. Glancing up, you found Enzo's gaze fixed on you, his smile tender and genuine. 

"Thank you," you murmured softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The warmth that flooded your chest upon receiving Enzo's swift reply was unexpected yet undeniably welcome. With his number now stored in your phone, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the conversations that lay ahead.

There was something about Enzo's quiet confidence that drew you to him like a magnet. In his presence, you felt a sense of ease and comfort that you hadn't experienced in a long time. It was as if the two of you existed in your own little bubble. The hours slipped away unnoticed as you lost yourselves in each other's company.

As you made your way home, you couldn't help but marvel at the feeling of nervous excitement that bubbled within you when you thought of him. It was rare for you to feel such a strong connection with someone, especially someone you had only just met. 

The memory of the hug he had given you before parting lingered in your mind, filling you with a warmth that matched the flush of your cheeks. Enzo was undeniably charming, with a quick wit and an infectious sense of humor that had you hanging on his every word.

And then there was his undeniable attractiveness, a fact that hadn't escaped your notice from the moment you laid eyes on him. The thought of his hazel eyes and the way his smile seemed to light up his entire face brought a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself at the memory.

By the time you arrived home, you couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for having met Enzo. He had injected a spark of excitement into an otherwise ordinary evening.

–

Lying in bed, bathed in the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you found yourself unable to shake thoughts of Enzo from your mind. The events of the evening replayed in your head like a looped film reel, each moment etched into your memory with a clarity that surprised you. 

You should have been trying to get some sleep, especially with an audition looming on the horizon. But here you were, lost in a sea of thoughts, your mind refusing to quiet down.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone, fingers dancing over the screen as you navigated to your chat with Enzo. Only one message stared back at you, a silent reminder of the connection you had forged earlier in the evening.

Should you text him now, or wait until after your audition? The question lingered in your mind, uncertainty tugging at the edges of your thoughts. Perhaps it was too late, and he was already fast asleep, lost in dreams that had nothing to do with you. Or maybe he was lying awake, just like you, his mind consumed by thoughts of the woman he had met at the party.

Shaking your head, you scolded yourself for getting ahead of yourself. There was no way of knowing what Enzo was doing at this very moment. After all, you barely knew the man. 

Yet, even as you entertained the possibility of reaching out to him, a nagging doubt crept into your mind. What if he was already seeing someone? What if the connection you felt was nothing more than a fleeting moment in time, destined to be forgotten amidst the chaos of everyday life?

Curious, you opened Instagram and searched for his name. Enzo's profile popped up, and you immediately saw the "Follow back" button. He was already following you. The realization sent a flutter through your chest, a rush of excitement mingled with uncertainty. 

Chiding yourself for getting so worked up over a simple social media interaction, you reminded yourself to keep your composure. But try as you might, you knew that Enzo had already left an indelible mark on your thoughts.

Scrolling through his feed, you searched for any signs of a girlfriend, a pang of relief washing over you when you found none. Perhaps it was selfish of you to feel relieved, but you couldn't deny the surge of hope that blossomed within you. 

Reflecting on the evening, you couldn't help but wonder if you should have lingered a little longer at the event, savored the conversation with Enzo a while longer. But dwelling on what could have been served no purpose now. All you could do was hope that this was just the beginning, that fate would conspire to bring you together again soon.

Turning your phone off, you set it aside and settled back against the pillows, the memory of Enzo's smile lingering in your mind. Until the next time you crossed paths, you were certain that he would remain a constant presence in your thoughts, a gentle reminder of the unexpected connection you shared.

Part 2

A/N: Let me know what you think!

What Kind Of Woman Do You Take Me For?

SHIP: Charles Leclerc x Reader

SUMMARY: After a dinner date at your apartment, Charles is forced to sleep over as to not get caught up in a snowstorm.

CONTENT: Mention of alcohol, domestic fluff, you/yours pronouns with fem!reader, no use of Y/N.

1.1k

"Well, this was lovely."

Charles used his napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. You leaned back in your chair, your elbow coming to rest on the backrest of the one next to you. A vague silence washed over the dining room of your apartment, both of you observing the snowfall outside.

The view out of the dining and living rooms of your apartment was spectacular, and half the reason you were paying such a ridiculous price for it - the sprawling cityscape and background of rolling Swiss Alps breathtaking on evenings like this.

Was it really even evening anymore? You had sat down for dinner four hours ago - really, the date had actually started in the early afternoon. He had come in bearing gifts, with the first snowflakes adorning his coat, hair, and eyelashes. Then, he spent the better part of a few hours helping with dinner.

If you could count his sitting pretty on the barstool, drinking wine, and distracting you with gossip the entire time helping. You had a good reason to keep him away from the stove, however - the man was many things, but a culinary expert he was not.

"Is there anything we forgot to talk about?" You joked, tearing your gaze away from the panoramic view to the, arguably, far better one across the table.

He, to his credit, did take a moment to consider. You liked the way he looked when he was deep in thought. "I... don't believe so. How long has it- oh, wow. Midnight already?" The shock on his face, like all of his other emotions, was visible as soon as he caught sight of the clock hanging in the living room behind you.

"Nearing it." The snow outside was bad now - Switzerland was used to snow, sure, but was Charles? At night? In that sports car you saw him drive here? "You should stay over."

"Yeah?" His smile was teasing while he picked at a few crumbs on the tablecloth. "Are you propositioning me? Is that what this is?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Don't be ridiculous-"

"I came all this way-"

"Charles-"

"-all for an elaborate booty call? Really? Thought you were better than that, amour." Combined, the twinkle in his eyes and the smirk tugging upwards at the corners of his lips made you want to jump across the table and do unholy things to him. Not that you’d readily admit it.

You gestured to your matching empty glasses and plates. "Well, technically, I’ve been wining and dining you. Not a booty call. Come on, what kind of woman do you take me for, Leclerc?"

He shrugged, now picking at the tablecloth itself.

Clearing your throat was more uncomfortable than you’d thought. "The guest room situation isn't- um. I've got my office in there."

"Right, yes."

"...And I have a queen bed." That you didn't know if you wanted to share with him. This was- what was this? The third date? He had said he wanted to take it slow, get to know you. This wasn't exactly planned.

"Oh."

Another silence fell over the room. You felt like you were drowning in it.

"You can take the bed. I just changed the sheets this morning," you offered.

"No, no, I couldn't take that from you."

"I insist."

"No-"

"You're a houseguest. Fae rules."

"What? Fae rules?" He sputtered in surprise.

"Yes." You were smiling smugly, and he pointed it out.

"It's not a problem, chat." The tips of his ears went a little red at you calling him 'cat', but you continued. "The sofa’s comfy. I made sure when I was buying it just in case my, how did you put it, ‘booty call’ could be comfortable."

An extended quiet passed by before he nodded. "Alright."

"Alright."

You cleaned up together - he washed dishes, you dried them; he offered a piece of gossip about the people in his life, you returned one about an office affair you nearly got caught up in; he gasped in disbelief, you nodded solemnly; he caged you against the counter when you were done, you reciprocated his kiss sweetly, slowly.

He tasted of alcohol and dessert, mostly, then of mint after you brushed your teeth together and stole a final kiss. And your pillow.

"Bonne nuit." You whispered against his lips.

"Bonne nuit, amour."

To your credit, you managed to get incredibly cozy on the couch - spare duvet, blankets, pillows galore. You allowed yourself the luxury of imagining him lying in your bed, daydreaming about the way you’d look there with him. You then spent a good quarter of an hour debating with yourself whether joining him there would be uncomfortable for both of you or not.

Oh, god. Had he seen your stuffed animals? The thought nagged at you as you drifted off.

A click of a door roused you from sleep. You couldn’t really tell what time it was in the dark, but the room being so dark and the snow still falling heavily suggested it hasn't been more than… what? Two hours?

"Amour?" He whispered from the doorway. You hummed, acknowledging his presence, but not exactly comprehending it yet.

"Wha's up?" The only word your half-asleep mind could really think of to describe him then is cute - hair a little messy, shirt a little askew, sweatpant cuffs riding up a little on his legs.

He didn't answer, instead stealing one of the top-most blankets covering you. Before you could protest, he moved - sort of clumsily, which prompted a snickering laugh from you - to lay down on top of you. After he got comfy, you were pressed into the couch - his legs tangling with yours, his arms enclosing around your waist under your shirt, his head resting on your chest.

A more conscious you would probably hesitate a little, and a more conscious he probably wouldn't  have done what he did. Alas, tired people do stupid things, and you embraced him back quickly. You helped him cover himself in the stolen blanket, and your hands carded through his hair a little while neither of you were asleep yet.

"Thank you." You heard him whisper, and you made a little noise of agreement. 

"Didn't know if you'd want to sleep together."

"Hah, I thought you didn't want it, amour?"

"With you? Don't be ridiculous. If I had more confidence, I'd be throwing myself all over the opportunity." Your finger twirled a longer strand of hair, and you got to enjoy the way his fingers were mind-numbingly warm drawing patterns on your waist.

This was miles better than any sleep you could have gotten on your own.

NOTE: these fics keep getting shorter and shorter but i'm not lying when I say everything that could have possibly gone wrong while writing this went wrong. I'm truly shocked and appalled.

Rivals to lovers Max fic is hopefully still on the way - alas i got too ambitious with it and now it's looking like it's going to be the longest thing i've ever written. not yet sure if i should be excited or worried?

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

don’t wanna break up again | oscar piastri

pairing: actress!reader x oscar piastri

summary: you never go to any of oscar races and he’s always been okay with it, until he’s not

fc: rachel zegler

warnings: angst

a/n: i am in such an oscar kick lately you cannot physically stop me (i’ve also never wrote angst before this is so fun!)

—

liked by oscarpiastri, gracieabrams and others

yourusername vacation barbie☀️

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username uhmmm ???

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oscarpiastri the prettiest🥰

username oh to be called the prettiest by oscar piastri 😩

username so beautiful 😍

username respectfully looking 👀

username day number 482927 praying for y/n to attend a race

username at this point i feel like the only way she’s attending is if she has to promote a movie or something

username petition for y/n to be in that f1 movie they’re making just so we can see her at the paddock once

liked by yourusername, mclaren and others

oscarpiastri absolutely love austria 🧡

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username that’s my driver right there !!!

yourusername so well deserved❤️ (liked by oscarpiastri)

username another podium where y/n wasn’t present😊

username i could treat you so much better i swear!

mclaren incredible drive oscar🧡

georgerusell63 👊🏽👊🏽

username next podium is a win👀

liked by gigihadid, oliviarodrigo and others

yourusername star of the year is insane! thank you so much for this award and to all of you, i love you all to the moon and back and without you this wouldn’t be possible🫶🏽 thank you thank you thank you ⭐️

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username so so well deserved y/n congrats! 🎉

username ms. rabbit has fainted

username oh she just looked unreal tonight 🤩

username she IS the star of our generation 👏🏽

oscarpiastri couldn’t be prouder❤️

yourusername love you! 💘

username she’s just THAT GOOD

username star of the year indeed😍

liked by yourusername, landonorris and others

oscarpiastri incredibly proud of the most talented, hard-working, brightest woman i know. you’re not only the star of the year you’re also the star of my life and i know there will be many more awards to come your way🌟

tagged yourusername

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username oh

yourusername i can’t put into words how much i love you❤️

oscarpiastri ❤️

username now i just know he did not went out of his way to go to this award show for her during a race week and she can’t even be bothered to go to one (1) race

username he literally made a post about the critics recognizing her work as an actress and you’re commenting stuff like this? jesus

mclaren congratulations, y/n! 🧡 (liked by yourusername)

username y/n they will never make me like you!

username cutest couple🥰

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and others

oscarpiastri hungary will always be in my heart 🇭🇺 🫶🏽

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username obsessed with the first picture

username about to tattoo this whole race in my forehead brb

logansargeant congratulations mate🎉

username TWO MCLAREN MAIDEN WINS THIS YEAR ARE YOU KIDDING ME

carlossainz55 congrats oscar👍🏼

username so rookie of the year of him 😩

landonorris congrats muppet 🍾

yourusername so so proud of you congratulations my love‼️❤️‍🔥

oscarpiastri 🥰

username girl you weren’t even there…

liked by lilymhe, taylorswift and others

yourusername six weeks of breathing clean air, i still miss the smoke.

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username no way they actually broke up😭

username can’t believe it’s been six weeks i thought they were gonna get back after two days

username but why is she calling her relationship with oscar toxic? 😔

username at least she’s going out!

username oh you know it’s getting serious when she’s pulling out the taylor lyrics

username refusing to believe my parents are divorced (i’m older than them)

username finally we’re out of the trenches‼️

username currently praying for oscar’s next girlfriend to be supportive🙏🏽

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ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?

pairings: f1 grid x driver!reader (she/her pronouns)

warnings: angst. angst. angst. swearing. like a lot of swearing. i cannot write crashes/contact for the life of me. argument. lando and reader are assholes in this. 

author's note: dont even ask me why i wrote this, i got inspired and needed it out of my system. lol. 

masterlist

''Retire the car. Too much damage. Sorry, Y/N.'' Marco informed her over the radio, sounding frustrated and apologetic over her already finished race. 

The driver took a deep breath before answering. ''Too bad, it was going well. Thanks, guys.'' 

Her race had in fact been going well. She'd made a great start going from P4 to P2, and had managed to keep up with the Red Bull of Max. They weren't even halfway in the race or Lando tried overtaking her, causing contact, causing her to run off in the gravel with too much trouble on the car to continue. 

In her opinion, it had been reckless. The McLaren driver knew exactly she would end up being forced off the track by the overtake, and that her race would most likely be over because of it. 

As she trudged back to the garage, helmet in hand, she could barely contain her frustration. The team greeted her with sympathetic looks, but she didn't stop to talk to anyone. She headed straight for her driver's room, needing a moment to cool off before she could face the media. 

Her hands trembled with anger as she peeled off her gloves, tossing them onto a nearby chair. The season hadn't been going how she had hoped or even expected it to go. Last year she had been the vice World Champion, the undisputed second-best driver on the grid, the only one to essentially have been able to challenge Max's dominance. Now, she got lucky to even end up in the top five of a race. Her team's design of the car hadn't been meeting the expectations the engineers had set, and upgrades weren't helping in the way they had hoped. 

That is why this race weekend had been a great boost for the team's morale and confidence. Qualifying had gone really well, and for a moment they were able to fight for the win even. But the papaya car of No. 4 had shoved their hopes down the drain. 

Minutes later, there was a knock on the door. She turned to see Marco standing there, looking concerned. ''You okay?'' 

''Have I ever been okay,'' she remarked, a sarcastic chuckle leaving her lips. ''I'm just pissed, that's all. I had high hopes for today.'' 

''We all did,'' he smiled sadly. ''The stewards reviewed the incident, but he, uh, didn't get a penalty.'' He said softly, almost as if he was afraid of her reaction.

The young woman let out a bitter laugh. ''Of course he didn't, why would he?'' Her hands covered her face, briefly wiping off the sweat that had formed. 

Marco took a step closer, his expression a mix of empathy and disappointment. ''You drove brilliantly out there. Everyone saw it. The team saw it. It's just... racing politics sometimes.'' 

She dropped her hands, meeting his eyes with a mixture of anger and resignation. ''It's always like that, though. It's always the same drivers suffering the consequences of others, and they don't get shit for it. It is fucking annoying.'' 

Her engineer nodded, understanding everything she was saying. ''I know, we all know. But we keep fighting. We keep pushing. This season isn't over yet.'' 

''Yeah, true.'' She sighed. 

Marco gave her a reassuring smile. ''We'll be ready for the next race. We're all in this together, okay? We're all behind you.'' 

She nodded, feeling a small measure of comfort in his words. ''Thanks, I appreciate it.'' They shared a quick embrace, before he left to join the team again. Meanwhile she got herself ready to go to the media pen. As much as she wanted to hide away, she knew it was part of the job. 

Since she had an early exit, there wasn't much activity inside the area, though there were a bunch of reporters waiting for her. 

''Y/N, tough race today. Can you tell us what happened from your perspective?'' The reporter asked after briefly greeting her. 

''Yeah, it was, uh, challenging, I guess,'' she plastered a smile on her face. ''We had a great start, moving up to P2 and keeping pace with Max. Then, yeah, the contact with Lando. The car had a bunch of damage, and we decided to just retire the car.'' 

''Do you think it was a fair move by him?'' He followed up. 

She paused, weighing her response. ''Racing is always intense, especially at this level. I don't think it was the right move to make, but the stewards saw it as a racing incident.  I'll respect their decision, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating.'' 

''You and Lando are good friends, and have been racing against each other since your karting days. Will you talk to him afterwards or just forget about it?'' 

They had expected a question like this, so the media-trained answer came out very quickly. ''It was deemed a racing incident, so there is not much to say further about it.'' 

''How do you and your team plan to bounce back from this setback?'' The reporter for Sky Sports changed the topic. 

''We'll regroup and come back stronger,'' she answered, injecting as much determination into her voice as she could muster. ''This season has been tough, but my team and I are committed to pushing forward. We learn from every race, and today is no different.'' 

''That's great, thank you, Y/N.'' They wrapped up the interview, and she moved onto a new one. 

Once she had spoken to everyone she needed to speak to, she finally had a moment to herself. She knew the words she had just spoken were the right ones, but they did little to soothe the turmoil inside her. 

It didn't help that Lando managed to take the lead, and eventually get his first win. As she watched the remainder of the race from the sidelines, her emotions were all over the place. On the one hand, she was proud of her friend for finally making his dream come true. However, it had come at the expense of her race. She had pushed so hard this season, and to see her friend and rival celebrate his triumph while she stood there with nothing but frustration was almost unbearable. 

The cheers from the McLaren garage echoed in her ears. They celebrated wildly, the joy of his long-awaited victory palpable even from a distance. He was swarmed by his team as they shouted his name. 

The podium ceremony was even worse. As Lando stood on the top step, the British national anthem playing in the background, she couldn't help but replay the moment that had ended her race. She could see the excitement in his eyes, the genuine happiness that came with achieving a lifelong dream. But all she could think about was the contact, the gravel trap, and the wrecked potential of what could have been her race. 

Under any other circumstance, she would have been there for him. She would have run to the ceremony herself, just like he had done for her when she got her first win in F1 and made history as the first woman to do so. But it just stung too deep. 

''Lando, there was an incident with Y/N that resulted in her retiring from the race. Can you tell us what happened there?'' The Dutch reporter asked the race winner. 

Lando's expression shifted slightly, the euphoria dimming just a bit. ''Uh, yeah. I saw a gap and went for it. It was a tight move, and unfortunately, it led to some contact. But that's racing, you know.'' 

''Have you spoken to her yet?'' 

''Not yet,'' he admitted. ''But I don't think there is much to talk about.'' He chuckled, quickly glancing sideways, but his laugh seemed forced.

''She told Sky Sports that she didn't think you made the right move there.'' The journalist said, instigating a headline for them to be able to use. 

Lando frowned at his words, but recovered. ''Well, that's her opinion. It was just racing for me.'' 

''So you don't regret making the move?'' The reporter pressed on. 

The Brit took a deep breath before answering. ''I regret that it ended her race. But as a racer, you have to take chances. It's a fine line, you know.''

The older man in front of him nodded at his response, knowing they had gotten a glimpse of the tension that was present between the fan-favorite duo. ''Thank you, Lando. Congratulations again.'' 

''Thank you.'' 

With that, the interview wrapped up, and Lando moved onto the next reporter. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He didn't think he had done anything wrong, so why was everyone talking to him as if he had done something wrong? 

Y/N was struggling to unwind. The events of the day played over and over in her mind, each replay more frustrating than the last. She tried to distract herself by either watching some TikToks or TV, but nothing could drown out her thoughts. The texts from her friends, family and team certainly didn't help. It was a nice gesture, but she didn't want to think about the race anymore and the messages weren't helping. Finally, she decided to call it a night and climbed into bed, hoping sleep would offer some respite. 

Just as she was starting to drift off, another knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. It was unusual for someone to bother her this late, especially when she was winding down in her hotel room.

She frowned and got out of bed, opening the door to find Lando standing there, wearing his signature grin, acting nonchalant as ever. ''You wanna come celebrate with us? We rented a club.'' 

Y/N frowned at him, confused over his casual behavior. ''No.'' She scoffed, offended by the mere thought. 

It was now Lando's turn to frown at his friend. ''Why?'' 

She crossed her arms, incredulous at his obliviousness. ''Why? Are you taking the fucking piss out of me or something.'' 

His grin faltered slightly, but he tried to maintain his composure. ''If this is about the racing incident then you're being ridiculous.'' 

Her eyes widened in disbelief, her frustration boiling over. ''I am being ridiculous? You were ridiculous with that move you pulled!'' She retorted, raising her voice. ''You ran me off the track knowing how hard this season has fucking been for me. You know how much I needed a good result today and you ruined it for me!'' 

''Y/N, I get that you're upset, but it's racing. These things are bound to happen. I saw a gap and I went for it. The stewards didn't even penalize me, so clearly, it wasn't as bad as you're making it out to be.'' He was restraining from rolling his eyes, she could tell. 

She scoffed, shaking her head. ''Oh, so now you're agreeing with the stewards? Now that it is benefitting you? And there was no fucking gap, you were just being selfish. You knew what you were doing, and you didn't care how it would affect me.'' 

Lando's face hardened, his patience wearing thin. ''I didn't do it on purpose to screw you over, where the fuck are you getting that from? I saw an opportunity, and I took it. That's what we do out there. You know that better than anyone." 

''If that opportunity was ruining my fucking race, then yeah, you really took the opportunity, Norris.'' She rolled her eyes, voice tinged with sarcasm. 

He took a step closer, his frustration now matching hers. ''I'm sorry that you didn't get the result you wanted today, I really am. But I am not going to apologize for racing and doing my job, Y/N.'' 

She simply glared at him, disappointed in how he was acting towards her. They'd never really had an argument before, at least not one where they couldn't see each other's point. They'd been frustrated with each other before, but it was always in reason. 

''If anything, I should be angry with you- not the other way.'' Lando suddenly said. 

''Why's that?'' She sneered, almost in disbelief that he would have a valid reason. 

''Because you didn't even have the fucking guts to congratulate me,'' he snapped back, ''when you won Silverstone, I was literally one of the first people to hug you and congratulate you for your win. I stood next to your fucking parents, Y/N! And today you didn't even bother doing anything.'' 

Her mouth fell open, a mix of shock and anger flooding her veins. ''You are unbelievable… You ruined my fucking race, Lando! How am I supposed to stand there and cheer for you when you cost me everything today?'' 

He rolled his eyes while throwing up his hands. ''This isn't just about today. You're just jealous because my season has been going so much better than yours. You can't fucking stand that for one time I'm doing actually better than you.'' 

''Jealous… of you?'' The words came out like laughter, slightly hurting the McLaren driver's ego. ''You think I can't be happy for you because I'm not doing as well? That's so low, Lando.'' 

''Ever since the start of the season you've been so moody and distant, and now you can't even say or even fucking text me a congratulations for my first win. You're so pissed that I got a win before you this season, you can't even hide it.'' He shot back. 

''Oh, give me a break. Like you wouldn't act the same if you were getting all these shit results. Maybe I didn't congratulate you because I was too busy trying to scrape gravel out of my fucking tires.'' She remarked, throwing in the sarcastic comment. 

Lando looked unimpressed by her remark. ''You're just mad cause I'm outshining you. You can't fucking stand that I'm getting all the attention.'' 

''Outshining me? Are you hearing yourself?'' She mocked him, laughing bitterly. ''You get one win and you're acting like you're a fucking World Champion already. You've been riding Max's dick these last years hoping some of his success will rub off on you. Newsflash Norris, everyone is just fucking laughing at you.'' 

His face turned red, either embarrassment or anger. ''At least I'm not constantly whining about my car and blaming everyone else for my problems. Maybe if you spent more time focusing on your driving and less on complaining, you'd have more to celebrate.'' 

''You're a fucking spoiled brat who can't stand some competition. You think everything should be handed to you on a silver platter.'' She retorted. 

''And you're a fucking baby who throws a temper tantrum everytime you don't get what you want. It's time to fucking grow up, Y/N!'' He shouted, his voice rising with each word. 

She took a step closer to him. ''You should spend less time trying to prove yourself to people who don't give a shit about you, and more time trying to be a decent fucking human being. I'm ashamed to call you one of my best friends.'' 

That last sentence had clearly hit a nerve or several nerves. He shook his head, taking a few steps back. ''Fuck you, Y/N. Enjoy your pity party.'' Lando turned and walked away, joining his friends who were waiting in the lobby. 

She watched him go, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and heartbreak. She could feel the pulse of her racing heart, the adrenaline from their argument making her feel jittery and unsteady. 

A lump formed in her throat as she replayed the last few minutes in her mind. She cringed internally at the words she had fired at Lando, while also trying to ignore the sting from his own harsh words. She wondered how they would be able to come back from this. They had never been in a situation like this before, and she knew that she would never want to be in this situation again. 

The young woman knew that she had let her emotions get the best of her. She had always prided herself on being fair and understanding, but now she felt ashamed of herself. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of another door opening. George peeked out, concern etched on his face. ''Y/N, you okay?'' 

She shook her head, not wanting to deal with anyone else. ''Mind your business, Russell.'' She retreated back into her room, not before slamming the door behind her. 

As she leaned against the closed door, the weight of the evening pressed down on her. The room felt too small, her emotions too big. She slid down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, and let the tears she had been holding back finally fall.

Even when she finally got up, even when she tucked herself in again for the final time, and even when she tossed and turned the entire night, the same question lingered in her mind. 

Are they still friends? 

The question haunted her, gnawing at her thoughts every time she closed her eyes. She replayed the argument over and over, dissecting every word, every expression. The hurt in his eyes, the anger in his voice- it all felt so raw and irreversible. 

As the hours dragged on, sleep remained elusive. The darkness of the room mirrored the uncertainty in her heart. She knew they both needed time to cool off, to reflect, but the thought of facing Lando again filled her with dread.

The first light of dawn began to seep through the curtains, and she felt no more at ease than she had the night before. 

Are they still friends? 

story ideas are always welcome, but remember that it can take a while for me to get to it! :)

lucky strike / CL16

Summary: Charles x American!female!reader - F1 comes to Sin City and you unexpectedly run into a certain someone.

Warnings: gambling, alcohol, cussing, use of pet names (A LOT), flirting, one moment of implied jealousy

Requested?: Sort of! Thank you to everyone who voted for Charles in the poll!

Author's Note: Charles won out in the poll, so here you go, everybody! (Of course I HAD to use The Charles Vegas Podium Picture). Also, I listened to Lucky Strike by Maroon 5 while writing.

one in a million ; my lucky strike

Well, you thought the whole F1 thing was absolutely ridiculous. You couldn't care an ounce less about Formula 1, so you certainly weren't happy about all the complications of it coming to your city.

You would call yourself an all American girl, and you're proud of it. If any racing, NASCAR. Football is the sport with the brown ball you throw- NFL, not the white and black ball you kick. That's soccer. You have the greatest food, the greatest mix of cultures, the greatest weather. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have the greatest country, too.

You watched a Formula 1 race when you realized the whole Las Vegas Grand Prix thing was actual, and when you saw that (firstly) it was honestly pretty boring, and (secondly) the only American driver is basically the most sucky one, you decided it would be pretty hard to get into it.

You're a Vegas girl, and you're proud of it. You're actually from Los Angeles, California, but you moved to Vegas to chase your dreams and live the life you dreamed of a year ago with your boyfriend, and it was so worth it.

Now you identify yourself with Vegas even more than you do with the Los Angeles Rams, despite the fact that your boyfriend broke up with you seven months ago and left to go be a prodigal son in New York City.

You decided Vegas was perfect enough for your clever hand, and you'd continue to be a prodigal daughter right where you're at.

But now the Grand Prix is the newest thing, and you don't like it at all. All these people flooding in, like as if there's not already enough people. Just to watch some cars drive around in circles, closing up main roads? No, you're not into it.

Your girl friends all seem to think this is just the best thing, and you discuss it across the table with two of them. One says, "Honestly, the McLaren duo are the hottest."

"No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?" your other friend disagrees.

You snort in disbelief and say sarcastically, "How about neither? So you guys only care about this because the racers are hot? Give me a break."

"Well," one of your friends starts, crossing her arms across her chest, "They are hot. At first, I wasn't so sure, but, I mean, come on! Maybe we could get glimpses of them when they're in Vegas!"

"Or meet them!" your other friend pipes in.

You scoff. "Good luck with that. Aren't these guys self-focused millionaires with too much money for their own good? Probably all greedy idiots who hook up with every half-sexy girl who comes along. So if you're into that, sure, waste your time trying to meet some hot plutocrats, with the one percent chance you might get f*cked like crazy for a night before they forget about you and move back to their mansions across the world! F*ck, is race car driving even a real sport? It's f*cking driving cars. I could do that!"

Your friends don't really argue with you, because you're right. And clearly, they do only care about the hot racers, because you figure any real fan of the sport would argue with you.

Two days before the Strip is supposed to be closed up for the Grand Prix, you find yourself submerged in the vibrant energy of Wynn Las Vegas, the dazzling lights and sounds of the casino floor swirling around you. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the drinks you've indulged in throughout the night.

You slip between two people to reach the roulette wheel, holding your newly bought chips, with money you've earned earlier in the night.

Bets are placed around the table over and over, as you earn more and more chips. You feel someone nudge your shoulder, and a cocky male voice comments next to you, "You're having a good night, huh?"

"Every night is a good night," you remark back, not even glancing up at the man talking with you. He seems to have some sort of accent that you can't place. Perhaps French?

Which means he's probably from Louisiana. Possibly Quebec.

Probably some rich idiot F1 fan who can afford to travel half way across the country for the Grand Prix.

You don't plan to even give him the light of day.

"Until it's not," he says as you watch the roulette wheel spin once more.

You smirk and feel his eyes on you as you collect more chips.

The game goes on, and you think he's gotten the message that you don't care to converse with him, because does shut up.

But now it's the last bet of the game. You take a sip from your glass and feel a stupid, risky streak in you.

Some idiot part of you that's drunk and wants to push her luck way too far.

You place a straight-up bet, all your chips on the number sixteen.

You can feel eyes on you, and the same man next to you from earlier says, "Are you stupid?"

You chuckle. "Possibly."

"You're going to lose all your-"

"No, I won't." You straighten your back, staring at the wheel. It's true, you've earned a lot of money throughout this game.

And honest, it is true that you're stupid.

But it's also true that for some reason, you're confident.

"So you're overconfident and risky? I like that," comments the guy next to you. "But you're going to lose all your money. All that good luck for nothing..."

"You'll see," you breathe, ignoring his little flirt. "It's going to land on sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh?" This man's hazel eyes sparkle, and something in you tells you that you've seen this guy's brown locks, bright dimples, and perfect stubble before.

You've seen him somewhere. Recently. Like some guy you could haven't been drunk with, but the memory is fuzzy.

But you weren't drunk with him.

Despite being sure you've seen this guy before, you're also sure you've never met him before, either.

"Yeah," you nod, looking away, staring as the roulette wheel begins spinning. "It's my lucky number."

You're not looking at him, but you can feel him grin next to you. "Your lucky number, huh? Just so happens, it's mine, too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Is that some lame attempt of a flirt?"

"No. It really is my lucky number." By his tone, you can tell that grin has downgraded to a smirk. "But if you'd like to see a lame attempt of a flirt, that's an option, too..." His voice lowers as you feel his arm snake around you, and his hand land on your waist.

You gently shove it off as the wheel begins to slow. You hold your breath, watching, this stupid French boy no longer even a fraction of your concerns. All focus is on your slight potential lucky strike.

And then the world stops as the wheel stops, too.

On sixteen.

And then it all comes flooding back. "Oh my God!" you squeal stupidly, covering your mouth as there's rounds of, "You've got to be kidding me," "No way," "It's impossible!" and "How lucky is this girl?"

You feel surges of shock and pride as you collect all your money. Once you've received it, after such luck, and earning a fortune, you decide you're going to have a drink. Or more than just one.

But when you turn, there's that guy again.

"What's up?" you ask, the grin on your face impossible to wipe off.

"How did you know it was going to stop on sixteen?" he questions, and he looks a little more handsome than he did before as this time he succeeds in taking your waist.

"Are you trying to pick my pocket?" you question warily, though, shoving his hand away.

"Not at all," he chuckles, "But you're a smart girl, aren't you? And I think I might be a lucky boy. Come on- I'll buy you a drink."

You snort. "No way, pretty boy! I can buy my own drink, after what just happened! How cocky are you?"

"Call me cocky, or call me rich, but either way, you're too sexy to have to pay for your own drink."

You scoff at this, but figure that you can't really let down an offer of free stuff. You'll be the first to admit you're greedy. Once of the biggest reasons why you gamble is because you want money- duh- and as much of it as you can get.

So soon, you're sitting at a table with this random guy, looking into his eyes, holding your drink in your hand. After barely a moment of hesitation, your curiosity finally gets to you, and you ask, "Who are you, anyway? I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere recently."

He gets a smug look on his face, which you don't like, before he says, "You really don't know?"

Your nose crinkles up in confusion, and for a second you feel ultra worried. Is this someone that I've met, that I should remember? Am I a terrible person for not knowing who this is...?

But then he says simply, "My first name is Charles. Charles Leclerc."

You stare at the taller individual, knowing you've heard that name, trying desperately to wrack your brain of it.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

Loudly, in your head, in your friend's voice, in the exact tone she said it, 'No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?'

"Wait-!" you say in shock. You can see the satisfaction on the man's face, Charles, as you realize. "So, you're one of those F1 racers? Like, you race for the Ferrari team?"

He snorts and nods. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me right away. Do you live here in Vegas?"

"Yeah," you say simply, taking a sip of your drink.

"So I take it you hate Formula 1, then? Because how else are you living in Vegas right now and don't know my name, or recognize my face?"

"You sound awfully prideful."

Suddenly, he smirks, and drags his finger across your jawline, pulling your face to look up at him in the process. "Maybe so. But clearly you're not so much better yourself, Miss Bet It All On Sixteen."

You cock an eyebrow at him and return his smirk with a challenging grin. "Sure, but I was right. I won what I wanted."

"Hmm... Well, what if I'm about to win what I want?"

"Oh, yeah? And what is it that you want?"

He leans in closer, so you can feel his hot breath tickle your ear as he utters simply, "You, baby."

You smirk. "We just met, buddy. I'm not that stupid."

"I think you're just playing hard to get."

"Or maybe it's just hard for you to get me," you counter.

"Well, I like your spunk. And your good luck. I think I might need a little bit more of that." He leans away a bit, and comments, "And I think I foresee a little bit more of luck in your future."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirks, leaning in closer. In barely any second, his lips meet yours, and though you know you should, there's no way you're pulling away now. He wraps his arm around you, urging you to lean into the kiss. You melt, letting him.

You don't know what it is.

But in this moment, you gently let your lips part, inviting his tongue to slip in between your lips, allowing yourself to, yes, make out with basically a stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it also isn't something you do for fun whenever you feel.

When you finally force yourself to pull away, the first thing you breathe is, "How did you do that?"

He grins, and is clearly red in the face. But there's a look of shock on his face, too. As if his flirty cover was just confidence, and not because he gets tons of girls like this...?

Or maybe you're just reading too much into his expression.

Either way, he responds with, stroking your cheek, "No idea. Maybe I just have a way with you?"

You roll your eyes as you check your purse. No, he didn't pickpocket. He meant to kiss you. You stand up and say simply, "Well, I better get going n-"

"Sorry, what?" he suddenly snatches your arm back, pulling you back down to sit again with a surprised chuckle. "You just met a famous millionaire race car driver who bought you a drink after you won big money in roulette, let him make out with you, loved it, and now you're just going to casually walk off?"

You grin. "What? Do you think I was impressed by you? Think again, honey. Just because you drive cars fast and make ridiculous amounts of stupid money for it, and that you're insanely handsome- none of that means I'm any more impressed with you than I am with any other guys I meet on my night outs."

"Hm," he raises an eyebrow, and says, "What if you could get more from me, missy? Clearly, you're out for yourself and will do anything for a good deal. And you're f*cking sexy about it, too. So what if I had something else to offer you?"

You let yourself sit down at this, looking at him expectantly.

He smirks, clearly loving that he's 'won you over,' before saying simply, "Would like a free pass to the whole weekend, and a pass for the paddock?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, and your eyes widen. "I- what?"

His smirk grows even bigger. "You heard me."

You inhale sharply, but cross your arms across your chest and come out sharply saying, "Unfortunately for you, I couldn't care less about Formula 1. In fact, I'm starting to dislike it a lot. But thanks for the offer."

His jaw drops, and his eyes practically pops out of his head, which gets a chuckle from you. For a moment, he's actually speechless, before he finally gets out, "Are you aware of the offer you just refused?"

You raise an eyebrow, not able to keep the cheeky grin off your face. "Probably not, but that's okay. Why, anyways, would you give a stranger such an opportunity in the first place? You probably have ulterior motives, and I think I can pretty much guess what they are, mister. You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, God, you're right," he laughs, taking another sip of his drink. "Well, what's your name, princess?"

You roll your eyes, and tell him.

He grins. "It's been wonderful meeting you." He digs in the pocket of his light blue jeans, and pulls out a pen and a restaurant receipt. "I know you think you'll be able to forget me so easily, princess," he starts, scribbling something on the receipt, "but trust me- you'll be wanting this." He takes your hand and presses the receipt into it, before standing up just like that, and saying with a wave as he turns to walk off, "I'll talk to you later, angel."

You look down at the receipt to see a phone number scribbled on it in chicken scratch. But the numbers are clear. And though you walk out that night rolling your eyes at this Charles's boldness and cockiness, with an abundance of money you've earned that's a lot more worth the stupid grease-stained receipt, the moment you get back to your apartment, the first thing you intend to is putting that stupid number into your phone.

"This is stupid," you comment as you slide into the backseat, next to Charles.

He just rolls his eyes. "You won't be saying that by the end of this experience. Besides, you were the one who decided to text me, like I said you would. You were just playing hard to get."

You scoff. "Oh, shut up."

"You look lovely, by the way," he comments in a lower voice. "I like that skirt." You look down at yourself. You're wearing a matching crop top shirt and short skirt, your sunglasses holding your hair back away from your face, and brown sandals.

"Thanks," you snort, crossing your arms and looking out the window, turning your gaze away from the Monégasque driver. (Yes, you did, despite yourself, look him up last night, just to know who the heck this guy even is.)

(You also were sure to look up his salary.)

(Ridiculous.)

(But also intriguing.)

Soon enough, before you know it, you're walking alongside him, about to enter the 'paddock.'

Makes it sound like a bunch of horses racing.

But when you're there, surrounded by it, in the moment, you don't think rude comments like that.

You stop, taking in the high life atmosphere. The revving car noises, the lights of The Strip on the 'racetrack,' the crowds, the music, the richness, and the challenge.

Your breathing falters, and your heart beat quickens as your hand involuntarily finds Charles's wrist and grips it as you gasp, "It's... extraordinary."

You glance to Charles's face to see him softly grinning. His hand slips down to hold yours as he comments, "You seemed like the type of girl to love it."

Your smile widens. "I've been here so many times. On The Strip. But... it's not the same. How did they do it?"

He begins walking, pulling you along by your hand as you look around. "That's just Formula 1 for you. There's nothing in the world quite like it, Y/n."

He leads you by the hand toward the Ferrari garage. Once you're there, he says, "Want to meet my teammate, Carlos?"

"Don't know who Carlos is, but sure..." you say vaguely, taking in the large piece of machinery- the Formula 1 car- in front of you.

He chuckles. "You're f*cking adorable," he murmurs, before leading you away to see Carlos.

He's a well-built man with fluffy dark hair, tan skin, big brown cow eyes, and stubble. Pretty much looks like exactly how you'd imagine a Formula 1 driver to look.

He nods respectfully. "Hey, Charles," he says, and shakes your hand with a friendly wink. "This your new girlfriend?"

You look up to see Charles smirk. "Not yet."

One of Carlos's thick, dark eyebrows cocks up, and the suggestion of an amused smirk travels on his lips for a second. "Ah, I see."

"Charles!" you snap, your eyebrows scrunches together. "Not ever."

"Well, we'll see about that. So far, I've been the right one, now, princess, haven't I?"

"Pfft. I was right about sixteen, wasn't I?"

He rolls his eyes as Carlos says with a chuckle, "Well, it will sure be interesting to see how this plays out," before moving on with his life.

Charles takes the time to show you around, and halfway through the tour, you blurt suddenly, "So, this is all the Italian team and stuff. Isn't there an American team?"

"Hmmm," Charles snorts as his eyebrows travel farther up and he fights off a seemingly somewhat mocking smirk. "There is."

"Why don't you show me them? Don't they have an American driver? Like, Carlos is Italian, right? Isn't it protocol or somethin'? Anyway, isn't it called Williams, the American team, or something? Some guy named Logan something that's an American racer on there-"

At this, Charles can't seem to hold it together anymore, and doubles over laughing, essentially, at you.

"What?!" you demand indignantly.

"You really are clueless!"

"I-"

"Alright, alright, Y/n. Haas is the American team. They don't have an American driver- German and Danish. No, Carlos is not Italian; he's from Spain. Williams is British, and yes, Logan Sargeant races for Williams, and he is American. About the only thing you got right."

You roll your eyes with a shrug. "I told you I don't give a damn about this stupid sport."

"Whatever you say, Miss Starry Eyes."

So, first Charles takes you to Haas, where you learn, surprisingly, that not all the racers are young hotshots like Charles and Carlos at least seem to be. They're friendly enough there, but really don't care much to give you any of their time, so then Charles suggests to go to the Williams garage and see if there's Logan to bother. You agree to that, so soon, you're entering Williams.

As soon as you see Logan, you know he's the American. You can see it in his stance. You can see it in his golden blond slightly sweeped hair, gray blue eyes, and strong jawline. "That's Logan, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

You shrug, breaking off from Charles to Logan. "Hey! You're the only American 'round here?!" you ask with a friendly grin.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up, in the most United States of America way. "Oh, hi," he says in what you perceive as dumbly, with a friendly smile. Ah, that's more like it. None of these posh Monacan boys and hot Spanish men- this guy is just like home sweet home!

You can practically hear the eagles cawing over the Rocky Mountains!

"You're Logan Sargeant?"

He nods. "I am. And you are...?"

"Just some Vegas girl dragged here by Charles."

"Ah... so you know him?"

"Well, now, unfortunately, yes."

His eyebrows furrow, but he chuckles at the same time. Though this guy isn't nearly as handsome or charming as Charles, there's something about him you like a bit more-

Suddenly, a hand is on your waist, and hot breath says in your ear, "Got to be getting back to Ferrari now. Come on with me?"

You blush and nod. "Right, Charles."

You have no idea what to think of him.

"Podium?! Uh- is a podium good?!" you ask, eyes wide as Charles brings it home in second.

"Yeah, yeah, it's good!" some guy you don't know wearing red near you says.

"Oh- Alright, well- That's good, I suppose!" you respond a little manically.

As soon as Charles as the chance, he finds you. He still has champagne on his race suit and his face is glistening with sweat, and there's no way you can deny it- he's sexy. When he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you, and his stunning eyes seem to burn into you. He can't fight the grin off his face as he says lowly, "Get why my lucky number is sixteen, baby girl?"

"Ah, stop with that," you snap, your voice cracking. You don't know, but this seems- all this seems-

Way too important.

You reach up to touch the number sixteen on his hat, before taking it off his head and slipping it on your own, backwards, on impulse.

He grins. "You can keep it. Not like you'll need a keepsake. You won't forget me."

You bite your lip, giving a quick nod, still studying his handsome face. Your eyes linger on his light pink lips, which arch into a perfect cupid's bow, as you murmur absently, "You seem pretty confident about that, huh?"

"Of course I do. Looks like you might be my little good luck charm, hm? Can't be letting you run away from me, can I?"

"Hm. Well, we'll see about that."

"Still playing hard to get?"

"Not playing. I just am hard to get."

"Whatever you say, darling," he comments with a shrug, walking off.

The French accent is pretty sexy.

Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see are the big earnest eyes of Charles Leclerc, staring back into your eyes. "Morning sunsh-"

Your immediate reaction is to scream and promptly slap him across his pretty face.

He grunts as his hand flies to his cheek to cover it up, and he says, "Hey, hey, calm down!"

But your eyes scan the room. It's clearly a hotel room. There's only one bed: the one you and Charles are laying in right at this moment. You're wearing a large black T-shirt and big blue gym shorts very tightly tied to fit your waist. Charles is dressed in a grey hoodie and jeans with a white T-shirt underneath, his regular jewelry, and white sneakers. So clearly, he's already showered and gotten dressed. He smells like his rich cologne, and his hair is all washed and fluffy and clean. If you weren't in a slight panic right now, you'd have wondered if you could touch his hair and feel how soft it is.

But!

As you're about to gasp out questions, Charles sits up and gently sets his hand on top of yours. You become aware of the pounding in your head as you bite your lip nervously. Charles looks at you earnestly, and says calmly, "Hey, you don't have to worry. It's okay."

"What happened?" you exhale.

"Nothing," he soothes. "We went out. You got more drunk than any of us though you should. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you to my hotel room. Gave you clothes to change into, and we went to sleep. Nothing more."

You swallow an anxious lump in your throat. "How do I know I can trust you? Please, just be honest with me. I won't be mad. You didn't know any bet-"

"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. Okay?" he leans in closer, and reaches to cup your cheeks in his hands. "'Kay? Can you just trust me?"

You bite your lip, but slowly nod. "I suppose that's the only thing I can do."

Over six months later, you stand on the boat, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea, smelling the salty breeze in the air, feeling content, wearing a loose button down, light blue jean shorts with a brown belt, your slew of bracelets, white sneakers, and a headband holding back your hair.

Suddenly, Charles is up next to you. "Hey, princess." For months, you've had what you stubbornly call a 'situationship,' whilst Charles calls you his girlfriend.

Because you love Vegas more than you love Charles (or at least that's what you like to say), you refused to leave when Charles did. You like taking risks. Just not the 'travelling halfway across the world for a hot guy' kind of risks.

But you stayed in touch. Charles made sure of that.

Well, he meant it when he said he'd make sure you'll never forget him.

But then Formula 1 came back to the States, to Miami, and you knew you'd have to make the trip. The flirty comments and romantic tension thick enough to cut ensued as soon as you and Charles set eyes upon each other, like as if it hadn't been six months or so since you'd last seen each other last.

It just felt like-

Somehow fate is involved.

Well, when Charles invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, that was an offer you felt you couldn't let down.

And, boy, was that the best descision of your life.

To see Charles win his home race like that, and to be there? Just thinking about it now gives you goosebumps. Charles had wrapped his arms around you after the race, his eyes a little damp, and you felt something more.

Like he really cared.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it was like he really loved.

Loved you.

But, no. Of course not. That can't be.

Can it?

Well, all night you partied. You were in on the fun. You also made sure to pay a visit to the Monte Carlo casino, as you obviously must.

You had amazing luck, once again.

On this thought, as you feel Charles approaching from behind you, you comment into the wind, "You know, I'm starting to think you're my lucky charm, honey."

He chuckles, coming up next to you. "Oh, yeah? That's what I said six months ago when I first met you, you know. I've been starting to think the same thing about you."

You snort. "Maybe so, Monaco race winner."

He smirks, and you can feel the pure joy radiating off him. He slips his hand into yours as he murmurs, "I was so lucky to meet you."

I smirk. "I am pretty awesome."

He rolls his eyes, but squeezes your hand. "So, do you like it here in Monaco?"

You nod vigorously. "Gosh, Charles, it's amazing."

"Better than Vegas?"

"Well- I don't know if anything is better than Vegas..."

He leans in closer and speaks lower. "Well, would Monaco be better if your good luck charm just so happens to reside here?"

"Hm..." you smirk, flushing a bit. "I'd have to think about that, prince."

"Yeah," he nod, his tone softer. "Why don't you."

There's some silence, as you watch the sun begin to set, reflecting off the sparkling water.

Charles leans even closer to you, his hands gliding around your waist, pulling you towards him. He leans down, gazing deeply into your eyes. Then that stupid flirty grin appears on his face again. "F*cking gorgeous you are, one in a million. I struck lucky with you. My lucky strike."

He closes the distance between you, his soft lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. The heat of his body against yours sends shivers down your spine, igniting a spark between you as your tongues dance together in a sensual embrace. Connected.

Maybe it's not fate.

But it is most certainly luck.

And in this moment, with the lips of the winner of Monaco sucking on yours, you feel like the one who struck it lucky.

enjoying an #almond

Hiii...

Can you write a long (pls) 😭😭 ollie bearman fic..(fluff)

In which she is a doc..

And he is very clingy (like really) and she also loves it.. and probably a cuddly fic where they are just adoring/loving each other maybe..

And than she does something so small to her but it made him realise like she is the one and he decided to introduce to her family ( i mean they know but finally an official yet casual meet uk)

And his siblings also loves her..

From The Start. ✷ Ollie Bearman

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Gf!reader

Summary: When you and your boyfriend Ollie finally get to spend time with each other after months being apart.

Word Count: 4.6k Bang.

Disclaimer/s: very fluffy, Like. Extremely fluffy! talks about future, and whatnot. yeah.

Vera’s Voice! thoroughly enjoyed writing this after not writing on here in a fat minute… thanks for ur request!!!!! i kinda strayed away from what u asked for but it’s still rlly sweet!!!! hope u enjoy :’)

Ollie didn’t text you much today, which wasn’t unusual when he was busy with team commitments, training, or flying between countries.

You’d gotten used to the quiet patches in your relationship, filling the spaces with your own routines like classes, labs, and studying.

But, since he moved to Italy, the Bearman family had taken you in like one of their own. His mum always checked in on you, inviting you over for Sunday lunches or sending care packages during exam weeks.

His siblings treated you like their cool older sister, always asking you about university life or finding joy in spending time with you.

So today, when Terri Bearman mentioned she was working late and hinted at a busy week ahead, you’d offered to cook dinner for them.

You couldn’t do much for Ollie from afar, but looking after his family felt like the next best thing.

Standing in their cozy kitchen, you stirred a simmering pot of pasta sauce while keeping an eye on the bread in the oven.

A playlist hummed softly from the speaker on the counter, the familiar rhythm filling the cozy space. Your sleeves were rolled up, an apron tied snugly around your waist, and a wooden spoon in hand.

“You should’ve seen it,” Amalie said, eyes wide with excitement. “My instructor said I cleared the jump perfectly. Best I’ve done all month.”

“That’s amazing, my love,” You said, beaming at her. “Maybe we should celebrate with a little tea shop date this week? My treat.”

She laughed. “Can never pass up on a beautiful offer like that. Could we stop by a bookshop too?”

“Of course,” You replied, already picturing the stack of books she’d undoubtedly try to take home.

Thomas glanced up from his phone, a teasing smirk on his face. “You spoil her too much.”

“She deserves it,” You said with a shrug. “Besides, I like spending time with her.”

And that was true.

Spending time with the Bearmans had become second nature to you. Your parents were often away on business trips, leaving you with an empty house that felt too quiet and lonely.

Your dear boyfriend’s home, on the other hand, was always warm and welcoming—a place where you could laugh, cook, and be part of something bigger, even if he wasn’t always there.

Just as you were plating the pasta and setting the table, the sound of the front door opening caught everyone’s attention.

“Something smells incredible,” Terri’s familiar voice called out as she stepped inside, balancing her purse and a stack of folders from work.

“Hi,” You said, smiling warmly as you turned to greet her.

“Oh, love, thank you so much for this.” She said with an endearing laugh, setting her things down. She walked over to peek into the pot on the stove. “This looks incredible. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread,” You grinned.

Terri placed a hand on your shoulder, her expression softening. “You’re a treasure, you know that? We’re so lucky to have you around. Ollie is lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” You replied, blushing slightly.

As you worked on finishing the last few touches for dinner, Terri began chatting about her day. “David won’t be home for another hour so, don’t worry about setting him a plate, darling.” She assured.

“No worries, I can just leave him one so he can get straight to eating.” You insisted.

And Terri smiled that. “Well, I was on the phone with Ollie earlier,” She spoke, changing the topic and grabbing a glass of water. “He seems to be alright—said he’d call again tomorrow, but he’s keeping busy with training.”

Your heart squeezed at the mention of him. It had been months since you’d last seen Ollie, and even though you talked every chance you got, nothing could replace having him here.

Amalie perked up at the mention of her brother. “Did he say anything about visiting soon?”

“Not yet,” Terri said with a sigh. “You know how it is.”

You nodded, trying to hide the ache you felt. You missed him more than words could say, but you didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” You smiled, forcing a cheerful tone as you pulled the tray from the oven.

Unbeknownst to all of you, Ollie’s car had just pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, stretching after the long drive, and looked up at the familiar house.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming—he hadn’t even planned to be home, but after months of constant travel and racing, he couldn’t resist the pull to see his family.

As he approached the front door, he could hear the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of plates. He paused for a moment, smiling to himself at the familiar comfort of home.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder. The sight before him made his heart stop.

You were standing in the kitchen, laughing at something Thomas had said as you wiped your hands on a dish towel. Amalie was reaching for a napkin, and Terri poured herself a cup of tea.

It was so ordinary, so perfect, and he had to blink to make sure it wasn’t some kind of dream.

“Am I interrupting?” Ollie spoke, his voice breaking through the moment.

Every head turned toward the door.

“Ollie?!” Amalie squealed, leaping off her chair and rushing to him.

“Ollie?” You whispered, frozen in place, your wide eyes locked on him.

“Surprise,” He said, grinning as Amalie threw her arms around him.

You were the next to move, practically running to him and throwing your arms around his neck. He dropped his bag and held you tightly, his face buried in your hair.

“Oh my goodness, you’re home,” You said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re here!”

“I’m home,” He murmured, his grip tightening as if he never wanted to let go.

Terri stood by the counter, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes welled up. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”

“Didn’t tell anyone,” Ollie said, finally pulling back to look at you. His hands stayed on your waist, his gaze soft and full of love. “And I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m always here,” You said with a small laugh, brushing a tear from your cheek as he pulled away and walked over towards his mom to hug her.

“Even better,” He said, turning his head with a smile.

After a round of hugs and excited chatter, the room settled as Ollie shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of a chair.

He looked at you, a familiar warmth in his gaze, as you picked up the tray of bread and set it on the table.

“Hungry? You’re just in time for dinner,” You said, smiling as you motioned for him to join.

Ollie laughed softly, the sound filling the room like a melody you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. “Starving, actually.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his stomach.

“Eat up, darling,” Terri chimed with an insisting hand, her eyes twinkling “Your girl’s been working away all evening. I think she’s better at this than me.”

“Hardly,” You protested with a playful roll of your eyes. “It’s just spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Don’t downplay it,” Ollie said, already reaching for a plate. “If it’s anything like your pancakes, I’m probably about to have the best meal I’ve had in weeks.”

You blushed at his words, nudging him lightly as you passed by. “Try and flatter me all you want, but I’m not taking over Sunday roast duties if this is your way of convincing me.”

Amalie laughed as she slid into her seat. “You’d probably do a better job anyway,” She teased, earning a playful glare from her mum.

Once everyone had taken their seats, the table filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs, the room warmed by laughter and conversation. You watched as Ollie dug into his plate, his smile only growing with each bite.

“Alright,” He said, leaning back after a moment. “I’m officially spoiled. Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“I’m glad,” You said with a soft grin. “Happy to be of service.”

As the meal continued, Ollie reached under the table, his fingers brushing yours in a quiet, intimate gesture. You looked at him, and the soft smile on his face made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

It was so simple—dinner with his family, laughter filling the air, the small gestures between you that said more than words ever could.

And yet, it was everything.

“You’re amazing,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Stop,” You whispered back, smiling as your cheeks flushed.

“I mean it,” He insisted, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you won’t ever have to find out,” You murmured, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.

Later, the kitchen was quiet, the lively chatter from dinner having faded as the family moved to the living room to wind down for the evening.

You stood by the sink, your sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in warm soapy water as you worked your way through the last of the dishes.

The faint clinking of plates and running water filled the space, paired with the occasional hum of the fridge.

Ollie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, quietly watching you. His heart swelled as he took in the sight of you in his family’s kitchen, so natural and at ease in a place that meant so much to him. The warm overhead light reflected off your hair, and there was a faint smile tugging at your lips as you rinsed a glass. He thought about how much he’d missed this—missed you.

Without saying a word, he walked toward you, his footsteps light on the tiled floor. You didn’t hear him approach until his arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind.

“Ollie!” You gasped, startled for a second before relaxing into his embrace.

“Sorry,” He murmured, his voice low and soft against your ear. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You set the plate you were rinsing on the drying rack, your hands dripping with soap suds. “What are you doing?” You asked, though your tone was far from accusing.

“Nothing,” He said simply, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms tightened slightly around your waist, as though anchoring himself to you. “Ive just missed you.”

You tilted your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “I’m covered in soap,” You warned, though there was a smile in your voice.

“Don’t care,” He said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You laughed quietly, leaning back against his chest. “You’re a little more clingy than usual,” you teased, though your heart was melting at his touch.

“Can you blame me?” He murmured. “It’s been months since I’ve been home.”

Your hands paused, stilling in the water. You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, finding his eyes soft and filled with a mix of affection and longing.

“I’ve missed you,” You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, and nuzzled closer. “You should leave the dishes,” He said, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “They can wait.”

“Can they?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” He said, pulling you a little tighter against him. “Because I really, really want you to just sit with me for a bit.”

You let out a small laugh and shook your head. “Fine,” You relented, drying your hands on a nearby towel. “But you’re drying the rest later.”

“Deal,” Ollie said, grinning as he took your hand and led you out of the kitchen. But before you left, he paused, turned back toward you, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you for being here,” He whispered.

“Always,” you replied, your voice full of warmth as you squeezed his hand.

Ollie’s room felt like the one place in the house that was always waiting for you. You’d spent countless hours in here over the months—whether it was to study when things got too noisy downstairs, or simply to nap when you wanted to steal a few moments of peace.

His posters, his racing memorabilia, and the soft scent of his cologne were all familiar, like a comforting embrace that never left.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, the fabric of one of his hoodies draping comfortably over you as you played with the cuffs. Ollie sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you made yourself at home in his room.

"I come in here to nap a lot," You admitted, glancing back at him with a grin.

Ollie raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah? Seems like you’ve practically moved in while I’ve been gone."

“Is that so bad?” You grinned, shrugging nonchalantly. “Besides, this is the comfiest room in the house.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t argue with that. I’ve always wanted a roommate anyways.” His voice sarcastic.

You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully as you leaned back into the pillows, feeling the warmth of his hoodie against your skin. Ollie, still sitting at the edge of the bed, raised his eyebrows as he noticed your gaze.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Can we trade hoodies?” You asked, your voice light and teasing, but there was a sparkle in your eyes that made him grin.

He looked down at the black Ferrari Driver Academy hoodie you were wearing. “Are you not wearing one of them right now?” He pointed with mock confusion.

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “I need a new one because it’s been months since you’ve been home, and the ones I have don’t smell like you anymore.”

His mouth dropped open in playful shock. “They don’t smell like me anymore?”

“Nope,” You said with a dramatic sigh, crossing your arms as though the tragedy was unbearable. “It’s kind of depressing, honestly.”

He laughed, his head tilting back, and ran a hand through his hair. “A little creepy.”

You scoffed playfully. “Rude.”

And he just laughed.

“Please,” You sent him a sweet smile.

Ollie shook his head, another laugh escaping him before he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.”

You caught it eagerly, quickly switching clothes and settling into it with a satisfied smile. The scent of him—clean, familiar, and comforting—immediately enveloped you, making you feel like he was right there with you again.

Which was true anyways.

“Better?” Ollie asked, his arms crossed.

You nodded, grinning. “Much.”

He smiled and walked toward you, pulling you into his arms and settling down next to you on the bed. His chest felt warm against your back, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

As the night wore on, you both laid there, exchanging quiet words and soft laughter, letting the hours slip by as you relished the quiet moments together. And in his arms, with the scent of him surrounding you, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged.

Ollie’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “Seeing you in the kitchen tonight just…” He trailed off, his hand idly tracing patterns on your back.

“Just what?” You murmured, turning your head to glance up at him.

“Just made me happy,” he said simply, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Like, I can’t wait to come home to that every single day.”

Your brows rose, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” He said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something deep and certain shining in them. “When you and I are married. Living a life together.”

A warm rush spread through you at his words, your heart racing yet calm all at once. “Ollie Bearman, are you proposing to me in your bed right now?” you teased.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest. “Not officially. You’ll know when I am. But it’s gonna happen.”

“You seem so sure,” You said, though you already knew your answer if—when—that day came.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll live somewhere cozy. Nothing too fancy, just big enough for us and maybe a couple of kids running around.”

“Kids?” You repeated with a chuckle, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” he said, his hand stilling on your back as he thought about it. “Two, maybe three. What do you think?”

“I think med school might make that a little tricky,” You said, smiling at him.

“Well, you’ll finish med school first,” He said matter-of-factly, as if he’d already worked it all out. “We’ll make it work. I’ll travel less when we’re ready for all that, and you’ll have your dream job.”

You stared up at him, overwhelmed by the ease with which he spoke about the future—a future with you. “What if I want four kids?” You teased, testing him.

He chuckled, his grip tightening slightly. “If you want four, we’ll have four. Two mini versions of you, two mini versions of me.” He laughed softly, the sound low and warm.

You grinned, looking up at him. “You’d be the best dad,”

His gaze softened, his thumb gently stroking your hip. “And you’d be the most gentle mother,” he said with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Our daughters with your fluffy brown hair and sweet little smile,” you murmured.

“And our sons with your eyes and your cute nose that I love so much,” he added, his voice warm with affection as his hand cupped your cheek.

A light laugh escaped you. “Are we putting them into racing?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone playful but resolute. “That’s not even a question.”

“What if they don’t want to race?” you asked, raising a teasing brow.

“Then we’ll support whatever they want to do,” Ollie said, brushing his lips against your forehead. “But come on, imagine it—“ He paused.

“I’ll retire after winning my fifth World Drivers’ Championship,” Ollie said with a sly grin.

“Fifth?” You repeated, raising your head to look at him, your brow quirking.

“Are you doubting me?” He asked, feigning offense.

“Maybe…” you teased, trying to hold back your laughter.

Ollie narrowed his eyes at you, his lips twitching. “Think you’re funny?”

“I am a bit funny,” You replied with a grin, unable to resist.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

You snorted, nudging him lightly. “Please, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to keep you humble.”

“Humble? Me?” He laughed. “I’m a five-time champion in this scenario—there’s no humbling that.”

“Oh, whatever.” You scoffed.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet again, your hands lacing together as you lay against him.

Ollie grinned as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms wrapped securely around you. “And although you’ll be working away at a hospital most of the time, the times you do decide to show up to my races…” He trailed off with a teasing smirk.

“What about them?” You asked, tilting your head curiously.

“That’s when fans will go absolutely nuts,” he said confidently. “Everyone’s favorite doctor wag, walking through the paddock with this aura—like you belong there, like you run the place.”

You laughed, nudging him gently in the chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m serious!” Ollie protested, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “They’ll talk about how good I treat you, how I’m completely obsessed with you. And they’ll love how effortlessly gorgeous and brilliant you are. I mean, come on—my wife, saving lives and still showing up to support me?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Of course, I have,” He said with a grin. “Imagine: You in my team colors, maybe holding a little hand of one of our kids in the paddock. Everyone will lose it.”

Your heart warmed at the thought, but you shook your head with a laugh. “You’re living in a fantasy. I’m not exactly going to be a regular in the paddock.”

“And this fantasy will be my reality,” He admitted, his voice softening. “When you do show up, it’ll be like the sun came out just for me. Lighting up the entire paddock, just like you do everywhere you go.”

You blushed, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. “Such a way with words.”

“Only when it comes to you,” Ollie said, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“And I really mean it. I can’t wait to come home to you every day. To have all of this—our little family, our home.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Me neither,” you whispered.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest, and the two of you fell into a rhythm of imagining your future together.

“Hm, but what about the wedding?” You asked, turning so you could see him better.

Ollie grinned. “Big. Really big. I want all our family and friends there.”

“Big sounds good,” You agreed. “But we’re talking classic, right? Elegant, maybe outdoors somewhere beautiful—”

“—like the countryside,” He interrupted from too much excitement. “Rolling hills, lots of greenery, a massive tent with lights everywhere.”

“And a live band,” You added.

“Good food too,” He said quickly.

“Obviously,” You laughed. “We’re not letting anyone leave hungry.”

He nodded, his grin softening into something more sincere. “I just want it to be the best day of your life.”

“Our life,” You corrected, reaching up to brush a stray eyelash from his cheek.

“Our life,” He repeated.

You tilted your head to the side with a playful smile. "Well, make a wish!" You said softly, presenting your finger with the little eyelash.

Ollie looked at you, the corners of his lips curving into a grin. “Hmmm…” He paused, closing his eyes as if he were deep in thought. “I already have everything I’ve ever wished for.”

You scoffed softly, the playful tone of his voice making you laugh. “Well, too bad. You still have to make a wish.”

He chuckled at your insistence, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he thought about it. Finally, his eyes fluttered closed again, and he spoke with a touch of playfulness. “Okay… I wish to marry the girl right beside me one day.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and a soft sigh escaped your lips as you stared at him. His grin grew as he blew the eyelash off your finger, and for a moment, everything felt perfect, suspended in that sweet, quiet exchange.

You couldn’t help but smile softly, a little teasing gleam in your eye. “Okay, but you said it out loud, now it’s not coming true…” You gave a playful scoff, your voice light with amusement, but your heart fluttered in your chest.

Ollie’s arms tightened around you, and his gaze softened as he pulled you closer. “Nope. It’s coming true,” he said, his voice low and serious despite the playful words. “I’m not losing this under my watch.”

His words made your breath catch in your throat, and you pulled him closer, if that was even possible. In that simple moment, you realized just how much you meant to each other—how all the little things, like a stray eyelash and a wish, tied you even closer together.

“You’re my person forever,” You whispered, the thought clear and undeniable in your heart.

“And you were always mine from the start,” He murmured in return, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you.

And it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a certainty.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list

tags! @pedriache @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.