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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

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krawdad · 1 year ago

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I think if I just got my hands on a few potentiometers and some kind of aduino thing I probably could build my own waldo to puppeteer shit in blender

#its a step closer to doing my own animatronics and fulfilling some kind of childhood something or other #but also I'm pretty sure i understand enough to be able to actually do it #if i can link a physical lever to some animatable value in blender i think the rest would fall into place #i assume blender has some way of doing real time animation #if you can do motion capture with webcam footage you have to be able to link a 0-100 value from an input device to a joint on a rig #i don't know if they still call them waldos #telemetry device i guess is the non-jargon-from-the-80s term #maybe i should start with like controller joystick values first #just to prove it works

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govindhtech · 2 years ago

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Tech Breakdown: What Is a SuperNIC? Get the Inside Scoop!

The most recent development in the rapidly evolving digital realm is generative AI. A relatively new phrase, SuperNIC, is one of the revolutionary inventions that makes it feasible.

Describe a SuperNIC

On order to accelerate hyperscale AI workloads on Ethernet-based clouds, a new family of network accelerators called SuperNIC was created. With remote direct memory access (RDMA) over converged Ethernet (RoCE) technology, it offers extremely rapid network connectivity for GPU-to-GPU communication, with throughputs of up to 400Gb/s.

SuperNICs incorporate the following special qualities:

Ensuring that data packets are received and processed in the same sequence as they were originally delivered through high-speed packet reordering. This keeps the data flow’s sequential integrity intact.

In order to regulate and prevent congestion in AI networks, advanced congestion management uses network-aware algorithms and real-time telemetry data.

In AI cloud data centers, programmable computation on the input/output (I/O) channel facilitates network architecture adaptation and extension.

Low-profile, power-efficient architecture that effectively handles AI workloads under power-constrained budgets.

Optimization for full-stack AI, encompassing system software, communication libraries, application frameworks, networking, computing, and storage.

Recently, NVIDIA revealed the first SuperNIC in the world designed specifically for AI computing, built on the BlueField-3 networking architecture. It is a component of the NVIDIA Spectrum-X platform, which allows for smooth integration with the Ethernet switch system Spectrum-4.

The NVIDIA Spectrum-4 switch system and BlueField-3 SuperNIC work together to provide an accelerated computing fabric that is optimized for AI applications. Spectrum-X outperforms conventional Ethernet settings by continuously delivering high levels of network efficiency.

Yael Shenhav, vice president of DPU and NIC products at NVIDIA, stated, “In a world where AI is driving the next wave of technological innovation, the BlueField-3 SuperNIC is a vital cog in the machinery.” “SuperNICs are essential components for enabling the future of AI computing because they guarantee that your AI workloads are executed with efficiency and speed.”

The Changing Environment of Networking and AI

Large language models and generative AI are causing a seismic change in the area of artificial intelligence. These potent technologies have opened up new avenues and made it possible for computers to perform new functions.

GPU-accelerated computing plays a critical role in the development of AI by processing massive amounts of data, training huge AI models, and enabling real-time inference. While this increased computing capacity has created opportunities, Ethernet cloud networks have also been put to the test.

The internet’s foundational technology, traditional Ethernet, was designed to link loosely connected applications and provide wide compatibility. The complex computational requirements of contemporary AI workloads, which include quickly transferring large amounts of data, closely linked parallel processing, and unusual communication patterns all of which call for optimal network connectivity were not intended for it.

Basic network interface cards (NICs) were created with interoperability, universal data transfer, and general-purpose computing in mind. They were never intended to handle the special difficulties brought on by the high processing demands of AI applications.

The necessary characteristics and capabilities for effective data transmission, low latency, and the predictable performance required for AI activities are absent from standard NICs. In contrast, SuperNICs are designed specifically for contemporary AI workloads.

Benefits of SuperNICs in AI Computing Environments

Data processing units (DPUs) are capable of high throughput, low latency network connectivity, and many other sophisticated characteristics. DPUs have become more and more common in the field of cloud computing since its launch in 2020, mostly because of their ability to separate, speed up, and offload computation from data center hardware.

SuperNICs and DPUs both have many characteristics and functions in common, however SuperNICs are specially designed to speed up networks for artificial intelligence.

The performance of distributed AI training and inference communication flows is highly dependent on the availability of network capacity. Known for their elegant designs, SuperNICs scale better than DPUs and may provide an astounding 400Gb/s of network bandwidth per GPU.

When GPUs and SuperNICs are matched 1:1 in a system, AI workload efficiency may be greatly increased, resulting in higher productivity and better business outcomes.

SuperNICs are only intended to speed up networking for cloud computing with artificial intelligence. As a result, it uses less processing power than a DPU, which needs a lot of processing power to offload programs from a host CPU.

Less power usage results from the decreased computation needs, which is especially important in systems with up to eight SuperNICs.

One of the SuperNIC’s other unique selling points is its specialized AI networking capabilities. It provides optimal congestion control, adaptive routing, and out-of-order packet handling when tightly connected with an AI-optimized NVIDIA Spectrum-4 switch. Ethernet AI cloud settings are accelerated by these cutting-edge technologies.

Transforming cloud computing with AI

The NVIDIA BlueField-3 SuperNIC is essential for AI-ready infrastructure because of its many advantages.

Maximum efficiency for AI workloads: The BlueField-3 SuperNIC is perfect for AI workloads since it was designed specifically for network-intensive, massively parallel computing. It guarantees bottleneck-free, efficient operation of AI activities.

Performance that is consistent and predictable: The BlueField-3 SuperNIC makes sure that each job and tenant in multi-tenant data centers, where many jobs are executed concurrently, is isolated, predictable, and unaffected by other network operations.

Secure multi-tenant cloud infrastructure: Data centers that handle sensitive data place a high premium on security. High security levels are maintained by the BlueField-3 SuperNIC, allowing different tenants to cohabit with separate data and processing.

Broad network infrastructure: The BlueField-3 SuperNIC is very versatile and can be easily adjusted to meet a wide range of different network infrastructure requirements.

Wide compatibility with server manufacturers: The BlueField-3 SuperNIC integrates easily with the majority of enterprise-class servers without using an excessive amount of power in data centers.

#Describe a SuperNIC #On order to accelerate hyperscale AI workloads on Ethernet-based clouds #a new family of network accelerators called SuperNIC was created. With remote direct memory access (RDMA) over converged Ethernet (RoCE) te #it offers extremely rapid network connectivity for GPU-to-GPU communication #with throughputs of up to 400Gb/s.#SuperNICs incorporate the following special qualities:#Ensuring that data packets are received and processed in the same sequence as they were originally delivered through high-speed packet reor #In order to regulate and prevent congestion in AI networks #advanced congestion management uses network-aware algorithms and real-time telemetry data.#In AI cloud data centers #programmable computation on the input/output (I/O) channel facilitates network architecture adaptation and extension.#Low-profile #power-efficient architecture that effectively handles AI workloads under power-constrained budgets.#Optimization for full-stack AI #encompassing system software #communication libraries #application frameworks #networking #computing #and storage.#Recently #NVIDIA revealed the first SuperNIC in the world designed specifically for AI computing #built on the BlueField-3 networking architecture. It is a component of the NVIDIA Spectrum-X platform #which allows for smooth integration with the Ethernet switch system Spectrum-4.#The NVIDIA Spectrum-4 switch system and BlueField-3 SuperNIC work together to provide an accelerated computing fabric that is optimized for #Yael Shenhav #vice president of DPU and NIC products at NVIDIA #stated #“In a world where AI is driving the next wave of technological innovation #the BlueField-3 SuperNIC is a vital cog in the machinery.” “SuperNICs are essential components for enabling the future of AI computing beca

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 29: August 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The room was dim and quiet, the hum of the ultrasound machine filling the space like background music to something sacred. The lights were low, the monitor flickering in cool blue and white. Belle laid back on the padded exam table, her hand already clasped tightly in Max’s, their fingers woven together like they had been every step of the way.

It wasn’t their first scan, but something about this one felt different. More real. More final.

Because this one held a question neither of them had spoken aloud in the car ride over — not out of fear, but reverence.

“Alright,” the doctor said with a warm smile, moving the probe gently across the slight swell of Belle’s stomach. “Baby’s looking strong. Great heartbeat. Plenty of movement.”

Belle exhaled slowly. Max hadn’t stopped watching the screen since it turned on, his eyes wide and unblinking. She knew that look — the same one he wore when studying telemetry before a race. But this wasn’t data. This was theirs.

“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked, her tone gentle. “It’s very clear now, if you’re ready.”

Belle glanced sideways. Max was already looking at her.

“You decide,” he said softly. “I’m good either way.”

Belle hesitated — but only for a heartbeat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We want to know.”

The doctor smiled, angled the wand slightly, and froze the image.

“Well,” she said, “looks like your little one isn’t shy.”

Belle held her breath.

“It’s a boy.”

The words didn’t quite register at first.

But then Belle felt it — like a small bloom of warmth behind her ribs, like laughter waiting to escape. Her free hand flew to her mouth as her eyes flooded without warning.

A boy.

She turned her head, eyes meeting Max’s — and he looked absolutely stunned.

Not shocked. Just wrecked in the softest, most beautiful way.

“A boy?” Max whispered, like if he said it too loud it might disappear.

Belle nodded, tears slipping freely now, her chest tight with wonder. “A boy.”

Max leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers, his voice unsteady with emotion. “We’re having a son.”

And then he laughed — just a little, just enough — before kissing her tear-streaked cheek and murmuring, “He’s going to look just like you, you know.”

Belle let out a watery laugh. “God help him.”

Max shook his head, his thumb brushing her temple. “He’s going to be loved like crazy. That’s what matters.”

She reached up, cupped his cheek with a hand that still trembled, and whispered, “He already is.”

Max didn’t let go of Belle’s hand. He didn’t stop staring at the screen where their son’s tiny silhouette still floated in grayscale. He looked like he was trying to memorize every pixel, like this was the most important moment of his life.

And maybe it was.

Belle turned toward the screen too, her other hand resting protectively over her belly. It was still surreal. Still breathtaking.

Their son. Not just the baby. A boy. A future. A beginning.

She pressed her forehead to Max’s again, her voice quiet but sure.

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Max’s reply was a whisper in return, fierce and full of love.

“Me either, schatje.”

***

The house was quiet that night.

Max sat on the edge of their bed, one hand in his hair, the other resting absently on his thigh. His shirt was rumpled — he’d changed hours ago, but hadn’t moved much since. The only light came from Belle’s bedside lamp, casting everything in gold.

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Humming softly. Completely unaware of the way his chest felt like it was caving in.

They were having a boy.

A son.

Max Verstappen was going to be father to a boy.

And that should’ve made him feel ten feet tall.

Instead, it made him feel cracked down the middle.

Belle came out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back and her nightshirt slipping off one shoulder — one of his old Red Bull shirts, worn soft from years of washes. She looked at him once, and stilled.

He hadn’t said much since they got home.

She crossed the room quietly and slipped onto the bed beside him, her hand finding his thigh.

“Talk to me,” she said gently.

Max didn’t look at her. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Belle sat up a little, not pulling away, just making it easier to see him. “Do what?”

He looked down at his hands. They’d always felt steady in a car. On a wheel. In the cockpit.

They didn’t feel steady now.

“Be a father,” he said. “A good one.”

Belle’s face softened. “Max…”

“I don’t mean I won’t love him,” he rushed to say. “God, I already love him. I feel like I’ve loved him forever. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Belle’s hand found his, warm and grounding. “Why would you?”

Max blinked down at their hands. “Because I only know one version of it,” he said, voice roughening. “Because when I think of being a dad, the first image that comes to mind is someone yelling. Demanding. Pushing me until I broke, then pushing more.”

He paused. “And I love him. I do. I love Jos. I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But Belle… he was hard. He was relentless. He wanted me to be great. And I was. But not because I was happy.”

Belle didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Max’s voice was rough now. “I remember waking up some mornings and feeling sick because I knew he was going to be disappointed in me by nightfall. I remember the weight of that. I remember trying so hard not to feel anything because it just made everything worse.”

Belle shifted closer, her hand covering his. “You’re not him, Max.”

“But what if I become him?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.I don’t want our son to be afraid of me,” he choked out.

Belle’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” she said. “I know how you talk to Jimmy like he’s fluent in Dutch and sarcasm. I know how you carry Luka on your shoulders until your back hurts and you never complain. I know how you hold me when you think I’m too quiet for too long. I know how you put your hand on my stomach every night now, even when you’re half-asleep.”

Max blinked hard. Once. Twice.

“You are not your father,” Belle said gently. “You are not the echo of his worst days. You are better. Kinder. Softer. Still learning, maybe, but willing. And that makes you more than enough.”

Max exhaled, slow and shaking.

“I just…” He looked at her, his voice breaking a little. “I want him to feel safe. Always. I want him to look at me and know he’s loved, not just when he wins. Not just when he’s perfect.”

“He will,” Belle whispered, leaning in to press her forehead to his. “Because you’ll show him. Every single day.”

Max closed his eyes, her words sinking in slowly, steadying him.

“I don’t care if he never drives a kart,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he hates racing, if he wants to be a violinist or a vet or a mechanic or—hell, a cat therapist. I just want him to be happy. To know he matters because he exists. Not because he proves it.”

Belle smiled against his skin. “Then you’re already doing better than you think.”

They sat like that for a while — forehead to forehead, hearts pressed together, building something soft between the cracks of what they’d both survived.

Eventually, Belle murmured, “Do you want to say goodnight to him?”

Max let out a breath that felt more like a prayer.

He rested his cheek against the gentle swell of her belly, his hand smoothing over it like a vow.

“Weltrusten, kleine man,” he whispered. Goodnight, little man. “Papa loves you. Always.”

Max looked down at her belly again.

A boy.

His son.

And tomorrow, he’d tell his son — just loud enough that the bump might hear it — that love was never something he had to earn.

Not in this house.

Not ever.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: We had the scan this morning.

GP: Everything good?

Max: Yeah. He’s healthy. Strong. Kicked Belle hard enough the tech laughed. It’s a boy.

GP: A boy. Little Verstappen 2.0. God help us all.

Max: He’ll be calmer. Belle’s influence.

GP: I doubt that. Let me guess—he tried to overtake the probe mid-scan?

Max: More or less. Got his foot in position like he was practicing pit stop timing.

GP: Knew it. When’s his debut?

Max: December. Right before the holidays.

GP: So I should start working on a telemetry-themed baby gift?

Max: If it doesn’t come with data sheets, is it even from you?

GP: Fair point. Congrats, Max. Really. You’re going to be a great dad.

Max:Thank you. I’m trying to be the kind of dad he won’t have to recover from.

GP: You already are.

***

Belle had been up early — not from nerves, just from the kind of contented restlessness that came with good news too big to keep inside her chest.

The sun poured in through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor as she moved barefoot between the counter and the stove. The kettle was steaming. The pancakes were stacked. And sitting on a little porcelain dish beside the fruit bowl was one perfect cupcake, its frosting an unmistakable shade of blue.

The front door opened with a familiar knock-knock-push, and Emilie’s voice rang through the quiet.

“Please tell me you made the good tea. I will cry. I will cry right here.”

“In the pot,” Belle called.

Emilie padded into the kitchen, wearing sunglasses, a loose sundress, and an expression of dramatic exhaustion. “I walked behind a tourist group for three whole blocks and I think I now have an intimate understanding of someone named Karen’s divorce settlement.”

Belle grinned and handed her a mug. “To emotional trauma and herbal tea.”

They moved into the dining nook — Belle sliding into her usual seat, Emilie curling up cross-legged on the built-in bench like she lived there. A few cats padded in and out, indifferent to the emotional weight in the air.

“So,” Emilie said, biting into a slice of peach. “You said you had something to tell me that wasn’t about paint samples or prenatal vitamins. Which is suspicious. Spill.”

Belle didn’t answer immediately. She reached across the table, pulled the little plate with the cupcake closer, and placed it gently in front of Emilie.

Emilie blinked. “Is that for me?”

Belle smiled, soft and bright. “Just look at the frosting.”

It took two seconds.

Emilie froze. Looked at the swirl of blue buttercream. Then looked at Belle. Then back at the cupcake.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

Belle nodded.

“NO.”

Belle laughed, eyes already misting. “Yes.”

Emilie let out an unhinged squeal that made one of the cats bolt from the room. “It’s a boy?! You’re having a little Max!? Like, an actual Verstappen 2.0?!”

Belle was laughing now, wiping at her cheeks. “He kicked during the scan like he was already late for FP1.”

Emilie launched herself around the table and wrapped Belle in a hug that knocked the breath out of her. “Oh my God, Belle. A boy. A baby boy. I’m going to spoil him so much.”

“He’s already dramatic,” Belle whispered. “He deserves an equally dramatic aunt.”

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, still holding both her arms. “You’re going to be the most amazing boy mom.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Belle looked down at her bump, then back at her best friend. “I’ve been thinking about names.”

“Please don’t name him after a racetrack,” Emilie said, only half-joking.

Belle grinned. “I’d never. Though Max did pitch Zandvoort as a middle name.”

Emilie made a sound of horror.

They both burst out laughing again.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: We found out yesterday. It’s a boy.

Jos: Congratulations. That’s great news. How’s Belle feeling?

Max: Good. Healthy. He kicked during the scan. Like he already wants to race.

Jos: Runs in the blood.

Max: Maybe. But I’m not pushing him. He gets to choose.

Jos: Understood.

Max: He’ll grow up knowing he’s loved. Win or lose. No stopwatch needed.

Jos:. You’ll be a good father, Max.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Summer Chaos

Members: Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Charlotte and Alexandra

Pascale: We need to decide on a destination.

Charles: Beach?

Arthur: Mountains?

Lorenzo: Not that hotel in Antibes again. I still have nightmares about the breakfast buffet.

Charlotte: I’m fine with the beach. But not that beach. The one where you all complained about the sand for three days.

Alexandra: Seconded. And I am not spending a week somewhere with no air-conditioning. That would be medieval.

Pascale: Well someone needs to book something soon.

Arthur: Can we do a road trip?

Charles: No. That’s so much driving. I want to relax.

Lorenzo: You don’t drive. You just sleep in the passenger seat.

Charles: Exactly. That’s relaxing.

Charlotte: You know what’s not relaxing? Planning a vacation with five people who all want completely different things and none of whom will make a decision.

Arthur: We could do Tuscany?

Charles: Too many tourists.

Alexandra: Oh my god.

Lorenzo: Just pick something, Charles. You’re the one with the stupidly specific villa standards.

Charles: SORRY I LIKE FUNCTIONING WIFI.

Pascale: Isabelle always found the best villas. She even had spreadsheets…

Lorenzo: I’m going to pretend I’m busy for the next hour and see if that magically resolves anything.

Alexandra: Lorenzo. We see you typing. Stay here.

Charles: I’ll do the driving if we road trip. I promise. Just no hiking.

Arthur: What do you mean no hiking?? The whole point of the mountains is the hiking.

Charlotte: I hate hiking.

Alexandra: I like hiking if there’s a spa and wine afterward.

Charlotte: Someone pick a destination by tomorrow morning or I swear I will book all of us into a nudist yoga retreat in the Pyrenees.

Arthur: That’s a threat?

Charlotte: It’s a promise.

Lorenzo: You know what? Pyrenees might be peaceful after all.

Charles: Guys. What about Sardinia?

Arthur: Only if I don’t have to share a room with you again.

Charles: YOU SNORED THROUGH A THUNDERSTORM.

Pascale: Isabelle made this look easy.

***

Group Chat: Summer Sanity Squad

Members: Belle, Alexandra and Charlotte

Charlotte: HOW. THE. HELL. Did you survive this every year.

Alexandra: No seriously. How did you not murder all of us?!

I’m five minutes away from dropkicking Charles into the nearest ocean and letting Poseidon sort it out.

Charlotte: Arthur just suggested a road trip with no itinerary. Like this is a vibe and not a logistical death sentence.

Alexandra: Charles vetoed Greece because “the lighting was bad last time”????

Charlotte: And Pascale just said you used to do spreadsheets.

Girl. GIRL. Why did you not set something on fire.

Belle: I considered it. Then I realized fire wouldn’t fix stupid.

Charlotte: Help us. They are incapable of decision-making.

We are two inches away from a nudist yoga retreat.

Alexandra: We are serious. That was not a bluff.

Belle: Okay. Breathe. Here’s what you do:

Give them exactly three options. No more. Let them vote. Majority wins. End of discussion.

Assign one person to book. If you say “we’ll book it together,” they will vanish like raccoons when the lights turn on.

Do not let them make you the default planner. They will act helpless once, and then forever. Learn from my pain.

Charlotte: This is like talking to a vacation war veteran.

Alexandra: She has seen things.

Belle: I have.

I’ve organized numerous Leclerc holidays, one trip that turned into an accidental mountain survival situation, and a Monaco Christmas where Charles forgot to buy the duck to roast, which was the main dish.

Charlotte: No wonder you married Max.

Alexandra: Was it the man or the functional holiday planning?

Belle: Both. He books villas in advance and brings snacks.

Charlotte: God-tier husband behavior.

Alexandra: I’m starting a support group for people forced to plan a vacation with Leclerc men.

Belle: You can call it “Itinerary? I hardly know her.”

Charlotte: I hate how good that is.

Belle: You’re welcome. Be ruthless.

***

Belle had never understood what people meant when they said they could feel their shoulders unclench.

Not until now.

The villa was quiet in the soft, golden way of late afternoon. The kind of quiet filled with clinking glasses and distant giggles from the pool, the hum of cicadas, the scent of sunscreen and fresh basil and baked stone. It had taken Belle three days to believe it was real. To believe she didn’t have to earn it. That she was allowed to just be.

She lay stretched on a sun lounger in the shade, a linen cover-up slipping off one shoulder, one hand lazily resting on the curve of her bump. Max sat beside her on the deck, legs stretched out, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and one hand absently tracing slow circles along her calf.

Lio was giggling somewhere behind them — something about “beach crab dance” and “Uncle Max said no rules today.” Victoria had abandoned her book to go sort it out, muttering something about “chaos on stilts.”

Luka had declared war on the inflatable swan and was currently trying to stand on its head while Sophie laughed so hard she cried.

It should’ve been overwhelming.

But it wasn’t.

Because nobody expected Belle to fix it. Nobody was asking her to hold the day together. Nobody was waiting for her to smooth things over or play mediator or pretend she wasn’t tired when she was.

The villa was perfect. Secluded. Gated. Peaceful. The air smelled like sunscreen and rosemary, and the only sounds were water, laughter, and the faint hum of a playlist Max had made the night before — a mix of Dutch indie, lazy French jazz, and Belle’s favorite soft piano tracks.

They took turns prepping meals and doing dishes. Nobody raised their voice unless it was because Luka cannonballed too close to the cheese board.

She belonged here.

Not because she was useful.

Not because she planned everything.

Just because she was.

She could just… exist.

“Baby’s kicking again,” she murmured, watching Max’s hand shift instinctively to rest over her stomach.

He didn’t say anything — just grinned, wide and boyish, and leaned forward like he could hear through skin and sun and breath. Belle reached out, tucked a hand into his hair, thumb brushing gently over his temple.

“I think he likes the sound of your voice,” she said softly.

“He’s got good taste.”

She smiled. “He also tried to kick the sunscreen bottle off my belly this morning, so.”

Max shrugged. “Already has priorities.”

The sun filtered through the trees in hazy gold stripes. Belle tilted her head back and let it warm her face.

Victoria padded over a moment later with a bowl of watermelon and a “did someone say hydration,” plopped it between them and flopped into the lounger beside Belle with a sigh.

“Tom says we’re doing a family dinner tonight,” she said. “Outside. Grilled everything.”

“I’ll help,” Belle said instinctively, sitting up.

“Nope,” Victoria said immediately. “You’re pregnant. Your job is to float in the pool and let everyone bring you things.”

Belle hesitated.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to call Mom? Because she’ll bring out the mom voice and you will be told to sit down.”

Belle held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I surrender.”

Max smirked. “That’s a first.”

Belle kicked him lightly in the ankle. “Don’t make me weaponize the baby.”

Victoria cackled. “Show him, Belle.”

***

The afternoon sun had started to dip, casting everything in that rich, golden glow that made even the garden hose look romantic. The cicadas were loud, the air was soft, and Belle had escaped the chaos of the pool by claiming a lounger on the far end of the terrace with a bowl of grapes and a sunhat that was slightly too large for her head.

She didn’t even flinch when someone dropped onto the lounger beside her.

“I come bearing sunscreen and gossip,” Victoria said, holding up the bottle like a peace offering. “Mostly because Luka told Lio that the baby is probably going to come out wearing a racing suit and now Max is pacing around the kitchen saying, ‘He’s not wrong.’”

Belle laughed, soft and low. “He’s not wrong.”

Victoria began reapplying sunscreen to her shoulders with one hand, the other holding her phone to send somebody yet another photo of her sons face-planting into a bucket of sand.

“You’re glowing,” Victoria said after a moment, without teasing. “Like actually. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s the watermelon,” Belle said, tilting her head. “And the fact that no one here expects me to plan their travel logistics or moderate an argument about hiking versus beach chairs.”

Victoria chuckled. “Ah, yes. A vacation where you’re not everyone’s emotional support sibling. Revolutionary.”

Belle paused. Looked down at her bump.

Then: “It’s a boy.”

The words came out softer than she expected. Not secretive, just sacred.

Victoria’s head whipped toward her. “What?”

Belle smiled. “We found out before we came. He was being very cooperative on the ultrasound. Max almost cried.”

“Almost?” Victoria said, scandalized.

Belle grinned. “His eyes were suspiciously red when we left.”

Victoria blinked hard, then reached out — no hesitation, just instinct — and rested a hand over Belle’s bump.

“A boy,” she whispered. “Oh, Belle.”

Belle’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

Victoria looked at her then, full of emotion, her voice warm and unwavering. “He is going to be so loved. He has the best parents. And I’m already preparing a list of ridiculous Dutch baby nicknames.”

Belle’s eyes welled up before she could stop them. “I think I was scared to say it out loud. Like it would make it too real. Too fragile.”

Victoria squeezed her hand. “It’s not fragile. It’s yours. That makes it strong.”

Belle wiped under her eyes and laughed. “Hormones. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m crying too, so you’re not special,” Victoria said, dabbing at her own cheek. “I just can’t believe… my brother. A dad. And you—you’re going to be someone’s mom.”

Belle looked out toward the pool, where Max was now being used as a human surfboard by both Luka and Lio. “I know,” she whispered. “It feels like the start of something good.”

Victoria smiled. “It is good.”

She pulled Belle into a side hug, sunhat and all.

“A little Verstappen boy,” Victoria said. “We’re going to spoil him so much.”

Belle laughed into her shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridsightings: OKAY I WASN’T GOING TO POST THIS

but I just saw Max Verstappen and Belle Leclerc—I mean Belle Verstappen (still not over that) at a baby boutique in the South of France and I’m actually not okay???

A THREAD 🧵

@/gridsightings: So I’m in this tiny boutique near the coast — like, one of those aesthetic French shops with linen everything and hand-stitched baby blankets. — and I’m flipping through said baby blankets because my cousin just had a kid, right?

@/gridsightings: AND THEN I HEAR THE VOICE.

Like that voice.

The grumpy Dutch one from the paddock radios.

I look up and Max Verstappen is just… standing there. In a linen shirt. Holding a swaddle.

@/gridsightings: Belle was glowing. Like, not influencer-glowing. Real glowing. Hair braided, long dress, bump visible.

She laughed when Max tried to fold a swaddle and failed spectacularly.

He said, “It’s like tire warmers but worse.”

I almost blacked out.

@/gridsightings: At one point Max is carrying four things at once because “you liked them all, Belle, we’re getting them all.”

And she just laughs like this is normal behavior.

@/gridsightings: Max just… rested his hand on her belly and went completely still.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

Then Belle kissed his cheek and whispered something I couldn’t hear but he smiled so big my heart grew three sizes.

@/gridsightings: They were talking about colors for the nursery.

Max: “We can do navy and white.”

Belle: “Because you’re emotionally bonded to the Red Bull color palette?”

Max: “No, because you look really pretty in navy.”

ME. ON. THE. FLOOR.

@/gridsightings: A little old woman complimented Belle’s dress and asked when the baby was due.

Belle said, “December.”

The woman said, “A winter baby — strong and stubborn.”

Max said, “So… just like their mother then.”

BELLE LAUGHED AND SMACKED HIS ARM.

@/gridsightings: I was trying to be normal and leave them alone but Belle caught me STARING and smiled and said “Hi!” like she wasn’t the most radiant person to ever exist.

And Max??? Max gave me a little nod and a “have a good day.”

@/gridsightings: Max carried all the bags. Belle held his free hand.

They walked out of the shop smiling like they already knew they were the luckiest people on Earth.

And honestly?

They might be.

@/formulafemmes: “it’s like tire warmers but worse” MAX PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU STOP BEING ADORABLE I CAN’T HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@/1babyverstappenfan: they’re so married married. like old-married-couple-but-make-it-sexy married. i’m spiraling

@/chaoscar_piastri: her: “navy and white??” him: “no, because you look pretty in navy” ME: SOBBING INTO A BIB I DON’T EVEN NEED

@/mclareninlaws: no but imagine being casually complimented by an old lady and max verstappen immediately goes “just like their mother” like sir please keep that mushy soft husband energy AWAY FROM ME i’m WEAK

@/gridghost: max holding her belly and going completely still like he’s listening for the future i am going to EAT WALLS

@/charleslefreaked: friendly reminder this woman’s family forgot her birthday this year and now she’s married to a man who buys her every swaddle she glances at. karma is REAL and she rides in a Verstappen-branded stroller.

@/babyverstappenupdates: ok but DECEMBER BABY CONFIRMED 🍼 let the countdown begin. i’m making a onesie that says “i survived the Verstappen family Christmas”

@/emotionalslipstream: i want whatever max and belle have. except i want it immediately. and i want it delivered to my door like prime shipping.

@/emotionaldnf: max verstappen in a linen shirt holding a swaddle is not something i was emotionally prepared for today

@/catdadchampion: he carried the bags she held his hand they smiled at each other like idiots i’m gonna eat drywall

@/gridbabywatch: i don’t even CARE that it’s only august baby verstappen is already winning rookie of the year 💙💙💙

@/tifosiferal: also can we talk about how BELLE caught the fan staring and just went “hi!” like she’s not the most ethereal pregnant goddess on Earth? she is sunshine incarnate and I love her.

@/wifeyverstappen “you liked them all, we’re getting them all.” i’m sorry. max verstappen is peak husband material. nobody speak to me ever again.

@/tracksideoracle: honestly? max is 100% going to cry in the delivery room and belle will be like “you’re doing amazing, sweetie” while in active labor.

***

Belle was lying on a sun-dappled lounger near the edge of the villa’s garden, her legs stretched out, a straw hat tilted to shield her eyes. The air was warm, still, soft with the sound of waves crashing in the distance and Max trying to convince Lio that pool floaties worked better when you didn’t bite them.

Belle's phone buzzed on the little table beside her.

Daniel Moreau She blinked at the name for a second before answering. “Daniel! Hi—how are you? Is the kitchen island still intact?”

“Still the star of the house,” Daniel said, his voice warm and amused. “Jules won’t stop hosting dinner parties just so he can show it off. I told him if he breaks the lighting fixture I’m calling you to scold him personally.”

Belle laughed. “Please do. I’ll fly in with a stern face and a clipboard.”

“Listen,” Daniel said, his tone shifting slightly. “I didn’t just call to gush. Well, I did. But not only.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“So, Jules’ friend Laurent—He’s an editor for Architectural Digest. And he came by last week for dinner, took one look at the house and lost his mind. He said it was one of the most thoughtful spaces he’s seen in years.”

Belle blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“Belle,” Daniel said, “he wants to feature the house. Full spread. Name in print. Photos. Interview. The whole deal.”

There was a pause. The kind that filled every space inside her chest and made it hard to breathe.

“He said,” Daniel continued, quieter now, “that your work feels like it was designed by someone who understands how people live. Not just how they want to look. That it’s intelligent and emotional.”

Belle pressed a hand to her stomach, heart racing. The baby shifted slightly, as if sensing the moment.

“I—Daniel,” she said, stunned. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said simply. “You deserve this. Let the world see what we already know.”

Another pause.

This time, Belle let herself feel it.

Not just surprise. Not just pride. But validation.

Her name. Her work. Hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Daniel whooped on the other end. “Jules just screamed. We’re already picking out your best angles for the photos.”

Belle laughed, breathless, and wiped at her eyes with the corner of her towel. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Daniel said. “I just know talent when I see it.”

They said their goodbyes, promised to loop in her Studio_B email, and hung up.

Belle sat there for a long moment, the phone still warm in her hand.

She had a baby on the way. A partner who loved her. A family who saw her. And now?

Her work — her name — was about to be in Architectural Digest.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing worth.

She was living in it.

***

“Is that the ‘I just got good news’ face?” Sophie’s voice came from the side doorway, gentle and amused.

Belle looked up, startled, then smiled. “Was I that obvious?”

Sophie crossed the patio with a slow grace that Belle always admired — the kind of elegance that came from being certain of your place in a room, but never needing to announce it. She leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Come on then. What is it?”

Belle hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to tell her — but because somewhere, deep in the layers she hadn’t yet fully shed, there was a part of her still afraid to shine too brightly in front of a mother figure.

She swallowed that part down.

“I got a call from a client,” Belle said slowly. “One of my favorites — Daniel Moreau.”

Sophie nodded encouragingly.

“His house. The one I designed this year — it’s going to be featured in Architectural Digest.”

Sophie blinked.

Belle rushed to fill the silence, nerves creeping in despite herself. “His husband’s friend is an editor there. He saw it and said it felt like someone designed it for the way people actually live, not just… for show. And he wants to do a full spread. Photos. Interview. Name in print.”

Sophie said nothing at first.

Then she reached out and took Belle’s hands, slowly, gently, like holding something precious. Her fingers were warm.

“Oh, darling,” Sophie breathed.

And then Belle saw it — that spark in her eyes. Real pride. Real joy. Unfiltered.

“I always knew,” Sophie said, voice thickening. “From the first time I saw how you talked about your work. The way you light up when you describe materials. The way you feel spaces before you even sketch them.”

Belle’s throat ached. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Sophie said. “For not shrinking. For continuing to build beauty even when no one gave you the space for it. You’ve created things people live their lives in, Belle. That matters. You matter.”

Belle blinked fast.

“I’m proud of you,” Sophie whispered. “I hope you know that. Not because you married Max. Not because of the baby. Because of you. What you’ve done. Who you’ve become.”

And that?

That undid her.

Not in a falling apart kind of way — but in a finally letting go kind of way.

Belle leaned forward and hugged her. Properly. Fully. The way she’d wanted to be held after every university critique, every silent family dinner where her designs went unmentioned, every “what exactly is it that you do again?” masked as curiosity.

Sophie held her like she knew.

Because she did.

***

Max hadn’t expected the patio to go quiet when he rounded the corner.

He was still a little sandy from the beach, his shirt stuck damply to his back, a sunburnt rubber duck in one hand and a pair of tiny, abandoned flip-flops in the other. Lio had declared himself “retired from walking,” and Luka had started building a moat around Max’s ankles with plastic shovels. Chaos, as usual.

But here—on the terrace—it was still.

Belle stood in the golden light, barefoot, her linen dress catching the breeze, arms wrapped around Sophie in a way that made Max’s heart lurch. They weren’t just hugging. They were holding. Like something had been stitched together midair between them.

Sophie’s hand was in her hair, gentle. Belle’s shoulders trembled — not with grief, but with something Max had only ever seen in private. Release. Relief. Real softness.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just took it in.

Then: “Should I come back later or…?”

Sophie looked up at him with a faint smile, hand still at Belle’s back. “Only if you’re going to cry, too.”

Max raised a brow. “I don’t cry. I just get something in my eye when people I love do emotional things in nice lighting.”

Belle turned toward him, her voice already laughing. “Well, prepare to blink a lot.”

He walked closer, stepping carefully over the stray flip-flops, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She smelled like sunscreen and mint tea. “What’d I miss?”

Sophie stepped back, just a little, giving Belle space. “You tell him,” she said.

Belle looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “Remember Daniel’s house? It’s going to be in Architectural Digest.”

He blinked. Thought he misheard. “Wait… seriously?”

Belle nodded. “Full feature. Interview. Photos. My name in print.”

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

And then the duck and flip-flops were forgotten — he dropped them both on the table and pulled her in, arms around her, forehead pressed to hers like she’d just won the world title.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “You deserve this. All of it.”

Belle’s smile wobbled. “I think I believe that now.”

Sophie wiped discreetly at her eyes behind them, and Max turned to catch her just as she said, “And if you didn’t before, you will by the time that magazine hits shelves. I’m framing it for every hallway I have access to.”

Still holding Belle, Max said, “Can we send copies to every single person who ever asked if she ‘still does decorating’?”

Belle laughed — full and loud and radiant — the kind of laugh that knocked him out every time. “I like you both when you’re dramatic.”

Max looked down at the swell of her belly, already cradling his palm over it. “You hear that, little one? Your mum’s about to be famous.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Internationally respected. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then her bump. “Same thing.”

And he meant it.

Because it wasn’t just a magazine.

It was Belle being seen — truly seen — for who she was and what she built, long before anyone else thought to look. And Max?

Max had known all along.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: EM EMILIE EM ARE YOU NEAR YOUR PHONE I NEED YOU TO BE NEAR YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW

Emilie: I AM I’M LITERALLY IN LINE FOR GELATO DO I NEED TO ABANDON GELATO DID MAX DO SOMETHING IS THE BABY OKAY DO I NEED TO FLY IN

Belle: DANIEL MOREAU CALLED THE HOUSE I DESIGNED FOR HIM IS GETTING FEATURED IN ARCHITECTURAL FUCKING DIGEST

Emilie: SCREAMING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET A CHILD JUST LOOKED AT ME LIKE I’M POSSESSED I DON’T EVEN CARE

Belle:THEY WANT TO DO A FULL SPREAD PHOTOS INTERVIEW NAME IN PRINT

Emilie: I AM GOING TO FAINT I’M GOING TO VOMIT IN JOY I NEED TO SIT DOWN I NEED TO LIE DOWN I’M SO PROUD I’M ACTUALLY SHORT-CIRCUITING

Belle: Sophie cried Max carried me around the terrace like I won a Grand Prix Lio offered me a soggy pool noodle as tribute It was perfect

Emilie: I’M CRYING YOU’RE AN ICON YOU’RE A VISIONARY YOU’RE A STYLISH, PREGNANT, ARCHITECTURAL GODDESS AND IF THE LECLERCS DON’T FRAME THIS MAGAZINE COVER I WILL FIGHT THEM

Belle: You’ll have to get in line Victoria already claimed five copies

Emilie: My queen My muse My favorite internationally recognized interior architect Do you need me to write your AD profile??? Because I WILL.

Belle: Only if you put “was never appreciated enough by her own family but is now thriving and glowing under the South of France sun while married to a barbecue-loving Dutchman” in the first paragraph

Emilie: Done. Signed. Submitted. Pulitzer incoming.

Belle: I love you.

Emilie: I love you more. I’m buying this gelato in your honor. (And also screaming about you to the very confused Italian man behind the counter.)

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: THIS is what peak romance looks like. Also, Lio is FUMING 😂

@/emilie_abadie: I am SOBBING. Why is he like this. Why are you like this. Why is this the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my LIFE.

@/studio_b: Form. Balance. Texture. 10/10 artistic vision. (Even if it was technically theft.)

@/maxverstappen1: The client was kicking for artistic direction. Creative differences were resolved. 🐚✅

@/redbullracing: Max Verstappen, World Champion, Seashell Stylist, Full-Time Soft Dad.

@/f1softlaunches: Forget soft launch. This is a full cinematic debut. Best picture. Best soundtrack. Best supporting actor: the bump.

@/paddockpoetry: he’s not just building a heart. he’s building a home 😭

@/gridgirlfriendz: max. verstappen. crafting. a seashell. heart. on. his. pregnant. wife. I did not have this on my 2024 bingo card but it’s the only thing I care about now

@/sunsetandsectors: there are romcoms with less plot and less chemistry than this photo

@/belletheblueprint: belle’s bump being a canvas for max’s seashell love letters is the kind of content i never knew i needed and now cannot live without

@/charlesleclercfanaccidentally: i don’t even LIKE max like that but i’m gonna need someone to look at me the way he looks at her bump while placing decorative ocean fragments

@/formulafeels: from "I don’t care about Instagram" to “I built a seashell heart on my wife’s stomach at golden hour” character development. emotional development. dad arc unlocked.

@/lando.jpg: bro are you good??? you’re gonna make the whole grid cry into their sim rigs 😭

@/emotionaldnf: me: i’m emotionally stable belle: posts max turning her bump into a love letter me: okay cool cool cool i’m going to cry into a bucket now

@/wagsupreme: this is not just love. this is “you were always meant to be mine and now i build seashell altars to our unborn child” kind of love.

@/cursedf1: i thought he only did tire strategy and intense podium glares but no. he’s also capable of seashell poetry.

@/carlossainzsmileclub: “we’re awaiting trial” belle posting baby bump thirst traps AND committing tiny beach crimes??? ICONIC.

***

Instagram Post: @/maxverstappen1

Comments: @/victoriaverstappen: ❤️❤️❤️

@/danielricciardo: You’ve gone soft and I LOVE IT.

@/redbullracing: Do we send tiny fireproof race suits now or later?

@/jessicaracing: This isn’t just soft. This is core memory, I-believe-in-love-again levels of soft.

@/f1gossipgirl: Baby Verstappen hasn’t even arrived yet and is already more photogenic than me.

@/catdadchamp1: Belle: glowing Max: in love Sunset: blushing Me: dehydrated from crying

@/flamedonfridays: Raise your hand if this post made you reevaluate every man you’ve ever known 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

@/twogirlsonepodium: I clicked on this post expecting soft domestic vibes and instead got hit with an emotional freight train.

@/leclercupdates: Imagine being the guy who made fun of Max for being grumpy in 2019 and now seeing him post this like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

@/danielricciardo: Slow claps in emotional support uncle.

@/georgerussell63: Okay but seriously — congrats, you two. This is beautiful. Genuinely.

@mclarenf1intern: One day that child is going to see this photo and realize he was loved from the very first sunset.

@/belleandmax_updates: They went from secret wedding to building a future in ten business days and I STILL HAVEN’T RECOVERED.

@/maxiel_shippers_unhinged: Imagine being the baby inside that belly and hearing your dad say “this is my future.” I’m sobbing in fetal position on the floor.

@/thef1oracle: Bookmarking this post for every time someone says Max doesn’t have emotions. LOOK AT IT.

@/emilie_abadie: Excuse us while we collectively melt into the floor.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridtears: max verstappen putting seashells on his pregnant wife’s bump in a heart shape i’m sorry i thought this man was built from carbon fiber and spite

@/drivertohusbandpipeline: everyone shut up. max verstappen is making art on belle’s stomach like it’s a goddamn canvas. he’s in his dad era. he’s in his devotion era.

@/formulafairytales: they’re literally on vacation and he’s still building shrines to her with seashells with seashells if that isn’t love i don’t know what is

@/gridwivesclub: if your man doesn’t kneel at your feet and make beach art on your baby bump, leave him. max verstappen has raised the bar to the stratosphere

@/tracksideemotions: you know what? i forgive max for everything he’s ever done yells at an engineer? fine tells lando to shut up in a press conference someday? whatever because THIS. this post has healed me.

@/maxverstappenswifeinmydreams: do you think he collected the shells himself do you think he was like “i need the perfect ones. only the soft round ones. she deserves the best.” do you think i’m unwell?

@/gridsideemotions: not to be dramatic but i would let max and belle run me over with a stroller and then thank them

@/danielricchaotic: max: quiet, serious, brooding also max: arranges seashells on his pregnant wife’s belly like he’s building an altar to love me: is this growth??? is this peace???

@/burntclutchsmoke: belle’s caption being “he said the little one deserved a masterpiece” is so insane like WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S A WORLD CHAMPION AND A ROMANTIC POET NOW

@/verstappenf1daily: max: building red bull strategy also max: building a seashell heart multifaceted king

@/drsandreverence: belle fell in love with a man who saw her, built a future with her, and now hand-places seashells on the curve of their shared life. i want what they have.

@/paddockwivesanon: MAX POSTING THE BUMP. MAX. POSTED. THE. BUMP. I’m on the floor. I’m in the sea. I’m gone.

@/formula1babygossip: we went from “no one knows he’s married” to “here is the mother of my child, bathed in golden light, embodying eternity” in ONE summer

@/notbellamy: me, crying in traffic: I want to be softly adored by Max Verstappen too

@/verstappenteamupdates: Max: casually ends everyone on a Wednesday night with a bump carousel The rest of us: ☠️☠️☠️

@/larriedbutverstappened: sunsets hit different??? you know what hits different?? THIS EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/rb_family_fangirl: I knew Max was a family man. I knew he had softness in him. But THIS?? This is poetry in pixels.

@/babyverstappenupdates: The way Belle is glowing. The way he LOOKS at her through the lens. This isn’t content. This is art.

@/alonsohive: just to be clear… max verstappen went from “no public info on his relationship” to “here’s my wife, my unborn baby, and my emotional vulnerability lit by golden hour” in less than a year???

@/gridromance: MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED A BELLE BUMP PHOTO I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR

@/paddockpoetry: “Building a future” Sir. Sir, I am feral. That is your WIFE and your BABY and your EMOTIONAL GROWTH.

@/tearsontrack: Belle really went from forgotten middle child to being soft-launched into emotionally intelligent domestic bliss. A win for the quiet girls.

@/teamverstappen94: "Sunsets hit different when you're building a future." WHO GAVE HIM PERMISSION TO BE THIS SOFT 😭😭😭😭

@/charlesleclercfan13: me: i don’t even like max verstappen like that also me: prints out his post and frames it above my bed

@/emotionaltyres: max verstappen once said “my dream is to have a family one day” and now he’s out here whispering poetry in the captions of his wife's pregnancy photos yes i’m sobbing. mind your business.

@/bellesblueprint: “building a future” oh he meant that. he really meant that.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HELLO??? HAVE YOU SEEN MAX’S POST IS EVERYONE OKAY I AM NOT OKAY

Oscar: He was supposed to be our emotionally unavailable champion And now he’s posting poetic bump pics in golden hour??

Carlos: Sunsets hit different when you’re building a future Who gave him permission to be a POET

George: I literally thought he was going to post a barbecue grill or a tire. Not a declaration of love and legacy. What is this development arc?

Pierre: I need someone to hold me like Max holds Belle’s pregnancy. Seriously. I’m spiraling.

Yuki: You think the baby can feel the soft energy through the skin?? Like “ah yes, my father is emotionally stable now. Nice.”

Checo: Honestly proud of him. Did I cry? Maybe. Is that my business? No.

Lewis: Okay but on a scale of 1 to “Max in a linen shirt arranging seashells on Belle’s belly,” how high are our expectations now for announcing anything in the future?

Carlos: He’s setting the bar in the clouds. I can’t even post a vacation selfie without feeling inadequate now.

George: Does this mean he’s soft-launching Dad Verstappen™ era?? Because I’m ready. I’m emotionally prepared. I have snacks.

Lando: I'm starting a petition to get the baby an Instagram account. @BabyVerstappen. Someone secure the handle.

Nico R.: I’m just going to say it. I love Soft Max.

Yuki: 😭👶🧡

Zhou: who taught him to be like this

Lando: this man used to fight journalists for breathing wrong now he’s out here writing haikus on the bump 😭

Oscar: Anyway. When’s the baby shower. Do we wear white.

***

Lorenzo had always considered himself a patient man.

Oldest sibling. Mediator. Calm in a crisis. He had survived karting weekends, Charles’ existential meltdowns, and Arthur’s teenage skateboarding phase. He’d balanced career and family, built a life, stayed out of drama.

But this?

This vacation?

Was going to break him.

He sat on the edge of a crooked plastic deck chair in the backyard of a house Charlotte had booked last-minute out of desperation. A goat bleated in the distance. Charles and Arthur were arguing in what could generously be called a pool. Pascale was trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked with the kind of intensity usually reserved for international diplomacy.

And Charlotte…

Charlotte had gone very still.

The kind of still that meant she was seconds from throwing someone into the aforementioned pool.

Fully clothed.

“Arthur,” she said, voice deceptively pleasant, “if you say the words ‘group hike’ one more time, I will stab you with this baguette.”

Arthur blinked. “Is it fresh?”

Alexandra sighed from where she sat beside Lorenzo, tapping away on her phone. “Belle warned us.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

She had.

Every year, Belle used to quietly coordinate everything. Bookings, confirmations, backup plans, spreadsheets. And they’d all just… let her. Without ever asking how exhausting it must’ve been.

And now?

Now they were on day four of “improvised family bonding” and Lorenzo was starting to see God.

Charles stomped out of the pool, dripping, holding his phone upside down. “The Wi-Fi’s down again.”

“It’s rural France, Charles,” Alexandra said, unfazed. “What did you expect?”

“Functioning infrastructure.”

Pascale appeared with a tangled extension cord and what looked like a rice cooker. “I think I’ve figured out how to make espresso.”

“God,” Lorenzo muttered, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “We don’t deserve her.”

“Pascale?” Charlotte said dryly.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said. “We don’t deserve Isabelle.”

Everyone fell quiet.

Because it was true.

“Do you remember the summer in Florence?” Arthur said. “We all thought it went perfectly.”

“Because Belle stayed up until 3AM for four nights in a row dealing with the owner about plumbing issues,” Charlotte replied. “She told me a year later.”

“And the amalfi trip?” Charles added, slowly. “She canceled the boat tour and rebooked everything because someone forgot sunscreen and got heatstroke.”

Arthur looked at him. “That was you.”

“I’m aware.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, looking out over the lawn, which was mostly weeds and chaos and half a volleyball net.

“How the fuck,” he said, “did she not kill us all years ago?”

There was no answer.

***

The room was warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Like it remembered things.

Camille’s office always felt a little like that — soft chairs, gentle lighting, a pitcher of lemon water on the table. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and patience.

Belle sat quietly in her usual place on the couch, one hand resting over the curve of her belly, the other loosely intertwined with Max’s. He was calm beside her, but there was a tension in his jaw — the kind that came when he was waiting for someone to say something too late.

Across from her, Pascale sat with a tissue already crushed in one hand. Arthur and Lorenzo looked vaguely shellshocked. And Charles — Charles looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten days.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you all again,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard your family vacation was… eventful.”

That might’ve been the kindest possible way to describe it.

Lorenzo let out a long breath. “We fell apart.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Belle. How did you not kill us every year?”

The room fell quiet.

Belle blinked once. Twice. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to fall apart.”

Charles flinched.

“I thought,” Belle continued, voice calm and terrifyingly clear, “that if I just stayed quiet and useful, maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d earn a seat at the table.”

“You did,” Pascale whispered, eyes shining. “You always mattered.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “Then why did I have to prove it every year?”

Silence again. Heavier, sharper.

“Vacation planning was never just vacation planning,” she said, softer now. “It was peacekeeping. It was translation. It was remembering who hated what and who wouldn’t speak to whom. It was the only way I could feel needed.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. “We didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Belle said. “That’s the point.”

Max shifted beside her, eyes still on her face. Then he looked at the rest of the room, his voice low and steady.

“What about birthdays?”

The question landed like a pin dropped in a cathedral.

He didn’t stop.

“Or Christmas?” he added. “Or restaurant reservations? Or coordinating travel so you wouldn’t sit near someone you were annoyed with? Or making sure Pascale got flowers even when you all forgot?”

Charles blinked fast.

Max leaned forward slightly, not angry — just precise. “Belle planned all of it. All the time. And no one thought to ask how much it cost her. Because it was easier to just… let her do it.”

“She was so good at it,” Lorenzo said quietly.

Max gave a humorless smile. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t drowning.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “You all thought I was quiet because I was peaceful. I was quiet because I didn’t think I was allowed to need anything.”

Arthur looked up. “And now?”

Belle took a breath. “Now I’m trying to learn that I don’t have to prove I belong.”

Camille nodded slowly. “And the rest of you — what’s your part in that?”

Pascale wiped at her eyes. “To stop letting her disappear behind us.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “To start remembering birthdays ourselves.”

Charles swallowed hard. “To stop thinking silence means someone’s okay.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “To say thank you. Out loud. Even if it’s years too late.”

Max reached over and pressed a kiss to Belle’s temple.

Camille smiled gently. “Then maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Belle didn’t brace herself for disappointment.

She just breathed.

***

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norristrii · 14 days ago

Text

ALL OR NOTHING.

IN WHICH… how he would be as your teammate rival. (who secretly likes you)

featuring. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton.

warnings. rivalry, rivals to lovers, idk ?

LANDO NORRIS

─── constant comparing: You joined the team and achieved more in one season than he has in years. It hurt. He hid it with jokes, but deep down, he was frustrated—and impressed.

─── passive aggressive: He’ll drop lines like, “Congrats. Must be nice to get it all handed to you,” even though he knew you earned it. It stings because he was jealous.

─── got weird when you beat him: If you place higher or make a smart move on track, he went quiet. Not cold—just… affected. Like losing to you meant more than losing points.

─── just teasing…or?: He teased you nonstop. Said you’re lucky, too confident, too shiny. But behind the banter? There was real emotion he didn’t know what to do with.

─── confessed at the worst time: One race, you both end up out after colliding. The team is upset. You argue. And then… “You came in and did in a year what I’ve been chasing for seven. I wanted to hate you. But somehow I just… didn’t.”

MAX VERSTAPPEN

─── thought you were overhyped: From day one, Max was skeptical. He saw the media buzz around your debut and thought you were just hype—flashy, fast-talking, and bound to fade by mid-season. “Let’s see if she survives one season," he said, watching your first out lap with arms folded, unimpressed—but watching all the same.

─── tried to ignore you: You beat him in qualifying early on. He said nothing. No handshake, no acknowledgment. But later, when you weren't looking, he lingered in the sim room and pulled up your lap telemetry. He told himself it was to “analyze the rookie.” In reality? He just needed to understand how the hell you were already that good.

─── refused to praise you publicly: When reporters asked about your growing success, he deflected. “Let her prove it over time.” But on team comms? You’d occasionally hear coded praise slip through: "Sector 2… clean. Not bad."

─── jealous when others hyped you up: When fans or journalists started calling you Max’s toughest challenger, his smile thinned. His body language shifted in press conferences, suddenly rigid. The next session? He drove like he was out to silence every headline

─── admitted it quietly: After a tense debrief, where you'd just barely out-qualified him again, the room emptied out. You expected a cold comment. Instead, he stayed silent, then finally said: “I hated that you made it look easy. Like I wasted years being careful.” You didn’t speak. He added—quieter this time: “Then I realized… I didn’t hate you at all.”

OSCAR PIASTRI

─── barely acknowledged your arrival: Oscar was always been reserved, but when you joined the team, he barely looked up. He figured you'd be fast, maybe clever—but still someone he'd out-race with calm calculation.

─── oddly fixated on your driving style: You noticed it during sim runs—he'd pause your data, replay your apex choices, then recreate them himself. He never said it out loud, but his way of understanding you started with your telemetry.

─── corrected you once, and hated it: During a strategy meeting, he publicly disagreed with your call. Later, he found you alone and said, "I wasn’t trying to prove you wrong. I just wanted to sound like I could keep up." the air between you shifted.

─── always races you clean, but just a little too close: You notice he never goes aggressive against you. Always leaves space. But his battles with you feel more intense than any other driver. Almost like he's chasing something more than a result.

─── flinched when you got hurt: After a minor crash, the team rushed to check you. Oscar stayed behind... until he thought no one’s watching. Then he headed to the medical room, peeked inside, and said: “Don’t do that again, you scared the shit out of me.”

CHARLES LECLERC

─── judged you harshly at first: Charles saw your rise as threatening. You were fast, fearless, and already drawing headlines. “She’s good,” he admitted once. “But she hasn’t been broken yet.” He believed true greatness came through loss—and waited to see how you'd handle pain.

─── felt exposed every time you beat him: When you started outrunning him, he wasn’t angry—he was rattled. You reminded him of everything he used to be before years of heartbreak dulled his spark. He avoided you after big wins. Quiet jealousy. Quiet awe.

─── raced you harder than anyone else: With others, he was clean. Precise. With you? Pushes to the limit. Wheel-to-wheel, late braking, side glances across the cockpit. He said it was competition. You knew it was something else.

─── shared brief moments that hit like thunder: After one qualifying session where you outpaced him, he passed you in the hallway and whispered: “That was beautiful.” You turned—but he was already gone.

─── found excuses to talk to you off track: Asked about setup tweaks he didn’t really need. Discussed race strategies as if your opinion mattered more than telemetry. Every conversation was him trying not to say the real thing: I trust you. I admire you. I think I’m falling.

CARLOS SAINZ

─── saw you as a challenge from day one: Carlos clocked your pace immediately and didn’t take it lightly. You weren’t just quick—you were clever, and that ticked every box on his threat radar. “She’s too confident,” he told his engineer with a smirk. Then you beat him in your second qualifying together. The smirk disappeared.

─── flirted with precision: Where others teased, Carlos was calculated. Compliments with bite: “Nice line through Turn 11… I almost used it myself.” The banter never felt casual—it felt like fencing with words, both of you pretending it wasn’t flirting.

─── tried to beat you and impress you at the same time: Late braking into turn battles, daring overtakes in FP1—it was all war, but you knew when he left just enough room, it wasn’t just good racecraft. It was respect. Maybe even care.

─── got possessive without realizing: When the team praised your setups more, he stayed quiet—but switched engineers mid-season. When another driver posted a photo with you, he liked it hours later, but unfollowed them quietly a week later. Carlos plays it smooth, but jealousy makes him messier than he admits.

─── nearly said it during a media storm: Rumors flew after one dramatic wheel-to-wheel battle. Pundits speculated teammate tension. In a quiet moment in the motorhome, Carlos looked at you, tired and maybe just a little unguarded. “I didn’t come here to fall for the person who’s beating me.” Then added— “But I guess you’re better at surprises than I thought.”

LEWIS HAMILTON

─── underestimated the emotional impact of you: Lewis welcomed you to the team with calm confidence. He’d seen rookies come and go. But when you started beating his lap times? His composure held… and cracked quietly beneath the surface.

─── watched, studied, remembered: You’d mention a setup preference once—he’d remember it weeks later. You joke mid-briefing? He quotes it under his breath during press. He says he’s focused on racing… but you live in his mental playlist now.

─── kept up appearances—but starts slipping: Always gracious in public. Smiles when you shine. But alone in the sim room, his fingers hesitate. You’re faster. His heart’s louder. His pride and feelings blur. “She is brilliant,” he tells his trainer. Then adds, quieter—“Too brilliant”

─── pushed harder when you challenged him: You beat him in Q3. His answer? A flawless overtake the next day, surgical and silent. Post-race, he hands you your helmet with a nod that feels… heavy. You ask, “Problem?” He shrugs. “Just learning what it feels like to lose to someone I care about.”

─── almost broke during a night flight: After a rough weekend, you're seated beside him on the team jet. Quiet. Tension simmering. He finally whispers: “You remind me of me before I was careful.” Pause. “Maybe that’s why I can’t stop wanting you to win. Even if it breaks me when you do.”

babsie radio ! quick headcanons, I’m starting to work on roommate! lando 🫶🏻

#lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fic #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #ln4 fic

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matcha3mochi · 28 days ago

Text

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

540 notes · View notes

joeyfromthetrack · 3 months ago

Text

Half a Step - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Wolff!reader

Summary - Kimi and the daughter of Toto Wolff find themselves enamoured with each other from across the garage.

Contains - pure fluff, awkward teenage love

The sun hung low over the paddock, casting everything in golden light. Race day was winding down, and the buzz of engines had given way to the softer sounds of crew laughter and debriefs. The clamour of the crowd was gone, replaced by something more intimate, the quiet hum of a team catching its breath.

Y/n Wolff leaned against the railing outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sipping on a melting strawberry smoothie and watching the bustle below. She’d grown up around these tracks, the daughter of Team Principal Toto Wolff, but it never got old, the energy, the thrill of it all.

And lately, it had gotten even harder to ignore one particular part of the scenery.

Kimi Antonelli

Mercedes’ newest young driver. Barely 18, full of raw talent and the sweetest smile the Wolff girl has ever seen. Kimi had joined the Mercedes academy years ago but his presence in the garage became more prominent in 2024 as he prepared to step up to formula one.

Y/n had to pretend her heart didn't stutter every single time he entered the garage, she had to pretend that him simply walking past and giving her a friendly wave didn't make her cheeks flush and head spin. And now with the boy being in the garage full time, she was finding it harder and harder not to fall hopelessly in love with the boy.

And she had no idea that, across the garage, Kimi Antonelli was doing exactly the same thing.

Kimi sat perched on one of the low pit wall barriers, boots dangling, helmet resting beside him. His hands twisted the strap of his gloves absentmindedly as he tried — and failed — to focus on the technical debrief happening a few metres away.

His eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Y/n was a vision in the fading light, her hair catching the last strands of sunshine, her laugh — even when faint and tucked into a private conversation with one of the mechanics — sending an ache straight through his chest.

He knew he shouldn't stare. She was Toto’s daughter, practically paddock royalty, and Kimi was just the kid. The rookie trying to prove himself worthy of the same seat greats had sat in.

But it was hopeless.

Every time she was near, it was like the whole garage shifted, the world blurring at the edges until there was only her.

She was sunshine. And he was a boy who wanted to be worthy of standing in it.

From her spot by the railing, Y/n felt it — the weight of his gaze.

It had been happening more and more lately. Little glances from across the garage. Half-smiles traded over laptops and telemetry sheets. A kind of silent conversation neither of them was brave enough to voice.

Her father wasn't strict, but she knew he watched everything. And if Toto had noticed the soft way Kimi’s eyes lingered on her, or the way her laugh brightened whenever Kimi was around, he hadn’t said anything yet.

At least, not out loud.

Because Toto had noticed.

He'd caught the way Kimi looked at his daughter once — when she wasn’t watching — a gaze so open, so careful, it had stopped him mid-sentence. And he'd seen it in Y/n, too — the way her face lit up the moment Kimi entered a room, the nervous twirling of her fingers when Kimi was nearby.

Toto had seen it in both of them, separately, quietly.

And while a part of him was protective — would always be protective — another part of him, the part that understood how rare it was to find something real in the high-speed, high-stakes world they lived in, was quietly, secretly rooting for them.

The garage lights buzzed on overhead, casting a cooler glow over everything now that the sun was sinking fast.

Kimi slid off the barrier and tugged at his race suit sleeves. He should go. The engineers would be waiting for him. There was data to review, meetings to attend, future races to prepare for.

But instead, he found himself walking toward the hospitality suite.

Toward her.

Y/n spotted him immediately, her stomach flipping in that stupid way she couldn’t control.

He slowed when he reached her side, a little breathless — maybe from the walk, maybe from the nerves that always prickled under his skin around her.

"Hey," he said, voice softer than the background chatter of the packing crew.

"Hey," she answered, setting her smoothie down and turning fully toward him.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just stood there, a few feet apart, the world busy around them but somehow silent between them.

"You were amazing today," she said finally, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Kimi flushed — not from the compliment itself, but from the way she said it. Like she really meant it. Like he wasn’t just some rookie. Like he was hers to be proud of.

"Thanks," he mumbled, a little shy. "I... uh... I saw you watching."

Y/n laughed under her breath, biting her lip. "Busted."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, gloves still twisting in his hands. "I always... I mean, I always look for you. After."

Her heart stuttered.

"Oh" she whispered, not sure what to say as a pink blush spreads across her cheeks.

The air between them stretched and tightened, sweet and terrifying all at once.

Kimi took a half-step closer, so close now she could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose, the nervous flutter of his lashes.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted, voice barely above the breeze. "But I... I like being around you. I always have."

Y/n smiled, slow and wide and aching.

"I like being around you, too."

A long, full moment passed — the kind of moment that feels like the edge of something big, the kind you only get once if you’re lucky.

From a distance, tucked into the doorway of the hospitality suite, Toto watched them.

He saw the look on Kimi’s face — the one he’d caught before — and the way Y/n smiled back at him, unguarded and full of something too bright to be anything but real.

He shook his head with a quiet smile, already resigned.

Maybe he couldn’t protect her from everything. Maybe he didn’t even need to.

Maybe sometimes, you just had to let good things happen.

Kimi swallowed hard. "Maybe we could, um... hang out sometime? Outside the garage?"

Y/n’s heart swelled, almost painfully.

"I’d like that," she said. "A lot."

He smiled, a real one, bright and a little crooked, and more beautiful than any trophy.

Their awkward smiling and blushing moment was interrupted as Kimi was approached by Bono for a debrief. They stood staring at each other unsure of what to do but as Bono called for Kimi again he gave her a wave and a smile, backing away still looking at her until he hit a wall.

She giggled softly at his clumsiness and his blush only grew, he had to reluctantly turned around following Bono into one of the meeting rooms, leaving Y/n planted in her spot.

Her trance was broken by the sound of someone's voice clearing, that someone being her father as he passed her by on his way to the meeting room following after Kimi and Bono. He looked at her with a knowing smirk and a wink before he disappeared into the meeting room.

Y/n's eyes widened and her cheeks grew impossibly redder.

Oh shit.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────────────────

Word count: 1.3k

#f1 x reader #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli imagine

1K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 2 months ago

Note

Hi! Could you do a story where a single mom and her kid are put somewhere and the kid recognizes one of the drivers voices from their role in cars? The kid once they hear the voice they could go to the driver and ask for an autograph. Could it maybe have some social media in it. I just think it might be cute. Thank you.

movie star — lh44

smau + blurbs

lewis hamilton x!single mom reader

yn gets invited to the paddock by her brother who happens to work for the ferrari team. yn brings along her young child, ella, who happens to be a huge fan of all the cars movies. what happens when ella recognizes lewis’ voice just from his few set of lines?

fc : zaar goedemans

not proofread

(a/n) : i was inspired to write about lewis again im sorryyy. such a cute idea love :)

—

yourusername

autodromo enzo e dino ferrari di imola 📍

liked by lewishamilton, scuderiaferrari, yourbff & 52,097 others.

yourusername : ella’s excellent knowledge of the cars franchise got us an exclusive tour from a very special racing legend;) thank you @/lewishamilton ❤️

tagged : yourbrother, yourbff & lewishamilton

—

yourbrother : didn’t even thank the one who brought you to the paddock in the first place…🥴

liked by yourusername

yourusername : thanks hoe

yourbrother : a “thank you so much. you are the best brother ever” would’ve been preferred.

liked by yourusername

yourusername : we can’t all have what we want now can we?

scuderiaferrari : The cutest little tifosi ❤️😁 You both are welcome back anytime!

liked by yourusername

yourusername : the biggest honor ❤️🫶🏻

yourbff : i walk away for two minutes and you are off with lewis fucking hamilton🤭 best weekend with you and my niece tho❤️

liked by yourusername and lewishamilton

yourusername : what can I say? the man is a smooth talker

liked by lewishamilton

charles_leclerc : Ella did not seem too impressed with me😭 It was so nice to meet you guys, hope she had the best time!

liked by yourusename

yourusername : great to meet you, charles! get yourself in a cars movie and she will love you:)

liked by charles_leclerc

yourusername : if it helps I know @/yourbff was never excited to meet you

liked by charles_leclerc

yourbff : yn pls stop embarrassing me

liked by yourusername and charles_leclerc

lewishamilton : Definitely the first time I was ever recognized for my voice acting instead of my driving😁 Love to you both 🫶🏽

liked by yourusername

georgerussell63 : WAIT! is this the adorable little girl with the hot mum you were talking about??

liked by yourusername and lando

lewishamilton : that is the last time I ever tell you anything

username00 : who is this girl??

username8 : her brother is an engineer for Ferrari I believe

—

I don’t know what kind of spell my brother cast on me to agree to this, but somehow, I let him talk me into dragging my four and a half year old through a Formula 1 paddock.

“To be fair,” he said this morning as he handed me the guest passes, “it’s not every day your daughter gets to see real race cars up close. You’re the cool mom now.”

The “cool mom” is currently sweating through her sundress, trying to keep her child from launching herself into a garage.

Ella’s been buzzing since the second we walked in, practically vibrating with excitement. “Mommy,” she whispers like it’s a big secret, “do you think there are Cars cars here?”

I bite back a laugh. “Sort of. These are real race cars. No eyes on the windshield, though.”

She seems skeptical but accepts the answer—until she hears a voice behind us.

“Yeah, we’ll be on track in fifteen. Let’s go over that telemetry—”

Ella gasps. Like, audibly.

I glance over my shoulder just as she whips around and bolts. “Ella!” I call after her, panic rising. “Come back here!”

Too late. She’s already launched herself at a man in red Ferrari gear—who turns just in time to catch her before she crashes into his legs.

“I knew it!” she squeals, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Your name is Lewis Hamilton! Like in Cars! You were the car in the movie! The British one with the shiny paint!”

Lewis—yes, that Lewis Hamilton—blinks down at her, clearly stunned. And then?

He laughs. Full-on, genuine, belly laugh. “Wow, I haven’t heard that in a while.”

I catch up just as he crouches down to her level, still smiling like she just made his entire year.

“I liked your voice,” she says seriously. “You sounded fast.”

I feel like melting into the concrete.

“I’m so sorry,” I rush out, cringing. “She’s been obsessed with Cars lately and heard your voice and… well, now here we are.”

He looks up at me and flashes that movie-star smile. “No need to apologize. That might be the best fan interaction I’ve ever had.”

My cheeks are burning, and not from the sun.

“I’m Lewis,” he says, standing now—still holding my daughter’s hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. “I figured.”

He glances between me and Ella, and I swear I see something spark behind those sunglasses. Something soft. Curious. Maybe even interested.

Ella’s still talking a mile a minute, hands animated as she tells Lewis about her Lightning McQueen pajamas and how she thinks Ferraris are “way cooler than Francesco Bernoulli, actually.”

Lewis listens like she’s giving a press conference. Nods, laughs in the right places, even kneels down again when she starts talking about how she wants to be a race car driver when she grows up. It’s… oddly heart-melting.

“She’s got good taste,” he says, standing again after she finishes her full review of Cars 2. “And quite the memory. I think I said four lines in that movie.”

“She watches it on loop,” I reply with a sheepish smile. “I think she could recite it backwards by now.”

“Poor you,” he jokes, then chuckles. “Actually, I take that back. That’s a solid film.”

“Strong performances all around,” I say, trying to keep it light, though my heart is hammering. I’m talking to Lewis Hamilton. Casual. No big deal.

He grins, and I swear the sun gets just a little brighter. “You’re her mum?”

“Yeah,” I say, glancing down at Ella, who’s now twirling around like she’s doing celebratory donuts. “My brother works with Ferrari, so he invited us for the day.”

“Ah. The guy in the headset who looked mildly panicked when she ran over?” he teases, gesturing toward Matt a few garages down, who’s giving me a thumbs-up and a very smug grin.

“That’s him. He’s never letting me live this down.”

Lewis laughs. “Well, I’m glad he brought you both. It’s nice having a bit of joy in the paddock for once. Most people here only run toward me if I’ve said something controversial.”

“Ella just thinks you’re a cool car,” I say, smiling.

“Honestly, I’ll take that over a journalist any day.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s… comfortable. Easy.

Then he surprises me.

“Can I get you a coffee or something?” he asks, glancing back toward the hospitality suite. “We’ve got some time before the next briefing. And I kind of want to hear more about your daughter’s movie critiques.”

I blink. “Are you—are you asking me out in the paddock?”

He shrugs, that same charming grin on his face. “Just coffee. Unless you want it to be more.”

My face feels like it’s on fire.

“I’d like that,” I manage. “I mean—the coffee. Not necessarily more. I mean—not not more. Just… yes. Coffee is good.”

He laughs again, clearly entertained by my slow-motion trainwreck.

“Come on,” he says, offering a hand. “I promise the coffee’s better than the movie acting.”

As we walk side by side, Ella skips ahead of us, humming the Cars soundtrack like she’s soundtracking our entire lives.

—

I don’t know what I expected when Lewis Hamilton invited me for coffee, but it definitely wasn’t this. Not sitting across from him on a shaded terrace at the Ferrari hospitality suite, both of us laughing while Ella colors in a cartoon car on a napkin someone kindly fetched just for her. Not the easy conversation. Not the way he kept looking at me like he wanted to memorize my face. And definitely not how comfortable it all feels.

“Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair after Ella proudly announces that her drawing is him and “not Lightning McQueen this time.” “I have to ask.”

Uh-oh.

“Are you…” He glances at me, then lowers his voice, playful but deliberate. “Single? Just to be sure.”

I blink. Then laugh, a little surprised. “That obvious?”

“Not obvious,” he says, smiling. “But I don’t go around offering coffee to taken women. Or, you know, giving them the ‘Cars 2’ VIP experience.”

My cheeks warm. “Well, yes. I’m single. Been single for a while, actually.”

He nods once, and I swear I see something shift in his expression. Something a little more… serious. But still soft.

“Good,” he says, then pulls his phone out from the pocket of his red Ferrari team trousers and hands it to me. “Because I’d really like to see you again. Properly. Outside of this chaos.”

I blink down at the phone in my hands. He opened the contact app. My name is already typed in at the top.

“I mean—if you’d want to,” he adds, suddenly a little less sure of himself, which I find wildly endearing. “No pressure.”

I look up at him and smile. “Lewis, you let my daughter lecture you on Cars 2 for ten minutes and still wanted to talk to me after.”

He grins.

“Yeah, I’d want to.”

I type in my number, hesitating only slightly before adding a little 🚗 emoji at the end of my name, then hand it back to him.

He looks at it, chuckles under his breath. “Perfect.”

Ella tugs on my sleeve, then looks up at Lewis with hopeful eyes. “Can you be in Cars 4 too?”

Lewis raises his brows at me, pretending to think. “That depends. Will your mum come with me to the premiere?”

I nearly choke on my iced latte.

Ella looks between us and shrugs, already focused on her next drawing.

And just like that, I know this day is going to be one we won’t forget.

—

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, yourbff, georgerussell63 & 75,099 others.

yourusername : in love with life <3

—

username00 : oh it’s lewis 100 percent. those r his tattoos

username5 : never ever thought I’d see !dad lewis

yourbff : hold on I’m screaming

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charles_leclerc : Hope Ella likes the helmet! It was one of my first when I was young ❤️

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yourusername : you are an angel! she absolutely loves it and i told her it came from “Charles the cool Ferrari guy” 🫶🏻

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username00 : Charles gave the child an old helmet?? Im screaming

username10 : omg it’s Roscoe

georgerussell63 : does ella like mercedes??

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yourusername : unknown. however she would probably like you as she associates British accents with being fast :)

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lando : smart kid

liked by yourusername

—

It’s been a month since our first date, and honestly? I still don’t believe any of it’s real. Sometimes I catch myself smiling like a lovesick teenager when I’m washing dishes or folding laundry, just remembering the way Lewis looked at me over coffee that day. The way he waited for Ella to finish her story before speaking. The way he texts me goodnight every night, no matter what country he’s in or how late his schedule runs. He’s busy — obviously. He’s Lewis Hamilton, and that comes with endless media, team meetings, travel, and the weight of an entire sport on his shoulders. But he’s never once made me feel like a burden. Never once made Ella feel like too much. We’ve spent weekends together when he’s in town. Park visits. Breakfasts in my tiny kitchen. Late-night talks on my couch with Ella fast asleep in the next room. I’ve watched them build a little world of inside jokes and shared grins. And every time I see them together, my heart squeezes. Still, it’s been five days since we’ve seen him in person, and Ella’s already asked when he’s coming back “from the big car work.” I miss him too. More than I expected to. More than I probably should, after only a month. My phone buzzes just as I settle on the couch with a glass of wine.

FaceTime from Lewis ❤️

I answer without hesitation. His face fills the screen, slightly fuzzy from wherever he is — a hotel room, judging by the neutral headboard behind him.

“Hey,” I say, smiling. “Didn’t expect to see your face tonight.”

He grins, and something about it looks a little softer. A little more tired than usual.

“Hi, beautiful. Had to see you. And maybe ask when I can get a certain tiny helmet-wearing human back in my arms.”

I laugh, shifting the phone so he can see Ella’s drawing of a “race car house” she made earlier. “She misses you. She told the preschool teacher you live in the Cars universe.”

He chuckles, then goes quiet for a second. “I miss you both.”

My breath catches. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s not still blowing my mind every time he chooses us.

“I miss you too,” I admit. “It’s not the same without you here.”

There’s a pause. Then, he leans closer to the camera, a little more serious now.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts. “I’ve got back-to-back races coming up, but I don’t want to go another couple weeks without seeing you. Or Ella. What if… you came with me? Both of you.”

I blink. “You want us to travel with you?”

“I do,” he says gently. “Only if you’re comfortable. I know it’s a lot — new places, media, the chaos. But we’d make it work. I’ll take care of everything. I just…” He runs a hand over his jaw. “I want you there. Both of you. It already feels weird being away.”

My heart flips. Like actually flips.

“She’d lose her mind,” I whisper, stunned.

He smiles. “I hope so.”

“And me?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes soften. “You already have.”

—

There’s something surreal about standing outside my apartment at 6 a.m., suitcase at my feet, coffee in one hand, watching Ella bounce in place like she’s about to launch into orbit.

“Do you think the jet has snacks?” she asks for the fifth time in ten minutes, clutching her tiny backpack like it holds national secrets. “Like popcorn? Or cookies? Or astronaut food?”

I laugh softly, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. “I’m sure it has snacks, babe. You’ll probably get to pick.”

She gasps. “Even juice?”

“Even juice,” I nod solemnly.

She’s practically vibrating now, and I can’t blame her. I’m nervous too…not because I don’t want to go, but because it feels like such a big step. Not just a vacation or a getaway. It’s a real peek into his world, the fast paced, private jet, race weekend chaos that Lewis calls normal.

And the fact that he wants us there? That he asked for us?

A sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb, and Ella freezes like a deer in headlights. “Is that him? Is it Daddy Lightning?”

I stifle a laugh. “Is that his new nick name?”

The door opens, and there he is — hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on, all sleepy-smile and early-morning calm.

“Morning, ladies,” he says, stepping out and immediately crouching to Ella’s level. “Are we ready for our big adventure?”

She throws her arms around him without hesitation. “Do you live on the plane?”

He laughs, lifting her up with ease. “Not quite. But we’ll be on it for a few hours, so that’s close enough, right?”

She nods seriously. “Do I get to sit in the front?”

“We’ll see what the pilot says,” he winks.

Then his eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and something quiet passes between us. It’s warm. Grounded. Like he sees me in the middle of all this whirlwind, and still chooses me anyway.

“Hi,” he says gently.

“Hi,” I smile, nerves melting the second he takes my suitcase from me like it’s instinct.

The ride to the airstrip is a blur of laughter, Ella’s endless questions, and Lewis glancing over at me like he can’t believe this is real either.

And then we’re there — standing at the base of a sleek private jet, the sun just beginning to rise behind it. Ella clutches my hand and whispers, “This is like the movies.”

I squeeze hers. “Yeah, it really is.”

Lewis helps us up the steps, his hand on my back, and the second we step inside, Ella gasps.

“It’s like a flying living room!”

She’s right — plush seats, soft lighting, snacks already set out like a welcome gift. Lewis sets our bags down and gestures for her to explore.

“Make yourself at home,” he grins. “You’re officially part of the team now.”

She spins in a slow circle, then plops into a seat with a giggle. “Best. Day. Ever.”

And I can’t help it — I look at him, heart full to bursting, and whisper, “Thank you.”

He turns to me, eyes soft. “You don’t have to thank me. This just feels… right.”

And as the engines hum to life and Ella starts singing the Cars theme under her breath, I realize he’s right.

—

The second we step into the paddock, Ella’s already tugging at my hand, eyes wide like she’s just walked into Disneyland for motorsport lovers. Which, to be fair… she has. She’s got her oversized Ferrari cap on — gifted by Lewis, obviously — and her little team tee that nearly reaches her knees. There’s a lanyard with her paddock pass bouncing against her chest, and an expression on her face that says she’s exactly where she belongs. We’re barely past the entrance when she spots someone and gasps dramatically.

“Mama,” she hisses. “UNCLE FERRARI!!”

Before I can even ask what that means, she’s bolting straight across the walkway — and right into the arms of Charles Leclerc.

He lets out a surprised laugh but catches her easily, crouching down as she throws her arms around his neck like they’ve known each other forever.

“Bonjour, petite fille,” he grins, his accent soft. “Uncle Ferrari?”

Ella nods solemnly. “You’re the red one. My favorite.”

From a few steps behind us, my brother bursts out laughing.

“Oh really, Ella?” he calls over. “What does that make me then?”

She blinks at him, thinking very hard. “Uncle Ferrari boss.”

I nearly choke.

Charles is now laughing, absolutely delighted. “You’ve been upgraded,” he tells my brother with a wink.

“You see what I deal with?” I murmur as I walk over, cheeks warm.

My brother grins. “Honestly? She’s already more popular in this paddock than most of our drivers.”

He’s not wrong.

And then—like some sort of comedic timing conspiracy—Lando Norris strolls in, clearly intrigued by the toddler-sized Ferrari fan in Charles’s arms.

“What’s all this?” he asks, eyes twinkling as he bends down. “Who’s this little legend? Is this the Ella?”

Ella turns her head, still in Charles’s arms. “Who are you?”

Charles chuckles. “That’s Lando. He drives the orange one.”

She squints. “Like… orange Lightning McQueen?”

Lando gasps, offended and flattered all at once. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

Right on cue, George Russell appears, sunglasses on, sipping something green and healthy-looking, clocking the scene instantly.

“Don’t tell me we have a new favorite on the grid?” he says with a teasing glance at Charles.

“She already declared me Uncle Ferrari,” Charles says smugly.

“Uncle who?” George repeats, eyebrow raised. Then he leans down toward Ella. “And what am I then?”

She eyes him, deadly serious. “Uncle Sunglasses.”

George looks personally attacked.

“She’s not wrong,” I mumble, trying not to laugh.

Charles passes Ella back to me and says, “You’ll have to earn new titles, boys.”

I smile as Ella curls back into my arms, thrilled and smug and totally in her element.

Lando looks at me for the first time — really looks. “You must be YN.”

“Guilty,” I laugh. “And mildly horrified by the chaos she’s already caused.”

“No chaos,” George grins, offering a hand. “Just a ray of sunshine — and, let’s be honest, the new face of the Ferrari junior program.”

Charles nods sagely. “It’s settled then.”

—

yourusername

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yourusername : well ella has started collecting f1 drivers like infinity stones

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—

charles_leclerc : uncle ferrari is her favorite, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise ❤️🇲🇨

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charles_leclerc : nah bro she gave you a promotion…you are still clearly number one here 😁

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yourbff : she is just like her auntie fr

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yourusername : I can’t with you

username00 : this is so cute omg

username10 : and the heart hand with lewis. They are def dating

lando : uncle orange lightning 💪🏻🧡 I should ask for a movie deal

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yourusername : ella would def help write the script

F1 : Ella is definitely going to make Cars 4 happen and half the grid will be starring in it! 🎬

liked by yourusername

yourusername : probably called “all my uncles are race cars“

georgerussell63 : honestly uncle sunglasses makes me sound like the fashion icon i am. such an honor.

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carmenmmundt: is ella looking for an aunt sunglasses ??❤️

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yourusername : she is looking for any excuse to extend our family😁 welcome ❤️

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lewishamilton : you all might be uncles but daddy lightning reigns supreme 🤍

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yourusername : still can’t believe that’s your new name 🤦🏻‍♀️

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lewishamilton : it’s my honor

liked by yourusername

—

lewis’ pov

Three months. Ninety-something days since our first date. And somehow, it already feels like a lifetime — in the best way possible.

I’ve fallen in love twice in that time. Once with YN. And once with the tiny, bossy, endlessly curious human who came with her.

Ella.

She’s currently sitting cross-legged on the floor of my hotel suite, wearing her favorite Ferrari hoodie (that she refuses to take off even when it’s 24 degrees outside), munching on grapes, and watching Cars for what I think is the third time today. Maybe fourth. I’ve lost count.

YN is finally getting the full day to herself I’ve been begging her to take — massage, facial, lunch with her best friend, the works. I practically shoved her into the spa robe myself this morning while Ella shouted “BYEEEEEEEEE MAMA!” like she wasn’t secretly obsessed with her.

Honestly? I was more nervous than I thought I’d be.

It’s one thing to be with YN and Ella, our little trio. But just me and Ella? On our own?

Turns out, I didn’t need to worry.

We’ve been building forts. Making up names for the pit crew. Drawing faces on fruit. She told me earlier that my beard makes me look “wise like a lion.”

I’ll take it.

Right now, she scoots closer to the couch, then climbs up beside me without a word. I put the remote down and wrap an arm around her shoulders automatically.

“Still tired, munchkin?”

She nods, rubbing her eyes. Then she curls into my side and rests her cheek against my chest like she’s done it a hundred times before.

We sit in silence, just the hum of the movie in the background and the soft weight of her against me. It’s the kind of stillness that feels sacred.

Then, out of nowhere, she mumbles it.

“Love you, Daddy.”

My heart actually stops.

It takes a second for my brain to catch up. I glance down, thinking maybe I heard her wrong — maybe she meant teddy or Laddy, the dog from the movie or some imaginary character I’ve missed — but no.

She’s looking up at me with sleepy eyes and the softest smile.

Like she knows.

“Did you…” I start, my voice catching. “Did you just call me—?”

“Daddy,” she repeats, gently. “You’re mine, right?”

Something in my chest breaks wide open.

I gather her into my arms fully now, holding her like she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever touched — because she is.

“Yeah, baby,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m yours. Always.”

And I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in my life.

When YN texts me an hour later.

how’s my wild child??

She’s perfect. Everything’s perfect.

Remind me to tell you what she said today.

(You’re gonna cry, by the way.)

—

your pov :

I knew something had shifted the second I walked back into the hotel suite.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. The lights were low, Ella was tucked into bed, and Lewis was sitting on the couch in one of his hoodies, staring down at his hands. Calm. Still. But there was something in the air — soft and heavy, like a truth waiting to be spoken.

He looked up when he heard me come in and smiled that quiet kind of smile I’ve only seen him give when it’s just us. No cameras. No circuits. Just him and me and Ella.

“Hey,” I said, voice gentle. “How’d it go?”

“She was an angel,” he said softly. “You should go to the spa more often.”

I laughed and walked toward him, kicking off my shoes and sitting beside him on the couch. “Did she make you watch Cars again?”

“Twice,” he nodded. “And she made Lightning McQueen a girl this time. She renamed him Elaina.”

“Of course she did.”

He looked at me then — really looked at me — and I felt the air shift again.

“She said something today,” he said, voice lower now. “Something kind of big.”

My heart stilled. “What do you mean?”

“She called me ‘Daddy.’” His voice cracked the tiniest bit. “Just… said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

My breath caught.

Tears welled in my eyes instantly — fast, overwhelming, real.

“She what?” I whispered.

“She looked up at me, smiled, and just… said it.” He paused. “And I swear, YN, I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

I covered my mouth with one hand, completely undone.

“She’s never called anyone that before,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “Not once.”

“I know,” he said, scooting closer. “And I didn’t want to tell you just to tell you. I wanted to tell you because… I realized something.”

I blinked up at him, heart pounding.

“I love her,” he said simply. “So much it scares me. But I love you, too. Completely. Quietly. Loudly. All of it.”

My breath hitched. His eyes never left mine.

“I don’t want this to be casual,” he continued. “I don’t want to be your maybe. I want to be your person. I want to be hers. I want to be ours.”

Tears slid down my cheeks, but I was smiling now.

“You already are,” I whispered.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine.

“So then let’s make it official,” he murmured. “No more soft launches. No more pretending we’re not already a family.”

I kissed him — soft, grateful, all-in — and whispered against his lips.

“Okay. Official.”

And it felt like the most natural, beautiful yes I’d ever given.

—

lewishamilton

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lewishamilton : didn’t just fall in love with my beautiful girlfriend but also fell in love with her mini me ❤️ my girls for life

—

yourusername : my whole heart ❤️😭 we love you sm

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charles_leclerc : So happy for you both❤️ and give my sweet little ella a kiss from uncle ferrari

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georgerussell63 : Happy you found two people who make you as happy as you deserve to be, brother. Even if one of those people calls me uncle sunglasses 😎

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yourusername : maybe one day if you’re lucky you’ll manage to get an uncle george out of her but no promises

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georgerussell63 : nah I wouldn’t trade being uncle sunglasses for anything in the world ❤️

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lando : ella really said im gonna meet my goat, get my mom a boyfriend and add like 20 uncles to the family and made it all happen. she is rlly that girl

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yourusername : she loves her uncle orange lightning 🫶🏻

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—

🧚🏻🦋🌙🌵🪲

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Six

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff, birthdays + Christmas, some emotional instabillity.

Notes — I hope you guys love this one. It's so full of sweetness. A bit of frustration too, but mostly sweetness.

December 2023

The lights in the MTC's build bay always felt too bright. Amelia squinted up at them in annoyance, then turned her gaze back to the car.

Her car.

Not hers in any legal or possessive way — it belonged to the team, to the season, to the wind tunnel and CFD modellers.

But the final profile of the MCL38-AN was a shape that had lived in her brain before it ever existed in carbon fibre form. It had existed exclusively within spreadsheets and flow charts and headaches. Whiteboard scrawls at two in the morning. Phone calls to her dad. Arguments with aero. Hours of simulations. Hours of starting over.

And now it was real. Sitting right in front of her.

Orange and black, sleek and hungry, its chassis caught the overhead lights and glowing.

Amelia didn't move. She needed minute. She just stood beside the rear wing, arms crossed tight over her chest, soaking in the project that had consumed every spare hour of the past two years of her life.

She had half a muffin in her bag from breakfast four hours ago. She'd forgotten to eat it.

The name on the spec sheet was just technical: MCL38-AN. The suffix had started as a quiet claim — her way of signing something no one could take from her. Years ago, her father had passed off one of her ideas as his own. "AN" for Amelia Norris, scribbled on a draft after too much coffee, felt like insurance. But the department kept using it. Zak hadn't stopped them. And now it was printed on the official build list, black ink and daring her to believe it was really hers.

Her name. On a car.

"Staring at it won't make it disappear," came a voice from the other end of the garage.

Amelia didn't look over. "I'm aware," she replied flatly.

Anthony, one of the build engineers, chuckled and walked closer, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "Just never seen you stand still this long before. Thought maybe you'd short-circuited."

"Internally," she replied. "I'm experiencing the Blue Screen of Emotion."

He laughed again. "Hell of a machine you designed."

She didn't correct him.

Instead, she stepped forward and laid one hand on the side-pod. The material was cold and smooth under her fingers. She could feel the vibration of the building, the faint hum of tools and voices and fluorescent life, echoing back through the structure.

"This was all in my head once," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "And now it's... this."

Anthony, thankfully, didn't say anything saccharine. Just gave a nod and let her stand there.

Amelia walked slowly around to the front of the car, fingers trailing against the bodywork. Her brain was already scanning for imperfections — minor details to flag, alignment to double-check, tolerances to run again. But beneath that, buried under years of ruthless professional calibration, was something quieter.

Pride.

Not loud or dramatic or showy. Just a quiet click of recognition.

This was good work. And it was hers.

"Can we run power systems later today?" She asked.

Anthony nodded. "Soon as Oscar finishes his lunch."

"Tell him I said no mayo on the telemetry."

"I don't even know what that means."

Amelia didn't clarify. She just smiled faintly to herself and stepped back, surveying the car one more time.

MCL38-AN.

Not bad for a girl who used to line up her Hot Wheels in exact weight-to-downforce order as a kid and got sent home from school for correcting her teacher's physics formulas.

She pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of the car, just for herself, then typed out a message to Lando.

iMessage — 14:33pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Almost ready for testing. I'm so proud it's making me nauseous.

A second later, another text.

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Or maybe that's just the pregnancy.

—

Amelia sat cross-legged across from Lando, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands despite the lingering warmth in the air. Lando was barefoot, legs stretched out, half a grin on his face as he finished the last bite of cake she'd awkwardly cut with a plastic knife.

They were on Max's boat, rocking gently in the Monaco harbour. They'd stolen it for the day.

"Bit late," he teased, licking frosting off his thumb. "Birthday was like... three weeks ago."

"You were busy," she said simply. "So was I. And also I needed time."

"Time?"

"To figure out what to give you." She said. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, square box; plain brown kraft paper, tied neatly with black ribbon. No card. Of course there was no card. She hated cards — never knew what to write in them.

Lando raised an eyebrow as he took it. "Not socks?"

"No."

He peeled the ribbon open and lifted the lid.

Inside was a tiny frame. Minimalist. Neutral. Inside it, a single page torn from a notebook — lined paper, slightly smudged pencil. On it: a series of racing lines drawn from memory. His best qualifying lap from Silverstone. Annotated in her handwriting with tiny notes. Brake here. Open throttle earlier. Turn-in felt cleaner than expected.

He stared at it for a long moment before speaking. "This is..."

"You told me you wanted to frame that lap. I had the data sheet, but I wanted to draw it from memory," she said, eyes on the water instead of him. "That way it's both yours and mine. More special."

Lando didn't speak. Not right away. Just set the frame down carefully and crawled across the cushions to kiss her — soft, deliberate. One hand cupped her jaw; the other rested over her heart like it was helping him breathe. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously glassy. "I think that might be one of the best birthday presents I've ever received," he said. "And I love it."

She gave a tiny shrug. "Good. You're really hard to shop for. You buy everything you want as soon as you decide that you want it."

He laughed, pulling her into his chest.

The boat rocked gently, and the sun sank lower, and for once there was nothing they needed to do, nowhere they needed to be. Just a belated birthday, and a perfect lap, and the girl who knew every corner of it better than anyone ever would.

—

The ultrasound room was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of the monitor and the faint flicker of winter sun bleeding through the frosted windowpanes. The air smelled faintly sterile, like clean cotton and antiseptic.

Amelia lay back on the table, her t-shirt folded up over her stomach, the thin paper drape rustling every time she shifted. One hand was clenched tightly in Lando's — not out of nerves, exactly, but out of that taut, quiet focus she always wore when she didn't have full control of a situation.

She eyed the plastic bottle in the technician's hand with thinly veiled suspicion.

"What is that?" She asked flatly.

"Just ultrasound gel," the technician said, chipper and entirely unprepared.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "What are the ingredients?"

The woman faltered, eyes darting to Lando and then back to Amelia. "Um..."

Lando looked at his wife.

Amelia didn't look at him. "I just feel like if we're going to lather something all over my body, I should know whether it contains...you know, petrochemicals or carcinogens or hormone disruptors."

The technician blinked. "It's... mostly water-based," she said finally. "And glycerin. No dyes. No perfumes."

Amelia stared a second longer, then gave a short, diplomatic nod. "Fine."

Lando leaned over and whispered, "You sure?"

"Yes," she muttered.

The technician, clearly deciding she'd earned the right to proceed, gently pressed the probe to Amelia's stomach. She flinched, not from pain, but from the cold smear of the gel, and made a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat.

Lando squeezed her hand once, smiling.

And then the screen flickered. A faint, grainy image bloomed into view, shadow and static and light, and the whole room seemed to still.

"Ah, a very easy one. There we are," the technician said softly, her voice shifting into something gentle. "One very small someone."

Amelia blinked at the monitor. "That blob is a baby?"

The tech chuckled. "That blob is your baby."

Lando's breath caught in his throat. He shifted closer to her side, eyes locked on the flickering movement onscreen — a heartbeat, tiny and fast and impossibly loud once the audio kicked in. It sounded like wings. Like something about to take off.

Amelia didn't speak for a long time. Just stared. Her mouth parted, eyes wide. She looked stunned, like her body had already figured it out, but her brain hadn't quite caught up.

"Is that..." she finally whispered. "That flicker, is that... the heartbeat?"

The technician nodded.

Amelia's mouth wobbled. Her fingers clenched tighter around Lando's. "It's going so... fast."

"Perfectly normal at this stage."

Lando, who had been quiet until now, suddenly straightened and leaned in closer, eyes glued to the screen. "Wait—how fast? Like, beats per minute?"

The technician glanced at the monitor, tapping a few keys. "Right now, it's about 170. A bit faster than an adult's, but that's exactly what we expect this early on."

Lando's eyes widened. "One seventy? That's incredible. Is that—like—normal?"

"Yeah, perfectly normal. It usually starts slower around five weeks and then speeds up."

Amelia's voice was quiet, but steady. "How many weeks are we exactly?"

"About seven weeks from the last menstrual period," the technician replied, smiling gently.

Lando glanced at Amelia, then back to the screen. "So... when's the due date? When can we expect... I mean, when—?"

The technician switched the screen to a small calendar. "Based on measurements, your due date should fall somewhere around August 14th."

Amelia exhaled slowly, eyes still on the grainy image of that tiny flickering heartbeat. "August 14th," she repeated. "Between Spa and Zandvoort, then."

Lando grinned and squeezed her hand. "That's... just over six months away. Feels proper real now."

Amelia's lips twitched in a tired smile. "Yeah, it's a bit overwhelming."

Lando's voice softened. "Overwhelming in a good way?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

He looked at her with such tenderness that it made her throat tighten.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Maybe," Lando said softly, "instead of letting this make us feel out of control, we need to learn how to trust that our little person is just... doing its own thing."

Amelia closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the flickering heartbeat was still there — small but unmistakably alive. "Okay," she said quietly, "yeah. Okay."

The technician smiled again, dimming the monitor as she packed up. "You're doing wonderfully. We'll schedule your next scan in three to four weeks time, but for now, just try to enjoy this moment."

Lando squeezed Amelia's hand.

—

The Norris house was full of noise — crumpled wrapping paper on every surface, half-eaten mince pies on plates, Christmas music playing softly in the background, and the fire crackling with the kind of persistent warmth only a real log burner could offer.

Amelia sat on the arm of the couch, a mug of peppermint hot chocolate in her hands (the only thing that didn't make her nauseous that week), watching Lando and his siblings messily construct some kind of Christmas LEGO set on the floor.

It was chaos. The good kind. Lando was wearing a Santa hat and trying to boss everyone around. Cisca was curled up in the other armchair watching them fondly, and even Adam was getting involved, despite pretending he was "too old for LEGO" about twenty minutes earlier.

Amelia felt warm. Not just from the fire, or the hot chocolate. But that kind of rooted, grounded warmth she hadn't felt since childhood.

Lando glanced up at her from the rug. His cheeks were flushed, curls a little wild, still in pyjamas. He grinned that stupidly wide grin of his; the one she could never not return.

"Okay," he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. "We've got one last gift."

His siblings groaned dramatically. "You're just trying to win Christmas," Flo said, already suspicious.

"No," Lando said, glancing up at Amelia. "This one's from both of us."

He got up and walked to the tree, pulling out a small box, about the size of a mug, wrapped in deep green paper and a lopsided gold bow. He handed it to Flo, gesturing for her to open it.

She peeled it back, frowned... and then blinked.

Inside was a tiny McLaren onesie, size newborn, folded neatly next to a photo printout of the ultrasound. On the front of the onesie was a little stitched helmet — and underneath it, "Team Norris. Arriving August 2024."

There was a beat of silence.

Flo stared.

"Shut. Up."

Adam whipped around, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

"No way," Flo said, already scrambling up from the floor.

Cisca covered her mouth, eyes wide and glassy. "Are you—? Are you serious?"

Amelia nodded, quietly overwhelmed by the whole thing, but smiling anyway, caught in the centre of a hug from Lando's siblings as they collapsed into her, cheering and yelling and somehow knocking her mug over (Lando caught it just in time).

Flo kept staring at the ultrasound photo like it was a sacred relic. "I am going to be the best auntie."

Adam walked over to Lando and gave him a tight hug, a forehead kiss, and a pat on the back.

Cisca hugged Amelia gently, brushing her hair back. "I had a feeling," she whispered. "You've had that glow."

Amelia laughed. "The glow is just sweat from the constant nausea. But thanks."

Lando wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, chin on her shoulder, warm and soft and safe."Merry Christmas," he murmured.

She leaned her head back against his. "Merry Christmas."

—

January 2024

The new apartment smelled like fresh paint.

It was bigger, with big windows and tiled floors and way more space than their old place. But in that exact moment, it mostly looked like a war zone. A mess of cardboard, bubble wrap, and various limbs sticking out from behind furniture.

"Why does your wife own so many pairs of shoes?" Max asked, squinting as he pulled box after box labelled Amelia: Shoes from the back of the moving van.

"She likes having options, Max," Lando replied from inside the apartment. "You wouldn't get it."

"I've already seen three pairs of the same sneaker!"

"Sometimes she wants them to look newer, sometimes she wants them to look worn!"

Amelia stood frozen in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around a single lamp. Not because it was heavy, it was from IKEA, but because she'd very quickly reached her max input for the day.

People talking, laughing, doors slamming, someone (probably Charles) putting a Spotify playlist on the TV at full volume, Celeste asking where the boxes marked kitchen - fragile had gone (answer: behind the miscellaneous - Lando's gamer shit), and her mom trying to organise snacks that everyone had insisted they didn't need but everyone was happily eating.

It was chaos. Warm, well-meaning chaos. But chaos all the same.

"Breathe, baby," came Lando's voice, suddenly right behind her. His hand gently closed over hers, guiding the lamp to the floor. "Let go."

"I'm fine," she said quickly.

"You're vibrating."

"I'm self-regulating."

"You're about to pop like a champagne bottle on the podium."

She blinked at him. "Lando."

"It's fine," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "Go sit. I'll turn down Charles' shit music."

She nodded once and retreated to the kitchen, or, well, what would be the kitchen, once all the boxes weren't stacked like a cardboard skyline.

Her dad followed her a moment later, holding a garbage bag full of what looked like packing peanuts. "Need anything, sweetheart?"

Amelia, dazed, looked up at her dad. "A new brain."

"I meant, like, a juice box."

"Oh. Do we have any?"

"I'll ask your mom." He laughed and kissed the top of her head before disappearing to the balcony.

Celeste popped in with a stack of throw pillows and collapsed beside her. "Remind me never offer to help anyone move again."

Charles, sliding by with a box labeled guest bathroom, raised his hand. "You're all weak."

"You hired movers," Max called from the hallway.

"Because I am smart," Charles countered.

Eventually, they made enough of a dent in the chaos to pause; boxes stacked in corners, the couch unwrapped, the kitchen sort of navigable. Everyone collapsed onto furniture, floor cushions, or each other.

Lando dropped next to Amelia with a thud. "Jesus," he said. "I'm never standing up again."

Tracey passed around bottles of water.

And then, without thinking, because she was tired, overwhelmed, and slightly frantic, Amelia looked at the empty room across the hall and said aloud. "Oh, cool. I'll be able to start putting the nursery together."

The silence was instant.

Zak froze mid-sip. Tracey turned so fast she almost knocked over Celeste. Charles blinked once, then again. Celeste slowly tilted her head like a confused golden retriever.

Only Max continued scrolling on his phone. Lando looked suspiciously casual, but his eyes had gone wide.

"Sorry," Charles said slowly. "Did she just say nursery?"

"She did," said Tracey, standing like she was ready to break into dance or faint, unclear which.

Amelia, blank as ever, looked up. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"You're pregnant?" Celeste screeched, immediately launching across the couch.

"About eight weeks," Amelia said matter-of-factly.

"Oh my gosh—"

Lando, grinning now, tugged Amelia into his side. "We were gonna wait a while. But she's obviously forgotten the whole secrecy part."

"Not forgot," Amelia said. "Just... didn't filter."

Tracey shrieked. Charles stood and clapped. Celeste immediately demanded to know every detail. Her dad was just staring at them, his jaw slightly ajar.

Max looked at Lando and deadpanned, "Told you she'd blurt it eventually."

"You knew?" Tracey barked.

"Of course I did." Max said.

Celeste swatted him. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

Amelia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, buried in a couch cushion, legs tucked under her, chaos all around her, but warm. Safe.

Loved.

"I'm going to have to help you build nursery furniture, aren't I?" Charles asked.

"Yes," said Lando.

—

Amelia sat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, wearing her comfort pyjamas and cupping a warm mug in both hands. Her mom was rifling through a drawer looking for teaspoons and her dad was standing far too close for someone who'd said "I'm not gonna hover."

"You're hovering," Amelia said without looking up.

"I'm not," Zak replied, absolutely hovering.

Tracey gave him a look as she passed. "Sit down, Zak."

Amelia smirked faintly.

Zak pulled a stool out beside her but didn't sit. He just sort of... rested one hand on the counter and stared at her in that way dads do. "You keeping anything down?" He asked.

"I'm eating a lot of toast," Amelia said. "And drinking ginger tea."

He looked vaguely panicked. "Should we be calling someone? We have dietitian's, or—?"

"Dad."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant. Nausea is normal."

Zak muttered something about "precautionary measures" and "just checking" and "your iron levels, you never know," and finally Tracey grabbed his sleeve and tugged him to the other side of the kitchen.

"Let her breathe," she said, soft but firm.

He sighed but relented, pouring himself a cup of tea and stealing a look at Amelia like he still couldn't believe it. Like some part of him was seeing her as a baby again in his arms; not a woman, not a race engineer, not someone capable of growing a human. Just his daughter.

"I'm going to be a granddad," he said eventually, more to himself than anyone else. He blinked a few times, then smiled like he'd just realised it wasn't a prank.

Amelia raised her eyebrows, lips twitching. "Has he only just realised that?"

Tracey chuckled. "Oh no, honey. He's already ordered some books on newborn safety."

Zak tried to look insulted. "One of us has to be prepared."

Tracey ignored him and turned her attention back to Amelia, warm eyes softening. "You know," she said gently, "that first night at dinner, when you got all worked up about Lando... I just knew."

"Knew what?"

"That this was going to be something magic," she said. "You had that look on your face. Not the 'I'm in love' one, not yet. But that one you get when you've found something you'd fight for. And I thought, ah. There it is."

Amelia blinked, caught off guard. Her mouth opened, then closed again, unsure how to respond.

Tracey smiled knowingly. "You've always been complicated. Precise. A little special in a systemised way. But with him? You were safe. Not smaller, not quieter; just... steadier."

Zak, finally sitting, looked from his wife to his daughter, then back again.

Tracey walked over and touched Amelia's hair, smoothing it back without thinking. The kind of motherly gesture that was muscle memory. "We're very proud of you," she said softly. "Not just for the baby. For the life you're building. For letting yourself build it."

Amelia didn't answer right away. Just looked down into her tea and let that sit in her chest like a warm ache. "Thanks," she said finally, quiet.

Tracey smiled. "Now come sit with us in the living room and let your dad lecture you about your fiber intake."

"Oh no."

"I made a PowerPoint," Zak added helpfully.

Amelia stared at him. "I—I eat enough fibre. I swear. I promise. Don't make me sit through one of your terribly constructed PowerPoints."

—

Five hours later, the apartment was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after the storm; post-laughter, post-chaos, post-Max dropping a full pizza box face-down on the kitchen floor and Charles chasing Celeste with bubble wrap around his head like a helmet.

Everyone was gone now.

Some boxes still weren't unpacked, the dining table was holding an array of loose screws and takeout containers, and there was one singular sock hanging off the new lighting fixture that neither of them remembered installing.

But it was quiet. And theirs.

Lando lay stretched across the couch in sweats and a hoodie, one leg propped up on a box labeled BED LINENS???. Amelia was curled on top of him like a blanket folded in half, her cheek resting against his chest, arms wrapped around his middle.

She was half-asleep, her body finally relaxing after hours of overstimulation and problem-solving and people asking where things were that she did not know. "Is it weird I don't feel like this is real yet?" She murmured.

Lando looked down at her. "The apartment?"

"All of it. The space. The nursery. The fact I told everyone because I accidentally emotionally short-circuited. I mean, who announces a pregnancy like that?"

"You," he said, brushing his fingers through her hair.

She huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. "My brain was tired. My mouth just... decided."

"Hey." He tugged gently on a loose strand of her hair until she looked up at him. "It was perfect. So you. I mean, Tracey looked like she was about to cry and throw you a baby shower in the same breath."

Amelia groaned and buried her face back into his hoodie. "She's going to buy so many pastel things. I'm not emotionally equipped for pastel."

Lando laughed. "We'll make a blacklist. No tulle. No gingham. No text that says 'Born to race' or anything cringe like that."

Amelia was quiet for a moment. "Do you think it's okay we're doing this now?"

He didn't ask what this meant. He knew.

The baby. The life. The shift. The permanence of it all.

"I think it's us," he said simply. "And I think whatever that ends up looking like is okay."

She let out a breath. "I don't know how to do any of it. Not even the parts people think I'm supposed to be good at. I couldn't find the dish towels today."

"That's what the box labels are for."

"And you?"

"I'm just here to kiss you when your brain melts and tell you you're brilliant anyway."

She finally looked up at him again. Her eyes were tired — not with sadness, just the fatigue of too much change all at once. But they were also soft. "You're annoying," she said.

"What, being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly handsome is annoying now?" He teased.

"You're a good human weighted blanket, so I won't argue with that."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "It's a privilege, honestly."

They lay there for a while, the hum of Monaco outside their windows, the buzz of city life just distant enough to feel like background music. Inside, it was soft. Warm. Familiar.

Eventually, Amelia whispered, "We really live here now."

Lando tightened his arms around her. "Yeah, we do."

"And we're gonna have a baby here."

"Mmhm."

"I have to start nesting. Like... soon."

"Tell me what you want built. I'll blackmail Charles and make him do it."

She laughed quietly against his chest, a sound full of exhaustion and affection.

Then, softer, almost to herself, "I think I'm happy."

Lando didn't say anything right away. He just turned his head and kissed her temple again, slow and sure, before whispering into her skin, "I know."

—

The morning had not been kind.

Amelia had thrown up twice before she even made it out of bed, once more in the sink when the smell of coffee drifted through the apartment. Her stomach had settled into that weird, hovering nausea, not quite sick, but never okay, and everything around her felt a little too much.

Too bright.

Too loud.

Too far from stillness.

The apartment was still full of half-unpacked boxes. One of them had exploded into a mess of packing peanuts by the bookshelf because Lando had tripped over it while trying to carry a lamp. That had made her laugh, for a moment. But now even that memory felt distant and staticky.

She hadn't eaten anything. Her body felt too heavy and too floaty at the same time.

So she wandered into the room off the living room and stood in the doorway, barefoot and still in one of Lando's shirts, staring at the swing.

The sensory swing hung from a reinforced hook in the ceiling, an enclosed hammock-style cocoon of soft dark grey fabric.

She hadn't used it yet.

But now... now she needed to be held by something.

Amelia walked over slowly, pulled the soft stretch of the fabric down, and climbed inside like she was folding herself into a shell. It wrapped around her shoulders, her hips, her knees. A full-body compression hug.

She let herself swing gently, letting the quiet motion do what words and plans and spreadsheets couldn't. The light filtered through the gauzy curtain. The outside world muffled. The only sound was her breathing.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Her muscles finally, finally relaxed.

And then, maybe because the relief was so sharp in contrast to how awful she'd felt all morning, or maybe because everything just hit all at once, Amelia cried.

Just soft tears slipping down the sides of her face into the swing's fabric as her body unclenched. She didn't even try to stop them. Didn't need to understand them. Her hands cradled the soft swell of her lower belly as she rocked gently in the cocoon, the comfort so complete it almost hurt.

The motion, the weightlessness, the compression; it was like someone had pressed a reset button on her nervous system.

"I love you very much," she whispered, hand on her stomach, words falling into the soft dark of the swing. "Even if you are already making me throw up five times a day." She gave a little wet laugh. Then sniffled. Then rocked some more.

Eventually, Lando peeked his head around the doorframe.

He didn't say anything. He saw her there, bundled up like a sleepy moth, puffy-eyed and peaceful, and his whole expression softened.

"You good, baby?" He asked gently.

She nodded, still sniffling, half-smiling. "It works."

He smiled back. "Good" He walked over and pressed a kiss to the fabric where her shoulder must've been, still swaying. "Want toast when you come out?"

"Only if it's with the nice jam. The apricot one we got from the market last weekend."

"Anything you want. We're celebrating the swings debut, after all."

"Dramatic." She said.

"I know," he grinned.

And then he left her to swing, warm, wrapped up, and for the first time all day — completely okay.

February 2024

Amelia woke to the smell of espresso and something sweet (cinnamon, maybe) and the distinct sound of someone failing, very quietly, not to clatter around in the kitchen.

She blinked, groggy, and rolled over to find Lando's side of the bed empty. A sliver of warm morning light streamed in through the curtains. The apartment smelled like flowers and coffee and... possibly burning toast.

By the time she made it out of bed, hair a mess, t-shirt halfway sliding off one shoulder, she found him standing in front of the kitchen island, proudly staring at a tray of slightly overdone croissants, a half-burnt omelet, and a mug that said engineers do it with precision.

He turned the second he heard her. "Don't say anything," he warned, waving a spatula at her. "This is a labour of love."

"I can see that," she said, amused. "How's the toast?"

"Charcoal adjacent."

She padded over and leaned into his side, arms looping gently around his middle. "Morning."

Lando pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Happy birthday, baby."

He guided her over to the table, where a small stack of wrapped gifts sat beside her laptop — one of them unmistakably from Oscar if the cartoon scribble on the tag was anything to go by. Another looked suspiciously like it had been wrapped by Max's girlfriend Celeste, given the glittery ribbon and note that just said DO NOT OPEN NEAR ZAK.

"Did you do all this this morning?" Amelia asked, eyeing the slightly lopsided croissants.

"Well," he said, handing her the mug, "I tried to sneak out of bed early. But then you curled up in the blankets and made that sleepy sound you make and I lost, like, twenty minutes just watching you sleep."

Amelia sipped the coffee. Ugh. Decaf. "Weirdo."

"Your weirdo."

They sat together, eating what they could salvage of the breakfast. Lando gave her a small, leather-bound notebook for scribbling car notes (with custom embossing: A. Norris, Race Strategist / Best Mummy Ever). She rolled her eyes, but she didn't stop smiling.

Later, while she was cleaning up plates, he appeared behind her with one last gift, this one small and velvet. Her breath hitched when he opened it. A pendant: a tiny silver disk with a barely-there engraving.

A heartbeat. The one they'd seen on the ultrasound.

"I wanted you to have something that was just... for you," he said quietly.

She touched the charm gently, thumb brushing the engraving. "I love it," she said, voice slightly wobbly.

He kissed her temple again, arms wrapping around her. "I love you."

The rest of the day was full of small joys; visits from friends, a video call with her mom, cupcakes delivered from a café Oscar insisted was life-changing. Max and Celeste swung by with a gift bag full of baby-safe skincare and a framed photo of the four of them.

At one point, her dad had messaged her.

Happy birthday, kiddo. Love you so much. See you soon.

To which Amelia replied.

Love you too.

That night, after the guests had left and the candles had flickered low, Amelia found herself curled up in her sensory swing by the window, legs folded up under her, pendant resting in the middle of her collarbones. Lando lay on the sofa nearby, watching her with quiet contentment.

"I think this was one of my best birthdays," she said softly.

He smiled. "Even with the burnt toast?"

She nodded. "Especially with the burnt toast." And then, after a pause, "Next year, we'll have someone else around to help us celebrate."

Lando's eyes softened. "Next year," he echoed.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2024 F1 Grid

George R.

Welcome to the 2024 rookies!

Oh wait.

LOL.

Nevermind

Lando N.

Someone get this man a rookie asap

Charles L.

Bro we are all still here 💀

Alex A.

Just the same 20 people trying not to crash into each other

Esteban O.

Consistency is key 😂

Oscar P.

George is out here welcoming imaginary friends

Carlos S.

Rookie of the year is the Ferrari catering team

Lewis H.

I vote my physio as rookie of the year tbh

Yuki T.

I still feel like a rookie emotionally 😮‍💨

Fernando A.

I feel younger every season 😎

George R.

Ok ok I made one mistake

I was being polite

What if someone snuck in overnight. Like a stealth rookie

Pierre G.

Bro this isn't among us

Max V.

Let him live he tried ✋

Lando N.

He tried and failed. Spectacularly

George R.

Blocked. All of you. I'm blocking all of you.

—

The main presentation hall at the MTC was cold, the hush of anticipation a physical thing. Staff, engineers, drivers, media teams, and execs milled around in soft clumps, all eyes drawn to the shrouded figure on the platform. Silver satin draped across carbon fibre; sleek, taut, and humming with promise.

Amelia stood off to one side, arms crossed over her chest, one foot tucked behind the other like she was bracing herself against something invisible.

It was familiar, this room. She'd stood in it a dozen times. But this time was different.

This was her car.

She heard footsteps and didn't have to look to know it was Lando. He came to stand beside her, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, gaze fixed on the covered car like it might move if he blinked.

"It looks like a spaceship," he murmured.

"It's as complex as one," she said simply.

He grinned. "I'm gonna drive a spaceship."

"You're going to win in it."

Her dad walked out onto the stage, some carefully crafted speech on hand, but Amelia barely registered it. Her ears rang with something heavier; a low, surging pressure that sat in her chest and refused to settle.

She heard her name, heard Zak referencing her as lead technical design engineer on the project, and the soft ripple of polite applause. She didn't move. Didn't blink.

When the cover was pulled back and the MCL38-AN was finally exposed under the lights. Lean, mean, shimmering with graphite and papaya — the room went reverently silent.

It was beautiful. Sharp and elegant and mean in all the right places.

And hers.

Her hands trembled slightly where they were folded. Lando noticed. He reached down, laced his fingers through hers without saying anything. She didn't look at him, but she held on.

Oscar appeared at her other side, chewing a protein bar. "It looks fast," he said through his mouthful.

"It is fast," Amelia replied, deadpan.

He nodded. "Good. I hate slow cars. Bad for my numbers."

Lando snorted. "Your numbers are fine."

"I want more numbers."

Amelia ignored them both. Her eyes were fixed on the low spoiler, the curve of the side-pod, the subtle detailing near the rear suspension she'd fought tooth and nail to implement — backed up by three sleepless weeks of CFD simulations and one argument with the floor design team that she'd very nearly won with sheer stubbornness alone.

"Do you want to go look at it up close?" Lando asked, gentle.

Amelia shook her head. "Not yet."

He didn't press. Just stayed beside her as people filtered forward. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs strobed. Somewhere, someone asked Oscar to smile more. Zak was already doing a walk-around with Sky Sports.

But Amelia stayed back, hand in Lando's, watching as her car, her beautiful, terrifying, finely-tuned monster, greeted the world for the first time.

Finally, Lando leaned in, voice low against her ear. "I'm so proud of you."

Her mouth twitched, just a little. "I know," she said.

Then, after a beat, "I'm proud of me too."

—

There were two weeks until they were due to fly out to Bahrain for testing.

The smell of carbon composite and metal dust still clung to the air. Most of the lights had been dimmed in the engineering wing of the McLaren Technology Centre, but not in Bay 2. Bay 2 was lit up like a crime scene — bright, clinical, unrelenting.

And Amelia was pacing.

"You changed the front wing flow guide without flagging it to me." Her voice was flat, but her tone cut sharp enough to peel paint. "It's not a minor tweak. It alters the pressure delta across the entire front third of the car."

Across the table, three senior aero engineers; experienced, respected, and visibly nervous, stood their ground, albeit quietly. One of them, Benji, cleared his throat.

"We didn't go behind your back," he said carefully. "It was discussed at the Friday meeting—"

"I wasn't at the Friday meeting," she snapped. "I was with Oscar for simulator calibration. You knew that."

"We had to lock a version in for pre-season aero scanning," said another engineer, trying to be the reasonable one. "You were behind schedule finalising the nose cone parameters—"

"I was behind schedule," Amelia repeated, eyebrows arching dangerously, "because I was rewriting your cooling duct schema so it wouldn't explode in Bahrain."

Silence.

Lando stood quietly just inside the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He wasn't saying anything — yet. But his eyes never left Amelia.

"You've added drag," she said after a beat. "I ran the updated airflow map through CFD myself after I saw the render. It introduces wake turbulence at high yaw, and we already struggle with straight-line pace. You've made us slower on the straights to gain — what? Four points of front downforce?"

"Four points could help balance in the high-speed corners," Benji offered.

"At the expense of the entire overtaking window!" Amelia barked. "You want Lando and Oscar to defend for twenty laps in DRS zones with a car that drags like a parachute because you like the numbers it spits out on paper?"

Someone muttered something; too low to catch. Amelia's head snapped around like a hawk.

"Say it louder," she said. "You clearly thought it was clever enough the first time."

The engineer paled slightly. "I just said... maybe you're too attached to this design."

Lando stepped in before Amelia could respond.

"No, see, here's the thing," he said, tone deceptively easy. "You don't get to say that. Because her attachment? That's why this car is visibly better than last year's. She is the reason why we had the third-fastest chassis on average post-Zandvoort last year. Because she gives a shit. And if Amelia says it's wrong? Then it's wrong."

The room froze. One of the engineers swallowed hard.

Amelia, though, didn't say anything for a full five seconds. She just stood there, arms folded, staring down the table like she was willing the numbers to change.

Then, calmly, "You're reverting to the previous design."

"We can't. Not until—"

"I'll update the approval file myself," she continued. "I want the renders sent back through me. If you're going to make changes to a car with my name on it, you'll run it by me first. Not the group chat. Not Zak. Not the test team. Me."

Stillness.

Eventually, Benji nodded, his jaw tight. "Alright."

She left the bay without another word, her footfalls even, deliberate. Lando followed a few paces behind, catching up only once they hit the corridor.

"You didn't have to jump in," she muttered.

"I know," he said. "But I wanted to."

They reached the elevator. Amelia punched the call button too hard.

"They're not wrong," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I am too attached."

Lando nodded. "Yeah. And that's why you're the only one I trust with it."

—

The hum of the wind tunnel was a low, constant growl behind the soundproof glass. Screens lined the wall of the operations room, flooded with live data — airflow vectors, pressure maps, drag coefficients, temperatures.

Amelia sat perfectly still in the front row, staring at the monitor.

The numbers were wrong.

Not wildly, not catastrophically. Just... wrong enough.

Behind her, the aero lead, one of the few who hadn't been at the shouting match in the engineering bay days before, was going over test notes in a too-cheerful voice. "And that's run twelve with the revised front-wing guide and standard rear beam. A bit of turbulence in the crosswind scenario, but nothing unmanageable."

Amelia's fingers twitched against the armrest of her chair.

Zak stepped in beside her. "They've already locked the transport containers for Bahrain," he said in a low voice. "The old spec wouldn't make it through the scans in time."

"I know," Amelia said without looking at him.

"We'll revert before Melbourne," Zak added. "That's the plan."

"I know."

She said it again, like repetition might dull the edge.

Zak hesitated. "I get it. I do. But it's one race."

"It's the first race," Amelia said quietly. "It sets the baseline. The whole development curve starts from that data. Every upgrade, every refinement — it's all going to skew unless we compensate."

Zak didn't argue. He didn't need to. They both knew she was right.

But it didn't matter.

Because the parts were packed, the plane was leaving in 48 hours, and the wrong spec was going to touch asphalt in Bahrain.

She stood abruptly. The chair creaked as it slid back.

"Amelia," Zak said. "I know this is hard for you."

She turned, her voice clipped but steady. "It's not hard. It's inefficient."

And she left the room.

—

The lights were low. Her desk lamp cast a soft amber glow across a table full of design sheets and scribbled notes, crossed-out margins, red-circled flaws, annotations that no one else in the department could read but her.

Her iPad was open to the Bahrain track layout. She wasn't crying — not even close. But her jaw was clenched hard enough to ache. Her hands flexed, restless, unable to do anything.

She hated that feeling.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Go away," she said without looking.

It opened anyway.

Lando leaned in, holding two takeaway drinks. "I come bearing peace offering. Decaf vanilla chai for my beautiful, smart wife."

She didn't move.

"I know," he said gently. "It sucks."

"I'm not angry anymore," she said.

He gave her a look. "Don't lie to me, baby."

She finally looked up, and he crossed the room to set the drink beside her keyboard.

"I spent a year making it perfect," she murmured.

Lando touched her shoulder. "And it still will be."

Amelia looked back at her notes. "I hate being forced to let something go when I know I'm right," she said. "Just because I'm one person versus an entire team — and I know that it's not fair to expect them to just blindly trust everything I say, but it makes me so mad.'

"Okay," he whispered. "Time to go home, I think."

—

"Do you need six pairs of sunglasses?" Amelia asked, holding Lando's McLaren duffel open.

Lando didn't even look up from where he was rolling socks. "Yes."

"You only have two eyes."

"It's called fashion, baby."

She rolled her eyes and shoved the sunglasses back in, making sure the soft case separated the orange-tinted pair from the purple ones, because God forbid they get scratched.

Their bedroom looked like a tornado had touched down; open suitcases, half-folded clothes, a stack of electronics chargers that Amelia had labeled with colour-coded cable ties two seasons ago and still didn't trust Lando to keep organised.

Her own packing was... slower. More deliberate. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her own suitcase, a checklist open on her iPad and a faint, lingering wave of nausea rising every few minutes like a passive-aggressive tide.

"Are you sure you're okay to fly?" Lando asked for the third time that afternoon.

Amelia clicked her Apple Pencil against her teeth. "I'm pregnant, not ill."

"Still."

"I have packed ginger chews and compression socks."

He looked up. "You hate ginger chews."

"I also hate throwing up at 30,000 feet. Sometimes compromise is necessary."

He grinned. "That's very mature of you."

Amelia waved vaguely in the direction of the ensuite. "Can you grab the skincare bag? Not the one with my regular stuff — the one with the unscented moisturiser that doesn't make me gag."

"Yes, your highness."

She threw a sock at his head.

The packing process stalled every few minutes for various reasons: Amelia needed a snack; Lando forgot where he'd put his phone; Amelia remembered she hadn't downloaded the Bahrain telemetry files onto her personal iPad; Lando insisted on reorganising his racing gloves by colour.

Eventually, Amelia sat back with a soft groan, rubbing a hand over her belly. Not that there was much to feel yet, no bump, just the persistent hum of her body shifting quietly into something new.

She felt... heavy. But not in a bad way. Just full of lists, of responsibilities, of life. Literally.

"Hey," Lando said gently, crouching in front of her. "You okay?"

She nodded, slow. "Yeah. Just... tired. Everything feels like it takes twenty-percent more effort."

"You want to skip testing?"

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "Lando."

"I'm just saying—"

"No. Don't even suggest that. I need to be there for Oscar and I want to be there for the cars first proper run. I have to see how it holds up."

He smiled softly. "Just checking. That's my job now, remember? Worrying about you."

Amelia's expression softened. "I'm fine. I'm just slower than usual. I'll sit. I'll drink plenty of water."

Lando stood and offered her a hand, helping her up off the floor with the ease of long practice. They zipped the last suitcase together, and she stared at the organised chaos around them with a long, contemplative sigh.

"Think this baby is gonna like Bahrain?" She murmured.

He shrugged. "Hot. Loud. Feels like it's already genetically predisposed that baby is not going to have a good time."

She laughed, quietly, the sound curling in her throat.

They were flying out in the morning. Testing started two days after that. And in a few more weeks, the 2024 season would roar to life; full throttle, no mercy, no brakes.

But for now, there were just bags and chargers and familiar, cluttered rhythms. And them.

Just them.

For now.

555 notes · View notes

heartnetindia · 7 months ago

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#ECG monitoring #ECG diagnosis #heart monitoring solutions #remote cardiac monitoring system #cardiac telemetry systems #real time heart monitoring #ecg #health tips #health and wellness #ecgmachine #telemedicine for cardiac care #health & fitness #health

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sunbeamlessreads · 2 months ago

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Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

my masterlist

request guide

You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag.

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

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