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sunni-stuff · 8 months ago

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Part 4

Soap’s eyebrows lifted with a curious glint in his eye as he looked from you to Adira, a playful grin edging onto his face. He leaned in, never one to miss a chance at a bit of friendly prodding.

“So… you’re married?” he asked, his tone as light as his smirk.

You laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Haha! No, I’m not.” You gave Adira’s tiny hand a gentle squeeze, glancing down at her with a smile that softened every edge on your face.

Soap tilted his head, pretending to be shocked. “A bonnie lass like yerself? Unmarried?” he teased, hand on his chest as though it were a crime.

“Guess I’m a rare breed,” you replied with a grin, chuckling as you shifted Adira’s hand in yours.

Soap’s face lit up at your response, as if he’d just been given the most interesting bit of news he’d heard all week. He shot Ghost a quick look, but Ghost was still watching Adira, his gaze softened with something unreadable.

Meanwhile, Gaz wasn't fascinated by Soap's ability to make anyone at ease, the man was a cassanova. Roach watched Adira with curiosity, as though piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t realized existed until now. Price stood off to the side, arms crossed, silently observing the whole scene.

“If you aren’t married, how’d you get this little one?” Soap pushed, grinning as he wiggled a playful finger in Adira’s direction.

Adira’s gaze snapped up from Ghost to the man with the funny hair, her little brow furrowing as she studied Soap with a mix of curiosity and caution. She leaned into your leg, clearly wary, but her attention stayed on the finger waving in front of her.

You chuckled, brushing a hand over Adira’s head to reassure her. “Long story,” you replied, smiling. “Let’s just say she was an unexpected blessing.”

Soap laughed softly, glancing at Ghost with a gleam in his eye. “Ah, aye, life’s full of surprises, eh?”

Ghost, who had been studying Adira in silence, clenched his jaw, shifting uncomfortably as Soap’s words hit a little too close to home.

“I used to be really wild back in the day,” you admitted with a sheepish grin, a hint of nostalgia coloring your tone as you thought back to those not-so-distant years.

Soap wasn’t quite done yet, though. “Does the father know?” he threw a quick glance at Ghost, who had just risen from his crouched position. A new tension ran through Ghost’s frame, his stance rigid, as if the question had struck something he’d rather not confront.

You hesitated, a shadow crossing your expression before you shook your head. “No, he doesn’t… He, uh, probably has no idea.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering from you to Adira, who was absorbed in her drink, unaware of the intensity surrounding her. His shoulders stiffened, and for a split second, he looked as though he wanted to speak—but whatever words he had caught in his throat, locked behind his silence.

"I see, well. I'm sorry if I took up your time, ma’am, you've been a nice chat," Soap said, his voice softening with a touch of politeness, his grin still present but more reserved now.

You nodded, giving Adira’s hand a gentle tug as you continued on your way, the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots the only sound accompanying your steps. The blue sky stretched above, peaceful, serene. As you walked, Adira turned her head, glancing back at Ghost one final time. She refused to let go of her cup, her small fingers gripping it tightly, but she lifted her other hand in a small, hesitant wave. "Bye-bye," she whispered, her voice soft but sweet.

Ghost’s gaze lingered, but he didn’t move. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of things churning behind those eyes.

Price let out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms and facing Ghost. “So... what’s the plan?” he asked, his tone both blunt and expectant, clearly waiting for some kind of direction. The rest of the team stood in silence, watching the exchange unfold.

Ghost didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained on you and Adira, watching you both disappear further down the street, the distance growing with each step. The soft crunch of snow under your boots was the only sound in the quiet winter air. He didn’t even notice Price's voice until the man spoke again, closer now, with a slight edge to his tone.

"Ghost, talk to me. What’s the plan here?”

Finally, Ghost shifted, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched as he turned to face Price. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something caught between anger, confusion, and a deep, gnawing regret.

"I don't know," he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips. "I wasn't expecting this. Hell, I didn't even know she existed." His voice was low, strained, but there was a quiet honesty to it, as if he was trying to process something that didn’t make sense.

Soap stepped closer, his expression serious for once. "What now, Ghost? We can help. But you need to tell us what's going on."

Ghost finally looked away, his attention drawn to the ground, his fingers twitching like he was trying to find something to hold onto. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. "All I know is... I saw her. And it hit me like a fucking truck."

Roach, always one to stay in the background, spoke up. “Maybe it’s time to talk to her, yeah? Figure out where to go from here?”

Price’s eyes narrowed, his stern gaze shifting to Ghost, assessing him. “And what exactly do you want from us? You’re in this, whether you like it or not.”

Ghost let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “But I can’t just let her slip away.”

A silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, as the weight of the situation settled in. Then, slowly, Ghost nodded. “I’ll figure it out. Just… not now. Not here.” His eyes flicked toward the street where you had disappeared, and something in his gaze softened, just for a moment, before the mask fell back into place.

Price gave a single nod. "Alright. But we stick together on this. You’re not doing it alone, Ghost."

The team stood together for a moment longer, the wind howling through the alley, before they slowly began to move, their steps trailing off into the winter evening. The silence that hung between them was thick with uncertainty. No one knew what came next, but they knew one thing for sure: whatever happened, they were in this together.

A month passed, the team giving Ghost the space he needed to process the whirlwind that had hit him. They all knew this was something he had to handle on his own terms, but that didn't mean the questions didn't linger. What did it mean for the future? What did he want? The answers were still unclear, even to Ghost himself.

But Soap, ever the persistent one, wasn’t content to let things sit in limbo. He knew Ghost, knew how his mind worked, and that sometimes the best way to breakthrough was to take small steps. And if that meant subtly nudging you into the picture, then so be it. He’d always been good at this—at slipping in the background, making things happen without anyone noticing.

So, Soap started to "accidentally" run nto you. At the park, when you were out with Adira, he'd make sure to be in the same place at the same time, offering a casual greeting. It always started simple, harmless, with a nod or a small comment about the weather. Then, of course, there was that coffee shop where you'd gone to get hot chocolate for Adira.

The first time he "bumped" into you there, it was nothing more than a quick exchange. A question about the drink, a comment on the cold weather, just the usual small talk. But Johnny's natural charm and ease made you relax, and made the conversation flow without much effort. Over time, those small moments grew. You'd smile when you'd see him, and he'd greet you with the same friendly energy, always leaving you feeling at ease. No pressure, just casual.

And slowly, ever so slowly, Johnny began to warm you up to the idea of him. It wasn't much at first—a smile here, a shared laugh there—but he knew what he was doing. He wasn't pushing, just letting the connection build at its own pace. The more you saw him, the more comfortable you felt. The more you talked, the more you found yourself enjoying the interactions, even if they were brief.

One evening, Johnny sat beside you on the park bench, casually leaning back as Adira bounced around in the snow, her laughter filling the crisp air. The sound was contagious, and for a moment, you let yourself relax, watching her with a soft smile.

"So, me and a couple friends are meeting up at Leslie's this weekend," Johnny said, his tone light but with a hint of something more. "Would you be interested?"

You snorted, expecting the usual joke or teasing, but when you glanced over at him, his expression was far more serious than you anticipated. For a moment, you considered dismissing it. After all, Leslie's? A pub? That was a far cry from the cozy routine you’d built for yourself with Adira.

“Seriously?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think I fit the scene."

Johnny shrugged nonchalantly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that playful grin of his. “Please. It'll just be like old times.”

Your mind immediately wandered, trying to understand what he meant by that. What was it about old times that Johnny thought might appeal to you? You didn’t exactly have a wild past to cling to. Sure, you’d had your moments, but those felt long behind you now.

Still, something about the invitation lingered. A night out... maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. You hadn’t done anything for you in a while. And maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to let someone else take care of the night for once. No worrying about Adira, no responsibilities for a few hours. Just some fun, whatever that meant now.

You hesitated, looking down at Adira as she made another snow angel, oblivious to the conversation happening nearby. She’d be fine, right? And you could leave if things felt uncomfortable.

“Alright,” you finally said, meeting Johnny’s gaze with a reluctant but genuine smile. "I'll join you. But only if it’s not as crazy as you’re making it sound."

Johnny’s grin widened, and you could tell he was already mentally planning the evening, no doubt with some plan to ease you in without overwhelming you. He stood up, dusting off the snow on his pants as he glanced back at you.

“Deal. I’ll make sure it’s a night to remember.”

You just hoped he wasn’t overselling it.

The weekend seemed to arrive so fast, and here you were, standing outside your apartment, nervously adjusting your blue blouse and jeans. It wasn’t exactly the type of outfit you thought would fit a night out, but it was the best you could do. Most of your wardrobe these days consisted of comfortable clothes, ones that could be easily changed or wiped clean in case Adira had another of her toddler mishaps. Sexy or flirty clothes were a distant memory, tucked away in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust.

Adira stood in the doorway, clutching her little stuffed bear to her chest, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. The sight hit you harder than you expected. You knelt down in front of her, your heart sinking at the sight of her teary eyes. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, I promise,” you said, your voice gentle but firm, reaching out to her with a reassuring smile.

Adira sniffled, her tiny hand coming up to rub her eyes, but she didn’t break her stare. You held out your pinky, the gesture as familiar as breathing. Slowly, she reached out, her small finger wrapping around yours with the same trust she always had. The connection was brief, but it felt like a promise, one that you hoped would calm her.

"I won't be out long," you said softly to the friend you’d left with her. "And you, be good for Auntie too." The last part was directed at Adira, though the words felt bittersweet on your tongue.

Adira nodded, but her face still held that sadness, that uncertainty of what the night would bring without you.

Standing up, you ruffled her hair and offered a small, hopeful smile. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just a little fun for Mama, okay?”

Her small nod didn’t do much to ease the tightness in your chest, but you turned and gave her one last look before stepping outside. The cool evening air wrapped around you, a contrast to the warmth of the apartment behind you, but you pushed the feeling away. Tonight was for you, however strange that sounded.

Locking the door behind you, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach. This wasn’t just any night out. It was a night with Johnny, with his friends, with the possibility of reconnecting to parts of yourself you’d set aside for so long.

Arriving outside the establishment, the familiar hum of chatter and music filled the night air, but what caught your attention first was Johnny standing outside, leaning against the brick wall, checking his watch. The moment his eyes met yours, they lit up, his expression shifting from casual to something almost... eager.

“Well, well, look at you,” he said with that trademark wink of his, his gaze raking over you with a genuine appreciation that made you feel suddenly self-conscious. “You clean up well.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. It was hard to resist the easy charm of Johnny.

“Let’s just hope I survive this night,” you muttered, though the words were more for yourself than him. You weren’t sure what to expect tonight, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that things might not go as smoothly as Johnny seemed to think.

Johnny chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. “I’m sure you will. Now, let’s get going before I change my mind.”

With that, you fell into step beside him, the weight of your hand at your side suddenly feeling strange in the cool night air. He led you toward the door, and as you entered the dimly lit space of the bar, your eyes scanned the room.

It was bustling, a mix of regulars and newcomers, all seeking solace or company for the night. It smelled of beer, whiskey, and the faintest hint of fried food, a familiar and welcoming kind of atmosphere. But as soon as you stepped inside, your nerves shot back up again. You tried not to let the nerves show, but they were there, itching under your skin.

What you didn’t notice, as you made your way to the bar, was the group inside. Ghost, Price, Gaz, Roach—quietly observing, waiting for their chance to either speak to you or simply let you slip through their fingers once more. Ghost’s eyes tracked you the moment you stepped inside, and there was a hesitation in his gaze, something raw and almost pained that flickered in and out.

For a moment, Ghost didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched you, aware that the moment he’d been dreading—he had finally stumbled into. Your gaze met his across the room, the flicker of recognition passing between you both. But that was it. You didn’t remember. You didn’t know him. You didn’t know what he was to you.

Approaching the bar, you saw that Johnny was already leaning in, chatting with the bartender, exchanging friendly banter. You barely heard the words, only caught up in the feeling that something was different. Something you couldn’t quite place. You glanced back at the table where those men sat. They weren’t talking, but their eyes were all trained on you, as if waiting for something to happen.

Your heart raced without explanation. Ghost’s eyes—those eyes—stayed locked on you. He didn’t know how to approach, how to change what had already seemingly been set in stone. What was he supposed to say? What was the plan now that you were here, so close? God, why the fuck did johnny do this.

Johnny leaned toward you again, a soft smile curling his lips. “You good, love?” he asked, his voice pulling you back to the present.

“Yeah,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. You forced a smile, trying to ignore the uneasy tension brewing in your chest. “Just... getting used to being out.”

Johnny winked again, oblivious to the chaos of emotions swirling within you. “It’s all good. Let’s have some fun tonight, yeah?”

Ghost’s fist clenched involuntarily under the table. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this distance, this silent acknowledgment of his role, or how long he could ignore what it meant to see you here now.

“You’ll fit right in,” Johnny said, though there was a hint of something deeper behind his words. “Just a bunch of mates enjoying a drink, nothing crazy.” Johnny leads you over to the table, you expected to be met with… well you didn't quite know what.

Price leaned back in his seat, cigar in hand, a soft smile on his weathered face as he regarded you with a raised brow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

"Neither did I," you muttered under your breath, forcing a smile and doing your best to ignore the gnawing feeling that lingered when you looked at him. You hadn’t quite expected this part of the evening.

“I’m just here for a drink, nothing more,” you said, looking over at Johnny was getting comfortable in his chair.

“Well, pull up a seat, love,” Price said, motioning to the empty spot next to him. “We’re all friends here.”

You hesitated but made your way over, perching yourself on the seat next to him. The sound of the glass being slid toward you, the clink of ice against glass, broke through the chatter around you. Your nerves buzzed as you focused on the drink in front of you, trying to ignore the sudden realization of just how different this was from the quiet, routine life you had at home with Adira.

“Enjoy yourself,” Price said with an air of casual amusement, leaning back in his chair. “This is all new for you, isn’t it?”

You raised an eyebrow, not wanting to admit just how out of place you felt in the moment. Instead, you took a sip of your drink, the burn of whiskey warming you from the inside out.

You laugh lightly, a bit awkwardly, trying to shake off the nerves that gnawed at you. "Yeah, this all a bit... newish. I haven't been out like this in years honestly," you admit, taking a deep breath and glancing around the bar. The warmth of the space was a welcome contrast to the chill outside, but the sight of the men made you feel more like a fish out of water than ever.

Johnny claps you on the back with an easy grin, clearly trying to make you feel more comfortable. “These are my mates. Price, Kyle, Gary, and Simon," he introduces with a flourish, motioning to each man in turn.

You give them all a polite smile, not quite sure what to make of them just yet. There was something about the way they carried themselves, all standing a little apart from the crowd, that made it clear they were more than just regulars at the pub. But you didn’t have time to focus too much on that right now. You were trying to just survive the night.

Price, who looked a bit older than the rest, nods at you, his gaze thoughtful, almost cautious. “Nice to meet you,” he says in a tone that is polite but distant, as though he’s waiting for something, some sign.

Kyle, as Johnny had called him—gives you a friendly nod, a playful glint in his eyes, but there's a strange sharpness to his look that you can’t quite place. “Pleasure," he says, offering you a tight smile.

Gary simply gives you a quick but sincere nod. His eyes linger on you just long enough for you to catch a flicker of interest before he looks away.

And then there’s Simon. His presence, as always, is quieter, more intense. He’s sitting in the middle, arms crossed, his gaze fixed directly on you. You can feel the weight of it, though. It’s impossible not to. There was something you couldn't place with him though you couldn’t see too well under the dim light.

You try to shake off the unease creeping up your spine. “Nice to meet you all," you reply, your voice warmer than you feel.

Johnny, oblivious to the awkwardness in the air, slaps the bar and gives a nod. “Alright, drinks all around, yeah? Let’s get this party started!” he declares, pulling the group into the rhythm of the night.

As the revelry began your stomach churns slightly, a sense of unease still lingering despite the distraction. You knew something was off, something you couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just the men—it was the way Simon’s gaze lingered on you, the way he looked at you as if he were waiting for something. It unsettled you, but you couldn’t figure out why.

Johnny, seemingly oblivious to your tension, slides a drink toward you. “First round’s on me," he grins, the clink of glass against the table snapping you back to the present. "Here’s to a good night.”.

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the nerves that still clung to you. This was supposed to be a night out, after all. A chance to shake off the past, to let loose just a little. You couldn’t let the weight of everything pull you under before you even tried. What would be the point if you didn’t at least try and enjoy yourself?

Shaking the tension from your shoulders, you took a sip of your drink, the burn of alcohol easing the knot in your stomach just slightly. The guys were chatting among themselves, Johnny’s laughter cutting through the low hum of the bar as he joked with Kyle. Price was listening intently, nodding along while Gary seemed content to let the others talk, his eyes occasionally flicking to you, though his gaze didn’t linger long.

And then there was Simon.

His presence loomed even when he wasn’t speaking, his broad frame leaning against the bar just slightly, face half hidden by the shadows. You caught his eyes for a split second, the intensity of his stare making your pulse hitch. You quickly looked away, focusing on your drink, your nerves creeping back up despite the effort to push them aside.

You could feel his gaze on you, though, like a weight pressing against your back. You tried not to let it show, tried not to acknowledge how his proximity seemed to pull at something inside you, but it was impossible to ignore. There was a pull, something in the air, but you couldn’t quite grasp it.

Sighing inwardly, you turned your attention back to the others. Just enjoy yourself, you remind yourself again. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of it.

Johnny clinked his glass against yours, a grin on his face. “Here’s to not letting the night pass us by,” he said with a wink, and you couldn’t help but smile back, lifting your glass.

“Cheers,” you said, the warmth of the alcohol giving you just the nudge you needed to ease into the evening. For now, you’d ignore the tight feeling in your chest. You’d enjoy yourself.

But the eyes that lingered on you would remain, whether you were ready for them or not.

You pushed your chair back with more force than necessary, the scrape of it against the floor loud in the otherwise quiet bar. The conversation still echoed in your ears, but your focus had been on the man, Simon, for the past half hour. His silence had become suffocating, every glance he cast in your direction feeling like it held some hidden meaning. You couldn't quite place it, but something was off about him. His eyes, cold and intense, had followed you too much, made you second guess every word you’d said.

"Im... gonna go powder my nose," you muttered, more to fill the silence than anything else. You didn’t wait for a response, the words barely out of your mouth before you were already making your way across the room, past the low hum of idle chatter and the clink of glasses.

While you were in the bathroom, the entire team turned their attention towards Ghost, each of them sizing him up, starting with Soap.

"What is wrong with you?" Soap asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

"What?" Simon blinked, genuinely confused.

"Mate, you've been gawking at her all night," Gaz added, raising an eyebrow, his voice teasing but laced with concern.

"Shit. Are you serious?" Simon muttered, running a hand through his hair, but his gaze didn't stray far from where you had just disappeared.

Roach, leaning back casually with his drink in hand, nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's like you’ve been stuck in a staring contest with her since she walked in."

Price, who had been watching quietly, shook his head with a resigned sigh. He snuffed out his cigar in the nearby ashtray, eyes narrowing as he met Simon's gaze. "If you scared her off, I doubt you’ll get another chance, lad."

Simon’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t realized how obvious it had been, but now that the team was calling him out on it, he felt the heat rise in his chest. He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable, but the pull to look at you, to remember what had sparked your connection all those years ago had been almost magnetic.

“Alright, alright,” Soap teased, leaning in, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just don't burn a hole in her head.”

“Shut up,” Simon muttered, his mind racing, trying to figure out how to fix this without making things worse.

Price shared a look with the rest of the team, a silent understanding passing between them. While Soap might have been the one to set this whole thing in motion, it didn't mean the others didn't have contingencies in place.

Soap got up first, stretching a bit. “Gonna make sure no one's tried to get in my car,” he said with a casual tone.

“I’ll come with you,” Gaz chimed in, already pushing himself up from his seat and following Soap toward the door.

A minute later, Roach also stood, excusing himself without a word, and then Price followed suit, his movements deliberate. “I’m gonna make sure they’re not up to anything,” he said with a knowing glance.

With everyone out of the immediate area, the bar suddenly felt quieter, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken. It took Ghost only a second for it all to click—he had been set up. Without thinking, he bolted from his seat, rushing outside just in time to catch the taillights of Soap's car disappearing down the street.

He cursed under his breath, but before he could make another move, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the screen. There, in simple words from Price:

“Good luck.”

Ghost stood still for a moment, phone in hand, as the weight of the situation hit him. His heart thudded in his chest. This was it. There was no turning back now.

By the time you returned to the table, you felt a bit more at ease. The night out wasn’t all that bad… it was just that Johnny had some weird taste in friends. Well, mostly the tall one. You couldn’t help but notice how everyone seemed to have left, a pit forming in your stomach at the thought of being ditched.

You let out a quiet sigh, about to gather your things and head out when your phone lit up in your purse. Pulling it out, you saw a text from Johnny.

"Emergency, looks like one of the beers wasn't that good, poor Kyle threw up."

You paused, reading the message again, a small smile tugging at your lips. Aww… nevermind. At least they hadn’t forgotten about you after all.

"Hope he's okay." You replied quickly, grabbing the straps of your bag when suddenly a hand landed on top of yours.

You looked up, meeting the intense gaze of Simon. Seriously? You couldn’t help but think. They took everyone but this guy?

You forced a smile, trying to pull your hand away, but Simon’s grip was firm, not unkind. “Look, I had a decent time, but I have to go—”

“Just a minute,” he interrupted, his voice low, steady, almost pleading. There was something about the way he said it that made you pause, something different than the usual small talk.

"Fine." The word slipped out before you could process it, and you cursed yourself inwardly. Really? You just agreed to stay with the guy who hadn’t stopped staring since you met him. You sat back down, and he mirrored you, settling across the table.

Silence stretched between you, his intense gaze unwavering. He didn’t so much as blink, and you couldn’t help but feel more unsettled by the second.

What the hell is his deal?

“Look, if you're just going to be a creep, I don't think I want to mee—"

“Do you remember Armed Forces Day?” His voice cut through your words, quiet but resolute.

Okay, this took all day, I wanted to give you all something long to read incase I disappear for finals (which I might)

Reblogs appreciated!!!

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#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #sunshine sunni #singlemom!reader

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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles�� sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L … O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

3K notes · View notes

adelina-shifts · 1 month ago

Text

I Might Have Found the Real Reason We Struggle to Shift After Years of Research — and How to Finally Do It

(credits to Kvoyox on reddit for writing and researching and @alliecat2099 for bringing this to my attention)

First of all, I’m not going to talk about methods, programming your mind, and all of that stuff. What I want to explain is something that I’ve been asking myself since the day I discovered shifting—and probably you did too. What is the reason for why most of us cannot “willingly” shift even though we try so hard? And what is the key that can set us free? And I might have found the answer. Of course you don’t have to believe me; you can decide for yourself if you want to trust my research or not. But I personally believe that this is the answer that can set anyone free.

This is a long text, but I promise it'll be worth your time.

Chapter 1: The Hidden Enemy.

Many people believe that our subconscious is the enemy. And while we argue with it, trying to make sense of our “incapability” to shift, there is something else lurking in the shadows. It deprives us of our powers. It makes us wear a mask, seeing only the illusions of life while reality is much different than we perceive it. And that’s the problem: perception.

And on top of everything, this hidden enemy seems to have such immense power that it can actively block us from shifting. And everyone trying to argue that there is nothing that can stop us from shifting, then I have to ask you… why doesn’t everyone shift on command then?

Yes, we shift all the time. Literally billions of times per second, and I’m not exaggerating. But why doesn’t it work when we WANT to shift? Shifting is completely natural, and we already do it. But when we want to do it, it doesn’t work?

The answer is simple. The enemy I’m talking about is our ego. The ego naturally resists change. It wants control. It clings to identity and safety. It fears losing “this” reality. It wants to protect the self. And shifting threatens everything it thinks you are.

It cannot stop us from shifting, but it can block us from experiencing shifting. Because the ego’s job is to make sense of reality. It directly correlates with our perception, all our senses. But what we have to realize is that our perception is a lie. It’s all just an illusion; there is no cause in anything. Reality is fluid; it changes all the time, but our ego gives us the illusion of a strict, solid reality. It imprisons us in a world we don’t want to be in, but what we don’t understand is… that we ourselves, therefore, don’t want to shift. I’ll explain this later on.

Chapter 2: Reasons.

Let me give you some more examples of why I think that our ego is the sole reason why we don’t shift when we want to.

1. In the so-called “Void State,” we are just pure consciousness. This implies that we don’t have a vessel (body) and therefore no ego controlling our perception. Therefore, we can simply shift without any boundaries.

2. In a deep meditative state, the chances of shifting seem to increase a lot. This is because we are more disconnected from our perception (ego) of our current reality.

3. Based on people’s experiences, many people shifted when they were younger. Some of you might not even remember it happening, but it probably did. The reason for that is that children are controlled by their subconscious mind (theta state). As they grow older, the ego begins to develop and take control of the body, making it “harder” to willingly shift.

4. The law of assumption (programming yourself to be a shifter) works 100% because when you do it, your ego begins to accept the idea of you being in completely different realities. You begin to identify yourself as such a person. And when that is the case, the ego cannot stop you anymore because it “believes” in it.

5. It becomes easier to shift in lucid dreams and the astral realm because your ego is not as strong and present as it is when you are awake. Still, it exists there, and that’s why it is not guaranteed to shift through these (you still have ego goals). In the astral realm, however, you can achieve states of higher consciousness where you can free yourself from the ego, allowing you to effortlessly shift.

6. People who shift for the first time often see great results first, but then, as they try again and again, progress seems to come to a halt. Your ego identity begins to change from “Hey, maybe I can do that” to “It doesn’t work; I can’t do it.”

7. Some people manage to shift, return to this reality, and realize that they can’t do it anymore and struggle again. They returned to their ego-self, stopping them from shifting again.

8. Some people grow up in a spiritual, open environment. The ego, therefore, is more used to such ideas and experiences, allowing them to shift easier.

Chapter 3: Understanding Ego

I’m going to give you the reason now that explains why you don’t shift.

Because you are not conscious. You are ego. Let me explain.

Currently, your ENTIRE identity is your ego. You have a name, a personality, a job, thoughts, emotions, etc., etc., etc. You go through your day believing that you ARE your egoic mind. It became your identity, your everything. Every thought it thinks, every emotion it creates, you believe that it is all you. You are so connected to this illusion that you aren’t even conscious. In fact, for almost the entire day, you are unconscious. Because you think all the time. And that is the reason why you don’t shift. Because you are not conscious, you are not aware.

Isn’t it true that you think all day long? You’re always in your mind, thinking about the past and the future, thinking about random scenarios that don’t even make sense. Even when you’re trying to shift, you are still in your mind, mindlessly repeating affirmations, asking yourself over and over again if it is working or not. Every time you judge or label something, you are in your mind. In those situations, you ARE your mind, but this is not how it is supposed to be. You are supposed to be consciousness, not your egoic mind.

I tell you right now: if you manage to disconnect from your egoic mind, stop identifying with it, and identify with the true source (consciousness) again, you’ll be able to instantly shift wherever you want to go. This is not a theory but a fact.

When your ego doesn’t want to leave this reality because it doesn’t like change, this automatically translates then into YOU not wanting to shift. Because you are still identified with your egoic mind. It doesn’t matter how badly you want it deep down; your ego, and therefore yourself, is stopping you from achieving it. If you manage to become identified with consciousness again, it will work.

I want you to truly grasp how much you identify with your ego. Every thought you think, every emotion you allow to be created, every time you judge or label something, every single time you do something like this, you are in your egoic mind. The voice, and the images in your mind… You have to realize that all these things are not you; they are products of the egoic mind. But they seem as if you created them, which is not true. Even when you consciously create a thought, you are not the thinker! You are still the awareness behind it.

This is not how it is supposed to be. You have to understand that your mind is a TOOL. But right now, it is nothing like that. It enslaves you; you have no control over it. Excessive thinking is not normal! You are supposed to be able to think when you want to think. Normal is a silent mind, not a constantly chattering mind. You cannot stop thinking, you cannot control your mind, because it took control over you. It uses you. And then you begin to identify with it; slowly, as you grow older, it becomes your entire identity, and you begin to lose touch with who you really are: consciousness, the silent watcher. As long as you cannot control your mind and just stop thinking when you want to, then the mind is using you. You are not the thinker; you are the awareness behind it.

Chapter 4: The Now—How to Escape Your Egoic Mind.

The only way to escape your ego is to become present in the Now. Now implies no thoughts, no mind activity in general. In the Now, you are fully present of what is happening around you; you are not stuck in your mind; you are actually experiencing with your full awareness what is going on. In that moment, there are no limitations, no blockages, no fears, nothing. All there is, is peace. Nothing matters; all you do is be, that’s it. And when this happens, there is no ego, no gatekeeper stopping you from shifting. The ego cannot exist in a state of presence; it cannot sustain itself when you’re truly present. I see so many people talking about fears, blockages, etc. but all of them wouldn't matter if you weren't identified with your ego and be present.

The problem is that your identification with your egoic mind is so strong that it stops you entirely from shifting. But every single day, there are certain situations where the portal to your DR is wide open, and that is when you are fully immersed in the Now.

I want to give you some exercises that you can do from now on. I’ve learned them from Eckhart Tolle. The goal is to take energy away from your egoic mind and into your consciousness. This way, you'll begin to realize that you aren't your mind and you'll gain more and more power.

Make sure not to be in your mind all day long. For example, when you’re doing certain tasks like cleaning or brushing your teeth, etc., try to fully immerse yourself in the situation. Don’t think; be aware of what is happening and how it feels. Be the awareness being aware. Don’t think about the past or future; draw full attention to what you’re doing, even if it is something as simple as going downstairs and feeling the steps and the weight of your body. In addition, focus on inner body sensations to keep yourself in the present moment. Those sensations are subtle vibrations you can feel for example in your hands and feet (and your entire body).

When you have excessive thought streams, detach from them by watching from afar. Don’t identify with them, don’t judge them, and don’t suppress them. That's because when you do judge, you're just giving energy to your egoic mind. Be the silent watcher, simply observing those thoughts. You will realize that you are not those thoughts; they just come in. What you really are is the consciousness being aware of them. Don’t even identify yourself with the thoughts you consciously think. What you’re doing is using your mind as a tool, creating a thought. But you are not the mind, not the thoughts. You as consciousness decided to use your mind as a tool to create a thought. In addition, try not to think as much as you can. Once you become aware of your thoughts, they’ll eventually subside anyway. Become silent in your mind, and within that silence a portal to your desired reality will open. Because silence is the key. The noise the mind creates blocks you from shifting. When you manage to become completely silent, no judgement, no overthinking, and a clear intention to shift or go to the void, it'll happen.

3. When trying to shift, set an intention beforehand. You can lie down or sit; it doesn’t really matter. Become relaxed by taking a few deep breaths. Now, there are a few things you can do. First, if you are really good at visualization, make sure to fully immerse yourself in the picture you see and make it feel as real as possible. Make it happen right now. Don’t perceive it as a picture; BE in that picture in the Now. Secondly, you don’t need to visualize. You can also immerse yourself in the FEELING of being in your DR right now. Just the feeling, not using any of your 5 senses. It's like you're lying in your bed with earplugs and closed eyes, you just know you're there. Thirdly, you can go to the void state, which is by far the best way to shift. I want to do another post about how to enter the void state in the near future, which is, in my opinion, the best and easiest way to shift. And, in fact, entering it isn’t even that hard once you understand how to actually go there.

I highly, highly, highly recommend reading the book “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle. You can find it for free on the internet in case you don’t want to pay. It’ll change the way you see the world and shifting entirely.

Now, there are two paths you can take; both of them will eventually lead you to your desired reality.

Take away enough energy from your egoic mind, disconnect from your ego, and become identified with consciousness. You can achieve this by doing the first two exercises above. In addition to those, I recommend accepting the Now as it is. It doesn’t matter what situation you’re in; it doesn’t matter how hard life feels. Life is always perfect and beautiful, but your ego stops you from experiencing that. Every time you get mad about your life situations, you’re automatically feeding your egoic mind energy it can use to get even stronger. Either accept the situation or do something about it now. When trying to shift, don’t overthink it. Clear your mind completely; don’t ask yourself if it works. All you’re doing is giving energy to your egoic mind. And then, it won’t work. I highly advise you to just set an intention and become silent. Don’t let your ego take control by thinking, wanting to be there, etc. Take control by being silent and simply observing. Let it happen, let the universe change your reality. Moreover, I recommend meditation, as it is a super useful tool to train your attention, making it easier to detach from your ego. Later on, it’ll help you a lot in reaching the void state.

2. Manifest changes within your egoic mind. Once the mind is on board with the idea that you can simply shift wherever you want to go, it won’t stop you anymore. I made another post about this if you want to check it out. In this reality, the ego controls your perception. It shows you whatever it believes in. If you truly believe deep down that you can shift, your ego will too. Then, even if you’re still identified with your egoic mind, it won’t stop you anymore because it also believes in it.

Again, this is just my perspective on this topic. You don’t have to believe me, but if you go deeper and really ask yourself, “Why do I not shift?” eventually you might just get to the same conclusion as me. It is very simple. You are consciousness but the problem is that you identify yourself with the egoic mind. If you want to shift, either convince your ego or dissolve it by taking energy away from it. Again, if you want a more in-depth explanation, I recommend reading Eckhart Tolles book. Thank you for reading this far, and I wish you the best.

#shifting blog #dr shifting #shifting #shifter #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting community #shifters #reality shifter #desired reality #reality scripting #shiftingrealities #shifting realities #shifting girl #shifting antis dni #shifting motivation #adelina. 🦢

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maskedbyghost · 3 months ago

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I just had a funny thought—like, what if Simon, the man who would never confess his feelings out loud, got caught by a lie detector?

Simon had always acted like he hated you. He was distant, cold, sometimes downright rude. If you cracked a joke, he barely acknowledged it. If you tried to tease him, he shut it down with a look. The man was impossible to read, and if he had any feelings toward you, they were buried so deep that even he probably forgot they existed. So you accepted it—Simon Riley didn’t like you; end of story.

But one day, Soap decided to have a little fun. He managed to get his hands on a lie detector—a cheap thing, but functional enough for their purposes. And, with the whole team already invested, he convinced Simon to sit down and give it a go.

With a devilish grin, Soap set the machine up, clearly pleased with himself. "This is gonna be good."

Simon, sitting across the room with his arms crossed, lets out an unimpressed sigh. "No."

"C’mon, LT," Soap coaxes, already setting up the device. "What, you scared?"

"I just think it’s a waste of time."

"Which is exactly what someone scared would say," you tease, shooting him a playful look. "What, afraid we’ll expose your deep, dark secrets?"

Simon exhales sharply, like he's regretting every life decision that led him here. But Soap is relentless, and the rest of the team is already invested, so with a roll of his eyes, he lets them strap the device to his arm.

"Alright, let’s keep it simple," Soap says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "What’s your name?"

"Simon Riley."

The machine stays steady.

"See? Works fine!" Soap says. "Alright, next—Do you like tea more than coffee?"

"Tea."

No lie.

"Do you think I’m the best-looking guy on base?" Soap asks, waggling his brows.

"No."

The machine doesn’t waver, and the room erupts into laughter. Soap clutches his chest in mock offense. "Brutal, mate!"

You chuckle along with the others, watching Simon’s expression remain unreadable as always. It’s honestly kind of fun seeing him like this, forced to answer without his usual way of avoiding things.

Soap’s grin widened as he leaned forward, looking between the two of you. "Alright, let’s get to the real stuff—do you love her?" He gave Simon a knowing look, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable the whole thing was getting.

Your breath catches, and you’re about to brush it off as a joke when Simon—without hesitation—mutters a firm, "No."

But the machine beeps. A lie.

Silence crashes over the room.

Soap stares. You stare. The team erupts into howls of laughter, and you feel your stomach twist because Simon—who is always composed, always in control—looks genuinely horrified.

"Ohhh, shite!" Soap hollers, slapping his knee. "You were sayin', Lt?"

Gaz is wheezing. "He thought he could lie! He really thought—"

Your face is burning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at Simon. His eyes flick to you for the briefest second before he stands up abruptly, yanking the device off his arm.

"This thing's faulty," he mutters, turning on his heel to leave the room.

"Faulty my ass!" Soap yells after him, still cackling.

You sit there, still stunned, watching Simon disappear through the door. The laughter continues around you, but all you can hear is the echo of the lie detector beeping, proving something that you never in a million years thought you'd hear confirmed.

Simon Riley loves you.

PART 2

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

idk its dumb...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley

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kenntoria · 3 days ago

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synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ at a family dinner, nanami watches you cradle a baby—hesitant at first, then heartbreakingly gentle—and sees a future he’ll never rush, but quietly dreams of.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ you dream of that and i’ll dream of you nanamin

the thing about nanami is that he never asks you for more than you’re willing to give.

he never rushes you. not when it came to your relationship. not when you both moved in together. not when the question of marriage hovered between you like an unanswered prayer. and especially not when the topic of children entered the conversation, clumsy and tentative.

not that you ever spoke about it directly.

you weren’t against it, not exactly. but the idea of a child—of diapers and crying and the eternal pressure to be good at something you’d never tried before—was terrifying. there was too much responsibility in the softness of a baby’s head, the fragility of a tiny body. sometimes you’d joke about how you’d probably drop one, or that kids hated you, or that the thought of giving birth was horrifying. and nanami never laughed at you. never called you dramatic. he just nodded, like he understood.

and he did. god, he did.

but he also noticed things.

like the way your eyes lingered when you saw a baby bundled in a stroller. or how you’d go quiet when you saw a toddler waddling with a cookie in each hand. he noticed the way you softened just a little more when children were near—not enough for anyone else to see, but enough that he caught it, caught you, staring before you realized and blinked away like you’d been caught daydreaming.

and you always assumed he didn’t notice. but of course nanami did. nanami noticed everything when it came to you.

that’s why it hits him a little harder than expected when it finally happens.

you’re at one of his family dinners—something warm and rowdy, his relatives laughing too loud and bringing too many dishes. you’re dressed in a little sundress he likes, sipping juice and picking at a plate of fruit, eyes gentle and distant as the evening spins on around you.

and then his cousin, chaotic and overwhelmed, clutches her baby girl to her chest and says your name, breathless.

“can you hold her for a sec? i need to get the cake from the car—i’ll be quick!”

before you can answer, the baby is placed in your arms. warm. soft. gurgling with laughter like the world is nothing but good things.

and nanami watches you freeze.

“uh,” you manage to croak out.

it’s not even a second. just a stutter in your body. your arms hold the baby awkwardly at first, like you’re cradling a bomb you don’t know how to defuse. your brows pinch in confusion. and then—

your arms shift. your body curls inward slightly. and something in your face melts like wax in the sun. the baby touches your face with tiny, chubby fingers, and you giggle—quiet, shocked at yourself, like you hadn’t expected to enjoy the weight of a child in your arms.

and nanami watches you pull her closer. presses your cheek to her soft hair. the curve of your mouth so gentle, so awestruck, that he forgets how to breathe.

the room goes quiet in his head. nothing else exists except the sight of you holding that baby. except the sudden, selfish ache in his chest as his mind races with the what-ifs.

what if it was your baby?

what if you were holding the child you made together?

what if that softness on your face was for a little girl with his eyes and your smile?

he’s still staring when you finally glance up. eyes searching the room for him—and when you catch his gaze, you blink, visibly flustered. your face flushes. you look down at the baby again and then back up at him, almost shy.

nanami smiles. it splits his face slowly, creases the corner of his eyes, lights something deep behind them. he crosses the room slowly, like something sacred is happening and he doesn’t want to disturb it.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “you okay?”

you nod quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“you’re good with her,” he leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“i—no, i’m not. she’s just… quiet. she’s not scary like the others.” you look down, like you are still trying to shake it off.

but the baby coos again, snug against your chest, and nanami swears he’d never seen anything more precious than the way you blink down at her like you aren’t sure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest.

“you look good with her.”

your eyes widen. “don’t say that.”

“why not?” he says, smile lingering. “it’s true, sweetheart.”

you glance down at the baby, then back at him. “don’t get ideas, kento.”

he lifts his hands innocently, even as his heart burns quietly with the image of you both in a home of your own, years from now, with a baby that shares both your blood and names.

“no ideas,” he says. “just… enjoying the view.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t hand the baby back. you don’t push him away when he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices you swaying slightly—instinctively rocking the baby in your arms.

and maybe you’ll talk about it one day.

and maybe you won’t.

but for now, he’s content to let this moment exist as it is: quiet, perfect, and full of a future that doesn’t need to be rushed.

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misshuntereevee · 3 months ago

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The Winner Takes it All, part 2.

( part 1. )

Synopsis: You look like the MC, and you actually remember bits and pieces of the myth (not all.) But MC finally shows up, with no memory, and Sylus can’t help but be drawn in. What will happen?

Notes: Thank you guys so much for the love. Part 3 will be coming probably in a few days as I prepare to start a new series for Raf. However, there has been some interest in a taglist for this series. I won’t be doing this at this time, but I will keep considering. Comments, likes and reblogs are encouraged but not necessary. Enjoy the groveling. (Also don’t forget I’m not beta-read.)

Sylus knows he fucked up. The moment you were gone -- Miss Hunter ceased to exist. Multiple calls from her went unanswered. And he didn’t even wonder once if she was okay. But every moment since you’ve been gone, Sylus has been searching.

If you’re mad at him, that’s one thing. But he has a duty to you to make sure that Ever never lays a hand on you. And no matter how mad you are at him, he refuses to let that promise go. If he has to rebuild the trust… he will. Brick by brick.

But the pit in his stomach doesn’t subside when he sees you. He’s not a jealous man, never felt the need to be. But right now -- he understands he’s the closest he’s ever been to losing you. And he is feeling envy creep up into his veins.

You were flirting with the cashier. Well, he started it but you definitely were returning it. In all honesty… the attention felt nice. It had been a few weeks since you felt like you got this sort of attention.

The cashier is already blushing. “You know, I get off around -,”

“We don’t care,” a smooth voice comes from behind you, and a shiver runs down your spine. Sylus. You hate that it elicits such a reaction, but there would never be a day it didn’t. Your memories of your past life were hazy at best, but his voice — you don’t remember a single time it didn’t made you fall head over heels.

A hand comes to rest on your shoulder but with a loud huff, you yank it off spinning around. You’re angry. Passionately so. “Don’t you dare,” you hiss at him. “You don’t have a right—,”

“Keep the change,” Sylus tells the cashier, ignoring you.

The cashier looks between you both before he lets out an awkward low whistle and backs up. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m not risking my life for a date with you.” And with that he leaves the customer service desk, leaving the two of you alone. You swivel around to face him, and you notice a swirl of emotions around his face.

Relief. Anger. Annoyance. Relief again. Adoration. And then finally in lands on one thing you didn’t expect —

“You were actually flirting with him,” he points out, his eyes looking… hurt somewhere underneath an accusatory jealousy. You don’t say anything. In fact, you grab the book you purchased and start walking out the door. He follows you, and you try to put your earbuds in. He takes them immediately with his Evol. You scowl at him and yank him into a nearby alleyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” You spit at him. “Leave me alone. If I wanted to talk to you, I’d answer my phone.”

A flicker of hurt crosses his face for a moment. But finally, he forces a calm look on his face. “My little bird, I know I forgot our —,”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face when you laugh loudly and bitterly. “Are you kidding me? You think that’s all I’m upset about?” He stays quiet, seeming to realize you aren’t done with him yet. In all honesty, he needs to hear what you say. Sylus knows he can’t fix anything until he knows how you’re feeling.

You frown at him before continuing: “She comes along and just because she looks like me she grabs your attention? Oh and that stupid fucking linkage bond thing ---,” How could you forget? You could resonate with him, yes, but there has never been any physical bondage connecting the two of you. That was new -- something only Miss Hunter had. And you had wondered —

Was it enough that you should doubt? Your fears were confirmed when he forgot your anniversary to take her home after a mission.

“And Ever wants you both,” he adds, his eyes narrowing. “Which was enough for me to wonder if you left… or disappeared.”

“Ha, no, more like your ego couldn’t handle that I left!” You say, poking his chest. He scowls at you. “And you know what -- I fucking remember. Does she?! I might not remember everything, but I remember! She can’t… she’ll never —”

You stop, your voice about to shake with tears. A lump forms in your throat, your chest tightening. You remember when he forced the blade through his heart. You remember slaying the dragon. And you remember the pain your past self carried -- everywhere. “Does she remember losing you like I do? However hazy it may be, she doesn’t carry that pain.”

And that’s when you turn away from him. A hand comes up, pushing tears away. “Oh, my little bird,” he murmurs behind you, his voice sounding raw. He can’t stand the fact you’re crying… over him. Self-loathing was the only thing swirling in Sylus’ red eyes right now. “I’m sorry.”

“No. I don’t forgive you. I’m not willing to fight with another version of myself for you. Go away,” you spit. You need time. And you start to walk away from him. However -- You’re only about two feet away from him when you’re yanked backwards. Something is tethering around your wrist, pulling you back.

“Stop it,” you hiss at Sylus. “Let me go!” But as you turn around completely, you can tell — this is not his Evol. You’d be able to resonate with him and make him stop. This isn’t that.

Sylus stares at it for a moment before there’s a small smirk on his face. “Well,” he says. “It looks like you’ll have to hear me out now.” A linkage.

***

“No, don’t you even start,” you say to him, staring at the link. “I’m sure if I just resonated with you — when you finally resonated with her, it went away right?”

You try to resonate with him but —

“You’re blocking it!” You accuse him. “You’re trying not to resonate with me.”

“What can I say? If my little bird flies away before I can tell her how sorry I am, that just won’t do,” he nearly purrs.

“Oh, I hate you. Stop this!”

“You have every right to be angry,” Sylus starts. Granted, you weren’t expecting that, so your response doesn’t come quickly. He keeps talking. “I admit… seeing her threw me off. But anything drawing me to her was pure curiosity, nothing more. Any other pull I felt — it felt empty. Like it belonged to you. Because it does.”

You cross your arms, pretending not to be fazed by his declarations. He leans down, gripping your chin. “You’re right, my Queen. You remember me,” he says. The other hand — the hand linked to yours by the bond — laces fingers with yours. You don’t lace them back right away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “If you wish for me to never see her again, I’ll let someone else investigate her appearance for me. I have to know — for both our sakes why she’s here. Just please -- I can’t lose you. You’re right.”

“Sylus —,”

“Please. You don’t understand. These last two weeks have been — eye opening.” He lets out a deep, ragged breath. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I mean it.”

A deep breath. Your thoughts are so consumed with confusion. Because you’re also curious to why there seems to be two of you - albeit two crazily different lives. You mean, she had her life and you certainly had yours.

But you also missed him. Your dragon. And the look on his face. You found it remarkable how this crime boss of a man could look like a kicked puppy, begging for forgiveness. And you absolutely hate how much you’re softening. How much you’re still attracted and pulled to him.

“Mhm. Fine. Come back tomorrow and apologize again just as passionately… and I’ll think about it,” you finally say.

His mouth opens and closes. “My little bird — okay. If that’s what you want.” And he takes your hand, ready to resonate and undo the linkage so he can leave you for the night. Sylus doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to give you a single chance to overthink it and -- not forgive him. But he also knows -- if he pushes this, he could lose you forever.

The glow of resonating begins — but nothing happens. Your heart drops. It’s not working. So… it wasn’t Sylus that was holding it together. A brief moment of confusion flits across his face.

He remembers what the scientists had told him when he failed to resonate with the hunter. That they wouldn’t be able to resonate because she was disgusted and angry with him. And in striking clarity -- he knows for a fact that it’s not him holding them back from resonating like he previously thought. It’s you.

“What’s happening?” You says, seeming a little panicked as the bond only tightens the more you try to pull away. In fact, the link tightens so much that you stumble forward into his arms. The more you try to get away from him, the closer you get.

“Hm.” Sylus says, staring at it. He’s currently trying to make sure he isn’t smiling -- this might be a small win, and he knows he has more opportunities to remedy your relationship. “I have a theory.”

“Okay -- so spill,” you say, your eyes widening at him. “I have work tomorrow, and I can’t bring you with me! You’re a crime boss!”

“We’re linked because you’re mad at me,” he finally says. “Or disgusted. Or --- you hate me.” He almost can’t get the words out. Because you can’t. You can’t hate him. There is so much he never got to do with you. You blink at him several times before it clicks -- you’re both bonded until he can fix what he broke.

#lads fanfiction #lads fanfic #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus fanfic #guess who got this done anyway :)#hope y’al like it uwu

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checkeredflagggs · 4 months ago

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Secret Sweethearts

Pairing: pierre gasly x leclerc!reader

summary: las vegas was a lot more exciting then people think

a/n: my first pierre piece! This was requested so I hope you guys like it!!

a/n2: I love Kika but she had to go 😭😭

a/n3: Vegas is the race that keeps on giving

Masterlist | Taglist

Bluesky

user1: no no no you’re on to something

user2: thank god someone else noticed this! I thought for sure after he and Kika split he’d have a couple more months of wild parties…

↳user3: same! Instead he had like a month of pr problems then it went all silent…

↳user2: I don’t know what I miss most — Kika’s Pierre or Party Pierre…

↳user3: hmmm I’m gonna go party pierre cause he lost his T-shirt consistently

↳user2: good point good point

user4: is this a safe place? Can I say something?

↳user5: nope!

↳user6: do it anyway!

↳user4: ummm fuck you both??

↳user6: what did I do!?

user7: user4 was your thought the fact that the after party of George’s race win and Max’s WDC win in Vegas was the last of Pierre’s wild days?

↳user4: it absolutely was

↳user8: ok grandmas. Let’s get you back to your beds

↳user9: no no no let them cook

user10: ok but let’s say user4 and user7 are right?? Bets on the reason why?

↳user11: I’m guessing that he got his socials taken away — can’t have too bad of an image…

↳user12: I mean it’s Vegas…I’m guessing he got married

↳user13: A VEGAS WEDDING?

↳user14: not who I thought would have a Vegas wedding…

↳user13: right?? I always had money on Lando or Charles…

↳user14: same!

↳user11: ok but we don’t know that’s the reason why he changed!

↳user13: let’s be real this makes more sense…

↳user12: it does! If he had his socials taken away for pr, we probably would have seen him on other drivers posts but it’s been a near complete blackout since Vegas!

Private Messages, the Gasly’s and their mothers

Private Messages, y/n and Pascale

y/n_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, and 193,102 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc

y/n_leclerc: Christmas time! Featuring the best ugly Christmas sweaters you’ve ever seen! Mine won — both the worst sweater and the itchiest!

view all comments

user15: ugly sweater or not, you’re still the prettiest!

user16: oh to be y/n leclerc…

maxverstappen1: so how many of those presents are yours?

↳y/n_leclerc: I don’t know what you mean…

↳charles_leclerc: I don’t like your tone…

↳arthur_leclerc: nearly all of them…

↳charles_leclerc: arthur!

↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺

↳arthur_leclerc: as it should be! liked by charles_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc, pierregasly

pierregasly: Joyeux Noel!

↳y/n_leclerc: Merci Pierre!

carlossainz55: Feliz Navidad!

↳y/n_leclerc: Merci!

oscarpiastri: Merry Christmas

↳y/n_leclerc: thank you nephew!

↳oscarpiastri: I am 3 years older than you…

↳y/n_leclerc: and yet…

Private Messages, Pascale and y/n

y/n_leclerc

liked by user, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 824,294 others

y/n_leclerc: just some quiet days spent with you, my love 🩷

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charles_leclerc: What is this?

charles_leclerc: Who is this?

charles_leclerc: What is happening?

charles_leclerc: Answer your phone y/n!

↳user17: oh you know it’s a serious thing when he comments multiple times AND uses correct punctuation and capitalization…

user18: is this y/n leclerc…soft launching…a boyfriend??

↳charles_leclerc: Non!

↳arthur_leclerc: she hasn’t introduced him to us yet so he doesn’t exist and isn’t dating our baby sister!

↳user18: that is absolutely not how it works btw

↳charles_leclerc: yes it is

↳charles_leclerc: Also y/n_leclerc answer your phone!

user19: ok I know what everyone is gonna think but if I may…

↳user20: no. I refuse to believe you again!

↳charles_leclerc: What?

↳user20: don’t listen to her she’s a conspiracy theorist

↳user19: who has frequently been right!

↳charles_leclerc: What do you know?

↳user19: know? Nothing actually liked by y/n_leclerc

arthur_leclerc: Belle petit sœur, qui est cet homme et pourquoi vous impose-t-il les mains? Beautiful little sister, who is that man and why is he laying hands on you?

↳y/n_leclerc: ☺️☺️

↳arthur_leclerc: THATS NOT GONNA WORK THIS TIME!! WHO IS HE??

↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺🥺 why are you yelling at me?

↳charles_leclerc: Arthur stop yelling at y/n! And y/n, ma belle petit sœur, please answer me — who is that man?

pierregasly: little Leclerc has a man now?

↳charles_leclerc: No!

↳y/n_leclerc: yes 🥰🥰

↳pierregasly: he treat you well?

↳charles_leclerc: He doesn’t exist!

↳y/n_leclerc: Pierre, he does…

↳charles_leclerc: …Not! Exist!

user21: I did not have baby Leclerc giving her brothers heart attacks on my bingo card for this year?

↳user22: right? I thought it was going to be the car…

↳user21: oh big same

oscarpiastri: congratulations y/n!

↳charles_leclerc: NON!

↳y/n_leclerc: thanks nephew

↳charles_leclerc: Answer you’re phone please y/n!

user23: ok but does the pink heart mean anything?

↳user24: it absolutely has too… she’s a Ferrari girl to her core, it’s been red her entire life. To switch now?

Bluesky

user25: I’d say you’re crazy and to tell me more!

↳user26: well we know that the Las Vegas GP after party was Pierre’s last public party

↳user27: he has been suspiciously quiet lately

↳user26: right?

user28: wait was y/n in Vegas? I didn’t think she traveled too much for the races?

↳user29: she was! Charles mentioned it during one of the interviews — she just turned 21 and wanted to celebrate in Vegas

↳user30: ok that’s so girlboss slay of her?

↳user29: I guess?? I’m too old to know what those words mean

user31: so we know that Pierre and y/n were in the same city (known for its drunk marriages), Pierre dnfed pretty early on in the race…

↳user32: what are we thinking? That she slipped away from Ferrari to alpine?

↳user31: I mean I would? Better to hang out with someone I know to finish watching the race…

user33: I think it was Alex or Lando? Who posted that there was going to be a big after party — to celebrate both George’s race win and Max’s WDC win

↳user34: it was Alex! And he was also the one that had photos of Pierre cuddling up with some girl

↳user35: Charles posted a picture of the view from his hotel room very early in the night — everyone kinda took it to mean he left the party early cause he was mad at the race

user36: so we have them in the same location, more than likely at the same party, almost certainly with Charles leaving early…

↳user37: in a city known for drunken decisions?

secretly/n: wow you guys are through

user38: ok but what’s the evidence after Vegas? Like divorce exists…

↳user39: vibes mostly…

↳user40: and the pink heart!

↳user38: vibes and a pink heart??

↳user39: the pink heart! She’s always used a red heart (Ferrari forever!!) but when she finally soft launches a man it’s with a pink heart?? Pink like alpine??

f1gossip

liked by user, user, secretly/n and 824,193 others

tagged: y/n_leclerc, pierregasly

f1gossip: with the increased interest in Pierre’s newly quiet public life and the subject of y/n’s soft launch, here comes another twist! Recent pictures from Pierre’s social show the newest Gasly, Simba — while y/n’s latest story has an identical pup getting cozy with her! Could this be the confirmation we’ve all been waiting for?

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user41: awwwweeee 🥹🥹🥹 shared custody

↳user42: ok but Pierre got simba right after Vegas right?

↳user41: …oh my god you’re right!! They got a dog together!!!

↳user42: they got a dog together 🤗🤗

user43: I’m going to laugh when it’s revealed that they aren’t together…

↳user44: I’m gonna laugh when you release you’re wrong!

user49: ok but simba and the helmets is so adorable ☺️

↳user50: yes!

user51: I don’t know who I’m more jealous of…Pierre, y/n, or simba…

↳user52: it’s a big choice…

secretly/n: damn you guys are fast to put the pieces together…

pierregasly has posted a story, y/n_leclerc has posted a story

[dinner date][my valentine 🩷]

user54 replied proof of relationship!

user55 replied exactly what we’ve been waiting for!

user56 replied are you with y/n right now??

y/n_leclerc replied looking good…and the pizza looks delicious too

↳pierregasly 😆

↳pierregasly right back at you, jolie fille

↳y/n_leclerc 😘💋🩷🩷

charles_leclerc replied ohh? A new love?

↳pierregasly something like that yes…

↳charles_leclerc and you haven’t said a word *smh*

↳pierregasly not yet

user57 replied IS THAT PIERRE

user58 replied omg its happening!!

user59 replied YOURE MATCHING WITH PIERRE YES!!

charles_leclerc replied what’s happening right now? Are you at Pierre’s??

↳y/n_leclerc oh my god leave me alone!

↳y/n_leclerc I’m with my MAN

↳charles_leclerc who doesn’t exist!!

↳y/n_leclerc that’s what you think!

Private Messages, Charles and y/n

Private Messages, Pierre and y/n

y/n_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, pierregasly, and 2,183,193 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, pierregasly, jackdoohan, maxverstappen1, alex_albon, liamlawson30, yukitsunoda0511, isackhadjar

y/n_leclerc: got to go to this cool event, met some weird people, and crashed a redbull family reunion

view all comments

user60: oh god that is pretty much the redbull family isn’t it??

↳user61: so much trauma all in one photo…

pierregasly: weird people??

↳y/n_leclerc: yes! where did all your hair go???

↳user62: she’s speaking for all of us!

oscarpiastri: I see how it is…you spend a couple of hours with your aunt and she doesn’t even acknowledge you…

↳y/n_leclerc: I’m so sorry dearest nephew. How ever could you forgive me?

↳oscarpiastri: I could do with some dog cuddles?

↳y/n_leclerc: sure!

↳charles_leclerc: stop giving away leo!

↳y/n_leclerc: leo?

↳y/n_leclerc: no! I’ll not be doing that

↳user62: she forgot about her nephew Leo and was offering time with simba… liked by secretly/n

alex_albon: A redbull family photo and yet Charles is right in the middle…

↳y/n_leclerc: come on we all know he and max are attached at the hip

↳alex_albon: true true

↳maxverstappen1: what are you talking about?

↳y/n_leclerc: don’t worry about it Yapstappen liked by alex_albon, charles_leclerc

user63: ok girl we see you posting the brother and the boyfriend

↳charles_leclerc: Wait what?? What are you talking about? Who???

↳y/n_leclerc: apparently no one because “he doesn’t exist”

↳charles_leclerc: good you’re learning

↳y/n_leclerc: how do I dislike a post

user64: ok but did anyone else catch the looks those 2 were sharing??

↳user65: no! They were legit gazing into each others eyes the entire night

↳user66: are we talking y/n and her man or Charles and his?

↳user65: yes

y/n_leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, maxverstappen1, and 829,103 others

tagged: pierregasly

y/n_leclerc: posting my man while Charles is still busy

view all comments

user67: A HARD LAUNCH?? IN THE MIDDLE OF MY DAY??

user68: good lord what is happening right??

pierregasly: Je t'aime aussi, belle fille. I love you too, beautiful girl

↳y/n_leclerc: Vous êtes de loin la meilleure décision que j'aie jamais prise. You are by far the best decision I ever made

maxverstappen1: he’s gonna go ballistic

↳y/n_leclerc: haha yeah

↳maxverstappen1: you’re a chaotic little thing aren’t you…

↳y/n_leclerc: 🤣🤣

oscarpiastri: Hello. What is this?

↳y/n_leclerc: I believe the youths call it a hard launch?

↳user69: girl you are one of the youths

charles_leclerc: WHAT KS THIS?!?

charles_leclerc: ABSOLUTELY NOT

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2 and 790,469 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, pierregasly

f1gossip: Charles before he saw his sisters post and Charles after her saw his sister post during pre-season testing here in Bahrain

view all comments

user70: you could see the rage grow on his face…

↳user71: oh man could you…I could feel it from here and I’m not even in the same hemisphere

user72: he went through all 5 stages of grief, invented a few new ones, then settled on pure rage

user73: I’m so glad Pierre wasn’t on the track at the same time as Charles…

↳user74: right?

↳user75: I’m sure Pierre is feeling the same

Private Messages, the Leclerc Siblings

Private Messages, Pierre and Charles

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 2,824,348 others

tagged: pierregasly, y/n_gasly

f1gossip: things got heated today during the Australian press conference where Pierre defended his WIFE??

view all comments

user76: I’m so…WHAT

↳user77: speaking for all of us right now…

user78: that interviewer was out of line

↳user79: he’s so lucky that Charles wasn’t there…

↳user80: ok but did you see Max and Oscar? Cause they looked like they wanted to hunt him for sport too

user81: that type of language has no use in today’s questions

↳user82: I’m with the drivers — how fucking dare that sexist piece of shit ask Pierre those questions???

↳user83: if anyone of them had kept at the man I wouldn’t have said anything

↳user84: he had it coming

user85: ok but are we all skipping over the fact THAT PIERRE AND Y/N GOT MARRIED???

↳y/n_gasly: that’s old news I’m afraid

↳user86: Wait? What? Why? When?

↳y/n_gasly: Marriage. Because I love him. Las Vegas!

↳user86: you changed your handle!

user87: this gonna go down in the history books — where were you when you found out that y/n is now a gasly…

↳charles_leclerc: SHES A WHAT NOW??

↳user87: you didn’t know yet?

↳charles_leclerc: KNOW WHAT??

↳user87: man I hate to burst your bubble…

↳charles_leclerc: 😤🤬

Private Messages, the Leclercs and the Gaslys

f1 posted a story, y/n_gasly posted a story

[All’s well now!][My husband and I 🩷]

user88 replied awww the in-laws getting along…

user89 replied my pookies

y/n_gasly replied I better not have to fight my brother for my husband now…

↳f1 we can make no promises…

user90 replied we love to see this!

charles_leclerc replied only temporarily…

pierregasly replied I love you, Lumière de ma vie

↳y/n_gasly I love you too, mon œuf

↳pierregasly 🙄🙄

charles_leclerc replied ABSOLUTELY NOT

arthur_leclerc replied TELL HIM TO GET HIS HANDS OFF YOU

lorenzotl replied how much are they yelling at you?

↳y/n_gasly ehhh I’m mostly ignoring my phone right now 😂😂

↳y/n_gasly they’ll get over it…eventually

Taglist

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